Of Pears and Pyramid Schemes

Pray that my grandma never reads this blog, because I’m pretty sure that there’s only one person in the world who can make healthy desserts that still taste like desserts, and it’s not her. I don’t know how she did it, but she somehow took a pear crisp–you know, baked pears with an oatmeal, butter, brown sugar, and cinnamon spiced spread over the top, and made…okay, I don’t think it tasted overwhelmingly of bile, but the first bite sort of scared me.

Since we’re here to talk badly about people…

My grandmother is a wonderful person. She’s the reason I have a place to live, in comfort nonetheless (walk in shower, yesssss), after God sucker punched my Honda and did a bit of jabbing at our remaining vehicle, an ugly old Chevy S10. She’s been through her fair share of crap and has seen me through my own crap.

But Aunt Wendy is the only one who’s ever made a healthy dessert that I actually enjoyed, and she isn’t obsessed with marketing pyramid schemes.

There. I said it. I threw bile-pears out there as a cover for my sins of bad mouthing, but there it is. My grandma is a busy sales person of miracle drinks and medical wrist watches and who knows what else, and I have a sneaky suspicion the one she’s currently trying to get me to drink is just powdered green tea with a few select other ingredients.

And then she tries to be helpful by “selling” all these health miracle programs or whatever to friends and people she loves, which now includes me because I have a hard time sleeping and anxiety and…and…it’s gotten to the point where it’s not even laugh or cry anymore, it’s just cry. Because my husband calls her a fool and when she tries to tell me long convoluted stories about how the founder of her pyramid scheme or some poke-yourself anxiety program was shunned by all the professionals of the area I just want to start smashing things with a hammer, preferably her laptop, her phone, the windows of these people’s houses, and then my face to put myself out of my suffering.

I love my grandma. Therefore, this is actually quite painful to live with. I don’t want to think of her as silly, especially when I can see she’s trying so hard. I hate being annoyed by her words when I’ve always appreciated the advice of those who are more experienced then myself, because if I can avoid pain I’m all for it. I feel like the average, rebellious, know-it-all youth when I feel like that, and she’s just so nice you can’t tell her no or to stop talking and talking and talking–

Oh, and she talks a lot. Maybe her “sales” and “life coaches” have taught her it, but she corners you with all the grace and delicacy of hound dog to a fox and by the time you realize what she’s getting into, you’re already knee deep and it would be rude to walk out.

I’ve used my husband as a meat shield against some of the pitches. I’ve used my toddler as an excuse–but then she just catches me when he’s asleep (damn you baby cells needing more sleep to grow).

And then her house is huge. I know she’s not making bank on her schemes enough to justify this nice and huge of a house, because otherwise she–there’s just signs, okay? I have made myself the self-appointed house cleaner while we stay here for the next month or so, but daaaaaang. I get wiped just vacuuming the upstairs living room.

And it’s so uncomfortable thinking that as well. Beloved grammy, living it big without the means to back it up. It’s like I do respect her, and want to respect her, but can’t really–especially when it comes to money.

And then she called our truck a money pit! Our ugly, old, $750 trooper of a truck that hauled the blown 2005 Honda Civic across Oregon and Idaho and still going! We’ve hardly spent any money on that noble senior citizen, and yet it’s outlived the Honda Civic ten years its junior!

She also called it a junker, a black hole, and other unmentionable, heartless names and told us to get rid of it. Our only vehicle. Our proven, faithful, fugly little truck.

It just makes me cry. And scream. Mostly scream. I’m not that weepy. It’s inside crying–crying of the heart. Tears of blood that get sucked back into the system so you don’t really see them and you don’t die of a heart anuerism.

But man, will I chew out bratty teenagers that try to tell her any of that. Anyone who bad mouths my grandma will get my hackles rising. Wince all you want when she corners you with two hour long sales pitches (I’ll welcome it, even, because it means she’s not doing the same to me), but call her dishonest, petty, jealous, whiny, self-righteous, or anything else that she isn’t and this timid, anxious marshmallow of a stay at home mom will grind bones into the freaking powdered miracle juice mix she tries to push down my throat.

Maybe I can find some comfort in that.

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