Casket Caverns

How does one come to own a cemetery? What would make you decide to bury people on your land? Sure, its probably good money, but Ehhhh. I was thinking about the logistics of cemeteries this weekend as I passed two of them on my way to, where else, the dog park. The first was called Oak Lawn Cemetery and the second Long Rest Cemetery. Seriously? Do you really want to give your death yard a kitchy name? Is that really in good taste? Florida is notorious for weird crap like that. I used to walk Midas on the outskirts of a cemetery that practically shared a plot line with my apartment complex and we always had to walk past the "baby garden," which, I'm sorry, is grotesque. Would it really kill these people to name the place like: "Willow Point" or something lame and generic? Hell, give it your last name. Ferguson's Cemetery. You really don't need a Baby Garden or a Midgit Schmorgasboard either. I'm pretty sure they could be buried with their family like the rest of us... may be. I know that when I die, I'm not particularly hoping for my very own plot in the Short, Fat, and Cranky Arboritum.

Leave it to Florida. Its like Adam Sandler's on-air game of Florida or Germany. If I end up being stuck here for all eternity maybe I'll acquire some land and start up my own cemetery called "Dirt Nap."

I Could Never be a Helper Monkey.

I almost went into journalism. My life's dream of being a writer, of striving to get into Michigan State University to be the next big thing in journalism evaporated one freezing morning at the Comm Arts building on the north end of MSU's massive campus. The temperature had to have been in the negatives, but I was officially sweating as I shared very personal elbow space with the students on either side of me. It was standing room only in this stadium seating style classroom where a 695 year old man had just taken his place at the podium. He began a lecture detailing his career in the profession and sharing with us bits of pre-emphysema phlegm and I knew right then and there that I didn't want this.
Now, I find myself comfortably at a job that I really enjoy, but do you ever wonder what would have happened if you had taken another path in life. Since growing up has taught me one thing, uncertainty, I find it is important to examine your career path and your goals occasionally. What would become of me if I couldn't be a graphic designer?
The following is a compilation of some suitable replacement careers and their not so suitable counterparts.

I could be a:
•Surgeon. I'm not sure why, but poking around in guts wouldn't phase me in the least. I could probably have the nerve to sew up a colon but get me near a cockroach and its all over.
•Farmer. I have a wonderful zit farm going on right now on my face. A brand new crop of mysterious acne has developed on my face and it seems to be in full bloom. •Race Car Driver. Not much explanation is really needed here. Lets just say I'd be more at home with people who don't feel like going slow is an option.
•Nutritionist. I love to read articles and learn about the needs of the human body and comparing the trends of dieting and exercising... whether its about carbs, fats, calories, I find it all very interesting. Would I be required to practice what I preach?
•Owner of a kennel. I love dogs, but I could never be a vet. I could never work too closely with victimized dogs because my soul would die. I couldn't be a foster person because I wouldn't be able to give the dogs up. I could own a kennel, I think.
•Art historian. I would love to know what kind of junk I'm looking at when I hit a garage sale without having to take it to the Antiques Roadshow.


And... Not so Much....
•Cook. Chef Boyardee hangs his head in shame every time I enter a kitchen. While my food has definitely become more edible, I must dirty every dish and utensil I own in order to make the simplest of meals.
•Olympian. Ha. Pass the french fries, please.
•Janitor. You puke- I puke. I am for DAMN serious.
•Teacher. I think a lot of people go through a phase where they think it might be fun to be a teacher... however, I realized long ago that I just don't have the patience. "WHY CAN'T YOU JUST UNDERSTAND!" usually isn't a teacher's motto...
•A nanny. I believe in spanking. And yelling. And manners. Since most people don't, that might present a problem...
•A Party Planner. What do you mean a game of Uno isn't exciting?
•A Sandwich Artist. I smell ham... I die a little.


And of course, I couldn't be a journalist. Spending the best years of my life writing about Paris Hilton's jail-time epiphanies would kill me.
So back to designing children's books.

Rats in a Furniture Store.

Our barren living room is a constant reminder that we want to move. We sold our couches in December and bought two excercise balls to sit on, thinking that if we absolutely had to sit in the living room and watch TV, we'd do some sit-ups too. HAHAHA. Ahhhhh. Anyway. All the gifts we got from our wedding are still packed up in boxes and every couple of weeks we pack away more stuff... all with the hope that one of those fabled jobs will land in our lap and we can get out of Mickey's PeeWee'esque playhouse. Wanting to make a move as quickly and painlessly as possible, we plan to sell pretty much anything and everything we can to get out of here. That said, I occassionally enjoy a trip through the furniture store where I can make a mental escape for a few minutes to owning an actual house and trying to imagine how I would decorate it.
Saturday night we were making a quick stop at Starbucks... an odd choice, because we NEVER go there. On the way in, we stopped at American Signature furniture where we made it exactly half-way around the store before being approached by a friendly gentleman asking several questions about our reason for visiting. We made small talk and answered his questions fairly pointedly, not trying to loop ourselves into any long-winded sales pitch-- but loop we did.
Somehow we were swept up in a whirlpool of couch and bedframe comparisons, mattress demonstrations, wood grain analyzing, and comfort assesments... before I knew it, an hour had passed... the store was closed and this man still wouldn't let us leave. He wouldn't take no for an answer. He wanted to run our credit, set up accounts, hold items, get ten percent down. We didn't even know what we were buying! I've never felt more cornered... like a rat... a rat with no furniture and no cheese to spend on it.

In the end, it took a combined effort of desperate "no's" and "we really, really were just looking... we can't do this right nows" to get us out of the store with a business card and none to happy salesman.

Both of us quite shook up, we continued to our orignal destination, Starbucks where Mike promptly dropped a tall carmel latte on the floor. Now that's what I call a Saturday.

Baseball, Hotdogs, Applegate and Chevrolet

I have a new favorite summer past-time. Out with the old: baseball, hotdogs, apple pie, fireworks, and pool parties (and that really awful commercial that used to play on the radio in Fenton: see title.)
My new favorite past-time is sharing an ear of corn on the cob with two wiley pugs. There is nothing funnier than watching them gum away at this intriguing vegetable with all the vigilance of a soldier attacking... an... ear of corn. They are like two toothless old men, squishing and mashing their little contorted faces into the very core- slurping up as many kernels as possible and making the most unattractive sounds ever to grace the human ear drum.
It's hands down the funniest thing I have ever seen and they're corn cob pros, I tell ya what. These two would be at home at any summer barbeque so guard your grill. Haha, get it? God, I am hillarious.