State of the Union with Grandma Betsey

I was named after my grandmother. Well, I need to clarify, I was named after the assumed name of my grandmother. The woman is just quirky enough to boldly declare that her given name was not suitable and that she'd just go ahead and give herself a new one and everyone would call her that from now on. And THAT name was the name I was given. I'm not sure how much of an honor it is to be named after an alias, but hell, whatever.

I sighed deeply as I realized I needed to call this little 5 foot ball of fire that is my maternal grandmother to invite her to Thanksgiving. The last time she and grandpa came over for the holiday she called from her cell phone yelling, "What street do we turn on? All I see are streets named after fucking horses!"

So I begrudgingly dialed the phone. I was hesitant not because she isn't entertaining, but because...

Well...

SHE NEVER STOPS TALKING. If you call for a 5-minute chat you better invest an hour. And within that hour, I can put money on the fact that you will hear at least two stories you've heard 100's of times before and she'll never fail to mention that my uncle's wife is a nasty drunk and she hates her.

And she has reason to. That woman is wretched asshole. But moving on.

Grandma is a spitfire with sparkly eyes that you can't quite put your finger on their exact color. Are they blue? Are they green or gray? Much like my own, they change with our moods. She is flirty to a point of embarrassment and just taking her to go pick up fried chicken for her Sunday dinner turns into me, standing there, pink in the face, just willing her to shut the hell up and quit flirting with the mortified 17-year old behind the counter. She bats her eyes and preens her feathers, one hand on her hip, and the victim stands there, pubescent and frightened. I scan, desperately about, looking for rocks to crawl under.

For the record, fucking KFC does not have rocks. Not even the fancy ones that are combined with Taco Bells or Long John Silvers.

I've never been one to mince words or act in a delicate manner with my language. Often times I've hopelessly wished that I could be a wilting flower of a lady and mind my manners and my mouth.

But to no avail. It seems genetics have fixed me wrong in that area.

As I dialed her number, I hoped that she would pick up and not my deaf grandfather, who I adore, but yelling into the phone in my office is not cool.

Grandpa: "Hello?"

Me: "Hi Grandpa, it's Betsey!

Grandpa: "Who?"

Shit I have to yell.

Me: "Betsey, it's Betsey!"

Grandpa: "Hold on, just a second"

I wait as my co-workers glare at me.

In the background I hear: "Betsey, it's for you." "Well, who is it?" "Hell if I know, just take the phone."

Today I was regaled with tales of her hair dresser coming back from Argentina just in time to fix her hair that was nearly platinum at this point and of her upcoming jewelry party where she will sell the wares that she and my grandfather handcraft with their retired days. And then she says to me, "Did you know our new President is a Leo."

Oh here we go.

Most of our family was born in August, Grandma and I are included. Being a Leo is the highest compliment that could possibly be bestowed upon a person in her eyes. My 75-year old grandmother didn't catch me off guard with that one, but she was just revving up.

Me, playing along: "Yes, I was actually. I guess you can tell, really."

(I was only half listening, she asked if I knew, not if I was aware, it doesn't matter.)

Grm: "Of course you can. And it's no surprise that McCain is a Virgo."

Me: "No, I suppose not."

Grm: "And that thing,Sarah? She's just a nasty redneck as far as I'm concerned."

Me: "I guess I know how you voted?"

Grm: "Are you kidding me? I wouldn't vote for a Republican if Jesus Christ, Himself were running!!!"

Great, bring the pies, Grandma!