Grandma, Gucci, and Priorities

I was raised a good portion of my life with my grandparents. My grandma had a huge influence on me. She was definitely the other side of the coin to my grandpa, whom I worshipped. That being said, Gran was amazing in her own right. Both wonderfully and horribly amazing.

I picked up a few of her traits along the way, however. Some I am proud of and others not so much. I acquired her love of fast cars and fantastic footwear...and I probably knew about Gucci way before I should have. I used to sneak into her closets and go nuts when she was out. And if she was out of town...OH LORDY!

She used to love how I soaked up her fashion knowledge like a sponge. For some reason however when I turned 11 and started wearing a training bra, the shit hit the proverbial fan in our relationship.

I wasn't still trying on her stuff and had embraced my "inner Madonna" at that point, but she started viewing me as the most dreaded thing in her world...another woman.

I repeat, I was 11 years old. My second year in the double digits. I had a Double A bra cup and like 3 pubic hairs. I was a threat.

It was upon this trip home for her that she saw my bra line and immediately declared that the combo of bra and Loves' Baby Soft she had bought me for Christmas the year before made me seem like a French whore.

"You smell like a French whore!" she exclaimed 2 minutes after walking through the gate at JFK.

I responded by looping, "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" the entire drive home on my portable cassette player from the back seat where she could not reach me.

(My then-in-the-closet-lesbian-aunt who was driving and at odds with "Mommy" thought this was hilarious.) In retrospect, I realize that she was probably drunk. My aunt. But that would go on for some decades and is another blog/book entirely.

As it turned out, some years later in the summer of my 14th tear...errrr...year, I moved in with Gran and Grandpa ("Poppy") full time.

This was in Hollyweird, FL and not the return to NYC that I had hoped and prayed for upon my mother's greatest spazz session ever! (Again, another story for another time...sheeesh!)

Gran took me shopping for back-to-school things and I was convinced that my shoplifting days at Macy's with Lisa were over. Gran LOVED Macy's! Macy's was her Walgreens. More importantly, she loved all stores that offered pretty little cards that allowed her to shop.

Gran's "fix all" was shopping. If she was angry, she shopped. Happy? Shopped. Sad, depressed, bloated, cranky, weepy, chipped a nail off her coral frosted manicure...she shopped.

The more in a funk, the more high end the store where she sought her therapy would be.

Luckily for me, manic depression, unhealthy behavior, denial, and co-dependency run deep in our blood.

Crappy days for her meant the Bal Harbor Shops for me.
I learned early on that nothing made her teeth unclench like Gucci.

Gucci had it all! Shoes, purses, clothing...trinkets for the 2 men she was juggling outside of her marriage to my beloved Grandpa.

I stared at it and hovered by the counter every time we were there. I had learned at like 4 years old that if I hovered and stared and did not ask for it, she would buy it. (I did not realize at the time that she bought me things out of guilt.)

I would stare and stare and when asked what I wanted on birthdays and Christmases, I would articulate that I indeed wanted this watch.

It was NOT very pricey. Probably the least expensive watch that they had to offer.

I could not understand how it was that I did not yet own this watch but had 2 Gucci purses, 2 Fendi purses, a Louis Vuitton key chain and a tragic little Liz Claiborne that I received upon my entrance into the world of "being a woman".

(Yes. I got a purse for getting my period. I told you she was effed up.)

I could have had the watch 3 times over by that point. I didn't comprehend it. At all. It got to the point where I just stayed away from it altogether.

Then...one day...I walked in the door of the house and sitting on the desk in the entranceway was the little green Gucci box.

It was just sitting there.

Where I go every day after school to deposit my keys and check for enveloped love.

I thought that possibly it was just some other Gucci trinket she had purchased.

Maybe it was cuff links for the husband whose money she was spending on other men. (Even though I didn't know that then.) Maybe it was a new keychain for the car Grandpa had just surprised her with.

However, I had to peek. I could not get on with my life without peeking!

Homework could wait. The dogs could wait. Chores and gossip with friends about the day's events could wait. There was a Gucci box on the desk! A small one! If you are thinking that you wouldn't look, you're full of crap!

It's not like it was wrapped. It was right there. RIGHT THERE! My turmoil was palpable! She oft left me sweet little material treats and today was pay day!
I opened the box.

There it was!

Holy hell!

THE watch!

My watch!

In my mind, I nearly fainted.

I remember jumping up and down and giggling...

I put it back.

I didn't want to deprive her of the treat of seeing my joy.

I would wait until she came home to give it to me.

I think I skipped off to my room and fell into some delirium based stupor. Time was a blur until I heard the garage door open.

It was Grandpa.

Then her.

Nothing is said out of the norm.

Dinner.

The entranceway is in plain view behind Poppy's head.

Dinner is over.

In completely random conversation she says to Poppy (not me, Poppy!), "Did you see what Joey sent me for Mother's Day?"

It was June.

I am still blank at this moment and admittedly my misplaced delirium had clouded my concentration. My uncle (Joey) has a record for giving the worst imaginable gifts, so of course I am thinking that in the Florida heat he has mailed her something knitted...or possibly some snow boots lined with dead kittens...

(I had clearly moved passed Madonna and was now having torrid imaginary affairs with Robert Smith and Morrissey...)

She goes and gets the precious Gucci box and places it before Poppy.

Now because Poppy and I are funny pranksters, I forget that she has no sense of humor to speak of and I believe her to be playing a prank.

I keep waiting for it.

I think I lost like 15 pounds just sitting there waiting for it to drop...

H-h-h-h-hellooooo?

Wait...

What?!?!?

It was true. The watch was for her. HER!

My. Watch.

I have no proof, but I believe she either directed him to it or lied and flat out bought it herself. My uncle thinks Gucci is something you say to babies to make them smile.

I think this was my first tangible memory of graciousness and diplomacy. (It needed some work.)

I said nothing and smiled that toothless smile I reserve for golf claps and children's flatulence.

4 more birthdays, 4 more Christmases, a graduation, a wedding, a birth and 2 funerals would pass.

No watch.

Admittedly, after 1 more birthday, the graduation and the first funeral I stopped caring. Life had changed.

Then...

On my 21st birthday...

After the birth of my son, the loss of the two most important people in my life and the legal right for me to finally be able to embrace the family legacy of alcoholism...

There was the box.

I could have punched her.

I needed tuition money!

Diapers!

A college fund for my son!

Medical insurance!

SLEEP!

Not a fucking Gucci watch!

I started bawling.

I hated her.

She knew it, though my words graciously thanked her.

My eyes never left hers.

She was no fool.

I had put so much into my desire for that damned watch over the years that I had over-looked some truly wonderful things at that earlier and innocent time.

I had by this point learned what was important.

Only then did she feel that I deserved that watch.

A watch that I could have gone out and purchased myself if I had really wanted it.

Because I didn't, she did.

It was her way.

It was suddenly the bestest gift ever!

It was also the last material gift she ever gave me.

And I love her for it!

It still sits in a box next to the other watch that she wore every day when not wearing her matching Gucci...an alligator strapped gold Mickey Mouse watch. I think it reminded her that life, like Disney is scary, a bit depressing, a bit fun, very colorful and all wrapped up in the lessons that we take away.

The remaining members of my family have been fighting since March of 2003 for her diamonds and money. I asked for and received with a smirk the Mickey watch, an eternity band we found together at an estate sale, and the giant mother of pearl ring she wore every day and frequently thumped me on the head with when explaining Gucci and life to me.

I hope to goddess I never need to take either watch out of the box to remind me of life's lessons.