Chocolate for Supper, Cigarettes for Dessert, and a Pot of Coffee as a Nightcap

My grandmother—the one who lives off chocolate, cigarettes, and pots of coffee—never puts up with bullshit even from a three-year-old having a fit.

My parents called me a sensitive child. I liked to call it never truly satisfied even though I had a tendency to cry if you looked at me wrong. (A lot of people looked at me wrong.)

While my mother tried to comfort me during my outburst, Grandma Kate scooped me up from the living room floor and plopped me down on the steps outside. “When you’re done crying, you can come back inside,” she had said.

When Grandma opened her mouth, you listened. She was not only Irish, she looked Irish. Made you shut your mouth.

There are times in our lives when we can’t stop crying, stop pitying ourselves. This is when we need a tough, thick, blue-eyed, blond hair woman to put us in our place.

Everyone needs a Grandma Kate to let us know that you are responsible for your emotions—no one else, no matter if you are three or twenty-seven.