In the event of my death
Hey hun,
I don’t want to scare you, but I had a near-death experience the other day. I was toddling around on my bike when I suddenly had a horrible, stabbing pain in my gut. It was so bad I had to get off and sit on the sidewalk by the park where you used to have soccer practice.
In fact, there were a few teams running drills as I flopped about, clutching my stomach. I suddenly remembered Hilde, my second cousin who dropped dead of a ruptured intestine, or something like that, and I knew my time had come at last.
But, if I couldn’t die on my Tempur-Pedic, I sure as hell wasn’t going to gasp my last in front of a bunch of screaming kids. So, with my last ounce of strength I hobbled into some shrubs nearby. I must have been a real sight, crabbing around in your Granddad’s grubby old sweatsuit.
As I resigned myself to my fate, my stomach rumbled like a faulty dam. I had just seconds to scramble out of my sweatpants before I had the worst runs of my freaking life. It wasn’t the fountain of youth but the origin of all evil; I killed off everything green within five miles; I recreated Pompeii for every ant in town – you get my drift.
It felt like an eternity that I was in that shrub, and just when I thought I could slink off and drag my empty husk of a body home, a couple of cops walked over and demanded that I show myself. Turns out someone had called in a weirdo skulking around the kids. Can you imagine their surprise when they found not a pervert, but an old lady shitting herself!?
I didn’t perish from an exploded gut, but it would have been preferable to the embarrassment. One of the cops said it was more gruesome than the NYC crime scenes he worked in the 80’s. They even made me see a doctor, who really had no stinking clue. He told me to eat simple foods for a few days and to lay off the coffee and beer— no thanks, buddy!
But, I do think that I’ll stop taking Frank up on his bathtub baked beans. I know it’s family tradition, but maybe there was something funky with the last batch.
Anyway, the only reason I’m telling you the epic saga of my near demise is because, as I lay in the shrub, awaiting the cold grip of death, I realized that I never told you where to find your inheritance. Now, I say inheritance but there’s really no money — we had to use most of our savings when your Granddad got sick. But, if you look under the floorboard in the linen closet, there’s a little box with your name on it.
It’s not much, just a few tokens and memories to pass down. The only thing of real value is my mother’s famous raspberry scone recipe (she claims it’s how she nailed down my father, so maybe it will bring you luck). Anyways, it’s yours when I croak – which could honestly be any day now.
Love you lots,
Grams
P.S. Do not share the recipe with your sister. She does not and will not ever appreciate fine pastries. Don’t even get me started.