Lawyers, Guns and Money (Or Three Things I Don’t Have)

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.

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