The Morning After: Good Morning, Granny

By Anonymous

[Everyone's got a morning-after story and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we'll post it - anonymously, of course - right here!]

I love grandmas.  Most of the time they are cute, harmless, and give you cards on your birthday with a five-dollar bill stuffed inside (which is promptly spent at Happy Hour).  They cook you meatballs, pass down ugly sweaters (that earn you the best-dressed title at the annual Ugly Sweater Party), and say the nicest things when you are convinced life is in WWIII with you.  So, yes, it has been fairly established that Grandmas are the bomb.com.  But as wonderful as they are and as much as you just wanna pinch their wrinkley little cheeks every time you see them, there is a time and a place for grandmas.

And that is not standing over my bed in the morning, after a night of doing Jell-O shots.

Let me explain:

I had been seeing a boy in the Air Force. We’d hang out and make wonderful memories when he was on leave and visiting home, and then I’d be free as a bird when he had to go back. It was fun while he was here, and it was fun when he was gone. On one particular visit home he had a party at his brother’s house the night he returned. I went, obviously, and enjoyed many shots of Grey Goose while sexily locking eyes with my Air Force stud from across the room. Eventually, he returned the look, came over and promptly led me to his room.

I don’t remember much of what happened after that, but I know it was probably great. I mean, the guy had Air Force abs; even just letting me rub my hands all over them would have been enough for me.

The next thing I remember was waking up from a nightmare starring Mrs. Doubtfire. For some reason she was yelling at me to get up. In my dream I contemplated slapping her and demanding she confess she was actually Robin Williams in a fat suit. And then reality woke me from my disoriented slumber.

Reality in grandmother form, I’d like to add.

Turns out, it wasn’t a dream at all. And it wasn’t Robin Williams in a wig. There, standing over the bed and yelling at me, was a real, live grandma. She was, petite, wrinkly, gray, and pissed. She was screaming the boy’s name I was laying next too so frantically she sounded like a deranged squirrel.

“Get UP. Clean up this mess!  Right now! Get UP!”

It took me a moment to realize what was going on. I looked at her. I looked at him. I looked down at myself…completely naked and sprawled out like a horny starfish. I grabbed the covers and pulled them up over my head; maybe she wouldn’t see me under there? I didn’t know if I wanted to cry, scream, or be re-baptized.  What I did know was that the oxygen was running out under the covers and if Grandma didn’t leave soon, I would die in that bed.

My Air Force boy slowly rose from bed, totally casual. You know, as if it was just another hungover Saturday and he was gonna grab a G2. Not like his very own grandmother wasn’t hovering over us, reminding me that I wasn’t even wearing socks. Anyone in their right mind would be absolutely traumatized for life by this, except him. (I guess it’s all that “be ready for anything” training he had gotten?)

He walked out of the room, his grandma following him out.
I pulled back the covers, grabbed my things and ran the hell out of there faster than I’d ever run before.

I’ll never look at a grandma the same again.