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My sister and I had a Tumblr conversation worth sharing.

She began:

All the booze is unpacked and categorized on the kitchen counter for my mom to rummage through.
We took it all, or at least all the non-wine because the other side of the ‘family’ that my grandma married into apparently didn’t help do much of anything to help her move
yet helped themselves to the only container of single malt Scotch my uncle had bought Grandma once, and mom was ticked cause “It was bought by family, rules state in this situation it goes back to the purchaser, or the next immediate family.”
So to retaliate we took all the rest of the liquor so they couldn’t come back to the house and take more that didn’t belong to them

I continued:

Seriously, that’s like a couple hundred dollars worth of alcohol, some unopened and others in various states of empty.

Disaronno. Absolut Vodka. Whiskies of all kinds. And one bottle of 190-proof grain alcohol. Moonshine, basically.

We found all that, on top of the couple hundred dollars in coins, and three handguns — the biggest of which was found wedged between the cushions of a recliner.

Found by my mother, I should add. Because she did 99% of the work to be done. The members of my grandma’s husband’s family who bothered to show up were next to useless. Not only did they abscond with only the most expensive booze, we can’t seem to find a mayonnaise jar full of silver dollars and half-dollars which my grandma mentioned, and the culprit seems obvious.

Opportunistic vermin.

It seems that being stuck by necessity in the role of Responsible One is a frequent curse of this family. Is it any wonder I find characters like Granny Weatherwax and Mordin Solus fascinating?

[To which she replied:]

Handgun in the recliner is still my favorite thing so far.

Y’know, next to having to knife-open a bottle of Bailey’s that was so old it refused to move

[Said I:]

Amazing what you’ll find around a house of old people.

Like some orange juice from January, or this Bailey’s Irish Cream from 1998!

It’s sitting in the sink because, over the course of fourteen years, the drink inside had congealed into a sort of thin putty that smelled of antiseptic. It would not pour.

Don’t let your grandparents stockpile booze, people. Drink it with them if you have to.

April 2013

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