Unleashing My Inner Gracie

While skimming through my fave blogs this afternoon, I came across this gem from Mary Castillo's Chica Lit Blog. It's a tiny snippet of her mother giving a snarky coworker a verbal bitch slap and it got me thinking about my very own feisty Mama. If you've never had the pleasure of meeting her, it's hard to describe her. She's the quintessential Mama--unbelievably nurturing, fiercely protective, hilariously funny--but with a little extra kick. Let's just say that Mom isn't afraid of dropping a straight-up Muay Thai-esque verbal barrage on any offending person.

Growing up, I shared Mom's ribald sense of humor, intense loyalty to friends, and a love for volunteering, but I wasn't so big on the standing up for myself. That's not to say I was a total pushover, but I tended to pick my battles. Monumental injustices against friends and loved ones always received my full attention--complete with protests, letter writing campaigns, etc, but snarky comments by the "popular" kids just received a frown and a toss of the head.

However, the older I get the more of my mom I witness in my actions. The time I actually stopped and was like, OMG, I'm my mother was the now infamous Lane Bryant UPS incident where I chased the UPS driver through the parking lot, cornering him in the back of his truck while brandishing my fave chancla. Walking back to the apartment that day, I realized that I had just unleashed a smidgeon of my inner Gracie. In a way, it was liberating--OK, well, terrifying, too--but liberating all the same.

Last week, I had another Gracie moment. When we closed on the house, we were told that they would finish sodding the back half of the yard as the same time as all those houses surrounding us. OK. No big deal. Free grass, not going to complain.

So the day Sara gets back from K-stan, she calls to see if she can come over to get her mail, Margie and Val (her plants), and catch up on the good gossip. As I'm waiting for her to arrive, I happen to glance out the front windows and notice that there are a bunch of men standing near my trees. Interest piqued, I survey the lawn and realize that there are dozens of pallets of soaking wet grass in our driveway. (The driveway is difficult to see from the front of the house because of the angle of the windows/garage.) Oh, and not only do I have the entire delivery of grass for the entire subdivision on my driveway, but the guys laying the grass are pushing wheelbarrows through MY yard, creating ugly ass troughs because the ground was still incredibly soft from a week's deluge.

Can you say pissed???

I head outside, barefoot of course, and ask them what the hell they're doing. I get the usual run-around until the superintendent of the subdivision deigns to grace me with his presence. He gives me this long spiel about the grass delivery driver putting the grass in the wrong place. When I ask him why they aren't sodding our yard (since the grass is in our driveway) but rather the unsold house next door, he gives me this BS line about the ground being too wet to put the grass down in every yard, blah, blah, blah. (Mind you, the yard next door, the unsold house, is literally moat, but ours is completely drained.)

I remind Jeremy that this is our home, we pay a mortgage and association fees for the privilege of using our driveway. I tell him that not only do I expect company any minute, but that Dave is coming home from a 72 hour shift in, like, six hours, and he is going to be irate if he sees this. I also point to the troughs in my front yard, asking what he intends to do about that, and he explains that it's really not his problem.

Uh-huh.

By this point, my blood is boiling. I'm like the Bruce Banner, but instead of a giantic green Hulk taking over my body, it's a short spitfire named Grace. Using my nicest, but most intimidating voice, I tell him that I want the pallets out of my driveway, the wheelbarrows off my grass, and the mess cleared up immediately. A quick pivot and I'm heading back into the house. With my back turned, Jeremy says in this incredibly patronizing voice, "I'll try."

Me: I didn't ask you try. I want it done. Now.

Needless to say, by the time Sara arrived--and parked like half a mile away--the crews were clearing away the pallets of grass, broken pallet shards, and chunks of grass and dirt from our driveway. By the time Dave got home, it was just a bad memory.

So anywho--the point of this random tale is that everything that is the best in my mother is the best of me. I would assume that if I looked really hard I would find that Dad's best traits are the best in me as well. Ten years ago, I would have freaked at the thought of evolving into some kind of amalgam of my parents, but now, I don't know, it feels good. It feels right--natural, maybe?

And maybe someday, if I ever get the chance to be a Mama (through adoption most likely), I want to be that short, chubby woman who strikes fear in the hearts of mere mortals...