As I mentioned on Facebook, my Grandpa passed away this summer at the age of 89. It’s been a bad year for Grandpas in my family. My other grandfather passed away exactly nine months earlier. When I received this most recent news about Grandpa’s passing, I expected to go through the typical grief process. But I didn’t. At all, really. My mind skipped over all the steps of grieving and went right to acceptance. Later I realized this was more of a testament to how Grandpa lived, than an emotional flaw of my own. Grandpa lived and left this world exactly on his own terms, with no unfinished business, and his colorful, hilarious, and cantankerous personality is not one that simply disappears.

Grandpa’s feisty personality was present from the get-go. In grade school, Grandpa and his friends taught the school bully a lesson when they trapped him in an outhouse and threatened to tip it over. On a dare, he jumped off a bridge into the river, only to be greeted on the shore by the police, firemen, and his Mom with her hair in curlers. Grandpa dropped out of school at 15 after he told off the principal. He respected authority–he was in the Army, after all–but he had no tolerance for rules without a purpose. “Because I said so,” was simply not a good enough reason for him. I’m certain this is why he ran his own business until he retired. He and my Grandma ran one of the most well-known blue collar bars in the city. He worked long hours with few days off, often late into the night, but at least he was the one calling the shots.

There are two things I always loved about Grandpa. The first was his honesty and his directness. He was never afraid to call a spade a spade. If you asked him his honest opinion, well goddamnit, you were getting it. He was never mean, but he couldn’t be bothered with fake niceties either. You always knew where you stood with him, whether he liked you or not. And if he said he was proud of you or happy for you, you never questioned it.

Grandpa is on the right

The second thing I loved about him is his ability to hold a conversation with anyone. He would  go to college football games with my Dad, but rarely actually watched the game. Instead, he’d spend the entire game chatting with a complete stranger next to him, periodically poking my father with “Hey, what the hell just happened?” Many people lose their ability to communicate with the younger generation when they get old. Not Grandpa. Even at 89, he had that easy-to-talk-to bartender swagger about him. He kept up-to-date with world affairs and pop culture. He never touched a computer, but he knew who the head of Facebook was. He watched The Sopranos (which he openly denied, but he could tell you about the characters and the plot points, if questioned). And he remained open to the changing world around him. We recently had a long discussion on society’s changing family structure, gay marriage, and the like, and he said, “Jenny, at the end of the day — everyone’s life is their own business. No one tells me how to live mine, so no one else should be telling anyone else how to live their life either.”

I can’t possibly write about Grandpa without giving a nod to his colorful turn of phrase. He never used the F-bomb that I can recall. “Shit” was his spice of choice, peppered in with liberal amounts of “goddamn” and “sonofabitch.” Some mix of the three ended up in every conversation, often in the same sentence. Oldies like “you don’t know shit from Shinola” made it regularly into rotation. When writing his eulogy, I asked my brother to share the most important advice Grandpa ever gave him. Seconds later, he texted back, “Never bullshit a bullshitter.” My favorite phrase came out when Grandpa  was backed into a corner with no rebuttal to the argument (a rarity). He’d just wave his hand and yell “Go take a shit for yourself!” I still don’t know what this means–it seems that following this order would relieve me of discomfort, instead of causing me any–yet that phrase became a universal sign in our family that Grandpa’s closing arguments were officially complete.

Grandpa may have had a rough exterior, but his heart was never in question. He never missed the opportunity to say he loved us. Animals had a special place for him. He became the designated dog sitter for my parents’ dog Fluffy whenever they went out of town. When my parents traveled less frequently, Grandpa asked Dad to bring Fluffy over for visits when Dad was running out for errands, “just so the dog won’t get lonely.” The day before Grandpa died, he was so  weak, that he could barely move in his hospital bed.  But before my father left for the night, Grandpa reached over to his bed side table and pulled out a piece of meat wrapped in a napkin. Grandpa had swiped it off his dinner tray just so Dad could take it home to his pal, Fluffy.

I got the call that Grandpa was in his final hours early in the morning. It wasn’t shocking news—he had been in hospice for a week. But everyone thought he had at least a month. He was physically failing, but his mind was sharp as a tack. The night before he died, he held lengthy conversations with visitors, just like he was sitting in his barcalounger at home. I learned that Grandpa had a serious talk with Dad that night, and Dad told him that he’d never get out of bed again.  The next morning Grandpa went into cardiac arrest. The story actually made me laugh, because it was just like Grandpa. He knew the truth, he didn’t like it, so he said, “This is shit for the birds. I’m out.”

I often have to remind myself that it has only been two months since he passed. The shitstorm of distressing updates during his final weeks now feels like a lifetime ago. At the same time, it doesn’t really feel like he’s gone. I felt my other grandfather’s absence immediately, even before he died. My other grandfather was such a quiet, calming presence for our family–the type of presence that is immediately felt when it’s extinguished. Grandpa, however, had a strong personality that’s instantly recalled to memory in vibrant detail, as if you just saw him yesterday. I’ve visited Grandma several times since the funeral. Even though I know Grandpa isn’t there, it still feels like he is just in the back room yelling at the idiots on the evening news.

So here’s to you, Grandpa. You lived life on your terms up until the very end and left a slew of hilarious stories, memories, and creative cursing behind. I hope to love life as much as you did, and live it with as few regrets. And when it’s my time to go, I hope I’ll be able to follow your lead and look the ol’ Reaper in the eye and say,

“This is shit for the birds. I’m out.”

Yesterday I posted the link to the trailer for our new comedy short, Cat Scratch.  And this is our snazzy new poster!

Kinda go hand in hand in my book, which is how they ended up on the same post.

First up, the cat bite. My film partner Andrea and I recently collaborated on a comedy project with Christian de Rezendes and Breaking Branch Pictures, called Cat Scratch. And we got a pretty trailer for you to look at, for your viewing pleasure.

Secondly, the new Woe book is out on the market!  Woe of the Road: Tales to Make You Never Want to Leave Your House is….well, just that, really. A book of hilarious travel nightmares written by people who should by locked in their houses for the good of the commuting society.

More news soon, and likely a stupid humor post coming shortly.

And I’m back with even more film news.  Our second film Viral Video has been accepted into the 2012 SENE Film Fest!  Last year, our first film There She Is… won Best Regional Film and the Audience Award for Best Comedy film at SENE, so we’re very excited for our encore!  Click here for the trailer.  It’s worth it just to see me beating someone with a broom. 

Just a quick note from our film world.  My directorial debut, There She Is…, a beauty pageant mockumentary starring the talented Andrea Henry, will be screening at the Faux Film Festival in Portland, Oregon on April Fool’s weekend.  So if you’re in the area (or are not, but want to be our #1 fan), go out and support these funny folks!

2012 kicked off with a bang!  My humor book Mug of Woe (co-edited with the lovely Kyle Cranston), has won runner-up for Best Anthology in the New England Book Festival!  Less than 5% of the submissions are awarded or honored, so this was big news for our “little book that could”. 

(Of course, since this is a book on people’s most embarrassing moments, it is probably more appropriately the little book that “couldn’t,wouldn’t, and most definitely shouldn’t”.  But that’s a very long tagline to fit on a business card.)

 Either way. all of the writers who contributed to this book should be quite proud of themselves!  Our next volume, Woe of the Road, which features hilarious travel stories,  is coming out early this spring, so stay tuned!

That  good idea I had 28 days ago quickly became a dumb idea.

This isn’t a surprise, really. Rescuing monkeys also seemed like a good idea until  zombies gallivanted through London 28 days later. My “good idea” also had basic anatomy against it, as it popped into my head on my flight home from Orlando after four days of having my brain scrambled on every thrill ride in a 40-mile radius. Still, I just couldn’t see how “making sugar plums for Christmas” could possibly be a dumb idea. 

First, I had to answer the burning question,“What the hell is a sugar plum?”  I had always taken the name literally and assumed they were some sort of candied plum. Not only is this incorrect, but sugar plums do not necessarily have plums in them.  Back when people named these things, the word “plum” simply meant dried fruit. Sugar plums are dried fruit, honey, toasted nuts, orange zest, and spices rolled together into balls.  (Actual sugar is not a requirement in sugar plums, either.  They could have called these things “chicken fingers” and been just as accurate.)  

The recipe instructed me to blend all the ingredients together, roll into balls, and refrigerate.  Simple.  Easy.  Piece of cake. 

THAT is why this was a dumb idea. 

I can bake complicated things.  Those old-fashioned holiday cake recipes that take 18 hours of fermenting and marinating and liquoring and drying and setting the dessert on fire before serving?  I can do that. Easy recipes, however, NEVER go smoothly.  Therefore, when I followed the sugar plum recipe exactly, I ended up with a poo-colored fruity concoction that didn’t stick together in the promised ball-like formation.

The mixture wasn’t opposed to the idea of sticking.  It was perfectly willing to stick to my fingers, my hair. my refrigerator, my Mickey Mouse egg timer, and the wall behind my stove.  It was the sticking together in formation that it had issues with.  Any formation, really. A ball was preferred, but I would have taken a cube, or a pyramid, or even a cuboid.  But, no. The only formation I got was crumbs.  Big, poo-colored, fruity crumbs. 

The easy solution was to just add more honey until it stuck together, but I was worried that the honey taste would be overpowering.  The next few minutes consisted of dashes, and pinches, and teaspoons while stirring this concoction, until it finally stuck together in balls.  I rolled them, refrigerated them, and one hour later, I tasted them. 

They were awesome.

They tasted just like an old-fashioned holiday dessert — something your Grandma’s grandmother used to make. I already know that my family —  who loves all things dried and nutty and fruity  – are going to demand that I make them every year.  And I’d be more than happy to do so,  except I couldn’t remember exactly what I added to the recipe. I threw stuff in, but I paid no mind to the measurements at all.  Did I double the cinnamon?  Triple the honey?  Did I even put in more allspice? I was pretty certain that I didn’t set it on fire, mostly because the mixture did not need my help to resemble the contents of an urn.   

I came up with a vague idea of what I added.  I had enough leftover ingredients, so I made another recipe following this “vague idea” to see if I could replicate the results. 

Naturally, that didn’t stick together, either.

This time, however, I noticed it wasn’t the right shade of brown, which gave me something to work with. Once again, I went willy nilly with the ingredients until the color, texture, and taste  matched the batch already in my fridge. This was good news, as it proved that I can replicate this again next year.  But God help anyone who asks me for the recipe, because the only steps I know for certain are:   

1. Follow the broken sugar plum recipe.
2. Add stuff until it’s brownish and sticky. 
3. Roll into balls. 

Next year, my family wants me to make figgy pudding, a labor-intesive recipe that takes weeks to get to peak flavor.  If history is accurate, this will be the only time you hear about it, because it will come out perfect.  Just don’t give me a roll of those pre-made ”ready bake” cookie doughs.   It won’t end well.

A typical picture of Grandpa and me. His eyes were on me. My eyes were on the score of the Sabres game.

One month ago, my grandfather passed away at the ripe old age of 91. Over these last few weeks, a lot of people have told me, “the world lost a great man.”  And they are right.  In the schoolyard kickball game of Great Men, Grandpa would be one of the first picked for the team.  However, being a “shot glass half full” type gal, I don’t find pining over what I have lost to be particularly uplifting or constructive. So, I’m going to talk about how the world was better, because he was here. Specifically, my world.  Because this is my blog, damnit. Yay, for egocentrism.

I attribute part of my sense of humor to Grandpa, because he taught me comic timing. Granted, most of these teachings were completely unintentional. A relative said to me at the funeral brunch, “I could talk your grandfather into doing anything.” This was true. As long as Grandpa was spending time with us, he’d do whatever crazy thing we were into at the time, no matter how ridiculous he looked doing it.  My brother developed a passion for golf when he was a teenager.  Despite the fact that the only golf Grandpa had ever played involved maneuvering a ball around an obstructive windmill at Jacko’s Miniature Golf course, he took my brother out for nine holes.  They made it through the course, eventually — no small feat, because Grandpa did all his putting with a nine iron.

Grandpa had a comedy style I could never replicate — unassuming, never mean-spirited, yet bitingly funny.  A few years ago, someone had gifted us with a tiny bottle of ice wine for New Year’s Eve.  If you are not familiar with ice wine, it is a dessert wine made from frozen grapes.  On this half of the globe, it’s made mostly in Ontario and has the defining characteristics of being:

1)      very, very, sweet

2)      very, very tasty

3)      very, very, expensive per ounce, and therefore,

4)      sold in very, very, little bottles.

Mom rationed the ice wine among us like Moses with the last pouch of manna in the desert. After an hour or so of revelry, Mom reached for the bottle to pour everyone another round of the very, very tasty wine, only to find the bottle, which was supposed to be half full, was empty.

It didn’t take long to solve The Case of the Missing Ice Wine.  Nancy Drew would have figured it out by Chapter Three by the rumblings of contentment from Grandpa’s end of the table.

“Grandpa!” Mom exclaimed, “Do you know how much that little bottle cost?!”

“Well, honey,” Grandpa said as he set down his glass. “It was worth every penny.”

Even at his funeral, Grandpa’s whimsical humor was front and center.  Leading the funeral procession, in fact. My parents made the executive decision to rent a car for the funeral, because their dog Fluffy (she lives up to her name) is a frequent passenger in their cars, and our all-black attire did not need the additional fashion accessory of yellow dog hair.  The ONLY car available was a compact Chevrolet. A compact fluorescent green Chevrolet.  And this radioactive Snot Mobile led Grandpa’s funeral procession. I don’t think Grandpa would want it any other way.

The House (before Chewbacca closed on it)

Grandpa was the one who encouraged me to pursue my creative endeavors. He was a creative force himself, a remarkable craftsman who could build or fix anything.  He assembled a massive doll house for me for Christmas one year.  I’m sure he expected I’d be a normal little girl and put actual dolls in the house. But I knew something that most little girls did not — dolls are damn creepy. Action figures, however, were AWESOME.  So, in this quaint, three-story residence lived Chewbacca, She-ra, and the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. Spiderman and Papa Smurf were invited over for Christmas (which happened at least once a week in this house). When my brother was put down for his afternoon nap, Voltron and the Transformers would pop over for afternoon tea. I think this was when I realized that a creative discipline was the only type of discipline I would ever co-exist with.

I doubt I’d still be a writer if it wasn’t for Grandpa. Every instance of writer’s block, every period of frustration, each unfinished manuscript, he was the one who always told me to keep going.  He taught me more about writing than anyone. I spent many hours of my childhood “writing books” with him.  He’d fold a sheet of paper in half and draw a cover for our “book”. Then I would open it up and write a story on the inside that matched the cover he drew.  The only rule was that my entire story had to fit on the inside of the “book” with no spilling onto the back cover.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but this highly frivolous space limitation taught me the most invaluable lesson a writer could learn — make every word count.

I was reminded of this lesson when I visited Grandpa on Columbus Day weekend, just days before he passed. I visited him every day at the hospital with my family. On my last day in town, I drove to the hospital, alone. The entire way there, I scrolled through my brain trying to find the right words to say to him.  When I entered his room, he was sleeping.  Not wanting to wake him, I simply gave him a kiss and said, “Thanks, Grandpa.”  When I exited, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace.  Our last moment was brief, simple, and to the point. Given his lifelong lesson of editing, it was the best way I could have said goodbye.

Several Christmases ago, Grandpa gave me a bottle of Polish liquor.  I opened it the night I wrote his eulogy, hoping one shot would give me the clarity I needed to craft it. (Note: Nothing that is 100 proof gives you clarity. Burning throat and frequent typos, yes.  Not clarity.)  I cracked it open again tonight to write this blog post.  This time, however, I’m not looking for clarity. Instead, I’m pointing my glass at the sky and giving a brief, simple, to the point toast to one helluva great man.

Thanks for everything, Grandpa.

Yeah. I know. It’s late.  I was due back here on this blog weeks ago.  And it’s really sweet that you waited up for me to come home.  Darling, really.  But it’s REALLY late now, so why don’t we just go to bed and talk about it the first thing in the morning? 

No?  Fine. Have it your way.   

Valid Excuse for not blogging #1:  Encountered general Woe.

Our book Mug of Woe had a fantastic book reading this past Friday at Books on the Square in Providence.  The readers were hysterical and the audience was wonderful.  Thanks to the store and everyone who came out. Our next event is a reading/humor writing workshop for the good ladies at The Hive Archive in Providence on November 15th for their Hive O’Clock Happy Hour. Hope to see you there!

Also our follow-up book, Woe of the Road, is currently accepting tales of travel gone wrong.  So if you have one (and who doesn’t?), submit it to us by November 30th.

Valid Excuse for not blogging #2: Actively avoiding paparazzi. 

The films I’ve been making with this lady have been getting some silver screen time all over the country.  Our film There She Is… screened at the Broad Humor Film Festival in Los Angeles in September and will be screening in New Hampshire early next year. Our horror movie screened over Halloween weekend.  And our new film Viral Video has been accepted as a selection of the Boston Comedy Festival.  It screens November 12th at the Charles Playhouse! 

And there are other flicks coming soon. I’m working with some of my former filmmaking students on a sci-fi project called The House.  They are doing some amazing special effects on a fairly small budget and the film has live action and animation components.  I’m pleased to be a part of it.  You can check out the budding Production blog right here at Rosebudstudios.net 

 So that’s what’s been keeping me, honey. I haven’t been out gallivanting around with another blog, or vlog, or Tweet feed. And I can’t  say that it’s not going to happen again.  However, if I can borrow an expression from my grandfather, I promise that a new humor post is coming to this site quicker than poop through a goose.  OK?  Peachy. 

Oh, and I’ll take the trash out first thing tomorrow.  Cross my heart.