So, about Rob. I have an editor now, for the cinematic production. This 21 year old man cub approached me, completely blew me away in being a reader, a fan of “Operation Rob”, so adorable and enthusiastic, offering his editing skills when the movie is done. Things got serious when he lost his grandmother who meant the world to him. A marine cried when his grandma died. She must have been fucking awesome. I have always wondered what it would be like to have a real grandma, like a nice one, seeing as bird lady to the left is mine. For all you people with sweet adoring grandmas that make tea and cookies, call you sugar, go ahead, judge me. The word grandma is what bird lady was to me, the most warped human being on the planet. I still find myself suspicious of cute grandmas in walkers, wondering if they are soulless, the happy children around them perhaps unaware they might need to watch their back, seeing as you never know what a grandma is capable of. I realized bird lady was not in the majority, mainly by years of shocked faces, and the reality that none of your grandmas ash on their head, hate babies, accuse you of poking out antique doll’s eyes, flipp hamburgers with pooper scoopers, or put dishes on the floor for the dog to lick, only to put them back in the cupboards. “A dog’s mouth is cleaner than any of you,” she would say, her bony finger pointing, as if we were the disgusting ones. You can’t make this shit up. This is partly why my family is so close, because we kind of have to be, or no one would believe us. You ate pizza after a big fight, so you are full before you ate at her house, dad making us all go. Dog hair would be in the food, my aunt would laugh hysterically while making you gag by her hair ball noises, pointing to pieces of black dog hair in total sarcasm, saying, “Mmmm, protein.”
The family inside jokes are countless, the yellow jackets in the “Blueberry Delight,” her refusal not to blow smoke around infants, the way she caught bugs for her frog no one ever saw, the way she passed out checks to everyone but my mom and aunt, giving them ugly ass fake plants. If you didn’t write a thank you note, you got deducted the next year, which she would announce to everyone as she handed out the appropriate checks, which is why mine were usually pretty shitty. Bird lady was famous in the antique community, having her home in many prestigious magazines, and so I remember at night, big black iron gates opening, being in the back of the car and seeing presents in these sleds during Christmas season, always wondering if Santa were scared to leave them.
I guess it was our warm fuzzy moment when she sent me out to the dining room one day, alone, which is creepy, whispering this piece she would leave to me one day, if I were a good girl. What the hell am I going to do with a gallery art of some ancestor with four fingers? It is bigger than my house, and she insisted stay in the family, one aunt third removed supposedly had the same four fingers. It sickens me the articles on her stuff, her home, all of which had original photographs of black people picking cotton from Como, her Louisiana plantation, making her probably in the top five most racist people I have ever known or heard of in my life. Her maids were black, and she would accuse them of stealing everything from her silver to oranges. “You NEVER know,” she would say, signaling me to put my purse in the car, directly in front of these poor women, who I secretly hoped would end all our misery, for racism, for Dr. Luther King’s dream. She hated spending time with us so once a year she would take us school shopping, smoke out in the front until we were done, our couple hundred dollars spent, but every year I got scolded for not buying plaid. I thought for sure by the time I had a period, I wouldn’t be forced to open one more freaky antique doll, which I hated, the boys all got electric cars and flying planes. Even worse, she tried to make me wear furs, like minks with the head attached. My most fond memory was on graduation, her telling my father she had to be in Vegas out of town on that day, so unfortunate, but we saw her at a stop sign, and bird lady actually ducked as if we didn’t see her, all of us dressed, her head down like we didn’t know her car or my grandfather driving. When my grandfather died, she told everyone she was exhausted from having to fake cry all day, and funerals were horrible, seriously people, because it meant she had to wash her hair for them. My man cub friend bawling his eyes out over his Grandma was a little baffling, and I wondered if he were relieved, maybe because he never had to faint again opening eggnog, four years after expiring, with her yelling at you to not touch her 1700 iron collectibles. Then, it occurred to me, perhaps I could love a grandma too, after seeing the love and beauty of what this woman meant to man cub, a possibility seeing as he is a marine, and named after my dead dog. I thought about shopping around for looks I have seen that might appeal for a grandma more like “me,” a fit I feel oddly fun daydreaming of.
This looked like a fun group….Perhaps old people blog now, who knew?
She put a little twinkle in my eye…
I like the look, I just don’t want to be caught shoplifting, unless you get away with it at 90…..
Is this a mail order Russian Granny?
Now she looks pretty cute, and has a nice smile…..
Now isn’t she lovely? I bet she doesn’t own a bed with a bullet in it your ancestors were shot in….
And then, I found her! It’s my Grandma, I’m certain of it. I’m way too excited, am certain she wont be having me call her Grandma, but something more like She Real, or bad ass like that. I have no idea how these type of adoption proceedings occur, but I am certain that this is the perfect Grandma for me, and I bet she has some great ideas to help me find Rob..
Craig’s List, here I come.