I forgot to mention that one of the more compelling moments of my weekend was tooling around the Jewish Cemetary looking for GrandMonkey's headstone. No one could remember where we'd buried her last winter on the coldest day of the year.

We finally found her, but not before I read every tombstone and tried out every first name as a possible name for our future space children. Each one got shot down by Monkey:

"Ruth?"

"No."

"Simon?"

"No."

"Sparkle?"

"No!!"

Sparkle wasn't on a tombstone, but I love that name.

MonkeyDad was slightly miffed that they got the year of her death wrong. Other than that, it was a completely uneventful, casual, chatty sort of day in the graveyard. Oy.

If it were my family, there'd be crying, verse, hugging, perhaps some yelling, songs, gushing forgiveness, pondering the fates, inappropriate jokes. I'm not saying that's better, I just think the contrast is amusin'.