Oh dear, Smash is home. Home taking care of Gramma. Straight out of Throw Momma from the Train. Today there was a wildly entertaining voicemail to dear Ashley. She was just minding her own business, talking, like she does. Phone rings. She doesn't usually answer the phone, unless it's me. Right? Thank God she didn't. I'm gonna tell you what, I love Gramma Vicki, she's a peach. A little spit fire. Full of piss and vinegar. She gave Chase a brass bull. I said, bull. For real. It was really cute. We were a-visitin' and she just gave him a little present. Anyway, back to the voicemail. It went a little something like this, you have to imagine a very gruff, long time with the cigs, 95 year old female yellin' atcha, "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? WHERE ARE MY CIGARETTES? NOBODY IS GOING TO TAKE ME CIGARETTES AWAY! NOT EVEN YOUR MOTHER! NO ONE IS GOING TO TELL ME HOW TO LIVE IN MY HOUSE."
Let me tell you, I agree with Vicki, I mean, she's 95, she wants her cigs. Give her her cigs. The only problem is she had a heart attack last week. Now, I'm no doctor, but I'm thinkin' cigarettes might not be the best idea? The thing is, if she really wants them, what are you gonna do? Buy her the cigarettes Ashley. Toss them through the dog door and then run like the dickens. Or perhaps just plummet yourself right off Gramma's roof before she burns the whole damn place down.
Ashley gave her the cigs. Took her hits from her, packed up her beer and stole the only lighter in the house and hightailed it out of there. And then she turned her phone off.