The Story of ScaryGrandpa

This is the first in a series of blogs about life and my senile, mostly deaf and nearly blind Grandpa, named George. George's memory just doesn't seem to serve him right these days, and neither do many of his senses. But he's still got that same old gift of being able to vivaciously criticize everyone around him, and I really do need someone to tell me now and then that I'm shelling the peanuts incorrectly or that an English degree will never get me anywhere in life, and without him I'd be lost.
The nickname ScaryGrandpa came about one winter's night around Christmas in 2006 when Katie and I had been up talking and drinking vodka tonics. On this ons particular night Grandpop kept getting up about once an hour to ask us what we were doing, which tends to get really irritating when you're clealry just sitting at the table, drinking and talking. When you try to explain anything to him you are accused of mumbling, so you have to nearly scream while annunciating very explicitly. I really think it would have been easier to have a conversation with Helen Keller about astrophysics than to converse for several sentences with my grandpa.
Come midnight Katie and I could hear him slowly staggering down the hallway, again, whitsle-breathing(You know how some people whistle when they breathe in an out? Well he does this about 10 times louder than anyone you can imagine.) as he stumbled toward us in the kitchen. When he walks around at night with his old scrubs pulled up over his belly button, his glasses off, hearing aids out and arms held out in front of him resembling a T-Rex, you really don't want to deal with him in any form or fashion. Fretting another encounter with George we jumped into the living room where I laid down on the couch and Katie sat silently in the new chair. Grandpop, possibly sensing someone to yell at using his innate T-Rex ESP, peered into the darkened living room where we were, but he couldn't see us several feet away. Katie and I were nearly passing out from the pain of holding in the laughter, but I was able to whisper to her without him hearing us about 8 feet away. "Shhhh! If you don't move he can't see us, it's just like in Jurassic Park when the T-Rex gets out!" (You know, when it eats the goat? And the old Ford Explorer(s?) get(s) tossed over the edge into the tree top(s)? But why was it light out when they all left in the Explorers in the afternoon? So then it's dark when the T-Rex gets out and pushes them over the edge of the cliff... Where did the cliff come from? And once they're at the bottom of the tree isn't it light again? Well whatever...) After another few moments of his gazing we were home free, and after he turned out all of the lights, again, he was off to bed. We narrowly escaped one more scary encounter with the most horrifying of all living things known to man. From that day forth we have called him "ScaryGrandpa" because he reminds us of an old dinosaur, and he's scary, especially after a night of drinking wine.
At this very moment he's busy watching Sounder on TCM, so there's little chance of him helping me find more faults in myself. But don't worry, I bet after dinner and 5 Yeunglings he'll be glad to help me out in that department.