As you might have noticed, the Menopause Monocler took some days off. She pleads hot flashes and general craziness, but she's back. At least for the day.
Our youngest son, Hyrum, (you remember him--the one who gave me a list of things not to say to his fiance and her parents) recently reassured me that he'd be there for us when it came time to put me and The Wretch in a Home. "Don't worry. It'll be a great place," he said. "They serve only imitation gruel."
Needless to say, this failed to fill my sagging bosom with confidence. Hyrum, in his inimitable fashion, continued, "And when you croak, I'm going to have you cremated. It's cheaper."
Cremated? This was the child who gestated in my womb for seventeen months. )Yes, that's right. Seventeen months.) This was the child who sucked my girls into oblivion. This was the child who started the arthritis in my right hip. And he wants to have me cremated? Really?
Is it any wonder that The Wretch and I named our cat as the executor of our wills?
Gem for the day: if a child wants to have you cremated, run in the other direction.