A b*&%^ by any other name should STILL a b*&%^.

Remember back in the day when Bitchy was really bitchy? Surely SOME of you out there remember those days?

You know, when she piled her Christmas presents outside her door and insisted in a VERY loud voice that I return them ALL.  Oh, remember when she told me I had a lesbian haircut? (Not that there’s anything WRONG with that.)  And how about the time she woke me up at ONE in the morning to tell me Sassy was sneaking IN.  And I’m sure I’ll never forget the SIX MILE WALK she tricked me into taking back before I had my new knees.  And who can forget all the times she called ME a “b”?

Sigh, those were the days.

Now she’s a twenty-something Nutritionist for the WIC program and (YAY!) living at HOME with her mother.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not technically complaining about that (although it would be nice to have some RENT MONEY), I’m just saying that I’m feeling the need to rename my darling Bitchy. 

Let me offer several pieces of evidence into this particular proceeding.

  

“Mom, do NOT use the “F” word.  It’s tasteless.”

“Please keep it down, mom.  You’re causing a ruckus and I’m trying to sleep.”  I’m pretty sure THIS occurred a 8:30 p.m.  EIGHT THIRTY IN THE P TO THE M. 

“I had a client today whose children were just acting like rascals. I did NOT give them a sticker.”  Rascals?  RASCALS???

Sweet Lord in heaven there is only ONE fifty-something woman living in this house and I’m pretty damn sure it’s ME. 

Bitchy, I’m now calling you Grandma.  I’m pretty sure you’ve earned it.  P.S.