The Textbook: Kind eyes, a precise five-centimeter half-ro extended off her shriveled skull, godlike pie-making skills, and a card-carrying Wheel Watchers member, the Textbook is the grandma we've all heard of yet never actually encountered. I'll admit, some grandmas come close, but they usually have a catch, like a gambling addiction or a club foot. Still, take what you can get, as any grandmother with a proclivity for baking who isn't girdle-deep in tears for her deceased husband is something to be cherished.

The No-Vacancy: Keep a "Caution: wet floor" sign around this grandma, because she drools more than Sarah Palin during an episode of Rocky and Bullwinkle. If a No-Vacancy can walk, which they usually can't, it's only to the nearest window to talk to clouds. A No-Vacancy is completely checked out, will mutter in a way that makes Dikembe Mutombo seem articulate, and has all the composure of Michael Jackson in a moon bounce. If your grandma is a No-Vacancy, it's alright to be disappointed. Just remember: she never counts what's in her purse.

Primeval Barbie: Usually found thumbing through sports bras in Macy's, the Primeval Barbie is the grandma who clings to youth like a dingleberry that just won't come loose. Primeval Barbie has her cosmetic surgeon on speed dial, and thinks of herself as an intergenerational liaison, an idea that is flagrantly malformed and senseless. If you can't poop without supplements, you shouldn't be allowed to have a normal conversation with your granddaughter. End of discussion.

Dear Ugg-Boot Wearing Friend,
      If a woman's best friend is her shoes, I suggest you meet new people. You started wearing Ugg boots four or five years ago, and we all thought it was a pretty funny joke. Everyone was like, "Hey, that girl looks like a Clydesdale or polar bear," and I admit, I got a kick out of it. Remember, we all made animal noises at you and forced you to eat from a trough?
     But then you kept wearing them. You were either really desperate for attention, or you actually believed you were an animal. It made us all feel a little weird, but you insisted they kept you warm, and it was winter, so we just went along with it.
     Then spring came. And summer. And you were still wearing the Uggs. We gave you the benefit of the doubt, but nothing could explain your behavior. It didn't matter if you were wearing jeans, a mini skirt, or shorts--you were always sporting the Uggs. I talked to your mom, and she too was worried.
     "No chicken soup can mend her teenage soul," she said.
     So we sent you to a doctor. Got your serotonin levels checked. All normal. Did a brain scan, tested motor skills. All normal.
     "This girl's healthy as a horse," the doctor said.
     "Yeah, and she looks like one too."
     Maybe, we thought, you were possessed by something, a demon of extremely bad taste. Some people just assumed you were mentally handicapped.
     "Bless her soul, she's a tard," they'd say.
     Yet your personality hadn't changed, and if a blanket was covering your bottom half, no one could even tell you an issue. The problem was the Ugg boots, not you.
     Years passed, we bought new calendars, made new friends, adapted our appearances to the times. But you stayed faithful to the Uggs. You gave up on your defenses, saying, "I DO WHAT I WANT," anytime someone questioned your footwear. And worse, you had become part of an army, a furry force of Ugg-wearing lunacy.
     Though probably a godsend for those with oversized extremities, Uggs had reached an epidemic level, where girls no longer made measurements in feet and yards, but paws and super-paws. Uggs were everywhere, the universal shoe, appropriate for any occasion.
     Soccer shorts, tattered T-shirt, eye black and UGGS!
     A little black dress, pearls and UGGS!
     Goggles, one-piece swimsuit and UGGS COVERED IN ZIPLOC BAGS!
     Eventually--maybe a year or two ago--the Ugg population thinned, leaving just a handful of strong-willed Uggers, you being one, my friend. You're one of an endangered species, unwilling to budge from the land you feel is rightly yours. But it's a losing battle. Uggs don't look good. They've never looked good. You've known it all along. I mean, they're called Uggs; that's like naming your band SounddsBadd.
    So with concern and support, I beg you, get rid of the Uggs. All's not lost. We're still here.
                                          In all seriousness,
                                               Steve

PS: The abominable snowman called, he wants his footprint back.