We went to my grandparent’s house, only because we meant to go Wednesday but Grandpa had a Dr.’s appointment so the visit needed to be postponed ’till Friday.
So, we went yesterday. I don’t visit them very often for two reasons:
(keeping in mind I love my grandmother dearly…)
1. They live 2 hours away
2. Every time I visit, I am made very aware of every medical condition my grandmother is afflicted with. And repeatedly updated on the status of daily bodily functions. I feel this falls under the rubric of “eww”. But I let her go on. Not much else for her to talk about.
Lately, though, she has begun a new trend which, though has nothing to do with ailments or bathroom activities, is almost as disturbing.
She has been taking me on tours around the house showing me what she’s going to give me when she dies.
“This ceramic dog…do you like it? It’s for you when I die.”
“Do you like these dishes? This ladle? This will be…all for you.”
She also makes sure to let me know what my mother is getting so I know what I will be getting when my mother kicks off.
“This curio cabinet is for your mom, so you’ll get it when she dies.”
“You like this clock? You’ll get it someday.”
If ever I want a mortality check, I’ll go to my grandmother’s.
My grandfather, however, is a different story.
“Hey, grandpa…how are you?”
“Old and ugly.”
This is his usual response.
When informed that my 9-year old cousin was spending the night at her friend’s house, and that her friend was a boy, his opinion was: “she ain’t spendin’ no night at no boy’s house!”
My grandmother to the defense: “He has leukemia!”
His counter: “I ain’t carin’ if he got syphilis!”
So, I spent about 4 hours at my grandparents house, being shown my inheritance inventory which unfortunately did not include the remodeled ’67 mustang with factory paint job and 120,000 miles nor the ’65 Plymouth Barracuda occupying the basement. Maybe when my mom and uncles die. Grandma predicts that they will all die from diabetes and cancer, so we’ll see how long I’ll have to wait. She hasn’t informed me of what I’m gonna die from. Suppose I’ll have to wait for that, too. Bollocks.
So, we began our 2-hour cruise home, and on the way, despite the fact that my husband and I are on his Nazi-esque boot camp diet and fitness program, I made him take me to Hooter’s for some hot wings. It’s my damn birthday. I’m gonna eat what I want on my birthday. Trainer be damned.
And, bonus! The Sonics game was on and we were seated right in front of the TV. Sonics sucked ass, but the wings were tasty. Good birthday so far. Waitress kinda forgot about us after a while, probably because she had several tables with some rather cute GI’s to flirt with. Cha-ching.
Great location for a Hooter’s, though. It’s right near Ft. Lewis which is where, coincidentally, I was born. Thirty years ago. Funny, that.
The evening ended with hubby and I chillin in the recliner and couch respectively watching “The Longest Yard” on Pay-Per-View. That was a kick-ass movie. We’re gonna watch it again before it passes it’s 24-hour expiration. Stone Cold Steve Austin shitting himself was one of the funniest damn things I’ve seen in a while. Too bad it won’t carry over to Smackdown! or Monday Night Raw. Triple-H or John Cena would start having “shit yourself matches” where the one who shits themselves first loses. They could have a World Shitter Title belt. Eww…carrying this too far, I am.
So, I didn’t go out partying all night and getting blitzed to celebrate a monumental birthday. I spent it with my family and my husband, and some hot wings, and it was more than awesome.