I don’t usually do re-posts, but today it just seems appropriate.  I wrote [...]]]> My grandpa died yesterday afternoon – a nice, quiet, painless death at the age of 88.  Now his body will go to Duke where they can collect what they need, then he’ll be transported back to Marion, NC where he can join his wives.

I don’t usually do re-posts, but today it just seems appropriate.  I wrote this just shy of two years ago.  Sadly, most of my memories of Grandpa are like this – of him after the Alzheimer’s.

I think that’s one of the crueler aspects of that disease – the theft of memories – both from the afflicted and their loved ones.  I don’t know that we could pinpoint when exactly all of Grandpa left his body, but it was long before 11:59 yesterday afternoon.  As a result, I think we’ve done most of our mourning.  Now we just need to reclaim our memories of the man he was before the disease.

For me, I’ll try to picture him laughing – crinkled eyes, squished nose, shoulders pulled up to his ears as his whole body shivered with giggles.

Earlier this week, we decided to break my grandfather out of the retirement home and take him out for lunch. While Mom had her hair done, Dad and I drove the pussy wagon across town to kidnap grandpa.

Our search began in the dining hall.  We scanned the sea of gray haired heads for a familiar face.  Nothing.

Wheelchairs

Dad led the way through the maze of halls to Grandpa’s room.  We found the door open and room empty.  Well, kind of empty.  While there was no one in the room, we did find five wheelchairs crammed amongst the furniture and in the closet.  I should probably point out that my grandfather is fully ambulatory – he just likes things with wheels.

In fact, not too long ago he stole the cleaning ladies cart when she left it unattended in the hallway.  He worked as a janitor in his later years up in Marion, NC.  I guess he thought he was back on the job and that just had to be his cart.  When the poor gal came into his room to try and retrieve her tools of the trade, he refused and actually pinned her to the wall with the damn thing.  He was so riled up they had to sedate him!  Nothing comes between that man and his things on wheels.

We worked our way around the giant square of the complex, peeking in all the side rooms, in search of Grandpa.  Nothing.

“Well, I guess we should look in June’s room,” Dad sighed.

June is Grandpa’s girlfriend.  He never calls her June, though.  Sometimes he calls her Louine (my grandmother’s name).  Sometimes he calls her Marcile (his second wife’s name).  Mostly though, he just uses pronouns – she, her, etc.  She has no idea who he is, either.  It’s fascinating to watch the two of them together.  Then again, I’ve seen many successful relationships based on far less.

We found the two of them sitting quietly in her room.  The shades were drawn and the lights were off.  “Want to go have lunch, Dad?” my dad called into the darkness.

“Is She coming with us?”

“No Dad.”

“Will She be ok while we’re gone?”

“Yes Dad, they’ll take good care of her.”

“Do you want to talk to Her?”

“No Dad, we’ll see her later.”

Grandpa eyed her wheelchair wistfully as he moved towards the doorway.  “Well, ok then.  Let’s go I reckon.”

Now a trio, we weaved our way back into the daylight.  I tried to give him an arm to lean on as he wobbled on his bow legs, but he just kept repeating, “You better let me do it on my own – I’d feel awful if I pulled you down with me.”

Strong Hands

We all climbed into the pussy wagon and headed to the culinary mecca of Greensboro – Libby Hills.  It’s the best place to take Grandpa for several reasons.  First, it’s a pretty simple menu. He’s a simple man that likes simple food.  Second, it’s fairly quiet in the dining area.  We Lonon’s are rather challenged in the hearing area (just ask Rocco) and Grandpa has it the worst. Of course, he’d lost his hearing aids again.  Since medicare only allows two pairs a year, he’d just going to have to wait to lose another pair until next year.  Lastly, they’ve got little teeny tiny senior portions.  A child of the depression in rural Appalachia, Grandpa just can’t waste a single bite of food.  He’ll keep piling little clumps of coleslaw onto the tip of his french fry with his gnarled arthritic hands, and slowly raising the shaking morsel to his mouth, long past the point of his being full.  Dad often has to finish Grandpa’s food just so the poor man can stop eating.  Smaller portions make it a little easier on both parties.

I don’t know where all that food goes.  The mountain man is so skinny these days, if a suspender slips off his shoulder, his pants are around his ankles in seconds.  It takes far longer for him to figure out why he’s suddenly chilly.  But he can still bend right in two as he folds from the waist to retrieve his britches.

Mom met us at the restaurant.  “Hi Grandpa! So good to see you.  How are you?”

“Alright I reckon.”

“Isn’t it nice to see your Granddaughter?”

“My what?”

“That’s your Granddaughter.”

“How old am I?”

“You’re eighty six!”

“I’m what?”

“Eighty six!”

“Well when did THAT happen?”

Grandpa Lonon

He’s still so damn cute and charming!  He might not have any idea who we all are, but he knows when he cracks a joke.  His little blue irises widen in their slightly yellowed setting as they twinkle with delight.  He’s as quick to laugh as anyone else I know, whether they’re at full mental capacity or not.

“Do you know who this is?” Mom asked while gesturing at Dad.

“That boy,” he answered matter of factly.

“Which boy?” Mom pressed.

“That boy with the beard!” he responded coyly while smiling.

That breaks my heart right in two. I can’t imagine looking into my father’s eyes and seeing no recognition there.  We’re not quite that far with Grandpa, yet.  While he’s got no idea that Dad is his son, he knows Dad’s a friendly face that he can trust.  He knows that face visited him recently, maybe even many times, and they’ve shared things.

As we walked to the car, Grandpa patted his many pockets in search of who knows what.  They’re always full of acorns or pretty rocks, sometimes the occasional bird skull.  Sometimes I tease Dad that we should get Grandpa a pair of those cargo pants with the nine bazillion pockets just to see how many goodies he can cram in them.

“What are you looking for in those pockets?” I asked him.

“I can’t remember,” he mumbled.

“You probably can’t find whatever it is because your pockets are full with the phone numbers of all those girls you’ve got fawning over you.”

He stopped shuffling and broke into a wide grin.  “Every single one of ‘em,” he answered.

Other Related Ramblings You Might Enjoy:

• Grandpa Lonon
• Please Tell Me That White Stuff is Glitter
• Enough. With. The. Fucking. Snow.
• Thom the Bald-tist
• Things That End in “Asserole”

In other news, it’s my dad’s birthday today.  So I have to show off this super adorable Polaroid I found of him while unpacking.

Don’t worry, Mom has a [...]]]> Poor Rocco just walked in on me watching a step by step video tutorial on creating the perfect vagina cupcake.  I can hear him hiding the cupcake tins already.

In other news, it’s my dad’s birthday today.  So I have to show off this super adorable Polaroid I found of him while unpacking.

Don’t worry, Mom has a matching one, too.

I know.  I have the cutest parents EVER.  And that’s why this uke is for you, Dad.  Happy Birthday.  To everyone else?  Boy am I sorry to subject you to this.  Not sorry enough to shower or put on makeup though, apparently.  You’re welcome.

Happy Friday.  Happy Motherfuckingboozetime.  In ten weeks I look forward to joining you again in a cocktail…or forty-seven.

Other Related Ramblings You Might Enjoy:

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• Hello (I Still Don’t Know How to Work the Word “Uke” Into A Single Word Title and It Frustrates Me But There’s Cold Beer Waiting, Damnit So Let’s Just Move On Already)
• Danny’s Uke

Well, that’s not entirely true.  They were going gangbusters for a bit there – building toys, attempting to play chase despite arthritic knees, napping on the floor of the basement in the hopes that Lucy might [...]]]> So far my parents are failing miserably at the little “Grandkid Caretaker Trial Run” test we’ve given them with the cats.

Well, that’s not entirely true.  They were going gangbusters for a bit there – building toys, attempting to play chase despite arthritic knees, napping on the floor of the basement in the hopes that Lucy might momentarily leave her hiding place amongst the air-conditioning ducts, occasionally sticking a cat’s head in each other’s mouths to keep up good training, etc.

But things started to take a turn to the ugly last week when Mom called to say, “That Mildred is a bitey little bitch.”

“She bit you?  She doesn’t bite.  What happened?”

“Well the slut was sprawled out on the edge of bed so I gave her tummy a rub and she started stretching even more, showing off her bits.  Then she started to slip off the edge and I knew she couldn’t possibly land on her feet, so I grabbed her foot and pulled her back on.  Then the little shit bit me.  And when I tried to pet her again, she hissed.  We’ll see if she gets HER belly rubbed again.”

“And Lucy?”

“The other one?  She likes your dad, though I’ve no idea why.  You should see how rough he is with her – but she just eats it right up.”

Then last night, I decided to call for another update.

Mom answered in a chipper tone, “Did you know your cats love Gladiolas?”

“They what?”

“They LOVE Gladiolas.  Lucy came upstairs for the first time today and she was standing on the kitchen table gnawing away at the flowers.”

“I’m pretty sure those are poisonous for cats, Mom.”

“Oh shit.  Are they really?  How do we find out?”

“I’m googling it now.  Yup.  Toxic.  So maybe don’t give them anymore Gladiolas, k Mom?”

“Damnit!  Nothing is going to happen to these cats.  Not on my watch!”

“They aren’t going to die, Mom.  They just might hurl a little.”

“Bob.  BOB!  Have you seen the cats?”

“Mom, calm down.  Just give them a little less food tonight.  And put the flowers on the porch.”

So you can imagine that finding a voicemail on my cell phone first thing this morning was a little terrifying.

Mom answered again.  “Hello?”

“Which one died?”

“Lucy.  Wait.  She didn’t die.  Elly!  But she’s limping.  Has that ever happened before?”

“Nope.  Exactly how rough is Dad again?”

“She was limping last night and today she won’t put any weight on it.  We have a vet appointment at 10:45 this morning.  At least she’ll be easier to catch today.”

*sigh*

Oh and I Sprocketed.  Turns out time-traveling sea-monkeys shouldn’t have sex.  True story.

Author’s note: As per usual, I may have exaggerated.  But only slightly.  I don’t think Mom actually said anything about Mildred’s bits, but she definitely called her a slut.  Repeatedly.  Hi Mom!

Oh and just because I like to keep you kids abreast (heh.  breast.) of all the frightening images available on the Interwebz, this is what happens when you google “sexy sea-monkey”:

You’re welcome.

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• Caterwauling
• Popcorn
• Packing Purgatory

I left my girls down in Virginia with Mom and Dad.  Their base camp is Dad’s wood shop.  When I left, [...]]]> I Sprocketed this morning.  Obviously I’m getting enough fiber, after all.   No really, slide on over there to check out the most offensive political ad ever created in the history of all time.

I left my girls down in Virginia with Mom and Dad.  Their base camp is Dad’s wood shop.  When I left, Lucy was hiding under an air-conditioning duct and Mildred was balancing atop a lathe with cobwebs, sawdust, and an entire dessicated moth stuck to her head.  One of them is having the time of her life.  (One of the cats I mean.  Obviously the moth is sorta done with the whole life thing.)

Yes, I’m going into kitty withdrawal.  Though I do have this little rotund ball of fur to keep me placated.  She keeps licking my forehead.  It’s rather distracting.  And in a profoundly disturbing way, comforting, too.

Interwebz, meet Lucky. Lucky, Interwebz.

Wait, that photo doesn’t quite do her justice.  Let’s try a shot from another angle.

Kitty got back.

I definitely can’t fit THAT in my mouth.  Not that I’ve really tried.  Yet.  Dammit.  I guess I know how I’ll be spending my afternoon.

Here’s hoping Mildred doesn’t come back looking like this:

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The tuberous bushcricket’s testicles account for 14 percent of its body [...]]]> Seeing as how today is Veteran’s Day and both my parents are veterans themselves, I’m going to say thanks to them for their service by not making a single vagina joke in today’s post.  Instead, I’ll just point you to this fascinating article on cricket testicles.

The tuberous bushcricket’s testicles account for 14 percent of its body weight. To put that in perspective, the testicles of a man weighing 200 pounds (91 kilograms) with that ball-to-body ratio would weigh 28 pounds (12.7 kilograms).

I know, sometimes I overwhelm myself with my propensity for thoughtfulness.

You know what else is fascinating?  This picture that someone sent to me after spotting this flyer near central park.

Photo By My Friend Linley

My first thought was, “How the hell did Apocalypse get through the Lincoln Tunnel?”  But then I noticed the missing unicorn is a girl.  So obviously it’s Apocalypse’s girlfriend, right?  I mean how many unicorns inhabit the tri-state area?

Though I always assumed Apocalypse was gay…and not just because he loves show tunes almost as much as he loves cupcakes.

Regardless, I called the phone number to see if the distraught unicorn caretaker wanted me to question Apocalypse on her behalf.  And also because you don’t NOT call a phone number on a missing unicorn flyer, am I right?  And that’s how I found this site.

There I found audio recordings from New Yorkers that have sighted the unicorn on the streets of Manhattan.  So far, I’ve learned quite a bit.  Apparently unicorns love candy corn and accept magic beans as a form of currency.  Who knew?

So far, no update on what percent of a unicorn’s body weight is devoted to its testicles.  I could discuss that with Apocalypse I suppose, but I like to respect his privacy.  Then again, if it was 14% like that poor bushcricket, I probably wouldn’t have to ask.

This post?  This is what happens when I can’t make vagina jokes, Interwebz.  Blame the veterans.

Actually, there are probably a whole slew of veterans that like vagina jokes.  It’s even possible that my two favorite veterans actually don’t mind vagina jokes…unless they involve their daughter’s vagina.  I can respect that.

So this is my thank you, Mom and Dad, for your years of service.  Next year you’d probably rather have a card, right?

(Pssst.  Mom and Dad?  I really didn’t mean to use the word vagina so much in your thank you post but then I figured if I didn’t, you wouldn’t really know it was from me.  So better to throw a few into the mix for good measure, right?  You know, like how I like to throw the perfect pottery vase and then at the last second mess it up ever so slightly so people will know it’s hand-made?  This is just like that.  But with vaginas.  And less mud.  And a unicorn.  Technically two unicorns.  I’m going to stop now.  Love you.)

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My bedroom is too small for bedside tables.  We managed to squeeze in a queen size bed and a dresser.  The end.  So I don’t have a little “magic drawer” to house my *ahem* toys.

*Waves to [...]]]> Have you ever noticed that cold meds make everything seem like a good idea?  Me either.  Mom, don’t read any further.

My bedroom is too small for bedside tables.  We managed to squeeze in a queen size bed and a dresser.  The end.  So I don’t have a little “magic drawer” to house my *ahem* toys.

*Waves to Mom*  I TOLD you…

I have to keep the things in my sock drawer.  And lately, I’m running out of places to put my socks.

Between the gals at ToyWithMe and EdenFantasys, I’m suddenly…there’s just no good anatomy part to list here… ____ deep in vibrators.

Seriously Mom, this is getting kind of awkward.  Maybe you should go play a game of solitaire instead of read any further.

Rocco is a mixture of appalled, fascinated, and intimidated.  When he held up the particularly complicated WeVibe I scored at BlogHer, he observed, “They should really color code the boxes for these things so people know what skill level is needed for correct operation.”

Remember when vibrators ran on C batteries?  Obviously I don’t because I just heard about vibrators about a week ago…I can still see you, Mom.  But I think someone told me that once.  Most of the new batch aggressively evicting my sock collection run on your normal AA’s.  (Except the black belt WeVibe model.  That thing seems to run on lithium and the tears of saints.)

But a handful of my pastel-colored machines run on these tiny, round, flat, disc-like batteries.  I’ve seen those tiny batteries before.  My Granpa uses them in his hearing aids.  Which, PS, makes me wonder exactly what hearing aids do for your ears.

But it’s kinda weird to cruise over to my local drug store and buy a jumbo pack of hearing aid batteries.  Even if my vagina is deaf.

And now I’m going to think of my Grandpa’s waxy ear canals every time I see those vibrators.  I think I might have room for some socks, after all.

No, do NOT show this to Dad and yell at him for what HIS offspring is putting on the internet.  Just thank your lucky stars that Thom doesn’t blog.

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• I Need to Stop Drinking Mouthwash

I know what you’re thinking.  “Surely, the end of the world is coming.”  But never fear, Interwebz!  It’s not that ominous.  Though, to be honest there is something coming that has me all flustered and overwhelmed – my Germans.

Well, not ALL my Germans are coming.  Tripe won’t be [...]]]> I just spent twenty minutes ironing a shower curtain.

I know what you’re thinking.  “Surely, the end of the world is coming.”  But never fear, Interwebz!  It’s not that ominous.  Though, to be honest there is something coming that has me all flustered and overwhelmed – my Germans.

Well, not ALL my Germans are coming.  Tripe won’t be here, just his parents.  And my parents.  Which reminds me I need to pick up a case of wine.

I’m not even sure when they’re getting here exactly, but I believe it will be sometime next week…mostly because when I asked Mom she said, “I dunno, sometime next week.”  So now I’m terribly panicked that I won’t have time to get ready.

“But Elly, it’s only Thursday.  You have DAYS to get ready.  Stop whining.”

You know what, Interwebz?  First, I don’t appreciate your mocking attitude.  I thought ours was a relationship built on mutual respect.  And second?  Are you paying any attention?  THEY’RE GERMANS.

I suppose I should tell you the back story.  (I’ve recently discovered that I’m bad at back story, preferring to focus on vagina-related punch lines and embarrassing details about my brothers.  So consider this an attempt at reform.)  Back in NC when we were kids…oh crap I’m bored already.

What?

Really?  We’re serious about this back story thing?  Fine.

Once upon a time my family made friends with this German family that had a kid (Tripe…ok FINE, his name is Axel) who was one year younger than me and one year older than Thom.  For the five years they lived in the States, we spent damn near every holiday with them – especially the Fourth of July.  (Huh.  I wonder if that’s where my fondness for Fourth of July festivities began.  I’ll have to ask my shrink, Dirty Diana, about that next week.)  But then [cue sad music] they moved back to Germany.  [music swells, lots of stringed instruments preferably]  Cities crumbled into oceans of fire.  Ok, not really – but it was quite sad.

Parted from our dear family friends, we pledged to see each other as often as possible.  [cut to shot of Daniel Day Lewis screaming, "Stay alive!  I will find you!"]  One summer, Thom and I would traipse off to Bonn to crash with the Germans for a few weeks.  Then the next summer, they’d ship Tri…er, Axel over here to hang with us.  When careers and finances allowed, the parents would travel as well.  One year we’d rent a house at Myrtle Beach, the next a house in the Swiss Alps.

Are you satisfied, Interwebz?  Can we move on yet?  I’m trying to explain why I don’t possibly have enough time to get ready for my house guests, damnit.

Really, simply stating that Ursula and Gerd (I know, cutest names EVER) are German should be enough explanation, but I’ll give you a specific example just for kicks.  When we stayed at their home, I vividly remember every sink had a rag tucked underneath it, reserved solely for the purpose of wiping down the basin.  Because Ursula would wipe down each sink no less than 4317 times each day.  (Side note:  I tried to incorporate this practice into my daily routine, once upon a time.  Which reminds me, I should probably pull out that dust-covered rag I’ve had wedged between my pedestal sink and the wall for the past seven years before they arrive.)

I haven’t exactly cleaned the apartment since I took it off the market over a month ago.  Ron is back.  This morning I found Mildred stuck to the kitchen floor.  What we have here, is a situation.  Mere moments after those adorable Germans kick off those leather sandals and walk on my filthy floors with their suddenly dingy white socks, they’re going to know just how bad I am at housekeeping.

A few years ago, I won a trip for two to Budapest, Prague and Vienna.  (I know, it’s good to be me.)  Of course I couldn’t waste a chance to see my Germans.  We turned it into a family outing with the whole German crew as well as my parents.  Wouldn’t you know, by the time we arrived, Ursula and Gerd had drafted a loose itinerary for our time in each city.  I remember it looking something like this:

8:30 – Breakfast

9:00 – Tour old town

9:20 – Astronomical clock

9:35 – Coffee

10:15 – Charles Bridge

…you get the idea.  They are adorably particular.  So far, here’s the agenda I’ve mocked up for their visit:

Wednesday or Thursday (probably) – Dinner and a show, hopefully Fela

So yeah.  I should probably get my ass in gear.  The problem is, I’d rather sit around and learn some German-themed song that Herbert and I can perform for them.  Something like 99 Luft Balloons or Winds of Change…or this classic from the David Hasselhoff catalog.  Any suggestions?

Is it wrong that I love that Hasselhoff video?  Maybe I need to get out more often.  I’m just not sure if my restraining order against Jesus has come through yet…

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