Tag Archives: grandma

Things I Hate About Grandma.

12 May


Well it’s certainly no fun to have a blog if you can’t show your asshole side from time to time. Also, the main reason I don’t allow comments. You can think I’m an asshole all you want, but if you want to say it, you’re going to have to put on your big boy pants and email me. And for any haters out there, yes, there will be a Things I Love About Grandma, fair and balanced, just like her favorite fucking news channel.

Today’s thing I hate about Grandma:

She eats breakfast.

Like every fucking day. All of them. Yes, Sunday too. I loathe breakfast, except on Sunday, when it’s called brunch and I can have it with liquor. Also, only when it is served to me, preferably on the patio at Europa. Every other day, no bite of food passes my lips until at least three or four in the afternoon, yet each frigging morning, I have to awake, generally sometime before noon, and make fucking breakfast.

I am never in the mood to make breakfast. Even pouring a bowl of cereal and getting out milk annoys the shit out of me. I wake up an asshole most mornings, unless, oddly, I have to get up early and then I am irritatingly cheerful. Go figure. Fucking with the cereal box, screwing with opening that hermetically sealed bag, seeing more raisin than bran in the bowl, or vice versa. I hate it. Finding the clip thingy to close the damn bag. Screwing with the giant gallon of milk. God, especially when it’s not been opened and weighs 14 pounds. Question. Is there any way to pour the first pour from a new gallon without some splashing out?

On the days when it’s not cereal (the not hung over days) it’s bacon and toast. I hate having appliances and shit on my counter. Things I want on my counter are the coffee maker and the knife block. Period. The end. The toaster is just about the last thing I want on my counter, coming in just above ants and below a cat. The damn thing is nothing but a crumb factory. A damn mess. Stupid fucking toaster. Then, the bacon. Oh my good God do I hate the smell of smoldering pig fat emanating from the microwave. And forget a pan, the popping fat, oh Jesus no.

Then, the worst of all, eggs. At least once a week I will do eggs. This is the same day of the week that I will refuse to cook dinner. I think she is picking up on the pattern as the request for eggs has fallen dramatically. This is perfectly fine with me. I only like my eggs one way, served by a waiter.

On a more positive note, the breakfast routine has become a bit easier as Grandma transitions from being totally spoiled by Jamie. (Sorry Jame, true) When she first arrived, I’d ask her what she wanted for breakfast and she’d reply with her pat answer, “Oh,  just whatever’s handy.” Put through the Grandma translator this means, “I want eggs.” The first morning I clarified that this response was unacceptable by stating in a very asshole way, “none of it’s handy Grandma. I have to make all of it.”

The second day, as Grandma is incredibly hard to train, I got the same response. I gave her beets and cottage cheese. And damn it, she ate it. I knew I’d have to bring my A game the following morning.

Morning 3, “Grandma, what do you want for breakfast?” Same response, but I was ready for her. I poured her a shot of Jim Beam and handed her a can of sauerkraut and a can opener. Point taken. Now, I no longer have to even ask the question. As she lowers herself into the chair at the breakfast table, she blurts out her order like a drunk in a diner at 3am. “I’ll have toast and bacon!”

Please be sure and come back for installment 2: Her Dog.


Oliver, Part Two

3 May

Oliver in his SCU (stink containment unit), aka towel. I know, I should have gone to work for NASA.

This is the real Oliver. As time has passed, he has developed an incurable stench and lost the majority of his teeth. Neither of which were an impediment to his continued march toward the Guinness World record for oldest Corgi. I read somewhere that it was 28. This was interesting news to read.

The main problem currently is his hind legs. He is losing ability to use them at an alarming rate. He has trouble standing, walking, and most recently having balance issues while trying to relieve himself. Of course, none of these bode very well for him making that world record.

But not in Grandma’s mind. She defends him against what she sees as my death panel mentality. “But there’s not really anything wrong with him, except his back legs!”

Well that and he has no teeth, smells like a hot dumpster, can’t hear and is costing me a fortune in wet food and baby aspirin, but other than that, she’s right, he’s perfectly fine.

It’s hard enough to make the decision that it’s time for me to let go of him without her constant input. This dog has been a fixture in my life for sixteen years. He has been with me and sometimes without me. When our Mother was terminally ill, he came with me to Illinois, and promptly got lost in a maze of never-ending cornfields for what seemed like a week. My Mom dying and my dog lost. That was definitely a ‘well, fuck me’ time. He was with me through my first marriage. He went and lived with Jamie when I was in Paris. He was there for the birth of Shelby and toddler Evan. He protectively herded and guarded them both, from playpens, to watching over them as they played on their dock. Always there. Always watching.

He was there for my return, my remarriage, and at least four moves. He is here now still, doing his best to stand and guard Grandma when she spends time on the patio. He still has an uncanny ability to sense who needs protected and who does not. He still barks when the other dogs run and play. And I know in his mind he is running right along side them.

I understand Grandma’s attachment and kinship with another being in their twilight. I wonder how she will fare when the inevitable comes to pass. Obviously this is difficult to write about, let alone carry out. If and when you see an Oliver, The Final Chapter, you may not want to read it. Just know that Oliver is the Best Dog Ever, just as Grandma is the Best Grandma Ever. I have the same feelings about both of them and wish, that just for one day, I could visit with them both in 1994. It was a good year.

Time to Talk Politics and I Hate Richard Burr

29 Apr

* not this time....

Grandma is about the best political barometer there is. She is genius in her ability to be as uninformed as the American public in general, only occasionally focusing on a select issue of interest to her. Since coming to my house, I have all but blocked Fox Nooz from her television, put her on a firm diet of MSNBC and allowed but a sprinkle of CNN. She loves Rick Sanchez, much to my chagrin. She flatly refuses to watch Rachel Maddow, having nothing to do with her personally, she simply can’t understand her. Seriously, I’ll watch with her for about five minutes and at minute six, on cue, she will turn to me and say, “what in the HELL is she talking about? She talks so damn fast.” Grandma can only absorb sound bites. Like I said, genius.

Not to say that Grandma isn’t her own brand of smart, and Lord knows she could manipulate the Devil himself into getting her own way, but given an opportunity to opine, she will regurgitate a Republican talking point with alarming precision. She will mangle an issue to the point that it is unrecognizable. She likes Sarah Palin.

Let’s take the Affordable Care Act, as a perfect example of why the Dems are in a shit load of trouble come November. Grandma was against it from the start. First just because it was change. As I have said many, many times before, Change is never welcome. She wasn’t against it with a Tea Partier fervor, but the issue came up regularly at breakfast. “If they pass that bill, I guess I’ll have to go to the poor house.”

Each and every time we talked, I told her about all the really good things the law would do. I’ll not outline them here, but I framed everything in the way that it would help me personally. I thought she’d for sure fall in line if she just understood what I stood to benefit.

Nope. She threw me under the bus. “Well, that’s all fine and good, but they’re going to cut Medicare.”


I knew Obama would win the Presidency when Grandma decided to vote for him, despite running on a platform of the dreaded CHANGE. And now, after listening to her politics (or her mangled version of someone’s politics) I know that the Democrats are thoroughly fucked come November. Grandma is so completely confused that she is prepared to vote against her beloved party. Although I would kill her before I’d allow her to vote for Richard Burr. Richard Burr himself would have to show up here to take her to the polls.

So as of today, I have resigned myself to having that absolute waste of breath, smug, total asshole, go back to Washington. For now. I’ll continue to monitor the political landscape through the Grandma lens and update if there is any change in Grandma’s perspective. One thing to know, Grandma is never wrong. Now, how do I book her on Maddow?

Let’s Try This Again, Shall We?

10 Apr

I was thinking about changing the name of this blog, but then I realized, it is exactly as boring as Grandma is and therefore completely fitting. I stand by my original choice.

Looks like I gave the keys to my sister over a year ago, and as you may have surmised, she’s not a big talker. Or writer. Not her fault though, since she’s almost insane after two years of fucking with Grandma and her two teens.  Approximately three weeks ago I could have renamed it, ‘We’re Losers and put Grandma in a Home’, but instead, I have taken her in with me. And my, until two weeks ago, estranged husband, our four dogs and her one. So this is awesome on so many levels, it must be recorded in some way.

I almost killed myself read somewhere, that there are 44 million unpaid care givers in the US. No one really gives a shit until it happens to them, so if it’s happened to you, and you’re here, you’re in the right place.

I am not a linker or tagger or tweeter. If you find this it will be by divine intervention or the fact that you’re not bothered by the fact that I am going to use foul language and keep it really fucking real. I emptied a chamber pot, for of lack of a modern word which captures the act of emptying a bucket of someone else’s bodily waste, so if I can do that, you can read this.

Go ahead. It won’t kill you. Just like the chamber pot won’t kill me. It will just make me wish I were dead. Kind of like this post. Now, on to the fun.