Shit or Get Off the Pot.
You ran into a mirror at a department store and said excuse me to your own reflection. You didn’t recognize yourself as a blonde.
You’d make it impossible to not laugh as we heard you gag randomly from the kitchen, alerting us it was your vitamin time.
I would scuff your white Keds, but I’m clumsy I couldn’t help it.
Your car took to avenging you, I slammed more fingers in that car door than anything.
One Michelob would do the job at birthday dinners.
No driving before the sun came up, after the sun went down, or if a green drink had been made prior.
You worked out every morning, dumb bells in hand and buttocks squeezed tight.
You never got the memo that voicemail on cell phones can’t be heard like old message tapes, it left for some interesting voicemails.
You made spaghetti with ketchup and hot sauce, and we ate every bite.
You cut the bottoms off your donut, you only cared about the “good part”.
You gave me my obsession with donuts.
You hated Elizabeth Taylor, but wore White Diamonds.
You would talk about Lucille Ball like you knew her, she was a bitch right?
You looked for me every morning on the Today Show, even though you know I worked.
You had a knack for keeping house plants alive, I’m glad I got that thumb. You kept roses in bloom like I’d never seen, I didn’t get that thumb.
You’ll pay for the ham on Easter.
Don’t open the left side of the pantry, the door sticks.
You could mow your lawn up to the day you left us, but dusting your house was a chore.
Star Magazine was your thing.
The crossword in the back your guilty pleasure.
And I… Would do anything to share one these moments with you again.
I miss you, Grandma.