I recall my grandmother in her nursing home bed, diabetic, poor vision, watching tv. A commercial is on and I ask, what are you watching? She only manages to mumble, the eyelashes, the eyelashes. I ignore this, saddened, but move on. Cut to Simon Baker on screen. Eyelashes. It is for this reason, that once a year I feel called to watch The Mentalist. My grandmother had good taste, only the taste was for copaganda and casual dining.

If only my grandmother had been a vegan, or a leftist, maybe then I would reach for beet juice or bell hooks instead of A&W and NCIS. It’s too bad that summer to me tastes like Mountain Dew and Maura Isles. I wish I could tell you I support local businesses, but it’s Christmas Eve and I’m at the Red Lobster, three biscuits in my belly, four more on the way and one bag to-go.

I can’t tell you the definition of generational trauma but I sure can tell you about marrying alcoholics, holding onto every last jar, and falling asleep on the couch watching cops because you can’t climb up the stairs.