Remember me to Dunkin' Donuts

And keep those Bic pens away from your butt

Hey hun, 

I’m sorry it’s been a while since you’ve heard from your strange old Grams. Sometimes the longer you’ve been away, the harder it is to return; you spend more time thinking about how to even begin the conversation than it would take to say ‘hello’. 

At least, that’s what I found myself thinking when I visited your Granddad’s grave the other day. I just couldn’t think of what to say. People say that the dead live on inside us forever, and maybe it’s just my lack of imagination, but I find that they can only ever be as they ever were in life. 

For me, your Granddad is either working in the garage, watching the game, or hurling chunks on our honeymoon (incidentally the last time he touched vodka). I knew him for decades, but our time apart makes it hard to tell any version of him that I just spent the last 5 hours with Denise in a tattoo parlor covering up her ass tatt. 

Yeah, I know. I, too, thought that ass tatts were more the realm of moody teenagers trying to piss off their parents than the preferred medium of little old grannies. But, it would be ageist of us to assume that time makes us wiser. 

Here’s what happened: Denise rang me up this morning and insisted that we have a girl day to do “errands”. Well! Within the hour she had dragged me into a Dunkin’ Donuts bathroom, yanked down her tracksuit bottoms, and exposed her rear. The upper left cheek was marked with a very shaky capital F in the middle of an even more uneven heart shape. It looked like it had been drawn on by someone standing on a jackhammer. 

“Well shit, Denise,” I said, “what the heck and a half happened there?”

She was panicking and nearly sweating off her falsies as she told me how her ex, good ol’ French gave it to her during what sounds like a weekend of total elder debauchery (you know, prescription medication abuse, cruisin’ at Michael’s, and crashing nursing home buffets). To top it off, French offered to express his artist ability by breaking open a Bic and giving Denise a nice little stick-n-poke. As a former high school teacher, I have no freaking clue where he picked up that skill – maybe in whatever certification course he took behind the strip mall. 

I asked Denise what business she had letting a doddering fool like French anywhere near her with a pen, but it was a moot point, judging by all the hand-wringing. Sometimes being around this woman makes my head spin. Anyway, her new cruise boyfriend has announced that next month he’ll be docking in her harbor, if you know what I mean. Apparently he’s something of a “serial cruiser”. 

Obviously, Denise was terrified of the possibility of him seeing her butt doodle and knowing that at the youthful age of 77 she’d ever been with another guy. Our plan was thus hatched. We loaded up with caffeine and donut holes and drove three towns over because everyone knows that tattoo parlors are the #1 senior citizen hangout spot and we simply could not risk being spotted. 

We found a shop where a guy was able to reinterpret the love stamp into something a little more vague. I held Denise’s hand and avoided eye contact with other patrons as she gritted her teeth through hours of pain. I’m telling you, this cruise guy must really be something. The tattoo honestly looked pretty rough at first, but it’s healed up to be a much nicer floral arrangement. I know because I have since received pictures that I never asked for. 

In my honest opinion, it’s like hiding a skinny weed under a pound of mulch, but it’s not my butt in question. I know you must be wondering if I’ve heard from my penpal at all. Truth be told, I’ve fallen off my emails. Last I heard, he and his friend had met up with some kind of nerd gang at one of their conventions. I should reach out, it’s just that recently time has slipped away from me. Suddenly it’ll be noon, then 6 PM, then the end of the week, and it starts all over again. Is it just me? Am I losing it already? 

Anyway, I’m plain worn out from my escapades and I’m about to meet up with the girls to do our little walk to the liquor store to get our bottles and scratch tickets. Then I’m going to try and catch that crime show.

But before I sign off, I just want to say one thing. I know I make a stink about it, but I think we should all live a little more like Denise. Do stupid shit, live outrageously, even make up stories about yourself. One day we’ll all be just memories, so help the people you leave behind find you no matter where life takes them. Until then, remember me to Dunkin’ Donuts.

Much love, 

Grams