These conversations just happened.
My aunt was sitting at the dining room table telling me something stupid that somebody said, I quipped: “Did he, maybe, take up smoking grass today?
My aunt looked confused.
Laughing, I said, “You don’t know what grass is, do you? Marijuana! Although, I don’t think they call it grass anymore… I think it’s called something else.”
My almost 91-year-old Memaw perks up from her chair in the living room with all the enthusiasm of a hipster from Seattle, Washington, and says, “Weed.”
Me and my aunt Paula laughed at her so hard — I couldn’t stop. I said, “You can thank two of your grandkids for that education and for once, I ain’t one of them.”
“Which ones smoked weed?” she says.
I ain’t telling.
They know who they are — reformed reefers.
Then, my aunt points at ‘Meet The Press’ onscreen and says, “Oh, somebody called here the other day for Mama. I just hung up on them.”
Me: “Who was it?”
Paula: “Somebody for that old Donald Trump.”
I said, “You tell that quesadilla-faced mother f-cker that not only are we not voting for that human cross between a tangelo and a banana peel, but that he can kiss our Syrian refugee-loving, white American ass.”
Paula says, “Well…”
This — me — is the reason my Memaw says shit like “weed” with certainty and gusto.
My family is a mess, but we’re funny as hell. My Memaw thinks she’s cool. She kinda is, though…
As the University of Tennessee football team would say, she’s ‘dope’ or ‘chill’ as hell when she wanna be.
*fakes southern accent *
(Why Roll Tide? That’s what I say at the end of being a smart ass.)
But seriously, GooOoo Vols!