Rules for Living According to Grandma

If you ever want to survive in this life — and by life, I mean a world full of scammers, salad bars, and overly loud neighbors — you need one thing: a grandma.

Not just any grandma, though.

My grandma.

Evelyn Alberta Mabel-Rose Jones.

A woman who can make a five-layer cake while reciting Shakespeare and yelling at squirrels for “trespassing on her roses.” A woman whose eyebrows move independently, especially when she’s about to unleash a truth bomb or tell you your shirt is ugly.

And most importantly, the author of the sacred, unwritten doctrine I like to call:

“Rules for Living According to Grandma.”

Rule 1: Never trust a man who owns more than three mirrors.

“Any man who spends more time looking at himself than his wife,” she said, “is either in love with himself or hiding something.”

She told me this on my second date with Jared, the guy who brought his own hairbrush to our picnic and said things like “Let me get my angles right” before every selfie. I didn’t listen. Three weeks later, he dumped me via a TikTok dance. Grandma only raised one eyebrow and slid a plate of banana bread toward me. “I told you.”

Rule 2: If your shoes hurt, your soul probably does too.

“No one with comfortable feet starts drama,” Grandma declared at my cousin Danielle’s wedding. “But just watch. The one in the pointy heels will start crying before dessert.”

She was right. The maid of honor threw her bouquet at the DJ, sobbed about unrequited love, and limped away dramatically. Grandma handed me a pack of mints and said, “Comfort, dear. Always choose comfort.”

Rule 3: Never marry a man who doesn’t like garlic, dogs, or naps.

This one’s in bold, underlined, and embroidered on a throw pillow in her living room.

“You can’t trust a person who doesn’t like garlic. It’s nature’s apology for everything. No dogs? That’s a sign of emotional blockage. And naps? Please. Only robots don’t nap.”

When I told her my ex hated garlic and preferred cats, she stared at me so hard I considered moving countries. “He was always suspicious,” she muttered.

Rule 4: Don’t go to bed angry. Stay up and plot instead.

“Sleep is sacred,” Grandma says. “Don’t waste it on rage. Use that anger. Reorganize your closet. Write strongly-worded reviews. Practice witty comebacks in the mirror. But never, and I mean never, waste sleep.”

She once stayed up until 3 a.m. knitting a sarcastic scarf that said “Oh, I’m FINE.” She gave it to her nosy neighbor, who kept asking why her roses looked “so droopy lately.”

Rule 5: If your eyebrows behave, you’re not using them enough.

To Grandma, eyebrows are a language. She waggles, arches, and flares them with Shakespearean precision. She can say “bless your heart,” “you poor fool,” and “I know what you did” without a single word.

She tried to teach me. Mine still just wiggle like uncertain caterpillars.

Rule 6: Family doesn’t mean blood. It means who shows up with pie when you cry.

When I moved to a new city and got ghosted by a guy named Chad who said he “needed space to vibe,” Grandma didn’t lecture me. She mailed me three pies and a note that said, “Vibe on this, Chad.”

Rule 7: Never waste a good mistake. Embarrassment builds character (and stories).

When I accidentally called my boss “Mom” during a Zoom meeting, I texted Grandma in full meltdown mode.

She replied, “At least you didn’t call her Daddy. Perspective, dear.”

Rule 8: Keep a secret chocolate stash. For emergencies. Or Mondays.

Grandma’s secret stash is in the teapot marked “herbal nonsense.” Mine’s in my sock drawer. Sometimes we call each other just to confirm the emergency chocolate protocol is still in place.

Rule 9: Don’t chase people. Chase dreams. Or ice cream trucks. They’re faster anyway.

“Anyone who walks away wasn’t meant to stay,” she told me when I cried about a friendship that faded. “But if the ice cream truck goes by? You run like the wind.”

She once sprinted barefoot across a lawn, waving $2 in the air, just to get a Choco Taco. I have never been prouder of her.

Rule 10: Never underestimate the power of glitter, gravy, or a well-timed compliment.

“Life gets boring,” she says, “so sparkle. And feed people. And tell them when their haircut looks good. The world needs more kindness and fewer people complaining about parking spaces.”

Now, Grandma’s 84. She doesn’t run as fast, but her wit is still sharp, her rules still sacred, and her eyebrow game is still unmatched.

Every time I mess up, break down, or just need to feel human again, I remember her rules. Not because they’re flawless — but because they’re her. Real, quirky, a little chaotic, and full of love.

And if you ever meet her, don’t be surprised if she sizes you up, hands you a biscuit, and says something like, “Sweetheart, those pants are lying to you. Try a looser waistband and a stronger opinion.”

Because that, dear reader, is how you live — according to Grandma.