F%$# You, Grandma

I sit at my laptop crafting a lecture on Sub-Saharan Africa. It's a jelly-side down kind of day. Just three months ago we were picking hand crafted duendes from an artisanal shop on the eve of a 6-day kayak trip through Argentina. Today I find myself listening not to the sounds of Patagonian rivers, but to the grating cacophony emanating from the rental property behind us. A new occupant – young, angry, fuzzy-faced, and boisterous - has just moved in with his brood. Last week we overhear a phone conversation that starts something like this.

You’re not f-in listening, Grandma. I’ve got my own responsibilities. I’ve got a kid, a house, a job, school. I can’t take care of my mother and neither should you.

Grandma must’ve interrupted this rant to remind him that his Mom is in a wheelchair. But Angry Man continues unabated.

I don’t f-in care if she's in a wheelchair. Put her in a nursing home.

My own Mom and sister are in town and we sit quietly on the deck listening to Angry Man’s foul mouth pollute the cul-de-sac. My Mom focuses on her embroidery but her face is tense. Sue and I come to her rescue.

Me: Mom, don’t worry, you'll get your shot at a nursing home someday.

Sue: No way. Do you have any idea how much those places cost?

But the jokes do little to comfort us. We learn that Angry Man has been blessed with a beautiful four year old girl who hears such poison every day. The fact that this guy is a father provides more evidence to Casey's theory: God is not a micro-manager. From Colorado to Cameroon, the world is full of undeserving bullies.

Angry Man’s grows weary of the conversation and finally brings it to a close, although not before dropping one final F-bomb on the conversation.

Okay, then, F U Grandma, he says. He punctuates his resolve with a click. Happy Fathers Day, Angry Man.