It’s so sweet how granddaughter T.T. always refers to me as Grandmother Dearest.
T.T. says she’s going to use that as the title of a book she’s planning to write about me. She seems fiercely determined to work on this project. I can hardly wait to read it.
Her mother, my daughter Gretchen, isn’t impressed. Mortified would be more like it. But I said to Gretchen the same thing I say to our video clients when they’re producing documentaries: “Look, Gretchen, a good biography can’t just talk about the laundered stuff — It’s gotta show warts and all.”
And it’s true. T.T. can’t just brag about the heroic stuff — like how fast I can chase cars, or about the time I stepped on the attack spider who was going to bite Joy and everybody else was too cowardly and powerless to do battle. No, if she brings up my achievements, she should touch briefly at least on my fluent lying and petty thievery. I can accept that. I certainly don’t want T.T.’s readers to get the impression that I’m perfect, like Mother Teresa or Oprah. I’m not even “almost perfect”. I’m just kind of semi-perfect.
For the past three weeks, T.T. has been in Costa Rica studying Spanish. She’s supposed to get home on Monday. If she still remembers how to speak English, we’re going to have to have a sit-down to discuss her plans. No way is that kid going to keep all those royalties for herself. No way in hell.
Well, I guess that’s all for tonight, children. Sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite.
From Grandmother Dearest