Saturday morning, my husband and I went out for breakfast as we do on the weekends. It used to be a family affair, but children grow into teenagers who’d rather sleep late and then grab a Poptart in front of the PS4.

My husband usually reads the newspaper while I bomb around on my phone, but I wasn’t in the mood, so I grabbed the crossword puzzle and challenged myself to finish it before my breakfast arrived. I did…and then I had nothing to do.

My husband offered me the ad flyer from the local car dealership to look at, which I declined…

Me: I don’t need that. I’m going to be buried in my Jeep.

Him: Okay.

Me: You can’t do, it though. You’ll spend three weeks researching excavators. And then you’ll look at used excavators on Craigslist. And then you’ll research whether renting an excavator to do it yourself or hiring somebody to dig a Jeep-sized hole is more financially responsible. Then you’ll spend two weeks watching how-to videos on YouTube. Meanwhile, my Jeep will smell really bad because my dead body’s been in it for two months. I could ask [stepdad] because he just gets stuff done and he probably knows somebody with an excavator. BUT…I’m not sure it’s smart to ask somebody who owns a commercial wood chipper to dispose of your dead body. I should tell our kids it’s my final wish to be buried in my Jeep and they have to honor it, but I think once I was dead and couldn’t yell at them, they’d just set the Jeep on fire with my body in it and call it a Viking funeral. Oh, we still have an episode of Vikings on the DVR! I hate this season because (5-minute rant). But anyway, maybe I’ll leave my intellectual property rights to the person who promises to bury me in my Jeep. That’s legal, right? Right?

Him: Sorry, I was reading this article. What did you say?

Me: Nothing. *pulls out phone*