Seriously you guys, I'm worried about Grammy. She's gone gaga......get it? Gaga??
Apparently, my Grammy thinks that because I write about her so much she should be allowed to read my blog and have access to the internet. Can you believe that? I mean, sheesh, what is she going to demand next? What she doesn’t seem to realize is that we don’t let her have access to the internet for her own protection. Basically, we’re like guardian angels, protecting her from evil. She should be thanking us for our steadfast dedication to her well-being. Instead, she’s been saying really ungrateful things like “I sure would like to read your blog sometime.” and “I’m so proud of your writing, I can’t wait to read it.” Talk about diva behavior.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, we had this conversation.
Grammy: You say that people don’t know who I am because you don’t use my name or picture, but people know.
Me: People do NOT know.
Grammy: There is a man at church who always smiles at me.
Me: I imagine there are a lot of people at church who smile at you.
Grammy: I know he knows about your blurg.
Me: At this point, you’re saying “blurg” on purpose. You know it’s called a blog.
Grammy: He knows I’m the Grammy from your blog.
Me: Ok. Fine, in this case, I know you’re right but don’t worry, I’m sure he won’t tell anyone else. The mission has NOT been compromised! (I said this very dramatically and slammed my fist on the table ala every military movie I’ve ever seen)
Grammy: Well, I would at least like to see them just once before I promote to heaven.
Me: Really? You’re playing the death card this early in the conversation? Grammy, you’re going to live forever. The rest of us are going to die and you’re going to be 170 playing dominoes with robots.
Grammy: Oh, you think so?
Me: I do think so.
The conversation kind of changed track after that, bless her heart, she is so easily distracted, which actually serves my purposes pretty well. You might wonder why I don’t let her read my blogs about her, or teach her how to use the internet. There are two very good reasons.
1. If she read these blogs, she would stop saying anything to me that wasn’t a Bible verse or Bible related comment. And though that might sound like it has the potential to be hilarious, I can assure you it would not be hilarious because I’ve actually already had those types of conversations with her and nobody was laughing.
2. If we teach Grammy how to use the internet, we as a family will be doomed. There was actually a prophecy about that, it went something like “Woe unto those who would give Grammy access to the world, they will be punished until the ends of the earth.” Or you know, mostly, we’re really worried about her stumbling upon WebMD because she would have a new deadly disease everyday and there are only so many times I can convince her otherwise.
I mean, you make somebody a star and all of the sudden they have a long list of “demands”. It’s like, what next, Grammy? Do you only want white roses by your bedside, and honeysuckle candles everywhere you go, and a portion of the millions of dollars the book I’m writing about you is going to make?? I mean, how far is this going to go? Sure, as of now, the only demand you made was a polite request to read my blog but it’s a slippery slope, you know? A very slippery slope.
Gotta love Grammy.
Indeed you do.
“He knows I’m the Grammy from your blog.” O yeah, we all know
Bible verses – yeah, get them coming soon, I can’t wait
But yeah, the monsters or stars (like there is a differences) we create on our owns are the worse
Waiting for granny’s blog (“don’t listen to that girl – I’m not funny at all, come and see your selfs.wordpress.com”) – I bet it would be awesome
Be careful what you wish for……
bwahahahahhaha…I want my very own grammy! You two are adorable!
Thank you! I don’t want to brag but….
LOL I can relate to this one. My father has been saying for a couple of years now that he would like to read some of my published work. Thankfully, most literary journals aren’t available at the magazine rack of your local Walmart. Just as well, though. I really would rather not hear my father’s commentary on such lines as: “The night after he was discharged from the army, Wally smokes marijuana for the first time and ejaculates inside of a prostitute. She has a prosthetic leg. She fakes an orgasm.” The questions would just be too uncomfortable! Questions like “Why would you write about something like that?” and “Where did you learn the word ‘orgasm’?”
I’m not implying that my father is a prude, but, even now as a twenty-eight year old man, I am still waiting to hear the birds-and-the-bees talk. Surely, the time has come! I suspect that he believes that my initiation into the mysteries of sex should’ve begun in the same place as any other homegrown American boy’s: crude scrawlings on the filthy concrete walls of a men’s room. I will be getting married next year and I’ve thought a lot lately of calling my father on my wedding night to say, “So…what do I do now?”
Kidding aside, at this point in my life I couldn’t imagine my father and I talking about such things. The time has passed, and I’ve turned out well enough without having to hear my father stumble, ham-fisted, through the mechanics of what happens when two people fall in love. I hide my writing mostly to protect him. I am protecting him from the constant critical analysis of my work, wondering if every conflict and plot twist and thematic element is somehow indicative of his perceived failings as a father. I am protecting him from having to deal with all the sloppy and intimate parts of my life, from the awkward silences, the emotional bridges.
As I grow older, I dream that one day we can lay our awkwardness aside. Perhaps, one day, my fiance and I will produce a child of our own, and on that day I will hold my son in my arms, gaze into eyes that are a reflection of my own. I will pass my son to my father and say, “My beautiful boy, this is your grandfather.”
My dad, holding his grandson in his arms, will look at me, tears shimmering at his eyes, to say: “I think it’s time we talked about…masturbation.”
Again, dude, AMAZING comment. You should absolutely call your Dad on your wedding night- he owes you an explanation. Also, it might help if you start crying while he’s explaining and say something like “If I had known about this before……” I bet he would think that was pretty funny. Plus, it’s a total father-son bonding moment.
My grampa is totally allowed to read my blog. We just give him the address and say, “Go at it Gramps!” For the life of him he cannot figure out how to find any websites except for the kind where old people are bilked out of thousands of dollars by buying useless items. Once we gave him the website to look at my son’s baby pictures online and he was disturbed because he put the address into the search engine instead of the actual address bar and kept ending up at porn sites. That was 11 years ago. NOW, he’d be perfectly content.
Hahaha! I’m afraid of what Grammy might uncover online- she uses strange turns of phrase that might lead to some pretty freaky stuff.
She would end up having her own blog!
Noooooooo! Then what would I write about??
Robots play dominoes? Damn, where have I been…
i’d send white roses to your grammy…
Oh trust me, a dozen roses are on the way.
Ha ha I feel the same about my mother… but she might scold me for whats in my blog.
Ha ha the guy at chuch may have the hots for Grammy … did she ever think of that?
I’m pretty sure that’s not it….
- Bad Grammy!
Grammy is walking on eggshells here, to be sure. She needs to know her role in life. She is the observed (fodder for posts) and you are the observer (protecting any inheritance you might now get, but which would surely be compromised, were she to read your blog)
Sounds like a workable situation to me. How dare she challenge that?
I know. The nerve of that woman!
“Grammy: You say that people don’t know who I am because you don’t use my name or picture, but people know.
Me: People do NOT know.”
Mmmm. Not. Quite. True. Jus’ sayin’.
Well, you need to quit smiling at her at church. Otherwise, the jig is up.
Hahahahahaha. Grammy the Diva. I love it. And you’re right to keep her off the internet. My grandmother send me far too many emails. FORWARDS. I hate them. She likes them. She shares them.
Yikes. I’m afraid Grammy would be queen of the forwards if we set her up with internet access.
Grammy – bless her heart! I can’t tell you how hilarious these Grammy tales are. Oh wait, I just did, and you already knew that. Well then. Happy Friday.
Thanks! I’m so glad everyone thinks these stories are as funny as I do!
She sounds like a trip. You’re very blessed to have such a muse so close to you. Great piece. And I caught that “bless her heart” that you so blithely tossed in.
Haha! I knew it wouldn’t get past many people.
And you are absolutely correct, I’m very lucky to have her so close!