Some stupid fool done pissed Granny off...

...and I'm going to help her get even.

She says that's what Virgos like me are for, you know.

Granny ordered herself some take-out steak and potatoes. She ordered them medium rare. She got well-done hockey pucks (my words, not hers. I'm putting it mildly). She said Boo just sat there and shook his head.

"What's wrong, baby?" she asked him.

"They gone and did it now, Grandmommy. You're going to get ‛em."

Granny took the nice way, which she always tries first. I will give her that. She's direct, but she's nice direct...but don't push her too far.

She diplomatically took the tough steak back to the take-out joint and set it on the counter and asked for her money back. She's on a fixed income with 20 hours in a work week of flexibility. Eighteen dollars is a big deal. It's a special treat for her and her great-grandson, and that's sacred and not meant to be messed up.

They wouldn't give it to her.

Okay. You have to understand, here, Granny is 70 pounds. She tells me she's 100. I don't believe it for a minute. She'll also tells me she doesn't know why the whole world is intimidated by her. Um, I met her and my first impression is that she'd take your ass down with a well-turned phrase, and that's about all she needs to turn you into a whimpering, crying pool of apology. Stay on Granny's good side, and you're a friend to the end. I'm her "white family." Her Boo loves me. He doesn't care if there are kids here or not, he just wants to be here...because Granny says I give a damn and I'm loyal to him, even when his own family isn't. I like that. It makes me happy that I have the capacity to love a child other than my own offspring. He'd just like to hang here with me, and that's cool, but Granny tells him if my kids are out of the house, she's not going to send another one down, because I need the break. She's right, and I love her for that.

So she tells the management that "That ain't right. I draw social security, and I should get my money back. I don't cares about the tip, now. I just want my money. I can't eat that. That's tough meat." I wonder if she whipped out her bridges and sat them on the counter for proof. Maybe she skipped that part. All I know is that she said she was nice. If Granny tells me she's been nice, I have to believe she's been nice. She can't keep from telling me if she's been naughty. I live for her being naughty, because she's damn good at it and I put down the phone in tears or grab a tissue from her coffee table if it's live. Trust me, it's a hell of a lot funnier in the flesh. She also told me: "You know, Jesus said revenge is his, but he don't never say who he's gonna use for it."

A few moments later, the police pulled up to her house. Now, you see, when Granny sees the police, she just smiles and waves.

"What have I gone and done now?"

She said they were just laughing. Because the owner asked them to show, they had to show. She explained her story and got on with it. They had a good chat. They said they didn't know why the hell they had to be there, but got a good laugh out of a 6'2" manager calling the police to tell him a 70-pound great-grandmother chewed him out.

Apparently, the manager claimed she was cussing and threatening. I don't buy that. That's usually in her step 3 or 4 of personal vengeance. She doesn't want to wrong anyone wrongly, you see.

Calling the cops on her, though, takes her to step 3.

I have volunteered for step 3, because it's pure genius.

We're waiting until after Halloween. Granny's going to borrow a cell phone and order $18 x 3 in food. She pays back in threes. It's Granny. You don't ask questions. So, she's going to phone in this order and have it delivered to my door. She's going to sit in my front room and me, the Virgo actress extraordinaire, is going to answer the door and *truthfully* say, "I didn't order anything. Are you sure this is the right address?" and then ask them if they'll give it to me for a discount so it doesn't go to waste, or give them the address of a homeless shelter. I'm going to ask how the steaks are cooked. She's going to order them medium rare. If they say it and it's not, I won't take jack shit. I like mine mildly mooing, tanjuwvellymuch.

She's already contacted the mayor's office and left a message. The whole fake order thing might not be necessary. She's even got the mayor laughing at her every time she calls, and he calls her "Granny," too. This town's small, but it isn't that small, and Granny's going to pitch a fuss about the treatment of the seniors in this community. I asked her about going on TV. "I got the mayor on speed dial, baby. Don't need no channel 5."

Granny, can I be you when I grow up?

Sock fulla rice

My kingdom for a sock full of rice.

I've made several over the years. They're sturdy bastards, and I'm sure there's one under each child's bed and another under the blankets in the closet. My neck hurts. I don't feel like waking the children yet by rooting under their beds. I don't feel like reaching up and pulling out closet contents. I did, however, know where The Sock was.

I bought Stud some socks some time ago, you see. I didn't realize the things were as long as Snuffelupagus' snout. Of course, he didn't wear them. Of course, I couldn't throw out perfectly white socks away.

Then, I read about the rice sock. It's a sock filled with rice and popped in the microwave, and it makes one hell of a heating pad, so I made a few, using those socks.

I knew I had one left. Last week, I took its mate and created cast padding out of it. So, tonight, I wanted a rice sock.

I've been tripping over the damn sock all week. It's so long that it tangles in everything else, but of course, tonight, which is actually early, early morning, 4:00 a.m., to be precise, I can't find it. I bent down and started rooting through the sock pile and the motion causes a satisfying belch, and then another--that was not dry. A wet belch when your head is slightly inverted causes the wet burp to go right up your nose.

My husband didn't awake to an alarm this morning; he woke to me gagging and hacking.

It's hard to remove this shit from your schnoz. I blew it out, but only got the front part of the cavity cleaned. I hate nasal spray, because it automatically drips down the back of my throat. Instead of the gross crap in there, I removed it with a few quick inhalations of a steroid nasal spray that smells like funeral flowers. I'd rather smell that than taste/smell what was there before.

I found the damn sock. I took it to find the rice. We don't eat much rice. It's not because we don't like it; we do. I need a new rice cooker. I hate cooking rice on the stovetop, because it never turns out like it should. A partial bag just wouldn't do it. This is a very long sock, as it should be in order to wrap around your neck properly.

I opened a new bag, not knowing some maple syrup ruptured right by it. Yay, me. I didn't know that blue dye on a plastic package mixed with maple syrup turned your hands a nice shade of blueberry. Yay, me. The sock is now stained blue in parts, and there is rice scattered on the floor (the cat liked it). I opted for a cup. Bright idea. I poured the rice in the cup and knocked the cup over when I put the bag of rice down. My coordination's not too good at 4:00 a.m., but I made the cat extremely happy. He freakin' breakdanced in the rice.

I tied the end of the sock, threw it in the microwave for five minutes, and wrapped it around my neck. By God, it's better than sex. Not real sex, but it definitely beats the drop-and-pop kind, where the guy gets all the bennies and the chick just gets the shaft and only gets wet after.

Shit, fuzzy fuck. I'm stashing this sock in a safe place.