Be warned, this is a long one.  I just didn’t have the heart to cut a verse out because the words are just lovely.  Plus they’re from NC.  The band that is.  I guess the verses are too, then.  [...]]]> There is nothing more ridiculous than a pregnant lady trying to hold a ukulele.  So you’re welcome.  Again.

Be warned, this is a long one.  I just didn’t have the heart to cut a verse out because the words are just lovely.  Plus they’re from NC.  The band that is.  I guess the verses are too, then.  And you know how I love my Carolina boys.  And girls.  And verses.  And biscuits.

Focus, El.

Oh here’s the video.  I’m too pregnant to write a decent introduction.  Or put on socks.  Or stop whining about how pregnant I am, apparently.  The end.

Let’s all cross or fingers and hope that Tom G. is right and it’s MotherfuckingBirthTime.

And because I’m all about the two for one deals, how about another mind blowing uke song?  Fortunately, this one is not from me.  It’s from my new hero, Dora Dale.  Dig what she did to House of Pain.

Mind.  Blowing.

Other Related Ramblings You Might Enjoy:

• The Uke of the Tiger
• Uke and Julio Down By the Schoolyard
• I Want to Marry a Lighthouse Keeper
• Ukulele In The Morning
• Greatest Love (No, Not Whitney)

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”

Thanks for all the sweet comments and notes yesterday, Interwebz.  I didn’t [...]]]> This morning I awoke to the sweet dulcet tones of Mildred wailing as she tried to claw her way out of the water bowl she’d somehow fallen into around 6am.  Seriously.  I’m starting to wonder if managed to find a kitten even dumber than Lucy.

Thanks for all the sweet comments and notes yesterday, Interwebz.  I didn’t mean to get all somber on y’all.  It was a moment of weakness.  Forgive me.  Besides, I just get all weepy and emotional when you people are nice to me.  Weepy and emotional isn’t really my thing.  So stop it.  STAT.  If I was banging Justin Timberlake in real life (as opposed to the crazy things we do in my head) I would make him sing you a song entitled, “I’m Bringing Snarky Back.”  And then we would have a giant dance-off Soul Train style.

You should really try one of these pills.

Driving out to the house-to-be-if-I-can-just-sell-this-fucking-apartment-and-why-the-hell-isn’t-saint-joe-working-yet-damnit yesterday, Rocco tried to torment me with talk radio.  I don’t do well with talk radio for long periods of time.  (I feel the same way about free-from jazz, frankly.  You can keep your Monk, Mingus, and Davis.  I’d rather listen to Fitzgerald, Armstrong, and Simone.)  After seven minutes of drivel about “all brain” job postings, I begged him to consider trying the FM band for a wee bit.

After minimal surfing, we landed on Gnarls Barkley’s “Crazy.”  I triple-dog-dare you to listen to that song and not sing along.  It’s almost as addictive as “Hey Ya!” – almost.

So there I am, mouth wide open, head thrown back wailing, “Maybe I’m craaaaaay-zaaaaay.  Maybe you’re craaaaaay-zaaaaay,” as we barreled down I-78.  As I dipped my head down, gulping in air or my next big note, my eyes landed on the woman in the car next to us.  She too, was gulping air.  Then just as the words “Maybe we’re…” filled the air, lady in the car next to us threw her head back, clearly belting out “craaaaaay-zaaaaay!” in the confines of her own car.

She caught me watching and immediately clamped her mouth closed.  I gave her a wink, and added a little seat shimmying to my sing-a-long.  She pumped her fist and waved, as we continued to mouth the lyrics in unison.

It made me a wee bit nostalgic for the days of high-school car pooling.  When a great song would come on the radio, and you’d roll down your window, stick out your hand, and try and signal the station’s frequency to the cars behind you with gestures or by yelling out the window at stop lights.

A single finger.  Then a fist.  Then both hands out the window, one splayed wide, the other in a piece sign.  Then a finger jab in the air.  Finally one hand, again splayed wide.  We’d watch as the passenger in the car behind us bent over the dashboard, spinning the knob till landing on 107.5, immediately nodding in recognition of the blaring guitar while the rest of the kids in the car moved to the beat.

That never happens when I’m listening to my iPod walking down Broadway.  Though I do see a lot of single fingers sticking out of rolled-down car windows.

Now I’m going to directly rip off the musically inspired Andrea and give you a theme song for today.

Other Related Ramblings You Might Enjoy:

• Home. Sort of.
• Picking Favorites
• Dylan Drama
• Goodbyes
• Gaga

Even [...]]]> Bad news.  I’ve been racking my brain for days (ok really only the past 30 minutes or so when I realized what today is) for some witty and creative April Fool’s prank for today’s post.  I’ve got nothing.  I am devoid of funny.  I can’t decide if I should blame chemo brain, allergies, or Rod Stewart.

Even my dear brother Thom had no ideas.  “you found Jesus, you’re allergic to semen, you just read that Corey Feldman died, that’s all I have this early in the morning.”

Fucker.  Like anyone would fall for those.  It’s his fault you get nothing today.  Typical Thom.

Are you ready to have your mind blown, Interwebz?  I’m going to share a teensy weensy secret with you – I have a mean streak.  GASP!  I sometimes pull mean pranks on people.  SHOCK!  I’ll tell you my favorite prank, though I haven’t done it in a LONG time.  Maybe you’ll be able to use it on one of your loved ones today.  Caring is sharing, after all.

Generally, this prank works best with a crowded car on a long drive through the winding mountain roads of North Carolina or Virginia.  In a pinch, you can execute this move on an empty stretch of highway.  Being a highly accomplished prankster, I’ve been known to whip out my move on the West Side Highway in rush hour traffic.

I’d like to thank my brother Thom for his part in the creation of this prank.  Only a teenage sibling could inspire a volume of petty anger great enough to inspire such a move.  He’s still hesitant to ride in a car with me to this day.

You have to wait for the right moment.  Timing is everything.  Your passengers need to be completely zoned.  Lull them with a false sense of security.  Try driving for at least half an hour.  At the very least, your passengers need to be gazing out the side windows.  Ideally, their heads are lolling around on the head rest and their mouths are gaping wide open as snores fill the cab of your vehicle.

Accelerate.  Gently.  Subtly.

Then, while screaming “WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!” simultaneously slam on the breaks and jerk the steering wheel to and fro.

I tell you, your passengers will LOVE it.  I usually have to pull over for a bit because it’s just so hard to drive when your eyes are filled with tears from laughing so hard.  It also gives my passengers a moment to change their underwear and threaten to hitchhike home.

Happy April Fool’s.  I’ll start planning next year’s post now.

Other Related Ramblings You Might Enjoy:

• Math is Hard, Barbie
• Home. Sort of.
• Ukulele In The Morning
• Rainy Days and Mondays
• Please Tell Me That White Stuff is Glitter

Sing it, sistah.

Someone please tell me that it’s not really still snowing.  Tell me that all the white shit in the [...]]]> My favorite voicemail, which I just can’t bring myself to delete, is from my mom.  There’s no greeting, no introduction, no pleasantries, just one sentence: “Just wanted to tell you it’s fucking snowing here.”

Sing it, sistah.

Someone please tell me that it’s not really still snowing.  Tell me that all the white shit in the sky is just the already fallen snow blowing around.  Also, someone please remove all the sharp pointy things from my apartment so nobody gets hurt.  While you’re at it, you might as well vacuum, too.

I know you guys are with me on this.  How do I know?  Here’s just a few of the site’s more popular searches from the past 48 hours:

• fucking snow
• how much fuckin snow are we going to get thursday?
• i hate the snow lovers
• +vibrator +bathroom +blog
• snow lovers suck
• snow trapped recipes
• when is the fuckin snow going to end?

I’m shaking my fist and grimacing right along with you guys on each and every one of those sentiments.  Well, the recipe one makes me scratch my head a little but that’s neither here nor there.  If you ask me, the only snow trapped recipes you need to concern yourself with involve hard liquor.

I’ve lived amongst these Yankees for over ten years now, but I just can’t shake my Southern-bred fear (and hatred) of snowstorms.  I would never ever dream of driving in this weather, yet there’s almost as much traffic on 14th street as there is on your average sunny, snow-free day.  (Granted traffic is backed up because a snow plow just jumped the sidewalk and took out a bike rack, but that doesn’t change the volume of cars outside my window.)  These people ain’t got no learnin’.

Mmm Pudding

Even though it’s been more than a decade since I lived with a well, I still get the urge to fill the bathtub with water just in case we should lose power.  There’s so much wrong with that statement, I know.  First, since moving up here I’ve been without power all of three times…and all were during the summer months.  This isn’t the land of generators and wood burning stoves, but old habits die hard.  Second, I know that a blackout won’t leave us without water.  I swear that somewhere in my brain lives that vital piece of information.  Yet somehow I usually manage to fill the tub an inch or so before I remember I’m being ridiculous.  I should know better.  After all, if the tub is filled with water, where am I going to mix up a large enough batch of cocktails to last until snowmageddon melts?  It’s not like I have an inflatable kiddie pool under my bed.  (I should really buy and inflatable kiddie pool and keep it under my bed.  Also, I’m going to need a whole mess of those No. 10 sized cans of pudding.)

So allow me to amend my previous statement: the only snow trapped recipes you need to concern yourself with involve hard liquor…in copious quantities…and a bathtub.

If that’s true, why did I completely freak my shit yesterday when I realized the snow was starting to accumulate and I had neither milk, nor eggs, nor bread in the apartment?  More of that good ol’ Southern fried fear, I reckon.  I can’t for the life of me remember why I’m supposed to hoard milk, eggs, and bread.  Those three items seem awfully arbitrary to me.  I could understand frozen pizzas, ranch dressing, and Greek olives – THOSE are staples.  Is there some secret component to Carolina snow that causes a slow painful death if you don’t inoculate yourself with french toast?  Couldn’t I just buy some frozen french toast instead?

Of the three items in question, Rocco would argue that milk is the most necessary.  He likes his coffee like he likes his women (tall, light, and bitter) and he NEEDS his morning coffee.  Apparently coffee drinkers are downright particular about their beverage fixins.   I’ve been told coffee without some sort of dairy doesn’t count as coffee.  I’ve also been told that shredded parmesan cheese does not count towards “some sort of dairy” when coffee is involved.  To which I reply, “If my brother can make White Russians with non-dairy powdered creamer, you can find SOMETHING in this apartment to lighten your coffee.”

If you cross your eyes, White Russians are mostly milk and therefore a perfectly suitable breakfast substitute.  I’m thinking about crossing my eyes…

Anyway, these Yankees don’t seem to have the same grocery hoarding compulsions Southerners exhibit.  I stopped by the grocery store yesterday on the way home from an appointment and the items in question were well stocked.  In Carolina, disheveled house wives would have been weeping openly in front of the barren shelves as the store clerks nursed their open wounds.   Here, there were no frantic runs on the Hoboken A&P.  The shelves were filled with rows and rows of every bread imaginable.  I suppose the population of Hoboken could still be rockin’ their New Year’s no-carb binge, but then the beer selection wouldn’t have looked so slim.

Not that I bought any staples while I was at the grocery store.  I know better than to buy eggs when I have to carry them more than twenty feet – even on a clear, ice-free day.  I didn’t even buy any non-dairy powdered creamer.  I still fell no less than three times as I walked the half a mile between my apartment and the grocery store.  Boo.  Hiss.

Seeing all this snow reminds me of my last trip home.  Mom was wicked upset that Dad’s party had been postponed.  We kids tried to console her:

Me:  We could make some snow cream…maybe throw in some Baileys?

Mom:  I don’t like Baileys.

Mike:  I could whip up some lemon snow.

Thom:  I could make some chocolate snow.

Me:  I could make cherry.

Mike and Thom:  …

Mom:  Well now I feel much better.  I’m just plain relieved those poor people won’t be subjected to you kids.

Since this post is nothing but tangents anyway, I’m thinking about adding a random vagina thing of the week feature.  Here’s an example.  Thoughts?

Other Related Ramblings You Might Enjoy:

• Things That End in “Asserole”
• Trapped (or Tuna-Lime Ring Recipe)
• Thank You, Thankyaverramuch
• Rainy Days and Mondays
• Sock Puppets (and Other Lonon Excerpts)