My granny is a simple woman. It doesn’t take fancy food or a Broadway show to entertain this woman. Talking to me is her entertainment for weeks. She loves to hear me rant and every once-in-a-while, I let her tell me a story or two. But, because she knows that she has a weekly blog written about her, she is very cautious about the things that she tells me. Every once in a while, if she has a little vanilla Coke in her, she will slip and tell me stories about when she was a teen.
One of these stories is about something that my grandmother doesn’t deal with often, alcohol consumption. Saying that Granny Peanut is a light-weight could be compared to calling the Jerry Springer show trashy. Light-weight is a good word, but it’s too simple. Usually the word light-weight is used to describe someone who can only consume a small amount of alcohol before getting drunk. A mouse could drink more than my grandma.
The way that she told the story, she didn’t include many details (probably because she doesn’t want me to write a blog about it…..) and she told the story quickly. I have taken the liberty of adding my own details, but the story will still have the same basics.
On a foggy night in Champaign, my grandmother and her roommate had just gotten off work. Exhausted and ready to sleep, they headed to their apartment to get a good night’s rest. The girls worked at Kraft foods and after stuffing boxes of macaroni and cheese for hours, they were ready to be home. They had made it halfway home when fellow Kraft employees ran up to them and asked if they wanted to go out to a bar to get a drink. They looked at each other reluctantly and decided, “Why not?”. They got to the bar and my grandmother and her friends ordered beers. This is where the trouble began.
My grandmother sat on her bar stool; her feet dangled in the air and she sat as close to the edge as possible, grasping the bar so that she wouldn’t fall off. That bar stool was a skyscraper compared to her tiny “Little People, Big World” body. She quickly realized that she was getting tipsy. “What have I done to myself?”, she silently questioned. All of her friends were big and she was a tiny, baby adult. Of course it would only take her a few sips of alcohol to put her on her ass. Everyone else was ordering round two and there she sat, about to topple over in a sleazy Champaign bar.
Finally, after what seemed like days, everyone was ready to head home. My tiny grandma was so relieved. She shimmied herself down the bar stool and headed for the door. Little did she know that she was knocking everyone else’s drinks out of their hands. She was a sloshed little midget and was ready for bed. She still doesn’t remember how she got back to her apartment but she still remembers the lesson she learned. Munchkins don’t drink….under ANY circumstances.