Sundays with Marty

I am leaving on Saturday morning for a fun filled weekend in Washington DC with some of my favorite people. However, getting to DC from Arkadelphia, Arkansas requires a plane ride... well, four planes to be exact.

The last time I flew, I was 18 years old and I thought it was the coolest thing ever. We landed in Dallas in the middle of a thunderstorm and had to circle endlessly for the storm to pass before we could land. I was leaning with my forehead against my window, "oohhhh"ing and "ahhhhh"ing and gasping with delight at every lightning bolt, until the lady beside me grabbed my arm maniacally and said, "FOR GOD'S SAKE will you SHUT that GODFORSAKEN blind?!?!?!?!" I complied, grumpily, simply because she looked as if she might have a stroke at any minute. If she had been younger and healthier, I would have said, "Look lady. When I bought my ticket, I paid for a window seat. If you wanted to control the blinds, maybe YOU should have bought a window seat. As it stands now, I am in charge of the window, and you are in charge of the isle." But that seems awfully childish.

So anyway, I bought four more window seats for this trip. But the closer it gets to Saturday morning, the more panicky I get.

My husband has a fear of flying, as does the rest of my family. The following is a conversation we had last Sunday night:

Natalie: Oh, by the way, I talked to mom and Phyllis and if I die in a fiery plane crash, they are going to come over every Sunday and lay out the kids clothes. (Marty has ZERO fashion sense)

Marty: Shut up. I am not listening to this.

Natalie: You need to listen!! How do you know what is going to happen when I die, if you don't listen!

Marty: Shut. UP.

Natalie: Seriously, what if the plane crashes and I am in a coma, the only survivor. Do I want to be kept alive or not?

Marty: I am not kidding. I am going to leave in five minutes if you do not shut up with this morbid bullshit.

Natalie: What about my funeral? What about the insurance money? What kind of coffin do I want, considering there is enough of my body recovered to necessitate a coffin?

Marty: *expletives removed*

Natalie: Seriously!! I am not trying to wig you out, we just need to talk about it!! (even though I am totally just trying to wig him out. Heck, I will be in Heaven - right, God? - and I don't care what they do at my funeral.) (except for that song that Tasha is going to sing.)

Marty: FINE!! Where the HELL do you want to be buried??

Natalie: Buried? Who the hell cares?? From what I hear, the view will be the same for me no matter if I am in Bismarck or Arkadelphia or Costa Rica.

Then Marty seems to be pondering something....

Marty: So if you die, and I live another 70 years, then how am I buried??

Natalie: Well lets say, we were married 11 years, and I died in a fiery plane crash. You and the children mourn me for 15 years (an appropriate amount of time - plus the kids will be nearly grown and won't be up for calling some other slut "Mommy") and then you get remarried and are married 11 years to that old hag, technically, you could be buried in the middle of both your wives.

Marty starts to grin.

Natalie: HOWEVER, do NOT even THINK about it. I will not spend eternity as your left hand wife.

Marty: Then I will bury you on the right side.

ass.