Let’s Get Drunk N Screw

My grandmother to which I had been aptly named after held two degrees:

feral humans…pampered at birth and lost somewhere along the way

A black belt in foul language and a third degree burn from living life on the edge.
Grandma Ruth story number one hundred and thirty three:
You know…and I can tell you this because your grandfather is gone now. But sex…girls…isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. After fifty years of marriage I learned that eating crackers and doing the Sunday Morning Crossword puzzle while your Grandfather, God rest his soul, did his business, was all life really boils down to. You’ll learn you can core apples and plan the weeks grocery list also. If you have a mind to multi tasking.

…life, this too shall pass

She had explained the rules of a married sex life to my partner and I in hopes of pointing out the obvious: never take someone else’s joy away.
She on occasion was also known to cheat at Monopoly and dance semi naked on picnic tables…all for the pure enjoyment of it all.
It is only fitting that her demise last winter came ’round my demise…the dreaded closer to fifty than forty mark. Add to that I had been asked to give her eulogy. Top that off with my having received not so eloquently the neuro virus a day before said event. Spice it all up with my mixed emotions about being in a catholic church, at a podium with bad incense burning and vacant holy stares pushing back at me.
We visited Grandma Ruth today. Funny or ironic, really, looking for Quinn on a poetically religious headstone in an Irish graveyard just outside of Boston is eerily similar to looking for your under achiever vertically challenged partner at Mohegan Sun during rush hour traffic at the One Armed Bandit Penny slots.
Makes one wonder. The whole grieving process. The whole growing, learning, adding to the adult armor, avoiding closeness and than towards the end…wanting nothing but time to came back.
Many lovers…as I have had way too many…have offered this sage advice about my character faults”
You are like a cat with nine lives and anyone that joins your feral ways tends to find themselves as strays with no where to go.
Why is it a stone, a piece of granite, a name placed in awkwardly stoic but pleasing to the elder’s eyes…why is it we cannot begin to grieve without the pomp and circumstance?
I see my grandmother every time I watch Bad Santa the unrated version. I watch her slapstick moves as my dog humps a pillow. I secretly chuckle to self when lying naked in bed and think…I should go get some Ritz crackers and a jar of peanut butter.
I read somewhere that the only thing important to your death is knowing you’ve made someone else remember you. Even if it is for just a split second. For that truly is all we are here for.

warning: love at your own risk

The avoided friendships. The missed opportunity at accessing things we want but know we shouldn’t have. Moments where we should have bought the Sunday paper, invited a friend into the bedroom and taught them how to core an apple. Can’t be found graveside. They are all roadside attractions to our life.

Ode to Grandma Ruth and her favorite dance tune:

I really do
Appreciate
The fact you’re
Sitting here
Your voice sounds
So wonderful
But your face don’t
Look to clear

So barmaid bring a pitcher
Another round of brew
Honey why don’t we get drunk and screw

Why don’t we get drunk and screw
I just bought
A waterbed
It’s filled up for me and you

They said are a snub queen
Honey I don’t think that’s true
So why don’t we get drunk and screw

Why don’t we get drunk and screw
I just bought a waterbed
It’s filled up for me and you

They said are a snub queen
Honey I don’t think that’s true
So why don’t we get drunk and screw…