Sometimes

I was on a mission. I planned to quickly run into Home Depot to buy a couple of tiles for The De-Farfandaizing of the Fireplace and get right back to work. My To Do Piles were threatening to bury me alive if I didn't tackle them soon, so time was of the essence. I really wanted to back to my office in under half an hour.

As I came up to one of the most annoying intersections in the world, traffic halted, despite a green light. I immediately saw why; there were dozens of police cars parked in the road. It looked like they were surrounding the little tire store. Immediately, I thought, "DRAMA!" Was it a robbery? A shooting? Ooooooh, drama!

The thought of some sort of crazy going down in the middle of Surburbia was fun for a moment, but then the mission at hand came back to mind. So, I swung my car around a few rubber neckin' fools and made a little turn so I could back road it to the store.

My plot was foiled.

A police officer stepped into the intersection and signaled for everyone to stop. It wasn't until then that I realized it wasn't DRAMA! that was unfolding, but rather a funeral procession. There are several cemeteries in the area, and I knew they had to be headed to one of them.

As I sat in my little car, police cars began pouring past me. One after another after another, cars from several boroughs silently rolled past with their lights flashing. Several shiny fire trucks continued the procession, and then what had to be hundreds of vehicles, each with their headlights on and a little orange flag stuck to the roof. All told, the procession took over 15 minutes to drive past, even though they never once came to a stop.

As the procession first began, I wondered wistfully who had passed away. I thought maybe it was a retired police officer or fireman. As the seconds turned into minutes, I began to fall back on my usual tactic for making time pass when I can't go anywhere--I people watched. The people in the procession cars represented all walks of life. There were members of the military, donning their full dress uniforms. There were dozens and dozens of denim and leather-clad people riding atop motorcycles. There was an older man laughing as he chatted with his passenger. There was a woman crying, clearly struggling to pull herself together as she navigated her beat-up Chevy. There were people who were somber as they sat silently with their passengers. There was a guy chatting on his cell phone. There were children looking uncomfortable in their best clothes. As the people continued to pour by on their way to the cemetery, there were many clues to the identity of the person they were honoring.

When I got back to my desk an hour later, I gave Mr. Google those clues and asked him to figure out who the procession as honoring. It didn't take long to find my answer. It was Sgt. Ryan Lane, a 25-year old soldier who had been killed in Afghanistan. The son of a former police chief, he was given the full honors he deserved.

Sometimes life smacks you in the face and reminds you that there are things more important than a bunch of hostile To Do piles.

Sometimes it's time to sit quietly and show respect to those who have paid too high of a price.

Sometimes it's time to say thank you.

When Milkshakes Grow Wings and Fly

I like to think I'm not completely stupid, but then sometimes I am.

I blame the paint fumes.

Alexis' partner in chaos and his mom were fantabulous enough to come over to the house yesterday and help with a little painty painty. Except, nothing here is "litle," so it took a solid four hours for us to get a coat of paint all through the family room and kitchen (yeah, I didn't even make it a week before that green paint disaster made me start wanting to spork somebody). We called it a day after all that paint huffing and ran out to grab something for dinner.

We didn't even make it out of the neighborhood before the kids fell asleep in the cars. That should have been enough for me to know it was time to abort all plans, but I was so hungry that I was starting to eye Alexis' third chin and consider how it would taste grilled. French fries are probably a better alternative to kid chin, so I figured I would just carry the little heifer inside, eat, and get hers to go.

Except, the paint fumes killed a few brain cells and I decided I absolutely, positively had to wipe the smudge of something off the sleeping kid's face. Picking her up would not have woken her up, but scrubbing her face with a cold, wet wipe sure did. And WOW was she happy about it.

Not.

I don't think Little Lion's Mom noticed just how wretchedly rude Alexis was behaving since she had committed the same fatal error (Note to us: DO NOT WAKE A SLEEPING KID--not even for french fries and milkshakes.). Let's just say that when the server delivered Alexis' milkshake without a lid, I should have known to immediately fuss. I should have demanded a lid, and I should NOT have let Alexis get her grubby paws on that milkshake. I so definitely know better.

The good news was that Alexis throws like a girl. The floor certainly looked better covered in milkshake than I would have. The bad news was that it was hard to be mad when 1.) It should have had a lid and 2.) SOME people just had to go and laugh.

Fine. It was funny. Really funny.

It was especially humorous when the kid spent the car ride home asking for a new milkshake. Oh, yeah. That was HYSTERICAL.

Given the amount of painting that is still left to do, I predict I will have negative useful brain cells by the end of the year.

A Partner in Chaos

(Thank you, Little Lion's Mom!)