Peggy Rubble

If grandma were totally honest she’d tell you that can’t ever trust anyone to do the right thing on principle.

Of course grandpa didn’t cheat. When he got too chatty with the sexy spinster down the street, grandma just served doubles. That’s why he was always asleep in the recliner by 7 at barbeques. Trust Jack Daniels to handle him. Let grandma relax out back like a cat with a mouse, poor unmarried lonely old thing. How much can she take before she runs back to her little hidey-hole.

If grandma were honest she’d tell you that everyone hates someone. She could be friends with anyone – the blacks, the Hispanics, anyone but those genocidal maniacs: the British. Atrocities all over the globe without a war effort to stop them just because they serve tea instead of building camps. She’d tell you the truth about how many IRA bombs her funding of the Irish Aid Society covered.

It makes sense that she was harder on your dad than anyone else. Just look at him. The spitting image of her ex-boyfriend though she spent all those years trying to convince everyone it was just science, just dormant genes, just luck of the draw, just born under a hazel moon. But your dad oh he looked just like that no good so and so. He’s got bad genes, your dad.

If grandma were honest she would tell you that vampires, cursed mummies, and ghosts are not real. Neither are homosexuals; they’re just confused people. Don’t worry though because God will sort them out. What you have to watch out for are witches.

You bet she knows the smell of marijuana. After all, she’s been serving pot roast at the VFW since grandpa got back from Korea. It was all those Vietnam veterans that came in stinking of reefer and loss. They looked pretty skinny next to grandpa at the black jack table. That smell was the first time she realized that men were not being made like they used to. In fact, she probably could have fought back against most of them. Not like grandpa at all.

If grandma were honest she’d tell you that some childhood pain never heals and the thing she loves most about her generation is that they covered those wounds with painted on pantyhose. They didn’t parade around in emotional underwear like your generation. Behind your back, she calls you a loser.

That married glow apparently doesn’t fade. He’s been gone how long and yet she is vibrant and smiling as ever. The spinster doesn’t come back now and grandma stopped visiting the VFW after the funeral. You imagine she bakes or reads, goes for long walks. The truth is, you haven’t the faintest idea of what she does with her time.

If grandma were totally honest she would tell you that you are dying faster than she is. And even if you do live long enough to meet them, you probably won’t like your grandkids as much as you think.

 

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