My husband and I discuss two possible futures for ourselves when we’re old and retired. One is far more likely to happen than the other.

In one scenario, we own a giant mobile home that’s completely solar powered and we drive around the states, looking for adventures. We’re just like Cain from “Kung Fu” or Jules from “Pulp Fiction”, only we don’t walk far or get involved in other people’s unfortunate afairs. I guess you could say we’re just like Cain from “Kung Fu” if he were lazy and somewhat self-centered.

In the other possible set of circumstances, we are on the run from the cops or the F.B.I., and we must retrieve our gun, our wad of thousand dollar bills and our stolen diamonds from our safe deposit box before we skip town in our convertible. Naturally, we’ll have to lay low in the desert somewhere until the fuzz lose our scent.

As you might well imagine, there was always a problem with the second scenario. That’s right folks, we didn’t own a safe deposit box. Didn’t, that is, until now.

It’s true. We’re now the proud owners of a safe deposit box. This delights M. to no visible end.

When we exited the bank,  after acquiring the box, he acted like a new father. “We have a safe deposit box together, Sweetheart. Isn’t it wonderful?” He grabbed my hand to celebrate the most romantic moment of his life – the day of the safe deposit box.

Gee, I hope he can muster up some of the same enthusiasm when we have our first grandchild, but I don’t know if he’ll have any left. He  might have used up a lifetime of excitement on this one little thing.

I’m trying not to bring him down, but as his wife, it’s hard not to slip into the role of a succubus. That is, after all, what my mother trained me to be, and I do have some issues with the so-called secure safe deposit box. For one thing, the number of the box is stamped onto the key. Hmm. I’m no genius, and I have witnesses to that fact who will happily come forward to provide evidence of stupid stuff I’ve done, but even I see a flaw with this system. If the bank needs to keep track of which key goes to which box couldn’t they use a coded number on the key itself that corresponds to the number on the box?

M. pointed out that the reason the bank doesn’t do that might be that idiots forget their box number and need to have it right there on the key. That’s likely, but I really don’t see it as an excuse. If I forget the number, check my identification, then give me the box number to my key.

Apparently, I am a bit naive when it comes to security, because I also imagined that the vault of the bank would be CLOSED during the day, and that someone would have to know a code or combination to open the vault. But, no, the vault stood wide open. It wasn’t cracked, it wasn’t ajar, it was wide open. Security smurity. Yep, I said “smurity”, that’s how dismissive I am. And I’ll say it again. Smurity.

I think I’m done now. Gotta go gather up my diamonds and firearms. Later.

OTN: “Jaywalker“s  in Lorna’s Laces Shepherd Sock- Gold Hill colorway. Scrumptious yarn. Fun pattern that seems perfect for the yarn.

Basic tam from The Knitter’s Handy Book of Patterns. Good resource for using up stash. I only wish there were larger sizes in there.  I could do the math myself, but I don’t wanna.

My sister and I used to fight for who got to sleep on top bunk. The person who ended up getting stuck on bottom bunk would put her feet between the slats and lift the mattress so that the person on top couldn’t enjoy the victory too much.

One of the things I miss – now that I have to pretend to be an adult – is bunk-beds. Bunk-beds are the ultimate when you are a kid, because all you need to do to have a really cool tent is hang a sheet from the top bunk and tuck it under the mattress on bottom bunk. At that point, you have a two level yacht with a complicated navigational system – a Lite-Brite set with a sailboat depicted on it in red, blue and green pegs.

You might also use the bed as a castle fortress, retreating to the highest tier when a vicious lion and/or black poodle nips at your ankles.

On a less imaginative day, the top bunk might simply be your swingin’ singles pad in mid-town Manhattan.

Whatever you chose to make of it, the bunk-bed was a great kid accessory. So imagine my forty-year-old woman delight when I went RV camping this weekend and there at my disposal was a bunk-bed. I “called” the top bunk so quick heads were spinning.

There were four bunk-beds. My daughter and I got the coveted top bunks while my mom slept on one of the bottom ones. My mom was pretty sure I was going to kill myself getting up or down. I made my daughter a little nervous too, when I’d hang over the side to reach something on the bunk below. But, I didn’t kill myself or break my neck, and I didn’t roll out while I was sleeping. I fared much better with my bunk than I did with attempting to take a bath in what I later realized was a shower basin. I now know that the difference between a shower basin and a bathtub is about 12 inches and the ability to climb out without devine intervention.

There was no real mattress to speak of on the top bunk. What you slept on was basically a long pillow about 3 inches thick. But, that was alright. I slept like a nine year old kid, so it was all good.

The words eternal optimism don’t even begin to cover the insanely sunshiny outlook that I possess.

Case in point, I had a migraine that lasted for three days this past week. As if throbbing head pain and nausea weren’t enough, I also injured my back somehow or other. Coincidentally, all this occurred during the week that I was taking care of my sister’s dogs for her while she was on vacation, which basically meant that, no matter how bad I felt, I had to go over to her house and feed her dogs every day. I was very concerned about her doggies, because they are outside dogs and it’s been ridiculously hot here. But, damn, if you’ve ever had a migraine, you know that the last thing you want to do when you have one is be outside in extreme heat and brain shatteringly bright sunshine. By the way, I’m pretty sure I’m allergic to either her dogs or something in her yard. My eyes itched horribly every single time I went over there.

Here’s the part you won’t believe. After a miserable week like that, would you think I could bring myself to buy a lottery ticket? Well, buy one I did.

Does it surprise anybody that I did not win several hundred million dollars?

Oh, and remember that extreme heat I mentioned? Guess who’s air conditioner is leaking freon and is going to need to be replaced? If you guessed mine, you wouldn’t be wrong.

But, I ordered lots of gorgeous yarn from Wool Girl, and I’m feeling like life is pretty good right now. If I don’t get hit by a bus before I get the chance to touch it, I’ll enjoy really enjoy knitting it up.