Last Wishes ....

Previously, I wanted to have a full burial. Realizing the expense and actual burial plots available these days, I then decided cremation would be best ~ just as long as my ashes were released to the ocean's edge of Victoria Island ~ Tofino to be exact, where I met (of course) my beloved hubby.

So now after reading this FB poster, I've changed my mind. I not only want my ashes flung amongst the Japanese winds of jasmine that have reached Canada's shores in Tofino, I want my ashes to smell like popcorn.  Can you imagine the aroma.  Harmony.

PS: I still want some of me buried in the earth, you know, along with some hair follicle for DNA extraction (like Steven Speilberg did in the movie A.I. ~Artificial Intelligence~). I truly believe this will be possible one day.

It was the cheese !

Dilemma. Here's what happened.

I arrive for my usual shift change for the graveyard shift, say hello, discuss afternoon issues, goodbye. Off she goes, I watch her via the surveillance camera, to her car, out the drive. Check mark, attendant left safely, but what on Heaven's green acres of cow pasture turds is that smell she left behind?

I'm thinking the worst kind, various thoughts probe my eyeballs to the left of me, to the right. To the bottom. Can't be? Could it? Was there leakage of some sort? I find a spray bottle of disinfectant under the desk, accompanied with a stiff wash cloth that eerily resembles one that you might find in a teenaged boy's bedroom. I gingerly wipe down anything that is in the smell zone. Doesn't help at all.

I've heated up my dinner, Campbell's Chunky soup, creamy chicken corn chowder. I have flashbacks of newborn poops. ~gag~ ...... ~gag~

After checking my breath a thousand times, sniffing my surroundings, I finally discover the smell is from the waste basket. I mean, so obvious, and sure enough there's a discarded salad container laced with parmigiano cheese ~gag~ ...... ~gag~. I have removed the offender to the far room, until 8:00am when the regular day staff begin to arrive. I have no choice but to return the stench under my desk.

In the meantime, people have been stopping by, chatting, and I'm wondering if they can smell that smell.

I arrive for my usual shift change for the graveyard shift ~starving~, say hello, discuss afternoon issues, etc. Except this time there's an alarm on our shared email account "All graveyard attendants are to wipe down their work areas before ending their shift".

F-U-C-K ! Now they think I'm the stinky one! I immediately walk to my supervisor's office and explain, and if you can imagine in a Jerry Seinfeld tone "It was the cheese - it was the cheese!"

C.R.A.Z.Y.

I am a non-English phobic when it pertains to my entertaining stimuli. That meaning I hate watching sub-titled movies. I don't want to use more intelligence than I need to watch a movie. I just want to watch and listen, not watch and listen and read.
So I avoid these sort of films like the plague.

There is, however, one particular movie that I will watch over and over again. Not only is it French Canadian, but it's sub-titled in English, so I have to read it also. And it's laced with Catholicism, and forbidden sins of said religion, and lots and lots of music from yesterday and tomorrow.

I am speaking of the movie, C.R.A.Z.Y., which of course is a subtle acronym reference to Patsy Cline's top hit, Crazy. Each child born in this movie world was named beginning with a letter from this song: C - Christian, R - Raymond, A - Antoine, Z - Zac, Y - Yvan....'course we don't really figure this out until the end, unless you're a brain weave puzzler and figure this out from the start. Has no substance to the plot or movie anyways, so get over it.

What I find interesting about his movie is comparing it to my husband's strict upbringing of Catholicism, fashion, free spirit, "wish I could speak English" mindset. My husband was born and raised in a small town way up northern Quebec, where each corner had a church and an intersecting bar. And all were welcome - Including 13 year old boys, who began their journey of life based on the music of Frank Zappa and Ozzy Osborne and who knows what.

Go west young man they all sang to him. So he did. 

And he showed up in B.C. with a backpack flung over his shoulders, with St.Michael, or St.Mary, or Saint lady who can find things, or Saint person who will heal my pains, and he kneels at his bedside each and every night and crosses himself, over and over again, even crosses his eyeballs (which I personally think is an Ozzy influence) but insists it's merely eyeball exercises. Nonetheless, a miniature statue adorns our bedroom, a mere 3 feet away on the dresser, and for years I thought it was a plastic statue of the Virgin Mary. For non-catholics, I think we all believe godly people wearing long flowing gowns are girls. My mistake.

I lay a mere 3 feet away from Jesus himself, wondering if he's going to bleed blood from it's eyes, or cry or something. So this is our punishment, I suppose, being a non-catholic person, we're gonna' get you either which way. 

CRAZY

https://youtu.be/FYtrGjJOMpE

Safe

Safe.

Safe levels she tells herself at the neighborhood pharmacy.  The blood pressure padding that has encapsulated her upper arm has told her so. 158 over 103. 142 over 99.

She hits the BEGIN button again and holds her breath, ~third time the charm~ next reading 135 over 88.

She hits the print out button to provide evidence to her doctor why she needs to up her dosage -or lower it-, but there's no paper in the machine, so she records the results with her own pen and paper, which she has frantically garnered from the innings of her fake designer purse.  Frantic because there's no way in hell she's gonna' remember all those numbers by memory.  Thank god she keeps Walmart receipts.

She nudges the numbers here and there, so no need to be frantic. "Here you go Doc, I'm just fine and maybe sometimes I'm not". I can't tell, those fucking meter machines at the pharmacies. You know, are they real?

They never have paper in them and the arm bands are always sticky, candy covered by fucking kids who think they're amusement rides.

She has, in a bizarre sort of way, lowered her blood pressure without even knowing it.