Call me, don't be afraid you can call me...

So I went home for lunch today. I say this as if it's a great and unusual thing when, in fact, it's my habit. See, being on the bottom of the food chain around here, I have a desk that requires a warm body in it and God help anyone of the wrong person comes by and sees an empty chair.

So, I have to have people sit here for an hour a day. Several different people who all serve, begrudgingly, their days at the desk. They don't want to do it, they don't like to do it. I am, therefore, subject to the whims of recently graduated hot shots who have found themselves employed as clerks and secretaries and "executive" assistants when they had every expectation of an entry level position carrying the title of at least "Manager" and probably "Vice President".

So every day at, well anytime really, someone shows up at my desk waiting for me to clear the hell out so they can drop their skinny butts into my extra wide chair and suffer through the hour I'm gone to lunch. I'm seldom sure when they're going to show up. if I take 63 minutes instead of 60 I'll find them packed up and gone. So, as I live about a 5 minute walk away, I just go home.

This afternoon I wandered home to watch the last several minutes of the England-Algeria World Cup match. The phone started ringing. Normally I don't bother answering the phone, as it's never good news. No one has EVER, and I mean EVER called me up to say "You WON!" So, with one eye on the 0-0 game I answered the phone. I considered telling the young man on the other end that no, I wasn't me and could I take a message for myself but, well, what can I say, I'm a big softie, figuratively AND literally.

The nice young man, Ryan I think he said his name was, was calling me from Catholic Cemeteries. Well, okay, I'm sort of on edge here. I buried my mother in a Catholic Cemetery in East L.A. 10 years ago next month. If she didn't pick the worst freaking part of town too. I honored her wishes. She wanted Calvary in East Los Angeles, just down the street from the Metro ticket office and King Taco. However there is a very nice family who sets up shop at the corner of the freeway off ramp and I can pick up my flowers AND my produce when I visit her crypt and never get out of the car. One stop shopping. Gotta love it.

She could have chosen any one of the Catholic cemeteries in the area. The San Fernando Mission has a lovely one, and she had no qualms burying her sister and her mother there. It's an actual Fr. Serra the Indian abuser California Mission. Adobe and bell towers and fountains and trees. It's down the street from a used car dealership and an Arby's, btw. But, according to my mother, there weren't enough trees and it was flat. She didn't like flat. She also could have chosen Holy Cross, which is on the west side of Los Angeles. Breathtaking views. Rolling hillsides. AND it's by the ocean so it has insanely beautiful weather.

No, she wants the one in, well, lets just say there's a lot of authentic native California atmosphere there and leave it at that.

Well, anyway, the first thought when Ryan identifies himself is that they've been doing an audit and they've found I owe them money. I'm prepared to give him a rather Un-Catholic answer to that, something like "Dude, it's been 10 years, go whistle for it" but no. Ryan wants to know if I've made my pre-need arrangements yet and can he help me with them? Seems I had a birthday a few weeks ago and, well, you know. they're just there to help...

Ryan, it seems, is cold call selling cemetery plots.

And I thought my job sucked.