Here is the sweet, heartwarming story that was recently rejected by a moms website I wrote for once. They didn’t say exactly WHY they didn’t want it, but I already know it’s because this story is not AT ALL sweet or heartwarming. I was just kidding back then. This story is not nice. It will not warm your heart.
But it’s funny.
And if you’ve known me for more than five minutes you know that in my estimation…
Funny > Not Funny
It’s probably better that they didn’t use my story anyway because they would have taken all the naughty bits out and the finished product would have been like trail mix without M&Ms. It’s just bird food at that point. I know for a fact they would have picked out the M&Ms because a few years ago, they took a story I originally titled “Forest’s Middle Finger” (intriguing, naughty) and changed it to something like “The Love of a Brother” (stale peanuts for elephants).
They also cleaned up the actual story, in order to remove any potentially offensive material, which is the most efficient way to kill the funny. Before we started filming our wild Mexican music video, a few well-meaning people were concerned certain parts of the song might be offensive. This troubled us significantly for a few days, and we briefly considered sanitizing the whole thing. But then we realized that removing all the potentially offensive bits left us with an instrumental track. So we kept the M&Ms.
FUN FACT: Everything you just read was written way before the mom website editors told me to take my story and get outta here. What can I say? I don’t fit in well in any group.
I’m too irreverent for the Emotional Mothers Writing Club, too Christian for Scary Mommy, and too much of a heathen for Christian publications.
I think I would be good friends with Tim Hawkins.
I love Jesus but one of my favorite parts in The Office is when Michael gets dumped and grieves because Carol is not his HO NO MO!
But enough of that. Here is the story about my feisty grandmothers and a bonus grandma we adopted in recent years.
I hope you enjoy it and it doesn’t make you feel good inside at all.
<3
The baby was out and the relieved mother immediately requested a mirror and a cigarette, because back in 1960 in Mexico City, smoking in the delivery room wasn’t reserved just for doctors. A nurse had already whisked the baby boy away and the new mother with the fabulous red lips and jet black hair looked out the window without a care in the world, blowing clouds of smoke contentedly. 50 years later, she would still tell the story with a proud gleam in her eye.
She gave birth and walked out of the hospital with full makeup and stilettos, tossing her glossy mane in slow motion. But not really because the hair didn’t move at all. It sat atop her head, a tremendous shiny mass of stiff glory, defying gravity, as was the style of the day. This lady would never make patchwork quilts or bake cookies. She was beautiful and elegant; the daughter of a famous actor with an underdeveloped sense of maternal love and a concealed weapon. What she lacked in warmth she made up for in lipstick and cats.
But she wasn’t entirely lacking in maternal instinct and that certainly deserves to be recognized. Once, when my dad was about seven years old, he came home and told her about a boy who had been bullying him at school. Naturally, she was concerned and did what any good mother would have done. The following morning at drop off, she got out of the car, found the bully and gently pulled him to the side.
She bent down to his eye level, her green eyes icy cold, and when she was sure she had the boy’s full attention she whispered slowly and dangerously: “If you hit my son again…”
“…I will kill you.”
I don’t think she was bluffing, and the boy didn’t think so either because my dad’s school days were great from then on.
My maternal grandma looked exactly like the benign old lady on the Abuelita hot chocolate label, but this was just a ruse. Beneath the curly white hair and saintly countenance, there was fire. One of my favorite stories of her unfolded in the 1930s, when working women were looked down on in Mexico. At nineteen, she became the first-ever woman to work for the local government as a secretary. She was in peak form then, in every way. With a job, tiny waist, and the kind of hips that guys with poor enunciation sing about these days, she was the talk of the small Mexican town.
The other girls viewed her with jealous fascination and a touch of feminine hatred. One day, word got to my lavishly endowed grandmother, that so and so had said such and such, and well, something had to be done. She spotted her rival downtown a few days later, but there was no showdown; no tumbleweed or twitching of fingers by their sides. Luscious Abuelita strolled up to her with an air of nonchalance, gave her a quick punch to the face, and went on with her day.
Next morning, her boss called her into his office. “I hear you punched Conchita in the face,” he said with a forced frown, “you’ll have to pay a fine for this misdemeanor, you know.” Unperturbed, Abuelita asked, “How much are we talking about?” “Well,” said the fellow, feigning disapproval, “that’ll be 20 pesos.” Abuelita reached into her purse and with much dignity, placed the money in her boss’ outstretched hand. Without breaking eye contact, she said, “In case I see her again.”
She gave him $40.
So you can see why, as a child, I was fascinated by Arleta Richardson’s In Grandma’s Attic books. I couldn’t relate to the stories at all, which made them all the more fascinating. The concept of a nice relationship between a young girl and a decent old lady intrigued me to no end. How marvelous that these benevolent, almost mythical white-haired creatures existed in other families. The two old ladies in my life were decent (on occasion) and had their merits (I think) but more than anything else, these ladies were SPICY.
The mudflap figure underwent a significant metamorphosis with the unforgiving passage of time, but on the inside, the lady was just as ready to punch people in her old age as she had been before gravity and ten pregnancies took their toll. She never learned my name. Being hard of hearing, you had to yell directly into her right ear whenever you wished to convey a message, so when she came to meet me in the hospital and my parents screamed my name, it sounded to her like Nena, which is a Spanish word for girl, and that’s what she called me from then on.
NENAA!
The other grandma retained her glamour through the years, and we had a polite, businesslike relationship, which consisted of yearly visits at Christmastime during which she would talk to my parents about politics and I quietly sat through my yearly dose of secondhand smoke. I was named after her, which initially upset her. It was her name, after all. But as the years went by, she grew to accept it, only because I didn’t turn out so bad-looking, she explained, and it would have been a shame to share a name only if I had been uglier.
I settled contentedly into my life, accepting with calm resignation that I’d have many enjoyable experiences in life, but a sweet relationship with a grandma was not on the list.
And then I met Sharon.
Sharon is in her late 70s and never had kids. A mutual friend introduced us and it was love at first sight. God didn’t float down on a cloud to love me personally; he sent me Sharon instead. A few years after we met, she took me shopping for maternity clothes, and as she paid for my stretchy pants, I went to the bathroom for a quick cry. I had never known this kind of sweet love from an older lady and it was better than I expected. I still remember my grandmothers with a fond chuckle, but it’s Sharon who filled that spot in my heart I didn’t know was there.
Yes, I’ve been very fortunate.
Leave a Reply
Your email address won't be shared.