Revenge

I like to kid my friends who have children that the sole reason I spoil their children is because I don't know which of my friend's children will someday have the task of putting my hairy, wrinkled butt into a nursing facility. I kinda am banking on all of these children having at least one memory of me letting them have the gumball their parents said no to . . . or getting them the really cool christmas gift . . . or coming up with the perfect rainy day activity and decide to put me in the home where the orderlies will change my diapers more than once a day.

Now, I'm thinking that it will be a tasty revenge to just be a pain in the arse.

Remember the Old Folks and their dire condition? The worry? The late night baking just to keep me from hovering over their sleeping bodies with a mirror to make sure they are still breathing?

In the last 36 hours, they have driven across three states and back. Why? Because the Old Woman had been given a photo of a house she once lived in and developed a hankering to see it in person. That, and visit the dead peeps one last time.

You cannot imagine the worry . . . and the incredulousness I'm experiencing at the report that they had a fine trip, ran no one off the high way, and are in good spirits. Where was that pool the old people went into to get young in that movie?