Every Wednesday I meander out to my G’mas for some nummy food and entertainment.
My G’ma isn’t your ordinary “let’s talk about pots and pans” kinda grandma.
She’s in her late sixties.
She does her own farm work.
And occasionally (ok, more than occasionally) swears.
My favorite memory of my G’ma swearin is from about a year ago.
We were going to Barnes and Noble to do some Christmas shopping.
It was really busy.
I spotted an open vacancy and G’ma put her blinker on and pulled into the aisle when this silver beemer came flying in from the opposite way and took her spot.
Instead of just hitting the steering wheel or swearing and flippin them the birdie, my G’ma rolls down her window, pulls up and waits.
As soon as the person grows enough balls to get out of their vehicle, my G’ma flips them said birdie and let’s fly the “C” word.
My cheeks flame up and I sink slooooowwwllllyyy down into my seat.
I. was. so. embarrassed.
G’ma just shrugged her shoulders and said, “Well the pecker had it comin.”
And this is my Grandma in a nutshell.
I also go out to my G’mas on Wednesdays to see my little niece Charlie.
She is the cheekiest little shit in the history of ever.
If she is talking and you start to talk over her, you get “shushed”.
She likes to pinch your boobies—for the sole reason of it being funny.
She calls her daddy a peckerhead (Auntie Sara might want to be more careful what she calls daddy under her breath eh?).
And she likes to talk.
Last night, my sister and I were teaching her the chicken dance.
You know: I don’t wanna be a chicken. I don’t wanna be a duck. So I shake my butt. dadadada.
So we would say: “Charlie, I don’t wanna be a chicken.”
Charlie: “I dona wanna bea chkn.”
So we would say: “I don’t wanna be a duck.”
Charlie: “I dona wanna bea duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.”
And we would say: “So I shake my butt.”
Charlie: Gets off her chair and wiggles her butt for all it’s worth.
Then she gets back on her chair and starts gibber jabbering away while eating her chicken.
An exceptional feat if you ask me.
I myself can barely say two words with a mouth full of delicious chicken.
It comes out, “Mmmmf jfidoajlmf”.
So she’s talking and all of a sudden says, “Tiger bit me!”
Us: “Who bit you?”
Charlie: “Tiger! Tiger bit me.”
We all thought maybe it was G’mas cat. It’s a fat, very fluffy, meanie pants of a cat who likes to bite people when all they want to do is pet the fluffiness.
But no, it was a “growling” tiger that “bit” her.
Girl has quite the imagination.
My sister: “A Tiger bit you? What about a bear? Did a Bear bite you?”
Charlie: “Yes, a bear bit me!”
Sister: “Did an elephant bite you?”
Charlie: “Yes, an enlphant bit me.”
Sister: “Did a canteloupe bite you?”
Charlie: Giggles. “Yes, a nnetelope bit me!”
Now I started laughing because not only did she say cantaloupe all cute like, but also because a cantaloupe is a fruit and the thought of her being bit by one was humorous.
Auntie Sara: “Charlie, a cantaloupe can’t bite you. It’s a fruit.”
My sister gets this really confused look on her face.
Sister: “Sara, cantaloupes have antlers.”
Now at this point my G’ma and I are rolling with laughter.
I’m pretty sure I may have had snot coming out my nose.
After a few minutes of extreme laughter, I gasp “Sister” gasp “do you” gasp “mean” gasp gasp “antelope”?
And a whole new fit of giggles ensues.
These sorts of occurrences are regular in my family.
We are like fudge – mostly sweet with a few nuts.
Ok. A LOT of nuts.
But I love em anyways.
Mostly because I don’t have a choice.
But really mostly because I’m the largest nut of them all.