First, let me wish everybody a very Merry Christmas.
For anybody that likes playing cards or Italian food I am hosting this week's Canasta game in my Floridian condo.
Before I tell you what's on the menu I'll tell you a little bit about myself. I've always suffered from seasonal depression. Last few years with the holidays it is so much worse. I was born in 1933 so I've always joked that I'm a depression baby. There was nothing exceptional about my life except maybe that I was a showgirl at the Copacabana in the 1950s and Frank Sinatra once told me the back of my head was spectacular.
I was married three times. My first and second husbands were hitmen for the mob but that did not end particularly well. My third and final husband was thirty years my junior; yeah, I was no cougar come lately. So what of it?
Anyway, I'm a widow now and my good for nothing children leave me by myself almost every holiday. Yeah, they invite me over but my grandchildren are so unbelievably rude to me, and my son-in-law; well, I've had hemmorhoids I've been fonder of.
Who needs that? Certainly, not me. Good riddance to bad company I always say.
So, what I guess I'm trying to say is that I've spent the last several holidays by my lonesome.
Could you hold on just a second? Damn water pills!
OK, I'm back.
What was I saying? Oh. Yeah. I don't even really enjoy these weekly card games. Who the hell wants to sit in a roomful of old ladies? All they do is whine about their health problems. And the widows are the worst. They're absolutely helpless without their late spouses. Just telling about it makes me sick. I can't say I have many talents to speak of although people have always told me I'm an amazing cook.
If you like Italian food that is. When I was still young I loved to throw dinner parties and put on a big spread of Sicilian delicacies; manicotti, stuffed mushrooms, stuffed artichokes, clams oreganato, pizzarustica; the works. Oh, those were the days my friend. Anyway, my grandkids are not being brought up right. They are selfish and spoiled and don't know how to show their grandmother the proper respect. My daughter never corrects them and tonight was the final straw.
Let me tell you about it.
The first thing you should know is that most Sicilians, at least the ones I've known, haveserious tempers. What? Oh, right. They have anger management issues. Well, today my daughter called me up desperate for a baby sitter. Her rat of a husband, who doesn't want anybody encroaching upon their precious "nuclear" family, well except his mother, fell off a ladder and hurt his stupid back hanging up Christmas lights and had to be rushed to the emergency room. I warned him to stay off that stupid ladder.
You just never know when those brackets are going to come loose.
So, like a good Grandma I agreed to babysit. Well, my granddaughter took all my books out of the bookshelf and I told her that was fine but she should put them back when she was through. Well, she told me, "No! I don't have to!" right to my face.
Can you imagine? Oh, the mouth on that one. She's got some nerve! It took all my self-control to let that slide. But, when I went in to the guest room later to check on them I overheard them making fun of me.
"I'm Grandma. I'm so mean and crazy," my oldest granddaughter said.
"You're not so mean and crazy," her sister said. "You are the meanest and craziest bitch I ever saw. Just like Daddy said...."
Well, if you thought I was going to stand for such disrespect; think again.
I marched the two of them into the bathroom. Those filthy little mouths. Well, Grandma knows just how to deal with filthy little mouths if you catch my drift.
Unfortunately, there was a little slippage on the soap and granddaughter #2 took a tumbler. Her little head bounced off the edge of the sink and then rebounded off the hard porcelain toilet rim.
How many goddamned times have I told my stupid son-in-law not to leave the goddamned seat up? Cause that's how accidents happen. But, do you think anybody listens to Grandma? Pfff...
Marone, who knew little kids had so much blood in them? Anyway, I couldn't let granddaughter #1 live to tell the tale. God knows she would've spun it to make me look like the Wicked Witch Of The West or something; so I let her have it too.
The only problem was I had a gaggle of old biddies due for Canasta and I had a serious disposal problem to contend with. So, yeah... When life deals you lemons you make lemonade. When it deals you spiteful little granddaughters, who end up bleeding out on the good show towels, you make Tuscan soup.
What more can I tell you? In my living room there's a dozen old biddies raving about my soup. So, it looks like disposal of the bodies is gonna be a cinch. We're already halfway there; at least.
Senior Tip #14: Old biddies love a free lunch.
Now, you're probably wondering how I am going to explain their disappearance to my daughter. Well, I'm way ahead of you on that one. I think I'm going to use this flagrant disrespect of old people to my advantage for a goddamned change.
Damn whippersnappers should know that turnabout is fair play. I think I'll just pretend I haveAlzheimers or something when my daughter asks me where they are. It'll probably play out a little something like this:
"Ma! Where's the girls?"
"Oh? Did you bring the girls here to see their Nana for Christmas?"
"Ma?!!?! You were watching the kids!?!?! Where the hell are they?!!?!?"
"Don't raise your voice to me! What kids?!?!? I thought they were at Church with [son-in-law's name]."
"No! You were baby sitting them! Where are they?"
"Please don't shout Mommy. You know my ears are sensitive to light. Where's Poppa?"
Then I'll act all confused and flash them the puppy dog peepers and maybe let a little drool slide down the corner of my mouth. And maybe, just for good measure, I'll accidentally lose my dentures and just start gumbling.
Senior Tip #27: There's no more effective way to play dumb then to start gumbling about Frank Sinatra into your bowl of untouched Tuscan soup.
That should work pretty spiffy, right?
Oh, heck. I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me now. These old bats are asking for third helpings of my soup. In case you were wondering my secret is fresh parmesan and just a hint of anchovy.
Well, Merry Christmas everybody and please don't be disrespectful to your elders. Old people have feelings too, you know.
Oh, and while I have you here don't give me this, "Happy Holidays" bullshit either. It isChristmas. So fucking say, "Merry Christmas," OK? Pardon my French.
PS- If they ever try to put me in a nursing home Grandma's gonna bust a kneecap with a tire iron.
PPS- Anybody care to dance with a sweet old lady?
From Crucifiction by Krafto Matix.
