Yeah, I know, families sure are strange these days.
For full effect, download "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer" and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.
That unhinged dame I'm referring to is actually my Great-Grandmother as well, but luckily, I wasn't the kid that she was trying to make out with during the festival of potatoes that follows a funeral. For the record, I think that my cousin who was the beneficiary of her lip-locking services could possibly have a fear of the female gender well into his forties.
If you've read this amazing blog once or twice before, you may recall my transcribing of a lunatic conversation that I once had with my crazy Great-Grandma. If not, this link should provide you with an extra three minutes of comedic relief for the day. She's a great woman, don't get me wrong. Her head is full of Alzheimer's and Dementia, and every time I stop by her place she thinks that I've grown another foot. I credit her hunchback syndrome kicking in an extra notch every six months that instills this false feeling of shrinkage.
Seated to my left is her 95-year old almost blind fifth husband who is teetering on the verge of his own fiscal cliff of life. This is a man who once moved away from St. George because they raised the price of coffee at his local diner by 30 cents. A man who hasn't had teeth since the 70's. A man who once had his right hand mangled from a riding lawnmower and can still swing a golf club further than most amateurs. Yeah, this penny-pinching hobbler is a legend in himself.
For a solid thirty minutes we sat and chatted about things that we have sat and chatted about probably a hundred times before. Things like cat food, Dee's diner, and the Ben Lomond golf open in 1947. When you're old, I guess the best thing to do is regurgitate the same topics over and over again and bore your legacy to death while Grandkids roll their eyes out of spite. I'll listen to these crazy cooks recount their tales though, if it makes their day.
More than likely by the time my car reaches the end of their driveway, they'll have forgotten that I even stopped by. Which is fine, I'm not complaining at all. I'm guessing that's what happens when you get all old and wrinkly and have hospice taking care of you on the hour. By the time I get to their age I know I'm gonna be one nutcase of an old fart who can't remember "a dadgum thing" from when I was growing up.
As I introduce the formality of the goodbye hug, my Great Grandma tosses one last question my way.
Golfing Granny Gordon: "So you dating anyone these days?"
Swamp Thing: smiling "Oh, here and there. I take 'em out every once in a while. Nothing serious though."
Golfing Granny Gordon: "Well let me tell you one thing son. Whoever you decide to settle down with, make sure that you're picky. You don't want to regret anything with whatever dame you finally end up with."
Coming from a crazy 93-year old woman who once tried to make out with my cousin, that's some of the best advice I've heard in a while.
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