Move On, I Love My Grandma.

“We are looking for someone who can take a mundane life situation and mine it for comedy gold.”


This inspired me, and this is what transpired…




I wake up and notice that it is cold in my moderately furnished room (I still do not have a computer chair).  A five-gallon bucket is in place for a makeshift chair, it doubles as the water bucket for our fire-pit.  The bucket is useless in here for the fire-prevention purposes.


The cold has crept in, in through the vent, in through the windows, and into my bones as of now.  My nipples are hard and my penis is shrunken, I am covered in goosebumps and it is almost 5 am.  I wear semi-long underwear to keep me warm.  I can relate to the homelessness in the streets, those who are no doubt cold in this relative point and time, around this location.


The fall cold comes on fast and I find myself wearing a scarf, hat, black-hooded sweatshirt, and shoes in my kitchen to prepare for my day, and for the bike ride.


My plentiful breakfast of peanut butter sandwich and water is hard to consume, the volume of the sandwich says king.  The high quality of the sandwich says I need a different career-A boss player career.  I look around and find nothing to help.  Nothing but a smile is produced.


Then I wake up again, in a different way, and realize I am starving.  Is it white rice today, or brown rice?  Is it with beans or with just hot sauce?


I grab a fucking banana.


Recently I thought:


I gave up masturbation a few months back, but I jumped back on the keyboard for moderation purposes.  I used to masturbate a few times a day, but after a while I became bored with real-life situations, people, places, and things.  I hardly wanted interaction, even if people cared to tell me nice things.  My ambitions were lowered and my expectations were raised.  This combination leads to a lonely failure of a night.  Nightly.  It is truthful and can be applied to just about anything…


Addiction is dangerous, everything in moderation.  Also, withdrawal sucks.  D.A.R.E. was so right about withdrawal (I recall those videos, those animated warnings) so was that drug and alcohol counselor.  Cartoons never sounded so right.


SO… I gave up and got back on track.


Now with work, dishwashing isn’t so bad.  At first I thought waking up with a hangover and going to my dishwashing job would suck, but it really is all right.  There is a plethora of water and food.  There is plenty of easy work to do.  Dishwashing affords one time to be with oneself; however, inevitably, after some amount of time people around will start asking questions-they got to know what’s going on.


How are you?

How is your day?

What are you doing tonight?


Okay, shitty, nothing.


Look down and keep scrubbing.  I could be jobless and homeless, again, and I think, and I smile.  I imagine how many homelss people these scraps would feed; the quality of food being better than they have ever had.


I stand and think-dish-sprayer in hand…


Being underemployed is so much more professional than bitching about how no one is hiring you because you are over-qualified.  I know I should be an actor, or a model, or a comedian, or a professor, or something that takes less effort than dishwashing, but somehow I feel we are all in the right spot.  Checks are coming in faster than those with bachelors and nada for a job.  I can’t complain.


Back to questions:


…Like…  where are the pans, or have you seen the small spoons, when I get these questions I get a dumb look on my face and act as though I don’t speak their language, and hey!  I am in the dishwashing industry, so you know damn well I don’t know Spanish, or Russian, or Greek…


My Associates in Fine Arts education did not hit on these topics.


Word to the wise:  Take what you can get, and be useful.  Also, playing dumb is smart.


When my model/actor coworker starts talking I can relate to how he feels here, however, after a few moments I tell him to get me a coffee beverage with obscenely precise instructions on how I prefer my drink; 2/3rds full with 2/3rds cold press coffee, and 1/3rd creamer.  I need this alone time, and I need this coffee.  Mostly, he reacts with huh???  Mostly he brings the coffee back and admits, it’s wrong, I tell him, I know, I can taste it.  He forgot the lid for my to-go cup, I tell him I know I can taste it.  I always ask for a to-go cup, it makes me feel as if I might be leaving sooner than later.  Then he walks away, with some questions unanswered and acts busy.


I am the director, he is the grip; possibly he will be saying some lines.  He is a loveable guy.


The day is complete…  The show goes on.


It should work out that I don’t have to talk to anyone all day, but somehow it works out the opposite.  And I am not even interested in being bi-, tri-, or quadro-lingual.  I haven’t even seen all of America yet, how could I possibly learn another language…


God bless it.


I am stuck doing the fucking dirties at a restaurant.


The best part about being a dishwasher with an Associates Degree in Fine Arts, and living in Minneapolis, is the amount of females trying to be your companion.  I was mightily surprised when I turned 25 and didn’t have a career, yet I still had women friends who actually enjoyed dating me.


Word to the wise:  You don’t need to be a doctor, a banker, or a CEO to have a relationship.  Know this, have confidence.


Sometimes as a writer one has to avoid offending 30 to 40 people by swallowing great stories, mostly females.  This is just to keep relations realistic, but then I realize…  This isn’t realistic.  All transparency.  Now is the time to regale on the past short, and not so memorable month in the Bropalace:


I was the first to have a girl over and streak through the house naked.  I was the first person to move in all my stuff, without the helps of others (only a ninja).  I went in 4 ways to buy a pile-of-shit fridge so we could keep all our beers cool.  Yeah, I bought a fridge.  I asked Hammer to go outside after he called me Guy Fieri, after I told him I made my food from scratch.  I once woke up and thought the bottom half of my body was going to fall off and proclaimed, “I am going to die!” I then passed out on my bed for 2 hours in the middle of the day, while my roommates moved the fridge into our dirt room.  We have had 20-30 random people sleep on our couch.  A ninja lived for us for a month, guarding our house and our sofa.  Our neighbors asked us if we ever hangout inside.  I kicked a girl out after she called me a failed writer, even though she is a failed person.  I received 2 black eyes at a peace rally.  And my mother came and visited with my aunt and my sister.


All in all it’s been an eventful month.


Life before the Move:


I woke up one morning and it was about night.  A girl lay in my bed unclothed, as I almost had a condom on, and Dan strolls in my bedroom doorway.  My penis is out and my lady friend is naked to the hilt.  Surprise, surprise, am I really moving this fast?  He apologizes and the romance is over.


Next day we had most of our shit moved from my Loring Park place.  Girls never help during a move.  I found some old notes just before packing them away, my naked friend also found them (first), and she exclaimed that this page was the most disgusting thing she had ever read.  It went like this:


Exact quote from B (an Ex):  I almost shit on your dick.  Like during sex…


I turned my head from the dining room to my (other) naked friend who was lying on my bed.


Me:  Don’t ever say that again.

B.:  Don’t you love me?

Me:  Don’t ever say that again…

B.:  We would cuddle right after, right?… It wouldn’t be weird, right?


Me:  No, we would not cuddle, it would be weird, and I need to take a shower right now.  I’ll be back.


As I left-


She continued to lie on my bed smiling, she looked amazing, but sometimes words aren’t needed to enhance a moment…


Word to the wise:  Always shower after sex, no matter what.  I swear to God it will save you so much time in the end.  And stay calm.


The second part of the page was a short story (paraphrased for expedition) from my sister.


My sister called me frantically on the phone, semi-sort-of laughing, but completely in shock and disbelief.  The story goes:


K:  Did you hear about Grandma’s cat?

Me:  No.

K.:  Oh my God, Terry!

Me:  No, what happened?

K.:  Grandma called me the other day because her cat was making funny noises (K. could literally hear the cat crying in the background when Grandma called.)  She explained that Grandma did not know what was going on with the cat and it was making noise for some time.  It had been about 3 days, the cat was crying, living in agony on my Grandmother’s bed.


Note:  Grandma’s cat was one of the most ugly, meanest, and most obese cats of all time.  This cat was bad.  If you can imagine a fat black cat covered in nappy smelly dread-locks, with huge quad fangs in the front (it was most likely the offspring of a mountain lion, or some genetically modified fuckup created by the government and left to die in the woods) that is pretty much what the cat looked like.  It must have weighed at least 40 pounds, before breakfast on any given day.


K. went to Grandma’s house and took “Mitsy” to the vet.  No more than an hour later the vet called and told K. this:


Vet.:  We have to put the cat down, this is serious…

K.:  Why, what’s wrong?

Vet.:  Well…  We examined the cat and found there is a quarter-sized hole in its anal cavity, and inside the open wound we found living maggots.


(I imagine the pain that this poor cat went through for days and actually felt pity on the poor kitty.)


Note:  The cat was apparently too big to properly clean itself, hence the maggot hostel inside of its asshole…


K.:  Put the cat down.

Vet.:  We will, you should really search the house for maggots and any other pests.  This is just for health purposes.


K. searched and found nothing.  Thankfully.


After K. told me this I imagined Mitsy sitting on my Grandmother’s bed as she played with its matted fur.




This story also reminded me of the time when my Grandfather came back from the vet a few years before, with my Grandmother’s other cat.  I said hello to him and opened the passenger door of his pickup.  A black garbage bag fell to the ground with a thud, landing about my feet.  It was Courtney, my Grandmother’s other cat.  It lay limp and lifeless on the asphalt next to my shoes.  I put the bag back in the truck and shut the door.  It was heavier than I expected.  I waved my Grandfather goodbye and he drove off toward home.  He had to go.


Now that Mitsy is dead all Grandma wants to do is get another cat.  Dad had to call all the animal adoption places in town and tell them not to allow it.


I hope my Grandmother is not as ambition as I am…


R.I.P. Grandpa, Courtney, and Mitsy.


Word to the wise:  Don’t take on more than you can handle.  Mitsy was a lot to handle.


At this point I am content and would never wish to be more successful.


Yet, I still wonder why people don’t mind their own business more.


I thought this as I packed my belongings.


I told her the page was full of good writing, and important ideas, she looked at me and shook her head.


She said it was mostly full of shit.


I put the notebook in the box and left that place for good.


About Terry Scott Niebeling

Hello, My name is Terry Scott, a human being with flaws. twitter: @sirterryscott Buy my ebooks:
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