well my plans for much-needed hours upon hour of regenerative slumber was thwarted by a phone call. sadly, the call wasn’t for me, it was for someone named dean who does not live here. doubly sad is the fact that i was already asleep with the phone rang and now, well i’m doomed to hours of sleeplessness tonight because i got just enough of the sleep to make me not so sleepy. fuckyouverymuch wrong phone number person.

so instead, i’m listening to “My Dad” by paul westerberg. it’s a song he wrote for (his now dearly-departed) dad that sort of gets one in the old ticker. there’s that father-son thing that always seems to get to me, men trying to be all emotional and all– i just eat it up. but this one, this one really really gets me because of the line “my dad sitting in his chair, never seen me play. he gets a kick from the newspaper when he sees the family name.”

this line always reminds me of my grandma chromey. she died when i was a senior in high school. i wasn’t at the hospital when she died but the rest of the sister club was there with my dad and all nine of his brothers and sisters. i guess once grandma finally died, someone pointed to her big tote bag in the corner and said, “her whole life’s in there.”

sticking out of the top of the bag, sister #3 told me, was an issue of my high school newspaper. someone had been giving her the issues that featured my byline, our family name. even now, over 14 years later it still chokes me up. so whenever i hear that song i think of grandma.

she was our grandma-y grandma. grammu, who died a year ago today, was the pall mall smoking, cocktail waitressing, wine drinking, guess-jeans wearing grandma, grammu was the cool one. grandma chromey was the avon selling, tapioca pudding making, hearing-aid wearing grandma.

she had this thing she called a junk box, it was filled with Avon samples and stuff that people didn’t want and/or like. the sister club and i loved that box with all our hearts. it was located in the walk-in closet, on the shelf next to the hideous weaving thing i made for her in the sixth grade. whenever we’d go to grandma chromey’s we’d make sister #3 (because she was little and cute) ask if we could dig in the junk box.

my dad hated it because we’d leave with all sorts of perfumes and potions and lipsticks that would stink up the house and give him a headache. i mean, i can’t see what’s not to like about a sixth grader reeking of Pavi Elle whose lips were smeared with something probably called Frosted Ruby Rose.

now, whenever i hear that song, i think of her and stinky avon perfume.