This is my Brain on Drugs

La, la, la, spring is here. Birds are chirping, flowers are blooming and meds are being re-evaluated in an attempt at drool control.

For those who read my drivel (Hi, Mom), I apologize for not keeping up my end of the bargain by putting fingers to keyboard. Time -among other unmentionable things- has a tendency

to shrink as I grow older.

Why, back in my day…

I swore those words would never leave my lips, along with “Get offa' my lawn,” and my personal favorite, “Honey, could you add Depends to the grocery list?" Well, so much for that.

Oh, how I wish I could go back. During childhood, hours seemed like days, and weeks like years. As a youngster, in the time it now takes me to relieve myself in the morning, I could've caught a frog, road my bike ten miles, and totally irritated the old lady next door with incessant attempts at playing the perfect E chord at ear-shattering volume until she called the police.

Ah, those were the good ‘ol days, weren’t they?

Here are three things I would do if I could go back in time.

1.  Pay more attention in English class (punctuation sucks!).

2.  Use paper-route money to buy stock in Disney, Apple and Microsoft.

3.  Find my wife. (Ew, wait. If I was thirteen, she’d be three. Strike that one).

Happy Trails,

K.G.

Make Me a Samich

Twenty-four hours ago the old saying, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life” took a wicked U-turn off the empty-nester road of rest, rejuvenation and rock-n-roll (never too old, right?),  and morphed into a poorly-lit, pot-holed highway to hell littered with Depends, catheters, bed pans and sponge (How I wish it was Bob) baths.

How apropos the term “Sandwich Generation” is when describing what has transpired. Not only is life suddenly full of baloney, but I seem to be coming in contact with a lot of stuff that smells like old cheese. Okay, I’m just a wee bit selfish but come on, I have finally been emancipated from the squatters (No details because you wouldn’t believe half of it anyway) I lovingly (right) call my children and now have been willingly sold into slavery a second time.  I think raising kids is just the prep course. You learn the patience with your kids that you need when dealing with the oldies.

I live 400 miles from my parents who are not in tip-top shape at the time I write this, and have been shielded from any responsibility in dealing with them. My older brother, sister-in-law and stepmother have shouldered the load, and for this they deserve a thousand gold stars and many thanks. But distance is no defense from the rights, lefts and uppercuts of life. Many of you may know I was recently married again, and darn, if she doesn’t have aging parents too. What??? Sometimes trials have a long-reaching, wicked jab that’s impossible to dodge and God has no problem (dang that Internet) finding me.

As newlyweds go we had a pretty good run. We managed a honeymoon in Italy and seven months of playing serious kissy face before being recruited for a second tour of duty.  I must admit though, I had fair warning. When we told my wife’s parents we were getting married the first words out of her mother’s mouth were, “Well, he’s going to have to help your father with the Christmas lights.” At the time I wasn’t sure if this was a statement or a stipulation.

Sorry to cut this short but have to run out for some adult baby wipes and an industrial-sized bottle of Milk of Magnesia. I hope my children are reading this. Payback’s just around the corner. Oh, I am so looking forward to getting old.

K.G.