Thread by @M_F_Rose

Stories about my paternal grandmother, a ridiculous human being: a thread.

Prompted by LRT: Joss Whedon is navigating the self-made problem of using his nickname on official documents and creating a paperwork conflict.

My grandmother did this too!

She regularly switched between her nickname (Nettie) and birth name (Anastasia) on documents. Of course, she was born long before agencies cross-checks with any kind of rigor, that kind of stuff passed under the radar.

What didn’t fly as well was her ever-shifting birth year.

As far as we could tell, my grandmother’s birth took place on a quantum state sometime between the early 1910s and the mid 1930s. This was liable to change depending on her mood, context, and availability of a senior discount.

Of course, when agencies DID start actually, you know, verifying this stuff, Grandma’s life became much harder. At one point, multiple discrepancies kept her from getting her drivers license back after she lost it for being an absolute menace behind the wheel.

Grandma knew, in her heart, that this wasn’t her fault. Rather, it was a vast Republican conspiracy perpetrated by (famously deep red) Cook County to keep her off the road, because she’d voted for Clinton.

She was a nightmare on the road. She somehow got her license back, but I was NEVER allowed to be in the car with her as a child. I only rode with her once, at age 18, and I honestly cannot believe I survived the experience. It was a two mile drive to Perkins.

When I saw Grandma shortly after the 2004 elections, she pressed $200 into my hand and told me that, when civil war broke out over Bush’s reelection, she had a friend who could get us to Canada.

I took the cash. I did not take the offer to be smuggled bodily across the border.

She and my father would play pinochle on the rare occasions the family gathered. I once asked her to teach me how to play. She said I didn’t need to learn, and taught me how to steal from the pot instead.

She and my grandpa both spoke Polish at home (immigrant parents). For a significant portion of my childhood, I thought my grandfather’s given name was Dupayash, because that’s what my grandma called him.

Turns out, “dupa Jaś” means “dumbass.” His actual name was Walter.

When I was 7, she called us on Christmas Eve and asked if I had hung up my stocking. I said yes. She said “wrong move. Put out a shopping bag, Santa will have to fill it up.”

Another Christmas she sent us an animatronic Mrs. Claus statue. This Mrs. Claus was black. When my mother, out of idle curiosity, asked what made her pick out a black Mrs. Claus, my grandma explained that the white ones weren’t on sale.

The one time I went shopping with Grandma, she insisted on taking me to a movie. I was 10 and asked if I could pick the movie. She said no, she’d pick one I’d like. She took me to see Mr. Holland’s Opus. (It wasn’t bad! I was, however, ten, and thus deeply uninterested.)

Anyway my grandmother was a character and I found myself relating some of these stories about her in another context today. I hope her ridiculousness has made your day a little funnier.

Also shout out to Nicole Cliffe, who is once again off twitter and whose absence compels me to do my pet in filling the “crazy relative stories” void.

Oh, and one more: my parents had a backyard wedding ceremony. She and my grandfather had to be negotiated into turning off the TV and coming outside to see their son get married, because the Cubs were in contention for the pennant and it was a close game.