No, not me. I am not a bad grandma. I am at the very least an okay grandma.
I had a good grandma and a bad grandma. They even looked the part. My good grandma had fluffy white hair and she made amazing fudge. My bad grandma had hair that looked like a hell hound blew ropy black snot all over her head.
It’s possible I exaggerated. She had salt and pepper hair. And she was a horrible woman.
She lived until I was nearing my mid twenties. My older son was still an infant. Quite frankly, I am stunned she lived as long as she did.
My grandmother’s left hand thumb and index finger were permanently stained an unholy color of orange. The nails were yellow. She smoked filterless cigarettes all day long, lighting one from the other without stop.
She wasn’t an alcoholic, though. I am sure of this because because she explained to me many times that she was not an alcoholic. For one thing, she only drank beer and she never drank a beer before noon.
When that clock struck 12, that first beer was cracked and she didn’t stop until she passed out.
Was she a happy drunk?
My grandmother had this dog. I don’t know what breed, but he kind of looked like a wiener dog, except a lot fatter. Like a wiener dog that ate another wiener dog. The dog didn’t have any fur on his sides, just exposed maroon skin. His name was Fatso.
Fatso, the bald wiener dog, would sit at her feet, while she sat in a dingy housecoat and slippers, and lick her shins. For hours. Feel free to shudder a little.
Before you start feeling sorry for her because I’m painting this horrible picture of a woman who has been dead for 27 years, hear me out.
My grandmother kept a fly swatter in her hands at all times. If you got too close, she would just wail on you. After all, you did something wrong and she made goddamn sure you were going to be punished. Even though the only thing you had done since you got there was stare at the clock and will time to move faster.
She abused her children and said miserable, horrible things every time she opened her mouth. She had favorite grandchildren and was not shy about keeping that a secret. I wasn’t a favorite.
I am a bad housekeeper but compared to my bad grandma, I am Alice from The Brady Bunch.
Her house was disgusting and smelled bad. There were rats and everything was covered in hair, which is amazing considering how bald her dog was.
We rarely ate there because eww.
I remember her burning hard boiled eggs.
I remember thinking “How can you burn a hard boiled egg? Anyone can make hard boiled eggs.
Well, I have recently found myself in a position to admit that I might have something in common with my grandmother. I mean, other than my middle name was her first name.
I found the perfect way to hard boil eggs. You put the eggs in cold water on the stove, bring the water to a roiling boil then remove the pot from the heat and just let the water cool off. Works like a charm, every time.
Until last night, when I put a dozen eggs on the stove, came upstairs to my bedroom and forgot about them for nearly two hours.
By the time I discovered my extra, ultra, uber hard boiled eggs, there was barely any water left and the shells were scorched.
I immediately thought of my grandmother and her burned hard boiled eggs and thought “Fuckity fuck. I’m turning into my grandmother.”
I threw out my dozen eggs and decided to try again tonight.
I fucking forgot about the eggs again.
Two nights in a row.
Okay, tonight, I did remember before too very long. I mean, all the water hadn’t boiled out and they weren’t scorched. I’m thinking the yolks are going to be extra crumbly. Maybe, even sandy.
So….to my long dead grandma,
I haven’t missed you at all. You weren’t nice to me and I’m pretty sure that it is entirely due to you that my dad was such a shitty father. I mean, his actions as an adult were his decision, but I’m sure you didn’t give him much to work with.
However, I do feel compelled to apologize for holding onto that memory of your burning hard boiled eggs, because apparently, that can be a thing.