Single In Sandpoint: A Resolution For You!

How Scarlette’s grandma saved a loudmouth jerk from a whoopin’ at Wal-Mart
 
     I had plans to write about New Year’s resolutions this week. Resolutions are always a good column for the beginning of January, but then I had a revelation: My resolutions are always the same.
     “Let’s face it Scarlette, no one cares,” I thought. “Until they make a pill or some sort of shot that makes you keep your resolutions, no one gives a rat’s ass.”
     The problem of what to write in my first column of 2010 was weighing heavily on my mind, so I went to Wally World for some retail therapy. (Also, I usually see something there that inspires me to “reach higher.”)
     That trip was all I needed.
     I walked up in line behind a family – a dad, a mom, a 5ish-year-old boy and a baby boy.  They were all dressed in camo from head to toe, and besides the fact that Dad was wearing his cell phone earpiece (my biggest pet peeve EVER) they seemed normal enough.
     Then Dad started cooing to the baby, “Oh, son, I love you so much. You are papa’s sunshine.” Blah, blah, blah.
     I thought it was sort of “cute,” if not a little overdone. Then, about 30 seconds later, he was SCREAMING at the other son: “If you can’t keep that hood off your damn head inside the store, I’m gonna make you take off your coat every time we get out of the car!” Then he ripped back the child's hood with extreme anger.
     Now, I can’t handle people who bully their children. Not one bit. Generally I like to think I don’t judge the practices of other parents, but when they choose to berate their child in public, I get to judge.
     It wasn't like the kid shoplifted, or screamed bloody murder for a new toy, or crapped his pants. He was wearing his hood. Who cares? Seriously, who cares? I immediately put on my own hood and winked at the kid. I’m a passive-aggressive person at heart, and I honestly believe that if you respect your children they’ll respect you back.
     Besides, it's January in North Idaho, pretty much EVERY person in the store was wearing a hat – it was pouring rain outside. Plus, there’s not much need to concern yourself with antiquated manners like uncovering your head indoors – especially in that particular store. For the love of God, what’s the world come to when being a straight asshole to your child – in public – is more acceptable than wearing a hat inside a discount department store?
     I was sort of fearing for my life when I decided to break the awkward eye contact I’d made with Camo Dad, but I glanced back at the line behind me. There I saw the cutest grandma with her two grandchildren – both wearing crocheted hats (indoors!) and pushing a cart full of fiber products and candy.
     She was in that blissful Grandma State that can only be achieved after a full life of figuring out which battles to fight and which ones to let go. Even if she held the belief that hats weren’t acceptable indoors at public places, she’d long ago realized that in the grand scheme of things it really doesn't matter. She’d probably go home that night, one of her grown children would call her and tell her what little monsters her grandkids were, and she wouldn't believe a word of it. That's the magic of a grandma.
     Your Grandma will always love you; she never takes it personal when you screw up. She would never scream at you or give you whiplash for wearing your hood in a public. Grandmas are simply above that behavior.
     Turning back to the Camo Family, I heard the ass in front of me yell at his wife about spending all their money on "bullshit" while he had "diesel fuel" that needed to be put on THAT CARD.
     At that point I stopped caring about that sad, angry man and started thinking about my own grandma – my father's mother.
    She was a fire-cracker wielding a wooden spoon. She spoiled her grandkids rotten, and to further her coolness factor, I think she secretly delighted in torturing my mother.
     Grandma was notorious for giving us too much cough syrup to “put us to sleep,” or allowing us to eat upwards of four pounds of candy at a time only to wash it down with a peanut butter and marshmallow creme sandwich.
     Once she even called my dad and told him my mom had called my sister a “kick ass punk.” My sister was the tattletale, and I've never heard my mom actually say that phrase, but it has been a family favorite ever since.
     The thing about grandmas, though, is that they’re like dogs. They’re the most magical, loving and loyal friends you'll ever have, but your relationship has a shelf life. Most of us outlive our dogs and our Grandmas, and most of us will regret not spending more time with them.
     One day you’ll be on the phone with your grandma, trying to explain to her that "cell phones work just like regular phones, TALK INTO IT GRANDMA." Then, maybe a few months or years later, you’ll walk out to your mailbox and get a lump in your throat when you remember there won’t be any cards with a twenty dollar bill, no sparkly Santa sweaters. Most important, there won’t be someone to reliably tell you how skinny you look – even after you know you gained 20 pounds.
    Grandmas are pure magic; I miss mine all the time.
    But my Grandma was especially magic – just thinking about her kept me from bitch slapping a man at Wal-Mart. I took that as a sign. It meant that I needed to tell all you lucky people out there who still have one, or both, or all of your grandparents that your New Year's resolution should be to SPEND MORE TIME WITH THEM.
     Go on, go call them. You know you were always their favorite.
 
Here’s to a great 2010!
 
Scarlette Quille