Remember when you were little and you thought your parents were perfect? And then one of them filed for bankruptcy and you got the hint that perhaps they’re not? By my age most people have figured out that parents make mistakes and aren’t as angelic as once thought. But grandparents… those are a different story. Especially grandmothers, whose cotton candy hair and circulation stockings surely confirm their innocence and utter perfection.
My grandmother lived with me up until fourth grade, and although she enjoyed a few sips of sherry once in a while, she’d never ever crossed that line into real mistake-making-white-lying adult. Ever. She listened to Cubs games on her small black radio and made little Woodstock dolls out of ceramic or felt. Woodstock dolls. She was shy, never changed out of her velvety house dress, and always drank from the same tiny glass. Nobody messed with grandma’s cup. Nobody messed with Grandma. (I did call her a bitch one time when she asked me how my day was while I was trying to watch Duck Tales, but that was a mere fluke.) She was pristine. She was the only one. She was Grandma.
In 1989.
Today, Feb 2010, I found out that lady is a lying sack of goat poo. That’s right. I said it. Circulation stockings a front!
You see… long ago she made some pillowcases. I’ve always loved them. Always admired her embroidery and how she so sweetly designed the little PJs to accompany a head during sleepy times. How creative and appropriate. I see these pillowcases, and I say, “Grandma knew life. She just knew.”
I’ve made a big deal out of these pillowcases. I’ve traveled with them. I’ve annoyed friends by insisting I provide my own pillowcases, therefore insulting theirs. I have loved these pillowcases. I have lived for these pillowcases.
Last night, an old friend came to stay with me. As she toured my new apartment, she said, “I love your pillowcases.” And before I could proudly boast how my grandma had slaved over a hot embroidery needle in order to create their splendidness, she said, “My mom has the same ones.”
Huh?
HER MOM HAS THE SAME ONES? No she didn’t.
I’m willing to bet my grandmother did not have an Etsy store back then from which to sell her wares. And I’m also going to bet that she didn’t have a secret underground pillowcase store running out of her basement. Which only brings me to this conclusion: Grandma didn’t make no pillowcases. That bitch probably bought them at Woolworths. And those Woodstock dolls… those ugly woodstock dolls I’ve been holding onto. Those are probably from Sears. Blasphemy. Cotton candy hair and cute little cup… bet those were a farce too. She probably drank from a big thermos hidden under her bed.
Attention dead people: If you come across this woman in heaven, don’t trust her. And also beware because she’s storing a whoopee cushion in that housecoat. And she probably has a plastic pile of poo somewhere around your feet or a fly trapped in a fake ice cube. Sorry, grams. Your gig is up.
I admit she didn’t look so sweet and angelic back in the day. She looks like a heartbreaker. I bet she had an affair with JFK.