September 2001

Why I Hate Grandpa

Damn that Grandpa! Once I'm back on my feet, I'm sending him to rehab to clean up his act before he comes near me again.

How did our loving relationship deteriorate? It all started when Grandpa passed out in a cheese-induced frenzy. Sure, I knew when I married him that he was a crazed quesovore, but I though the had it under control. No cheese before noon, no cheese tremors, no blackouts. You know the deal. Looking back, his love of glopping a spoonful of ricotta on a slice of mozzarella should have been a big tip-off. Or else maybe the parmesan shots…

Anyway, after he woke up in front of the fridge covered with the remnants of a major cheese binge, I knew it was serious. He passed out three times that week holding a half-finished Polly-O. Most nights I couldn't get him to move away from the fridge and come to bed. He wasn't eating anything else, if you know what I mean.

Finally I decided to take drastic measures. I took all his money and his ATM card and then cleared out all the cheese. (There wasn't much left anyway.) He went deep into withdrawal. First he was mad, then he stopped functioning altogether and just sat slumped over on the sofa, not even bothering to change the channel when King of the Hill came on. (That's always a bad sign, because King of the Hill is possibly the suckiest thing on TV.)

I tried to be good to him…nurture him back to health, but the quesomania still had hold of him. When he got his strength back, he got off of the couch and headed for the kitchen. But instead of opening the fridge, his eyes bulged out at the sight of our enclosed black mousetrap. He stooped down to look in and then jammed his fingers inside to pull out his treasure.

I came running at the sound of his scream. No one would ever forget the scene that was before me. Grandpa spinning around in the kitchen, flailing one arm in the air - a mousetrap flopping at the end of his hand.

"Honey! Stop! Wait! I'll fix it." And I ran to him. But he didn't hear me through his pain and cheese-steria. His arm came around the spin as I was trying to help. Now I've got marks on my back from the dining room chair breaking my fall.

Sure, he's great to me. Very apologetic. But he found his cash and is back to his quesoholic ways. When he comes in to give me a heating pad, I can smell the Jack on his breath. But I refuse to let Monterey Jack ruin my marriage.