Jewish grandmothers...

10:00 am
I’m woken up the sound of knocking. Incessant, loud knocking on my apartment door that could only mean one thing - it’s my grandmother. The loud noise of her knuckles rapping against the wood can be distinguished from anyone else. Her knock yells, “I’m important. And I’m not waiting.”
I open the door, dressed in ratty boxers and an old tank top.
Her sharp eyes take me in judgingly. She, of course, is dressed in a dark red pantsuit and made up perfectly, not a wrinkle in sight. At 78 years old, she makes me look like a slob.
It’s then that my eyes are drawn to the bright orange shopping bags at her feet. She sees my eyes glaze over, and starts in on me -
“PAULA. YOU HAVEN’T EVEN SEEN IT YET.”
If anything can make me weak in the knees, it’s not the sight of a Jewish boy, or even the small of half priced Lancome cosmetics. It’s the knowledge that my Jewish grandmother has made yet another purchase from Big Bertha. Big Bertha, to bring you up to speed, is a huge superstore that specializes in selling absolute crap to Jewish people that think they’re getting a good deal. Their Jewish senses tingle when they come within 5 feet of the store - bright displays that advertise 20 cent (probably broken) flashlights, 25 cent underwear that feels like it’s made of paper, and 30 cent picture frames that crack when you touch them. Simply put, it’s Jewish logic - do you need it? No. But how can you resist it when it’s so cheap?! It’s Jewish grandmothers like my own that have kept Big Bertha in business from the day the first Jew crossed into Brooklyn waters.
“Grandmother, I’m sure whatever you have, I don’t need it. In fact, I will refund you whatever money you spent on the ridiculous shenanigan that’s -”
“PAULA. YOU HAVEN’T EVEN SEEN IT YET.”
“Grandma,” I take a different approach, “I appreciate that you’re so kind as to think of me. And really, I’m sure it’s very beautiful! In fact, don’t you think it’s even more suited for ..“ My eyes dart around my apartment nervously before landing on my little sister, who’s doing her homework on the living room couch,“…Your kind and compassionate granddaughter, Esther?”
Esther, the kind and compassionate granddaughter, shoots me a look that could melt the face off a snowman.
“Paula, don’t be silly,” she lowers her voice a little, “Esther KNOWS that YOU’RE my favorite granddaughter.”
Fuck. Cornered by my own amazingness. Before I could refuse whatever horror my grandmother purchased this time, - last time, it was a pair of bright green socks (15 cents!) and the time before that, a bottle of highlighter yellow nail polish (30 cents!) - she opens the bag and brings out something even I was ill-prepared for.
Ladies and gentlemen, let me compose a quick list of things you do NOT want your Jewish grandmother to bring out of her vermillion orange bag.
Number 3 is a pair of bright green socks.
Number 2 is a cracked bottle of highlighter yellow nail polish.
And topping the list, at number one?
A bathing suit featuring a leopard print…in Big Bertha’s signature colors, vermillion orange and puke green.
I feel my face turning the latter color, just as my grandmother pulls something even more atrocious from her own bag.
In case you were wondering, what's can even come close to being worse than an orange and green leopard print bathing suit?
Two orange and green leopard print bathing suits.
“TA-DA!” she shrieks, “WE CAN MATCH!”
And that is how I know I have been tricked, once more, by my evil Jewish grandmother.
“Grandmother,” I say in a very quiet voice that I save for occasions when I am faced with life or death situations, “I…I…”
I should have known to stop, right then and there. Jewish grandmothers, particularly Russian ones, are famous for their art of deception. That, and their matzo ball soup.
Right in front of me, my grandmother ‘s composure changes from a fierce lioness in a pantsuit to an orphaned puppy in rags.
“Paula,” she tells me in a sad, tiny voice, “I am an old woman. I don’t have much longer to live. All I’m asking of you is that you do this one small favor for me. For your grandmother. Who changed your diapers countless times for you when you were younger. Who walked a mile to pick you up from school every day for 4 years. Who just paid for your summer vacation. All I’m asking is that you and I wear matching bathing suits to the YMCA…” Her gaze drops to the floor and her lip quivers. She could put a bratty six year old’s puppy eyes to shame.
“I .. I…” My response is lost as I make eye contact with her quivering lips.

And that’s how I came to be where I am now, staring sadly at the bright orange bathing suit that is currently hanging limply on a velvet hanger in the back of my closet.