I think my Poppi is turning into a dirty old man. Not like a “quick hide the prepubescents” dirty old man. But like a Handsy-Harry “lockup your Nanas” type dirty old man. And this development distresses me.

I’m just back from the sunshine state, after celebrating the old man’s 92nd Birthday. Happy Birthday, Poppi! Homeboy looks like he’s about 80 years old. My lord, that man’s genes should be studied. He’s tan, mobile, and mentally sharp. Sharp enough to chat about tranches of packaged and securitized mortgages–Zzz zzz z z. Sharp enough to not get stuck paying the bill at dinner. Sharp enough to know the difference between charming confidence and ballsy lechery.[ . . . ] Continue »

My 91-year-old maternal grandfather, Poppi, the widowed husband of The Dead Nana, may just be a geriatric G.* And this causes problems for some people.

* A “G” being defined as a Gangster.

I could set the scene with the whole,

My sister said, “Did Mom tell you yet?”

And I thought, “Someone is (1.) dead, (2.) in the hospital, (3.) gay, or (4.) in jail.”

But it was none of the above, and upon hearing the actual news, I gasped, “That’s amazing!”

[ . . . ] Continue »

Leaving flowers for dead people actually makes no sense at all. I’m not saying we should start leaving soda cans and gum wrappers around The Nana’s final resting place, however, if flowers have no useful purpose for living people (except to make people “feel good”—which really just means they get to show off), then dead people really, really can’t do anything with them.

Let’s just admit it: flowers make us, the living people, feel better. The Dead Nana has better things to do than look at flowers on her grave and compare “her” flowers to the lack of flowers on all the graves of all the total strangers around her. [ . . . ] Continue »

“Son of a bitch,” my mother exclaims. These are the first words out of her mouth as we approach The Nana’s grave for our Mother’s Day visit. I’d reprimand her for sullying a pious moment, however, there’s nobody around to take offense because everyone within earshot is dead. Two-week-old, trampled, disintegrating carnations are strewn on the ground in front of the headstone. Someone has actually dumped my Nana’s flowers out and stolen our nifty plastic graveside bouquet receptacle. (If only we’d outfitted Nana’s headstone for a computer lock!)

My mother’s eyes are wild. Her knuckles whiten around the fresh bouquet of flowers and the shovel. [ . . . ] Continue »

The question is: What were we doing in a cemetery with a small shovel on Mother’s Day?

Visiting The Dead Nana, of course!! [**High-fives all around!** Dead grandparents are the funnest.]

Shovel or no shovel, cemetery visits are tricky business: a “good” visit means your loved one is still deceased, while a “very bad” visit means your undead relative has risen from the grave and is waiting—knee cocked on her headstone—to beat your ass for showing up late, wearing jeans, and bringing nothing more than a cheap supermarket bouquet. [ . . . ] Continue »