It’s strange, the things you learn about your family members once they’re gone.

My grandmother passed away quite suddenly last week, following after my grandfather who left us just months ago. When my grandfather died, my family had no choice but to put my grandmother in a nursing home, as her mental condition was quickly deteriorating. She’d confuse us for strangers, other people, sometimes forget us completely…

What else can you do, except try and smile and poke fun at the situation? At least, that’s the way I try to deal with almost every serious happening in my life. Smile, make a joke, laugh it off, and just try to make the best of things, no matter how sad things are.

My grandfather worked as a detective in Elizabeth, NJ for many many years and when he grew too old to walk the beat, became a security guard to keep himself busy. Despite his passion for the law, he adored mob stories, reading crime novellas by the bucketful. When he retired, his security guard job found him, ironically, running security for a gang of union workers that were most definitely in the mob, who would often let him in on poker games, letting him have a slice of that daydream of his.

He worked long hours during his time as both a detective and a security guard, and didn’t get to see my grandmother as much as he wanted, occasionally missing birthdays, anniversaries, Valentine’s Day, and the like.

This past weekend, I learned how he made up for it. How he made the best of things.

When I arrived home to NJ from Philadelphia, there was a mass stack of notes sitting on the kitchen table in my parents’ home. My mom had discovered them under my grandmother’s bed. A collection of poems, written on absolutely anything my grandfather could find, to my grandmother, spanning nearly sixty five years of marriage.

Sixty fives years! No one stays married that long anymore. People these days seem lucky they last sixty five DAYS.

Anniversary notes written on dry cleaning tickets. Birthday cards written on paper plates. Valentine’s Day letters scribbled across old parking violations. Needless to say, I was incredibly moved.

I’ve uploaded a handful of these notes, most of which are from the 80’s, to my Flickr account since they can’t all be in the possession of my various family members. Unlike the love between my grandparents, paper doesn’t last forever, so I’m hoping to preserve these notes somewhere on the interweb and through photos. Maybe you’ll be inspired to tell someone how much you love them. My grandpop did, whenever he could, in the sweetest, simplest of ways.

I’ll be taking more when I go home next. I’ll miss them both terribly.

My friends all ask me how I do it. How do I attend the wedding of an ex-girlfriend, without losing my mind or falling into a horrible depression. Really, it isn’t all that hard. As many of you know, I’ve certainly done it before, and in that one case, I was one of the groomsmen in the actual wedding ceremony.

1. Show up. Seriously, you were lucky enough to be invited. Don’t be cliche and throw away the invitation. Make sure you RSVP (I forgot) and, if you can, bring a date! Also, be sure to have some sort of notepad on hand, so you can be absolutely certain your future wedding is just as awesome, if not better.

With the case of Christina and Josh’s wedding, it might be hard to top. They had a beautiful ceremony and a really nice reception. Bravo.

2. During speeches about the bride’s past, don’t punch the people that look at you. Shut up Glen. Yeah, you’re one of those crappy relationships. Just deal with it. Don’t be that guy who makes a scene. Resist the urge to punch Glen Tickle, Stephanie Rath, Jency Thomas, Nick Solomon your caring and affectionate friends in the face. They mean well, and admit it, it’s pretty damn funny. If you aren’t ready to laugh at yourself, you probably shouldn’t be there.

3. Buy an awesome present. Let’s face it, you’re the ex-boyfriend, so chances are, you’ve got several years of horrible gifts to make up for. Remember all those stuffed animals you thought were awesome at the time? Well, they weren’t. Now is your chance to make things right.

That being said, my gift didn’t show up in time for the wedding. Classic.

4. Loosen up. Have a few drinks, especially if the bride and groom have their own custom martinis (Christini and Josh’s Juice). This will help you relax and enable you to dance to Living On A Prayer by Bon Jovi in a “small asian child having a seizure after watching too much pokemon” kind of way.

Everyone likes the Jersey guy who does that.

Everyone.

5. Say hi to the family. Remember the father who was incredibly scary and intimidating? Guess what! He still is! Be a good man, say hello, and shake hands. You can spend the rest of the day dodging them out of sheer fear and terror, with the knowledge that hey, if he does decide to cut you with a knife, at least you tried.

6. Be happy you’re still friends. Cause seriously, if you weren’t still buddies, you’d be missing out. Plus you probably wouldn’t be able to take sweet pictures like this one.

Congrats Christina. I expect to see you at me and Heather’s wedding in three years.

Few more pictures after the jump and a ton over on the ol’ Facebook.

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I retreated back to suburban New Jersey for the holidays, spending some quality time with my family, friends, and little nephew. While the time with my friends was spent under a haze of alcohol and cigarette smoke, my time with my nephew was spent in agonizing torture, in our attempt to build a gingerbread house together.

How many 25 year old college graduates does it take to build a gingerbread house? Well, possibly several, because I sure as hell couldn’t do it. Curse you, Brothers Grimm!

When purchasing a gingerbread house, do not be fooled by the unassuming, seemingly cute box, that promises a merry little home of candy and cookie. It is a box of lies.

Those tasty looking jellybeans on the rooftop? They aren’t jellybeans. They are jawbreakers. I learned this after chomping down on one, nearly chipping a tooth, to which my nephew replied, “that’s what you get for stealing the candy.”

This is the look he gave me while saying that, complete with his hands on his hips. Three year olds these days can be quite cheeky.

Perhaps the worst part about the gingerbread house kit, were the instructions included. Completely misleading and totally off, the directions were positively useless, especially when it came to mixing the icing. Please note the look of utter confusion on both our faces.

See, mixing the icing was very much like mixing cement, and hardened just as fast. The directions called for four tablespoons of water to mix inside this giant bag of powdered sugar, and we ended up dumping at least eight in there. While the icing oozed out of the plastic bag onto the gingerbread cookie walls, it turned to solid rock the minute it hit the air. The icing bag itself was made of incredibly thin plastic, which continued to break and burst, sending globs of gooey white icing all over everything.

My nephew and I both grew progressively angrier, and opted to go play with some toy trains instead.

Behold, the finished product.

… hope everyone had a good holiday!

“The face of a child can say it all, especially the mouth part of the face.”
- Jack Handy

I took my three year old nephew to the Philadelphia Zoo on Saturday, and it was an absolute joy. While walking up to the entrance, he laughed and pointed at the various murals painted over the walls, frequently exclaiming “I’m so excited! I’m SO EXCITED!” with a volume that made his voice echo within the concrete beneath the bridges. Couples with children would look over and smile at my nephew, who was talking up a storm, as their children slept softly in strollers and papooses.

Jordan was happiest when we saw the elephants and monkeys, and was absolutely thrilled when the rhinoceros took a massive, steaming poop right in front of us. Parents spent their time trying to make their kids stop crying while handling their own disgust. While all these other children around us cried or screamed, Jordan laughed hysterically and clapped his hands, which definitely mirrored my own behavior.

He was also thrilled when he saw the penguins, which he frequently referred to as “happy feet”. There would be no correcting him, as another child quickly learned. When the kid, who was probably five or six, said “they’re call pen-gins”, Jordan promptly yelled at him. That’da boy.

I was pretty proud of the little guy. He wasn’t scared of any of the large animals. He couldn’t wait to see the bears, especially the polar bear. A zoo employee and several parents gave me a disapproving look when I explained where polar bears came from. Whatever.

However, what did horrify him for some unknown reason, were the ducks. Maybe it was because there were seriously hundreds of them at the zoo that day, waddling up and down the paths, wading inside empty exhibits, and of course, floating merrily in the giant duck pond. They were free to walk around the zoo, and Jordan was not having it. He ran away from them every time one appeared, and promptly asked to go see the lions again.

He was also scared of the red panda, pictured above, in a rare capture of a licking-his-nose moment. Score!

Sure, we took a lot of cliche silly photos, most of which you can catch on the Flickr stream, but it was fun. I felt very parent-like and touristy, even though I’m not a parent and I actually live in Philadelphia, thus negating any chance of tourist comparisons. But it was fun pretending. I didn’t rush to correct people when they told me what a cute kid I had, or when the zoo lecturers referred to me as his “handsome dad”.

And come on, who am I to argue that one.

Can’t wait for the next visit, little guy.