There’s just something about grandparents.

My grandmother is absolutely, without doubt, one of a kind. I know, I know, everyone says that.

They’re all wrong.

First of all, I don’t have any ridiculous names for my grandma. She’s simply Grandma. I’ve heard them all. Nana, Mom-mom, Mum-mum, Gran, Granny, Grammy. There seems to be an endless list of nonsensical names people give for their grandparents.

I’m straight up with my grandma. Even when I call her on the phone, it’s the same routine.

‘Hey, it’s your grandson.’

‘I know, I know who it is.’

‘It’s me, Scott Spinelli! Your grandson!’ I scream. She loves the joke, every time. It never fails.

That’s the thing about grandparents. They’re all pretty much the same. It’s almost as though there exists a senior citizens fraternity. I’d imagine the list of hazing activities include Boggle and Scrabble tournaments, and clinics on how to cook house-warming treats.

Here’s how it must work:

When you turn 65 (right before your daughter suddenly gets knocked up), the government gives you a call. You are taken to some sort of elderly think tank where they force you to play card games, learn new board games and work on some favorite recipes. That’s all you are allowed to do while serving your sentence in the Granitentiary.

During my childhood, my grandma was the most dominating and intimidating person I knew. Where most grandparents would take it easy on their grandchildren in various games, I almost felt as though my grandma took pleasure in my destruction. Go Fish? No chance. It didn’t matter if we played four-card or that two-card nonsense. War? More like a fist fight. She’d beat me in about 10 minutes.

No wonder my grandma had my mother bring me over to her house so often.

I’d imagine those scarring activities are a large contributor to why I’m such an awful game player to this day. Case in point: Over the summer, my younger cousin annihilated me in Boggle. It got the point where the only way I could win would be if she passed out, hit her head on the table and there was still enough time left for me to write down her answers.

Anyway, back to Grandma. As far as cooking goes, no one compares. And again, I know that everyone says that, but trust me – they’re wrong here, too.

It’s not necessarily what my grandma cooks, but the incredible amounts of food that she prepares. Any holiday she hosts (Jewish or otherwise) has a minimum of 35 people in attendance, a good five to 10 of whom I either don’t know or don’t like.

She’s a lot like Sonny from ‘Bronx Tale.’ People don’t love her; they fear her. You don’t miss holidays, you don’t show up late and you don’t win in board, card or word games.

When I was younger, I used to think I could make up games to outsmart her, games that only I knew how to win. She’d still figure out a way to win.

I write this now as a semi-retired grandson. I don’t play her anymore, mainly to retain any shreds of dignity that I still have left.

Ultimately though, that’s what I love about her. She’s been takin’ names (really, only mine), since Dec. 6, 1986. There’s really no debating the following facts:

She has more friends than I do (granted, she’s been around for nearly three quarters of a century). She’s been with more men than I have (namely, my grandpa). And she could beat me (shocker) in a swearing contest, while simultaneously drinking me under the table. No questions asked, she’s way cooler than I am.

There’s really only one way to describe her, and I’ll borrow from Carl Carlton when I say ‘She’s a bad mama jama, just as fine as she can be.’

Scott Spinelli’s column appears on Thursdays, and he is boycotting Super Mario Bros. because not all Italians are plumbers.

Published on October 17, 2007 at 12:00 pm