Grandma on strike.

11 Jan

From the long absence you’d be almost correct to assume that I am on strike, but I’m not. I’m just lazy, drink too much and think my friends and life in general are more fun than hanging out with Grandma. Grandma, for the past 6 weeks, has had all the personality of a toe nail. An ingrown one at that. To add the anal exam to the ongoing pap smear that is my life, my sister makes sure via phone rants that I don’t miss a moment of the non fun. I don’t begrudge her this because, well, she has to fucking live with Grandma. Enough said.

In order to give Jamie 20 hours of sanity a week I have been spending Saturday nights at her house in care of Grandma. It’s a blast. Yesterday I did it with a level 5 hangover and now officially know what hell will look like for me when I get there. I will have an eternal smashing headache, be forced to serve as a cafeteria worker for the other residents while listening to Lawrence Welk reruns on a loop, and in my off time I will be on dog shit pick up duty. Or so it seems. If the Devil is feeling generous, he could always change the Lawrence Welk soundtrack to a crying baby scratching it’s nails on a chalkboard and give me a stick of tinfoil gum to chew on, just to switch it up a bit.

Having survived the evening, this morning I got to play the Breakfast Game with Grandma. The rules are simple. The key is to figure out what, if anything, the toenail will eat, without any clues at all from her. I present you the exchange as it went down at 10:00 am, and yes, I know an elderly diabetic should probably eat before 10:00 am and I don’t care, thankyouverymuch.

Me: (chipper, no hangover) Good Morning Grandma! Why don’t you meet me in the kitchen and we’ll get the coffee going!

Toenail: Okay. (Spends 5 minutes shuffling to kitchen as if every step will be her last, which they won’t, trust me.)

Me: How about some pancakes and bacon Grandma!

Toenail: That’s too much work. (Translation: I don’t want pancakes asshole.)

Me: How about some toast and a poached egg?

Toenail: Whatever. (Translation: I’ll eat that but I’d rather have an omlette you lazy little shit.)


Toenail: Okay.

You can not win when Grandma is on strike. It has been, and before anybody gets a wise ass idea that she’s being ignored we fucking beg her all the time, 6 weeks since she has been to get her hair done. Her hair looks like a cat, sprayed with Pam cooking spray and then dunked in a toilet. Smells about the same too. It’s disgusting awesome.

Anybody want a free old person with attitude? No? Really? No takers? Huh.

So did she enjoy the waxed beans with hot sauce and whipped cream? No, of course not, being the totally made of patience, angel wings and xanax Grandaughter I am, I made her the poached egg and toast.

Love you toenail Grandma. Please wash your fucking hair.


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