Sweet and spicy, just like grandma...

I know a thing or two about grandmas. You might say I'm a grandma expert.

Hello, my name is David, and I'm a Male Grandma. I feel better already.

My special abilities are thoughtful gifts and soup. I am beloved of animals and babies. I know my way around a garage sale. I strongly believe that food solves most problems. I require hugs to maintain my magic. Grandma Magic.

What does any of this have to do with the McDonald's commercials other than repeated and deliberate use of the word "grandma"? I won't answer that or any of your other questions, Becky.

I've often been described as motherly. At first, I was insulted by this. My latent masculinity programming would automatically go on the offense. Motherly? Excuse you? The Masculinity Protocol doesn't allow for comparisons to any female characteristic, least of all that of a mother. As I grew and matured, I came to realize that being compared to a mother wasn't an insult. The people that were saying it were people close to me, so their intent was not to ridicule or emasculate me. I'm caring and empathetic like a mother. A compliment. Never been good at taking those. Where was I going with this?

I notice when people get haircuts. This startles some people, especially men. To the straight male mind, when I say "Hey! You got a haircut. Looks good." that translates to "Yo, lemme get that dick".

I dadsplain more than I mansplain. The difference is intent. Dadspaining comes from a place of love and concern. Perhaps you don't know the proper way to remove an engorged tick. Allow me to dadsplain that process to you, as well as the dangers of Lyme Disease. There is an easier way to complete the task you are doing, allow me to give you an unsolicited tutorial on my superior method because I love you. It's not as bad.

I'm working through a lot right now, mentally and emotionally. My Dad passed away on August 10th. I haven't talked much about it. I don't know that I'm going to. I don't know that anything makes any sense. And that's the one thing I know for sure.

Things get weird for me. I'm sure it gets weird for everyone, but I only know from my own perception how weird it gets. Life feels like a movie I'm watching. I feel like a spectator.

Some days, I don't feel anything. I wonder sometimes if my feelings are only the feelings of the people around me and that when I'm by myself I don't really feel anything.

I'm at the beginning of a two week break. I'm not sure what I want to get out of it other than doing some laundry and throwing away a lot of shit. The head-space I'm in right now is uncharted territory for me. Where do I go from here?

I'm trying to keep it sweet and spicy, like grandma. Maybe a little bit more spice than sugar. I want to be a more authentic me, but I'm not sure what that looks like. I don't recognize myself sometimes.

Control is really just the illusion of control. Keep the plates spinning. Figure it out. Don't stop moving.


Day 1. Rest.

♫ Pointy boots for your birthday ♫

Typical visits with my father consist mostly of youtube videos, him singing small songs that he just made up, and bickering about one conspiracy or another.

"Did you hear that Michelle Obama is a man?" he will inevitably say. I will roll my eyes, he will show me the youtube video, and then I will at least have doubts about Michelle Obama's gender.

My friend from England was visiting me and he came over Dad's for dinner one night. Before the dinner, I warned him that my father would most likely talk to him about Queen Elizabeth drinking babies' blood in the basement of Buckingham Palace. That is precisely what happened.

The earth is flat. And hollow. The planet is ruled by an elite class of lizard people. Hilary Clinton is a clone. Pretty standard fare at Charlie's house.

This visit, we watched some fail videos with Dane and Bobbi Jo. After they left to go have dinner, he put on this video:

You should watch the whole thing, or at least until they start dancing. Somewhere during this nine minute exploration of Mexican pointy boots, it begins...

"What size you take?" he asks while peering into his phone.
"What are you doing?" I ask, fully knowing that he is online shopping for Mexican pointy boots.

Then the song begins:

♫ Pointy boots for your birthday, pointy boots ♫
[key change]
♫ Pointy boots for your birthday, pointy boots ♫

And so on.

Then he shows me this picture:

Fig. 1.1 Cobra head pointy boots

♫ Cobra head pointy boots for your birthday ♫

"Oh, there's a sale on now!" he says, exuberantly.

Fig. 1.2 Mexican Pointy Boots, chillin

"Come on, I'll buy a pair for Nelson, too." As if offering to buy a pair of Mexican pointy boots for my boyfriend will somehow convince me to accept a pair for myself.

♫ Fabuloso pointy boots for your birthday, pointy boots ♫

As we watch them do a strange pointy boot shuffle dance, he gives me the hard sell.

"Look at them dance. Takes a lot of skill. I want to get you a pair of pointy boots because I think you'd really excel at this."

Fig 1.3 Ultimate Challenge: Mexican Pointy Boot Cycling

♫ Pointy boots for your birthday, pointy boots

Cobra head pointy boots for your birthday, pointy boots

Fabuloso pointy boots for your birthday, pointy boots ♫

My birthday is only a few months away, plenty of time to have some custom Mexican pointy boots ordered and shipped. You may be thinking, he won't actually order them. You'd be wrong.