Thank you Grandpa, for everything

Grandpa’s dead now… Well, since Christmas Eve he’s been dead for two years and I'm just now beginning to accept it. I hope I go out like he did - in my sleep. I know, boring as hell, but if it’s on Christmas Day at least I can haunt my descendants a little (the ones who remember me) on what is supposed to be a happy holiday. Christmas Day, Eve - what’s the difference? He couldn’t have planned it any better than that. In fact, without even knowing it he may have been trying to steal the baby Jesus’ thunder. And how can you knock a guy for inadvertently trying? Of course that’s speculation but it’s true he wasn’t a big fan of the manger, or to be more specific, anything religious or even slightly Catholic-y.

Yes, dying in my sleep in my seventies on Christmas Day is exactly how I want to go. Once you hit 80, how can life be any good? A typical day for me at that age would probably consist of coughing up blood, writing a few crappy lines about the “good ole days” right after swallowing a bunch of pills, cursing out the neighbor kids, inspecting my poop and then sleeping for 16 hours. Whoopee!

Grandpa went out right. It was the right time and the right way. He was getting too old to keep driving, let alone keep kayaking the rapids. All he did was worry me the last six years of his life anyway. When thinking about my own children and grandchildren I think six years of stress would be sufficient.

But really, as great as it seems I wouldn’t have to die on Christmas Day. I’d settle for any holiday just as long as I have a few grandkids around to make my own children feel guilty for not spending enough time with me when I was an old maid. Just because they’ll have their own lives is no excuse for the inevitable neglect. Someone has to call them out, even if it’s in advance. Guilt is what makes a family go round. And if anyone should feel guilty, how is that my fault? We all have our share to carry. Some of us just choose to ignore it.

So as I was saying four paragraphs ago, Grandpa’s dead now, but in an attempt to find some kind of wisdom to pass on to my sons (who are turning 17, 16 and 15 this year) I’ve been looking back at his life. I think it’s my own way of dealing with the fact that I can’t call him up and ask, “So what the heck do I tell these hormonal punks?”

As it turns out, the life he lived is a gold mine of valuable information. Here is a tidbit of what I’ve told my sons: Be careful who you help out. Rescue a dog and you’ll have a faithful friend. Rescue a hooker and she’ll stab you in the back. The beautiful ones you always seem to lose.

Okay, that last line is actually from a Prince song but that doesn’t make it any less true. And this has nothing to do with Grandpa (or Prince) but I’ve also warned, “You’ll need a f**king army or a crazy bitch to stop one. Don’t call me!”

I guess in a few years they’ll already have learned this stuff on their own. Who ever listens to their parents, anyway? Oh... No… They’d better not call me!

Finally, I don’t want to get mushy or anything and you probably can’t read this but I’ll always love and miss you Grandpa. Thanks for everything.

Minnesota on my mind

Recently I’ve been facing a tough decision that has been eating away at my innards like a mini Hannibal Lecter. Hmm, that would make for a good movie. Let’s see what Meet Dave does at the box office.

Seriously though, for the last six years I’ve been enduring a horrible series of attacks from loved ones. Family can torture you like no one else on the planet. I have been pushed, pulled and prodded more than any one I know. I have endured much guilt. I mean, how selfish of me to raise my kids in an environment free of gangs, prostitution, hard core drugs, Norm Coleman…

They all want me to move back to the Twin Cities so I can become enveloped with family drama and feel my love slowly turn to hate, see the sun a few days every month, enjoy a -75 wind chill for three months every year, work 40 hour weeks and eat Ramen noodles every night, experiment daily with road rage, explain to my kids the guy smoking marijuana in public is the normal one and we are the freaks, participate in weekly gas drive-offs and blame it on the teenagers, see my teens on weekends (visitation hours only), watch in horror as my youngest child is carried away by mosquitoes, and basically turn from a mildly sarcastic individual into a raving lunatic.

Sounds good to me.

This will eventually end up with me living in a cardboard box somewhere near the Mississippi River. Unless, of course, I’m found in the river and then placed into a box. Either way, I just can‘t wait.

So until then, I’ll enjoy life in Montana more than usual. Maybe I’ll get a pet bear while I’m at it…


On second thought, way too much poop to clean up.

What's that in the sink?

Grandma Jones is looking after her grandkids at their house, and it's a beautiful morning. She has just entered the bathroom for a long session, when she is suddenly distracted by something... Something absolutely dreadful...

Grandma: Oh my gahd. Kids, come here! What is this crap in the bathroom sink?

Susie: Ewww. I don’t know. Maybe Dad got really drunk again. Gross.

Timmy: No, it looks more like the baby’s ass exploded in it. Disgusting.

Mike: It’s not puke or baby poop. It was me.

Grandma, Susie, & Timmy: What?!

Mike: I used Listerine Smart Rinse after brushing. Heh heh, I guess my mouth was really dirty. Want to meet my hook... I mean, girlfriend? Hey Stella, come ’ere!

Grandma: Hi, Stella. You want to watch the kids while I finish my morning business? I'll give you a few dollars...