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Annual Letter from Your Midwestern Grandma
Dearest Eldest (or Blondest) Grandchild,
Seasonal greetings from [Insert region that begins with “Central”]. I rarely get to see you because your heretical parents keep you from me, and apparently, your generation does not “do” telegrams. As such, I will tell you about my year–2022–in extreme detail in this letter for your perusing. Be prepared to put on your +10x reading glasses for this second-t0-second insight into your dearest 39-year-old (ha ha) Grandma’s life.
On January 1st, 2022, I slept well despite some back pain from my recent surgery. Nevertheless, I woke up on January 2nd determined to clean my house! Low and behold, I found five unopened extra-large boxes of kitty-litter in your late step-grandfathers spare closet next to his nickel collection that I won’t let his birth-children inherit. Who would have thought!
Unfortunately, on January 3rd, I found the cat dead. Seemingly, someone had shut the door to an adjacent closet behind him, locking him in, and seeing that no one has been in my house besides me since 2006, I suppose this incident was my doing. Oh well; better him than me, not that your parents would notice. For the next month, I opened every closet and cleaned. No, there were no more cats I forgot about, just a small troll that perished (ha ha).
As you know, I am an artisté. I do plentiful work with the community center and church. On February 3rd, I was pleased to attend the 1,000th meeting of the Floozy Femmes of Needle Point, where snitches get extra stitches (ha ha). We are working on our marketing post-revolution of the World Wide Web. Speaking of, I watched the Social Network on February 21st. You should find a nice man like Mark to take care of you; he has a rugged way with words, and I bet he goes to church.
Of course, March and April were the months of doctors appointments. I made sure to let the surgeons know I was part of the Floozy Femmes of Needle Point, but they were not as impressed with my work with a needle as their own. Lots of stitches, but very few snitches unfortunately, mostly because you do not return my telegrams damning your parents. When you’re older, we’ll discuss surgeon needles more.
In May and June, I was feeling well enough for a road trip. I rented a vehicle with some ladies and traveled from [Insert region that begins with “Central”] to [Insert region that begins with “Central” that is at least 36 hours by car from the previous region]. Why suffer Gilly’s irritated bowels on the road for that long, you ask? For Dead and Company, of course, and all the Waffle Houses along the way. Your Grammy is a fun time (ha ha ha).
I visited my 120-year-old Grandma in Georgia for Independence Day. We ate our traditional barbecue [picture roadkill with a lot of brown barbecue sauce]. I hauled booty out of there before August heat hit. It had nothing to do with the unwarranted Church-Lady criticism I faced from my own flesh-and-blood…
[For publishing purposes, WUnderground has chosen to redact ten more pages explaining the crisp Fall Apple Season that Grandma enjoyed so deeply]
…And with that, my little angel-bug-sweet-cake, I leave you with a prayer for your consideration:
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.
Give us this day our daily bread and spirits,
And forgive us our highly judgemental
trespasses into the personal privacy of others,
And watch closely upon us, but not too closely,
especially not in the liquor cabinet
Or the drawer next to my bed,
And forgive my grandchild’s dear parents for being worshippers of Satan, or worse, a Jewish g-d,
Lord knows they need it.
Amen.
I love you bunches, my Eldest (or Blondest) Grandchild,
Grandma
