Some people’s grandmothers are rotund and plump, sunny demeanored, aproned, bearing a tray full of fresh cookies.
My Gramma is awesome. She is an artist and English tutor who loves to write complaint letters and get free stuff, she raised 5 great children (including my dad), she often claims to be “happy as hell,” and she engaged me in a frank conversation about birth control the last time I was visiting her with no embarassment whatsoever. She often makes me laugh out loud, like when she just sent me this email full of warm materfamilial advice that I can carry with me in my heart (about her highly unfortunate and painful case of shingles):
if anyone comes near me, they are dead. I am one mean cranky gramma.
And if anyone ever tells you that you have shingles, kill yourself instantly.
Right on. Thanks, Gramma!