Price Check, Reality Check

I had to call several funeral homes today to get a price check.

It felt very odd.

I didn’t want to do it because it felt a little tacky but I dusted off my old journalist’s cap (and man, was it dusty) and pretended I was calling for a story. I pretended it was not because my mom asked me to, not because my step-father is being eaten up with cancer.
I pretended I was doing it for someone else.

I watched every episode of Six Feet Under and I’ve read excerpts from Jessica Mitford’s “The American Way of Death.” I know that funeral homes are businesses and, like so many other businesses in this country, they’re struggling to make a buck. And even in this industry, the locally owned businesses are being squeezed out by big corporations.

But I was still unprepared for the wide range of prices for the exact same services. My stepfather is dying and we want to know who to call to pick him up from his house when he goes. He wants to be cremated and we will have the service at his church. Anyway, my mom has found an urn she wants to order, so we don’t need a funeral home to provide one. What we’re asking is pretty basic. It turns out the prices range from $980 to $3000 for the same exact services.

And even though it's the American Way, I'm still shocked that morticians' prices vary so widely for the same services. Some funeral homes were more direct than others. One place said the crematorium fee was $200, another said it was $185. One made it sound like the number of death certificates I needed could drastically affect the price; I called another place where they said the death certificates only cost $6 each. The woman who answered the phone at yet another place tried to gently and subtly tell me that when you choose cremation, there has to be a container for the body to go *into* the…furnace or oven, whatever it’s called. And finally, one man said that while his home did provide a nice fiberboard box for the cremation itself, you could also use a big cardboard box, such as one that holds a big-screen TV or a refrigerator.

I can’t imagine doing this business but apparently several of my ancestors ran funeral homes in the 1800s. And, in fact, my grandmother has a letter from her uncle who attended mortuary school in the 1920s. He was really excited about the new embalming technique using formaldehyde. (I just looked up the history of embalming—it turns out my great uncle had reason to be excited. Before formaldehyde, embalmers used a combination of arsenic and water, which was pretty deadly to the technicians themselves.) Unfortunately, my great-uncle Clyde didn’t get to practice his new skills. He died at a very young age from TB.

Anyway, this proves that in death, as well as life, it doesn't hurt to shop around.

Cover your ass

My grandmother stayed with Rose on Tuesday, since Rose was on fall
break. That morning Rose decided to wear a dress and some tights and
she looked very cute. My grandmother, however, was very concerned that
Rose would get cold in shorts sleeves (it was only 75 degrees that
day), so before they went to McDonalds for lunch, she made Rose put a
long-sleeved shirt on. Rose went inside, took her dress off and put a
long-sleeved shirt on and off they went. When I got home, the first
thing I noticed was that Rose was running around in the yard wearing:
tights, sandals, and a long-sleeved shirt.
So I asked her where her pants were. My grandmother said, "Well, she
has tights on."
It turns out that my grandmother doesn't know the difference between
leggings and tights. So she made Rose cover up her arms and then let
her run around at McDonalds with her butt hanging out. (This was after
she told me she wasn't taking Rose to McDonalds because pedophiles
like to hang out there at the playland.)


At least she looked cute...

Bad things come in twenty-threes

I was thinking the other day about a friend who has had a run of bad luck. None of the truly awful things that happened to her were her fault. Really. And you know, her bad things didn't just come in threes; it was more like twenty-threes.

And yesterday, I had so much stuff happen that I thought of her.

First, a little back-story. Rose started kindergarten this week and it has been difficult figuring out how to get her to school, drop off Simone at daycare and get to my office in time. And then turn around in the afternoon and do it in a timely manner (so they don't kick us out of aftercare), and still get my work done at my, you know, job. The thing that pays the bills.

But we figured it out. My husband takes Rose to school, I leave early for work and daycare, and my grandmother and sister-in-law will alternate the afternoon pickups. Although my grandmother means well, her involvment can be....sort of tricky. She is often ill and she just....needs a lot. So, anyway, yesterday was the first day my grandmother was to pick up Rose.

Here's what happened: my grandmother called at 3:30 and said she was sick and couldn't pick up Rose. I called Angie, my sister-in-law, who graciously said she could do it. I was on my way to get Simone when Scott called and said his car wouldn't start, could I come jump him off since it was probably the battery. Then he called me back and said never mind, he found someone to help. After I got Simone, he called back and said the car worked for a minute then died. Help. I called Angie and said I would be much later than I planned.
Picked up Scott on the way, arrived at Angie's around 7. Picked up a very tired and hungry Rose and we went to Sonic (yuck). On the way home, a pickup truck came THIS close to running into us head-on. We rounded the curve on our street (which crosses over a creek so there's only creek on either side of the road, no shoulder), this pickup truck was drifting over on to my side of the road at about 30 mph. I slammed on my brakes and a chill went up and down my body. We all kinda went ÄAAAAAHHHH! The truck kept coming and was completely on my side of the road when the driver finally looked up and slammed on his brakes. But we were ok. We went home. I got Simone to bed and looked over the stuff Rose brought home from school. It turns out that she received another warning, the second day in a row.

(It's because my bossy daughter yelled at some other kid to be quiet. They were sitting down for reading time and the teacher told everyone to be quiet. One kid wasn't and Rose decided that she'd be the enforcer. Oops! Looks like the tables turned on her!! I told her that she doesn't have to watch out for everybody--teachers and parents are there to take care of other kids. She needs to mind her own beeswax [or something to that effect).]

Also, I got a "warning" because I forgot to pack a snack for Rose! I've been packing her lunch and included a snack with that but yesterday she wanted to buy her lunch and I forgot to send anything else. Her teacher had to scrounge up some pretzels. To make up for it, I sent in a couple of extra dollars for the kids-of-forgetful-moms snack fund.

In the meantime, Scott drove back to Brentwood, got a new battery, put it in his car in the Brentwood Kroger parking lot, and it didn't work.

And then my period started, so bleah. (Too much information, sorry. It just seemed like the perfect nightcap!)

But you know, we took the kids to school this morning, went to Walmart for another part and then went back to his car. The funny thing was there was a big praying mantis sitting on his car. Some old guy walked by and said, I see you have someone praying for you. I guess it worked because Scott got the car running.

Meanwhile, my grandmother swears it was some bacon she ate that made her sick. She purchased it about 6 weeks ago. She often has stomach upsets and then decides it was something she ate that went bad. This morning, I (half) jokingly said that she could only give Rose non-perishables to eat. Ugh. we've had three conversations about food already today.

Yesterday, throughout all of this, Simone happily burbled along "q r s p tv hkl and z. Hooray!"

I love the baby alphabet.

When you don't care enough to send the very best

  

Long live the Peeps!

Peeps and chocolate pie?

Lord of the Peeps?

Happy Easter

Phew!

Have you ever noticed that parmesan cheese smells like feet?

Signs that I am Growing Old

First: Last night, I had a little time to catch up some stuff I TiVo'd. (I still haven't decided what to think of this show. It's not great but it's not bad. It has an interesting premise and yet I still can't figure out why the character Barb would agree to this. And I don't really get what the women see in Bill Paxton's character. Sure, he seems like a nice guy and all but not someone I'd love so much that I'd put up sharing him with others. But I digress.) Anyway, on the show, someone mentions that the first Gulf War was 15 years ago. Fifteen YEARS ago? How can that be? That means that Gulf War is as ancient history to today's 20-somethings as the Vietnam war was to me. I'm old.

Next: I was listening to the radio and Madonna's "Into the Groove" came on. I never even cared for that song but, since it took me back 21 years, I had to turn it up. I'm a teenager again and I'm boy-crazy and looking forward to the summer. And then Guns and Roses' "Paradise City" came on. Before I know it I'm driving along in a minivan with "Paradise City" blasting. WTF? Now, I never that GNR was bad but I didn't really rock out to them either. But suddenly it's the late '80s and I'm maybe 21 or 22. I'm hanging out with a girl who's a little wilder than me. She dates a drummer in a rock 'n' roll band and we travel around the southeast to see them play. We hang out at the band house. (Flashforward 15 years later: I lose track of the band but then, whaddya know? The lead singer has sobered up and married one of my friends. I NEVER would have predicted that.)

Finally: I've been feeling so nostalgic lately. Is it my age? I have a milestone birthday coming up (a few months from now) and I've been thinking a lot about people I've known over the years. I'm happy with my personal life, my job is ok, everything seems fine. But I have become so sentimental lately.

A simple errand at night reminds me of driving around aimlessly with one of my high school friends. REM or Jason and the Scorchers are playing. We talk about music and boys and music again. We don't know where we're going, literally or figuratively, but it's night time, the breeze is warm, the music is good, and the air is full of promise.

Well, look at me! I start a blog and then abandon it. Actually, I just didn't have much to say, even though all sorts of things have been happening. I've been thinking you, dear blog, and planning to write you but I've been busy living life.

We'll catch up soon. I promise.

Your Birthdate: January 1

You are a natural born leader, even if those leadership talents haven't been developed yet. You have the power and self confidence to succeed in life, and your power grows daily. Besides power, you also have a great deal of creativity that enables you to innovate instead of fail. You are a visionary, seeing the big picture instead of all of the trivial little details. Your strength: Your supreme genius Your weakness: Your inappropriate sensitivity Your power color: Gold Your power symbol: Star Your power month: January

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

Uh, yeah. My leadership abilities and supreme genius have led me to this fabulous dead-end job. (Actually, it's a pretty decent job but I ain't goin' nowhere fast.)


So, today I had a doctor's appointment. No big deal but as a result I had to walk through a hospital lobby and past the gift shop. There are all sorts of geegaws there. You know, standard stuff but I guess the manager has a sense of humor. There were helium balloons hanging out by the door: butterflies, kittens, get well soon, it's a girl/boy----and there was Homer Simpson or a giant mug of beer. Homer I get. I guess. He's funny. People love the Simpsons. What was the giant mug of beer for? A toast to your health? A St. Patrick's Day relic? (No, it wasn't green.) I was tempted to buy it and take it home.

Look girls! Mommy brought you a giant mug of beer!

The World is a Safe Place?

When Rose and I had the conversation about calling 911 the other day, it naturally led to the disasters-and-how-to-handle-them discussion.

"If there's a fire, I'll run to the living room and call 911," said Rose.

"No, if there's a fire, run out of the house. A neighbor can call 911," I said.

"Do fires happen very often? Do people's houses burn down?"

"No, not very often. I don't know many people whose houses burned down." Which is true. I don't know many folks who have had to deal with that. Except it happened to me.

* * * * * * *

I didn't have the easiest childhood but I didn't have the worst, either. Let's just say it was different. We moved many times but not because my dad was in the military. He was a struggling (read: starving) artist and it seemed like the grass was always greener somewhere else. We moved across town, across the country, to another country, and then back, and had adventures along the way. I'm both grateful for those experiences and a little scarred by them too. So I often wonder how to handle these kind of discussions. I mean, I want to reassure her and still be honest. Someday I will tell her about the time my house burned down or the time the tornado destroyed my neighborhood or the time the floodwaters rose chest-deep in our basement garage. All those things--and a lot more--happened but I'm ok and I want her to know it.

But she's five and I'd like her to believe the world is a safe place just a little while longer. Because most of the time it is.