Grammas Gone Wild

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When you look at this picture, what do you see?

Obviously it's a victim of Jack the Ripper, a pretty young thing with a slashed throat. But maybe you see something else. There is no reality, only perception. And sometimes, you have to squint and hold your head just right to see what might be lurking beyond the first impression..
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Let's try another one. What do you see?

This one's harder, because the dark underbelly is more cleverly concealed by the deceptively innocent exterior. Like those War Heads candies that start off so sweet and then all of a sudden blow your head off when you hit the surprise layer inside. Yeah, she's that. Sit back and I'll tell you all about her, starting with the sweet candy shell.

To most, she is Judy; to some, she is Gramma; to me, she is Mom; to my Dad, she is everything. And to us all, she is extraordinary. If you could look her up in a thesaurus and read the list of antonyms, this is what you’d find: boring, ordinary, typical, demure, predictable. She lives each day with gusto, as if it could be her last. Unlike her daughters, who have their Masters in delaying gratification. (My sister is going for her PhD.)

While my mother’s personality is huge and irrepressible, her belief system is really quite simple and old fashioned. Her life revolves around her husband, her church, her family, and her friends (we'll get to them in a minute). She married my father when they were kids, back in the fifties when good girls waited until their wedding night (and panicked on its eve). Their marriage is the best I’ve ever witnessed, beautiful and sacramental (which means they drink wine and eat bread a lot). They are so good together it almost makes me believe in soul mates.

Her faith is equally remarkable. She not only works at a Spiritual Life Center, but also attends services twice weekly and prays, well, religiously. (Although I will divulge that she cusses almost as much in her prayers as I do in my blog. He's either good with the sailor lingo or afraid of her, because He pretty much does as He's told.) She hosts a Christian book club which reads, duh, Christian books. The soundtrack of her life is Sandi Patty and the set design is everything angel. Her current ministry (and there have been many) is a Christian quilting group who goes on retreat to pray and make quilts for returning Iraq veterans and sick children.

As you might expect, a life so steeped in religion is bound to be rife with conservative Christian Republican friends. But make no mistake, liking them is not the same thing as being like them. It is my theory that God is using my mother to slap some cool into a seriously uptight crowd.

Which brings me to the surprise juicy layer, my sainted mother's inner tart. Dad, if you’re still reading, this would be a good time to go plunge toothpicks in your eyeballs. For the rest of you, it’s time to talk vajayjay.

I feel confident (nauseated, but confident) saying that my mother must have the heartiest vajayjay in the northeast. Those two lovebirds have been at it like a coupla randy teenagers at summer camp for the past fifty years. BLECH! Yay for them! Unfortunately, one of her friends has a different story. Years of abstinence has taken its toll on her vajayjay, turning it into an overcooked manicotti. So her doctor, and I am not making this up, prescribed a vibrator. (Did I mention I am not making this up?)

There’s a wide range of reactions an older woman might have to a recommendation like this: apprehension, fear, sadness. My mother’s reaction? Road trip! Granted, this is a group of women who take road trips together all the time . . . the quilting/praying retreats, annual treks to Women of Faith, shopping junkets to the yarn wholesaler in Massachusetts or the outlet village in Maine. It only follows that the Christian Coalition would pile into the minivan for a pilgrimage to the porn shop. So, while my father sat home rubbing holes in his temples and freebasing Tums, a vanload of Grammas headed across state lines in search of therapeutic dildos and a nice chicken salad.

The first minor glitch arose when the ladies came to the unsettling realization that they didn't know where the hell they were going. So imagine if you will, them asking directions. Excuse me young fellow, but Gramma needs a new Vibrating Silver Bullet. The poor guy had to think he was being punk'd.

Thanks to the kindness of strangers (and an epic pair of balls), my mom got them to their destination: Oh My, an emporium of adult toys, restraints, and paraphernalia so sordid my mother declined to elaborate. And she's a girl who lives to elaborate. You know that old saying, actions speak louder than words? Well, after taking a cursory gander at the inventory, my mother turned around to find herself standing alone. Her friends, including the one there on doctor's orders, had turned tail and run into the street, frantically crossing themselves and rubbing Germ-X on their eyeballs. The mission was promptly aborted, slack vaj be damned.

So the ladies instead retired to lunch, and giggle, and sip a Pinot Grigio or two, and probably pray for their sullied souls. Then, they headed back to the van for the return trip to piety and propriety. But just as the interstate came into view, the wine intervened and demanded they turn around and do what needed to be done. And they listened. In what I can only envision as a terribly wrong Golden Girls meets John Holmes mash up, the Christian grammas browsed, and compared features, and asked questions, and made their MasterCards blush. They left so thoroughly dazed that once they actually did make it to the interstate, they took a wrong turn and ended up in Connecticut.

Sometimes, there's just no telling where a road might lead. Dildos and handcuffs and whips, oh my!

PS, I can't wait to see what I get in my stocking from mom this Christmas!