Philomena

My grandmother, Philomena, is 88 years old. She was born and raised in South Philadelphia, and, basically, she’s no bullshit. When asked if she would like a new microwave she responded, “What am I gonna do with a new microwave? Take it to hell with me?”

Or when my father was dating a girl who was a little…chunky, she said, “Anthony, that girl is FAT. She’s FAT, and don’t tell me she isn’t.”

The other night when I thought she was trying to tell me that I used to be fat she said, “I never said you was fat. I said you were BIG. You were a big girl, like your father was a big boy…and now, you’re little!”

Thanks grandma….

Over Thanksgiving weekend, we decided to take our girl Phil out to dinner one night, and when it came to calling everyone out, she did not dissapoint. You see, that guy in the photo, he’s my grandfather and he passed away about 40 years ago. This left Phil, who loves to go out and dance, without a dance partner. So she had to go out and find a new one…or more.

In regards to her boyfriend Walt, whom she dated when I was little, she said: “I didn’t go with him long enough to know he was a lousy drunk! He dropped me off from the dance, I wake up in the morning to go to church, and he’s still outside sleepin’ in the car.”

On the type of person she is: “I wasn’t the type of person to make a pot of gravy and take it to his house.”

“That’s why I never got married [again]. I wasn’t havin’ no one live in my house and tell me what to do.”

In regards to a boyfriend who had left her for another broad: “He called me up and said, ‘We’re through. I’m not comin’ down to see you no more.’ I don’t hear from him for five years. Then I see him at the casino and he stops me to say hello, and I think ‘I should spit in your face.'”

Then later, regarding the same man: “He divorced his wife and he was going with this other girl, but he didn’t go see her on Mondays. So he and I would to the casino on Mondays”

When we were discussing the short-lived phase of the 70s when my dad had a mustache: “My husband had a mustache…real thin, like Hitler. You remember that, Ant, when daddy dressed like Hitler for Halloween?”

When asked what she wanted for Christmas: “I don’t know, Anthony. You can get me a coffin.”

And finally, when she noticed that I was writing down everything she said: “Are you gonna write a book about me when I die?” Me, “Yes, Gram, what should I call it?” She replies, “Grandma Going Rogue.”

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