My grandmother calls me these things. She's called me these things most of my life. Or, at least since I grew my big ass. "Rear End," is what fondillo (close to fondo, meaning bottom) and culo mean. A Fondillona or Culona is a woman with a great one. Not fantastic, but...great. Like the wall in China. It's like calling someone Assy. You wouldn't do it in English, it just sounds rude. But leave it to my people to come up with a special term for someone blessed this way. And a festival. My mother insists that it's not an insult, but a compliment. I don't know how much I believe that, but for my own peace of mind, I'll buy it.

So, my grandmother, when she walked on her own, would always manage to pop out from behind an artificial plant just as I was passing by, and lay a great slap on my ass while gleefully exclaiming, "Fondillona!!" It never stopped startling me. Of course, all the while she was pointing out the abundance of said ass, she would encourage me to eat things like Flan, Arroz con Leche, and her perennial favorite, Sara Lee Poundcake. Don't ask me why Poundcake. All I know is that, as long as I can remember, in Grandma's fridge there was always Kern's nectar, Gelatina, and a fresh Poundcake. And she served that Poundcake sliced two inches thick, drizzled with Sweetened Condensed Milk.

Then, then she would call me Fondillona.

When she started using her walker, she would stand in the doorway of the kitchen looking for things in the little basket attached to it (she kept her gloves, glasses, "Grandma" mug, checkbook, wallet, and remote control in there). If I wanted to come in, she'd stand sideways and wait for me to scoot behind her. I never knew when it was coming, but some days after I'd made it past her, she would miraculously balance her weight on one handle of the walker, reach over with her free hand, and (sometimes stretching as far as three feet to do so) swat my bum in the way only she could. That little old lady had a mean arm; it hurt! She'd say "Fondillona," and then cackle. The emphasis on the third syllable made it sound like a warning.

Now she spends most of her free time in the overstuffed blue easy chair before the living room television watching Spanish soap operas and variety shows starring women who wear silver-sequined bustiers. She still keeps her gloves, glasses, "Grandma" mug, and remote control in the basket of her walker. The checkbook and wallet are gone. My mother had to remove them because they were continually misplaced or doled from without reason.

In spite of all this she still manages, almost every time I visit home, to lovingly pat my booty, and in her voice that is sometimes nearly a whisper, remind me that I am Fondillona.