Thursday, February 7, 2008

A Ramblin' Post About My Whacked Out Granny

I spent half my weekend crying with one orifice or another of mine aimed over the toilet bowl and now I've caught some kind of head cold. I feel OK. I'm a little sneezy and snotty, and I've got a bit of a headache and even though I'm not feeling that great myself, I'm still taking care of MDH who has started to recover from his own rotten head cold.

When I'm sick I'd much rather be left alone than pampered. Today's story is inspired by bad childhood memories and attempts made by well meaning, but misguided adults, namely my grandma, to pamper or take care of me.

Get ready for some father and grandmother bashing and exaggerations. Yes. Grandmother. Bashing.

Hold tight, I speak (mostly) the truth!

My mother was always too busy to fuss over me the way that I perceived of other mothers doing. I got what I needed, but she didn't fuss. She worked a full time job, took care of a special needs daughter (my sister) and took care of everything having to do with our household.

My dad, on the other hand, did nothing. Unless you count drink beer, lord over the television and golf. It was a different generation and back then men were only required to earn a paycheck and their household and child rearing responsibilities were considered fulfilled. Dad was basically useless and not to be relied upon for fussing or pampering.

The only time I was ever pampered and fussed over was when my grandma stayed with us and I didn't much like it.

I always had the feeling that she was only being so nice to me so that she could stick it to my mom, as if to say "Watch this, Unworthy Daughter-In-Law - If only you weren't so busy setting the accounting world on fire, you could stay home and take care of this poor, neglected child properly."

Grandma didn't approve of women who had careers.

Grandma never listened to me and always got me all wrong too. Like the time I spilled orange juice down the front of myself as I was rushing out the door for school. I was in the 4th grade. Grandma happened to be on the phone with my mother at the time, who was at work. "Oh Dear God - I've got to hang up!", she yelled, "Lady has just vomited!" Then Grandma grabbed me and ripped off my shirt and told me there was no way I was going to school.

When I told her that I'd only spilled the juice, she thought I was lying and made me stay home.

It might sound like a good gig, but it wasn't. I would rather have gone to school than have stayed home with my grandmother watching game shows and soap operas all day long. She wouldn't let me eat anything all day either for fear that I would throw it back up again and periodically she tried to take my temperature with the old fashioned kind of thermometer.

Yeah.

When my mother got home from work I complained to her that I wasn't sick at all and had been held hostage, starved, tortured with bad TV and subjected to fighting off regular attempts at anal probes. She understood my dilemma, but was unable to do anything about it because apparently nobody ever questioned the wisdom and authority of my grandmother.

I didn't understand the full extent of my family's support and blind loyalty to my grandmother until I was a teenager and my mother went on a week long, ladies only vacation with a couple of my aunts.

Since my father was completely useless in the household and child care department, he took the week off work to stay with my sister and me while my mother was away, because apparently working all day and taking care of children when he got home was way more than he could handle.

It wasn't even like it was summer time - we were in school all day.

So incompetent was he, that merely taking time off work was not enough. He called my grandmother to come and help him out during his time of need. I begged him not to and argued that I was 15 and old enough to take care of all three of us while Mom was away. It was no use.

It was one of the most miserable weeks of my life which started off with a lecture from my dad in which he basically said, "Do everything your grandmother tells you to do - AND NO LIP!"

The madness began almost immediately when my sister asked for macaroni and cheese for dinner. My sister had some pretty significant speech problems and my grandmother never seemed to understand what she was saying. My frustrated sister went to the pantry, grabbed a box of Mac & Cheese and handed it to my grandmother.

Grandma correctly took this to mean that my sister was hungry, but refused to make food from a box as requested by a child, so my sister watched in horror as Grandma threw the Mac & Cheese in the trash and made instead something from scratch that our dad liked called SOS. AKA "Shit on a Shingle", which is essentially flour gravy with ground beef served on toast.

It is every bit as disgusting as it sounds and my sister and I hated it.

In my grandmother's world men ruled supreme, especially the ones she had given birth to, and children should be seen and not heard. Especially girl children. I hated her.

My sister and I both got in trouble with our dad because we refused to eat the SOS. Apparently not eating it would hurt grandma’s feelings so he forced us to choke it down. Now I hated him too.

My grandmother and I had a complicated relationship. I didn't really hate her. I loved her, but I certainly didn't understand her.

The best way I can put it into perspective is to say that if you've ever seen the movie Coal Miner's Daughter, my father's family lived in the the next holler over from where that movie took place, the rural, coal mining Kentucky of the first half of the 20th century. My grandfather, grandma's first husband, wore overalls with a straw hat, mined coal and in his spare time made corn whiskey in a bathtub still he hid in the woods behind their house. Like the perfect caricature of a hillbilly, he smoked a corn cob pipe.

Grandma didn't understand me either. She was concerned that I wasn't interested enough in boys or getting married and thought I spent way too much time reading. She thought I was "uppity" and warned my parents, when I expressed an interest in going to college that I was "gettin' above my raisin". I never let her find out that I didn't believe in God. It would have killed her.

Anyhoo... let's get back to the week my mom left my sister and me alone for an entire week with my grandmother and my dad, AKA the Hillbilly Mutual Admiration Society.

OK, so we had to eat food we didn't like, and do chores that we didn't normally have to do while Dad and Grandma laid around all day watching soap operas and game shows. Unpleasant yes, but totally survivable.

Then I stepped on a broken Coke bottle in the garage and sliced the bottom of my foot open and my grandmother tried to kill me with my father's blessing.

Why I was barefoot in the garage and how a broken bottle got there I don't remember, but suffice it to say that it was a deep gash of the won't stop bleeding variety. It hurt too.

Still, in hindsight, I probably should have kept my stupid mouth shut, knowing that under the circumstances I was going to be subjected to my grandmother's favorite backwoods remedy and answer to all problems of the open wound variety - Campho Phenique.

Under normal circumstances and had my mother been home I probably would have gone to the hospital and gotten stitches.

Instead, I squeezed my father's hand off while my grandmother doused my deep open wound with liquid camphor. It was all so very World War One in the trenches. I was surprised they didn't just pour moonshine on it and cut my foot off at the knee with a hacksaw while I chewed on a leather strap.

Needless to say the cut didn't heal. Not only didn't it heal, but I developed a fever and my foot swelled to gangrenous and pus-dripping proportions so large that I was not able to put on a shoe - thereby not able to go to school. Meaning I had to stay home all day, tolerating the painful, periodic reapplication of the Campho Phenique and eating left over SOS with the two people at the top of my teenage shit list.

At one point I pulled my dad off to the side and tried to reason with him. "Dad, I think my foot is infected and Grandma just keeps putting Campho Phenique on it. I think I need stitches and a prescription for antibiotics." But he was too far under her spell. "Shhhh! Don't let yer Grandma hear you talkin' like that", he whispered. "That'll hurt her feelings. Besides she raised 15 children to grown. She knows what she's doing."

Of course common sense, reason and penicillin replaced folk wisdom and Civil War era camphor poultices when my mom returned home. I was whisked to the doctor and cared for properly, given stitches and antibiotics.

In yer face batty old woman.

I still have the scar on the bottom of my foot.

So there you go... this big long gripe about my grandmother to explain why I do not like to be fussed over.

I can take care of myself just fine thank you and stay the hell away from me with that Vick's Vapo Rub.

22 comments:

WendyB said...

I don't even know what to say! I'm sorry you had such traumatic experiences.

The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch: said...

WendyB - Wow. I've left you speechless? That's a first! The grandmother that doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

Suze said...

Are we related? I know we have the exact same family members!

The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch: said...

Suze - it's not outside the realm of possibility - you from Kentucky too?

Michelle said...

Wow, that makes me feel bad that I rag on MY grandmother. If it wasn't for my grandmother I would've never had pierced ears. My dad said if God had wanted us to have holes in our heads he would've put them there, and she told him he was being ridiculous. Then there was the curfew which was "when it gets dark" which in the winter is 4:00pm and again she told him he was being ridiculous...so THANKS GRANDMA!

i am playing outside said...

yikes.

that's all i've got.

Blowing Shit Up With Gas said...

Helluva tale! I can relate to the type... The older generation of my wife's family sometimes had a little bit of that "above my raisin'" thing going on.

Anyway, I'm like you... don't like to be pampered. The best thing people can do for me when I'm ill is leave me alone.

MADAME LA PROF said...

Oh...that's a good one. I love this blog....so many things I'm learning about you that I never knew.

SkylersDad said...

Nice tale Lady, I loved it! My grandma didn't use Campho on us, everything was treated with Merthiolate. Arggghhhh!!!

Shit was nasty, burned like all hell.

The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch: said...

Michelle - my grandmother was old and irritating. When I got my ears pierced she said I looked like a whore.

Player - what else could you need after reading such a long hateful post about my grandma.

BSUWG - I'm distrustful of people coming after me with a look of concern in their eye. They probably have Campho Phenique in their pocket.

Madame - these are just not things I would discuss at a cocktail party.

Skydad - that's the red stuff right? My grandmother on my mother's side used that. Horrible stuff!

Family Adventure said...

That is the worst case of generational disconnect. Poor you AND your mother.

Heidi

CDP said...

Ugh. My grandmother is a city girl through and through, but she had some strange remedies, too. Like Skyler's Dad, you would NEVER let my grandmother see a cut or scrape on your body or it would promptly be treated with Methiolate...it even SOUNDS evil.

Step Right Up said...

There are so many similarities between your story of your grandmother and mine. Though, I'd have to say I have opposite feelings toward mine than you do yours. My Grandma helped raise my brother and I. There were some definite trying moments in our relationship. Campho Phenique was a staple in our medicine cabinet right next to the Mentholatum.

pistols at dawn said...

If laughing at other people's pain is wrong, I don't want to be right.

I'm going to be thankful right now my grandparents all lived very far away and weren't the type of folk who didn't hold with book-learnin'. Plus, they were all way too drunk at all times to be disciplinarians.

Thanks, booze - for helping raise me right: with utter indifference.

The Guv'ner said...

HAHAHAHAHA! Dude. Dying here. POOR YOU. It sounds like you grew up in the middle of a scene from "Deliverance".

Incidentally you owe me a new keyboard for "Shit on a Shingle".

Churlita said...

Was your grandmother an alien? I hear they like to starve, torture and use anal probes with wild abandon too.

Shan said...

Oh my, what a story.

Tara said...

I admire your stomach for keeping that SOS down. That looks like vomit more than orange juice spilled on a shirt! I'm glad your grandmother didn't amputate your foot. I'm 100% you are too. :)

evil-e said...

Holy scary...Hollywood needs to contact you ASAP. That is some original shit that would make a great horror movie.

Old school thermometers---I am now standing because sitting just became uncomfortable.

Linka72 said...

Damn you lady!!...that reminds me of the time that I got THE "whippin' of my young life" because I refused to eat Shit On a Shingle..I actually SAID shit.on.a.shingle..outloud..at 8 years old..(oops) That's the only thing I ever heard it be called..god damned chipped beef...

another good thing said...

Fantastic! My dad was equally non-existent in the family dept. When my Mom had her gall bladder out, he fed us blueberry pancakes and Burger King for 4 days. A kid could do worse, I guess-- as your family shows.

mindy said...

Okay. Wow. This post made me laugh my ass off, but also feel really sad for Teenage Lady. CAMPHO? It's for...bug bites or some shit. NOT for open wounds.

My grandmother used to get wild with excitement when our teeth would come loose as children. She'd BEG us to let her pull them - even if they weren't really that close to being ready for pulling. My 3 sisters always used to let her, and I was the only wuss who refused. I don't regret my decision - that woman knew how to pull.