My grandmother was a witch. Not as in “nasty old bat,” but as in “I can put a curse on you” type witch. Seriously, you did NOT want to piss this woman off. If you fell from her grace, she would put a “fie” on you, and bad things would begin to happen. The first few stories my mother used to tell me about Grandma and some poor, unfortunate soul stupid enough to give Grammy a hard time, I assumed were amusing coincidences. As the years went by, I saw a pattern emerge. Either Grammy really was a witch or she should start buying lottery tickets, because what this woman wanted to happen, happened. (Grammy had a lot of health problems, not the least of which she was quite overweight. One idiot pup of a doctor told her, in no uncertain terms, that she was fat and needed to lose weight. At her next appointment, the receptionist told us that he was no longer working there and they had no idea where he’d gone. Just sayin’.)
Whether she was or wasn’t, in fact, a witch with supernatural powers to right her wrongs, I was crazy about her and she felt the same about me. I spent a lot of time with her when I was a very young child, and I still remember her holding me and whispering, “Just remember. You’re JUST LIKE ME.”
I never told Kenny about Grandma in our early years together. “Hi. My Grandmother was a witch and liked to put fie’s on people” didn’t seem like promising dating material. Sort of like saying, “I can imitate any noise in the animal kingdom. Wanna hear?” or “I love to talk like a pirate and I answer every question with ‘Ay-ay, Matey!'” Those people tend to go on a LOT of first dates, but quickly learn that “I’ll call you” is date-speak for “Buh-bye.” I always thought I’d break the Grandma stories to him gently, AFTER he was too in love to run.
But early on in our marriage, Kenny concluded (for reasons I SWEAR I don’t know) that I possessed some sort of weird, cosmic witchy power to mess with people who pissed me off. Whenever anything would happen to someone he knew had offended me in some way, he’d say “Did you have anything to do with that?” (Fortunately this was rare, so I always laughed it off, but never denied it. Grammy always said it’s good to hold a card or two up your sleeve.)
Last night, he decided to commandeer the big living room TV for the entire night to watch some basketball games, which he knows I hate, essentially banishing me down the hall to the unfinished end of the house to watch my little office TV by myself on a Saturday night.
During the next several hours, he sliced his hand open while making his favorite weinie wraps, dropped and busted his brand new cell phone, accidentally locked his beloved Chihuahua in the master bedroom, forcing her to pee on the carpet, and finally shattered a full glass of red wine all over the kitchen floor, showering glass shards and wine sprays everywhere. By the 3rd quarter, he came barreling into my little office, “Okay, I GIVE UP! We can watch Grey’s Anatomy! Just TAKE OFF THE CURSE.”
I just smiled sweetly and told him to finish the game, because that’s the kind of good witch I am.