Well, I suppose you could say it is a Bitter Bitter Sweet Day.
Oh Lord, am I expecting hate mail for this one.
NOPE. Not from family members but you, dear readers.
You see, the day is “BITTER” because my mom said we would always celebrate this day, and how awful it had to come NOW, the way things are. We were planning on getting with my Aunt and drinking margaritas, mom swore she was not going to be a pansy.
She was going to chug margaritas and clink glasses, and I have never seen such a thing people, ever. It is kind of like knowing the biggest whirpool in the Universe was right in your back yard but you moved two weeks before you saw it.
My grandmother is dead, and thank God for that.
This is where I get used to the hazing, and it confused me as a child, all the shocked and horrified faces when I said, “Oh, COME ON. You HAVE to go to a Grandma’s house! What did you do to deserve something awful like that?”
I was always blubbering out the worst things a kid could say, but honestly, my respectful mother was the one I had to cover for, whenever Grammy was around.
She is possibly evil.
I don’t know. Chucky was evil and he didn’t seem so bad in comparison. (For all the linears and logicals out there, first of all, why would you even be reading my blog? Second, I have proof and I will call them in. It has been done already so don’t go there.)
She couldn’t stand the sight of children, especially the three of her own, blew smoke towards the babies when my mom would request her smoke outside, and out of spite or insanity, ashed on her head instead, giving the infamous “ASH HEAD” nick name, my pet name for the lady since little.
Well, maybe she won’t complain about having to wash her hair, as if you had shot her dog, when you came to visit once a year.
She is notorious for making people cry, like on their wedding day, and is a complete pathological liar, so much that as a child when she told everyone my little cousin poked out all the eyes in her antique dolls, I knew it was a lie, but I wondered secretly if it were fun.
Every year this woman would come down for Christmas in a fur that could free Haiti and a rock on her hand big enough to cause tendonitis, and she would swirl and pose, telling everyone what her husband bought.
He would not look up from the paper out of interest in his cold beer or out of spite to her, while I would open the annual ugly antique lace scary doll, while all the boys got racing cars. I did secretly bang one against a concrete floor, but it didn’t even chip, my irritation now rage as she pushed me out the door telling me not to drop that gorgeous antique, a precious breakable heirloom.
I was 14, people.
Grammy wore gaudy rings and minks but didn’t change shoes or pants for years, bragging to people that, “SEEEEeee. I have HAD these for nearly 18 years,” pointing to her nasty blue shoes, putting the plate down for Amos the dog to lick, then to put up in the cabinet as if it were clean.
Don’t yell at me, people. It is true. She even used cooking wear to scoop poop and wash with a linen cloth and put back in the drawer. “A dog’s mouth is much cleaner than yours honey,” she would painfully pat my head as I gagged.
As we all did, every time we had to go there, for every freakin holiday, my baby bro would gag and run home sometimes, the yellow jacket bees in the “Blueberry Delight” were as fun as my high school friend who barfed cause she swore she had swallowed a lougie, which could have happened, but maybe it was two year old Christmas coke in 18th century glasses that did it.
She pulled the scam of all scams and stole all the money from under her brother’s nose while getting old blind grampy to sign on the dotted line, half blind, a Scarlet O’hara would be fitting, but she is at least beautiful. She still believes she is on Como plantation, says the most hateful things about black people, and oh, cops, but that was just to piss my mom off, a proud mom of a cop.
“What an idiot for not making any damn money,” she would say, under her breath so only mom and I could catch it. Maybe that was because my bro was getting rebellious about then over thank you cards. You got half the money every holiday if you forgot the year before. She made sure to openly proclaim this fact, handing over 100, if you were married, 50 if in school, unless the thank you deduction, and my mom and aunt got ten.
That was good times, for you should see the plant my mom got once.
Faking tears for funerals were her charm, the last one she really got crabby about, her dead husband. My uncle would put on a show and bow to kiss the coffin, knowing I was peeing on myself in the front row trying to hold back the laughter.
That lady lived long enough to throw oranges at her black nurses, and to her death, treasured her bed from Como, with a bullet hole in it from some ancestor being shot in it. She really did love those ugly ass black pots, turning them over to show the price.
So she kicked it after many years of our suffering, and I am nowhere near the celebration hall, the small club of giddy people who lived this hysterical nightmare. In despite of myself, I can be a good sport on this one. “Cheers to you mom, wherever you drink your margarita, and know I am raising my glass, as planned!”
On three, three, two, one and hit it………