The Creepiest Lunch of My Life

There was a chill in the air as I stopped by Gma’s facility to drop off some new clothing. I waited patiently to be buzzed in to the secure building and quickly headed toward Gma’s room. The door was closed but I entered anyway and proceeded to rip of tags from her new clothing. 

As I stood at the bed, diligently folding the clothes, I felt as if I was being watched. I turned my head slightly and saw an eye staring back at me from the door I had left open just a crack. Violently, the door was thrown open and I woman stood guarding the door. 

“What are you doing here?” I heard from the raspy voice.

“This is my grandmother’s room,” I stated, “I’m putting away some clothes. Can I help you with anything?”

Raspy looked at me with cold eyes, “You can never help me.”

Blinking and a little freaked out at this time, I quickly continued folding clothing. This was a facility for patients with Dementia and Alzheimer’s and I didn’t know if this woman could be violent.

I glanced up and the woman had closed the door and was approaching me slowly, dragging her left leg behind her. She positioned herself directly behind me. I could feel her breath on my neck. I move to my left, she followed, her leg dragging behind her. I moved to my right, she moved as if she were my shadow. 

I quickly decided it was time to leave and flung the clothes into my grandmother’s closet, opened the door and made a swift bee-line for the door. I glance behind me and Raspy was following me with a determined look on her face and her leg dragging behind her. I got to the door and luckily someone was standing there to punch in the code to let me out of the facility. I turned as the doors closed behind me. Raspy had caught up to me and was staring…I saw her lunge and the door slammed in her face.

Life is never quiet when dealing with grandma.

What's This?

One morning, Grandma needed to fast before going to the doctor for some tests. (Don’t worry, nothing is wrong with her.) When we arrived back at her retirement home they had already finished breakfast and Grandma was very hungry. Since I had to get back to work, I quickly swung by McDonalds and picked up oatmeal (the one with apples and walnuts) and a large orange juice. That should be healthy, right?

Grandma and I sat down at her table to eat and when I pushed the straw into her cup she asked “What is that?” This started the following conversation that felt like it went on for hours, but in reality probably only went on for a few minutes.

Me: It’s orange juice.

Gma: What do you do with it?

Me: You drink it. (Hands Gma the orange juice cup)

Gma: (Trying to chew on the lid) Like this?

Me: No. (I put the straw in her mouth) Now suck.

Gma: (Grandma sucks…her cheeks fill with liquid)

Me: Now swallow. (No swallowing occurs.) Swallow.

Gma: (Finally swallowing) Mmm…That’s good!

Me: Time for your oatmeal.

Gma: Oatmeal?

Me: Yes. Use the spoon and put the oatmeal in your mouth.

Gma: (Picks up a candle) Spoon?

Me: No, that is a candle. (Handing her a spoon) Here is a spoon.

Gma: Oh, why didn’t anyone tell me? (Gma takes out dentures)

Me: Grandma! Put those back in you need those to eat.

Gma: (After putting them back in she takes a bite and makes a face that shows she doesn’t like it) It’s chunky.

Me: Yes, it’s oatmeal with walnuts and apples.

Gma: (Takes another bite…makes another face, and looks at the orange juice.) What’s this?

Me: Orange juice.

Gma: What do I do with it? Drink it.

Me: Yes.

Gma: (after some prompting, drinks.) Oh. This is good. (Takes a bit of oatmeal and makes a face) It’s chunky.

As you can imagine, this continued until she had finished her oatmeal…which she absolutely hated, and made a face each time she took a bite. Next time, we’ll try an Egg McMuffin.

Beniffer? Daniffer? Meh.

From time to time I like to bring friends over so they actually believe that my grandma is as crazy as I make her out to be. My friend Jen was recently given this honor.

Me: Gma, this is my friend Jen.
Gma: Ben?
Me & Jen: Jen
Gma: Dan?
Jen: Jen
Gma: Meh. Where are you from?
Jen: Southern Minnesota
Gma: Oh…
Gma: So, what is your name?
Jen: Jen.
Gma: Ben?
Me: Jennifer
Gma: Bennifer?
Me: Jennifer.
Gma: Oh? That is a nice name.
Jen: Uh…thanks.

After repeatedly asking Jen where she was from, I knew that it was time to finish our short, but oh so pleasant visit.

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

Breaking up with someone can be a chore and one is usually left with feelings of disillusionment and pain. I don’t know how anyone could get through it alone, thank goodness I have Gma. (snickering)

Gma: How is your boyfriend?
Me: We broke up.
Gma: Why? What did he do?
Me: He was clingy.
Gma: Lin-G-y?
Me: Clingy.
Gma: Cling-ley?
Me: CLINGY!
Gma: Clin-G-y?
Me: Uhg. He always wanted to know where I was and who I was with.
Gma: Oh? He didn’t trust you?
Me: Exactly.
Gma: What did you do?
Me: Nothing. He was just clingy.
Gma: Clin-L-y?
Me: (sigh) He just wanted to know where I was.
Gma: I don’t like that. He didn’t trust you. You know what I say to that?
Me: What?
Gma: (blowing raspberry {seriously}) That’s no happy birthday.
Me: You’re right. That’s no happy birthday.
(silence)
Gma: How is your boyfriend?
Me: We broke up.
Gma: That is what I thought. Why?

We continued on with this conversation for around 2 more hours, but it was always nice knowing that Gma had my back.

My Competition…also known as Emmy, the 7-year old

I will admit it had been quite sometime between visits to Gma. Recently, I stopped in for a little visit and found that good ol’ Gma had basically replaced me…with a 7-year old named Emmy*.

Me: Gma? Who is the girl in this picture?
Gma: Emmy, of course.
Me: Ummm…Emmy? Who is Emmy?
Gma: My pen pal.
Me: Well, do you want me to put the pictures of boys and I up?
Gma: I don’t want them up. I have Emmy.
Me: (thinking that she was finally getting her marbles back.) What is my name Gma?
Gma: Meh, I don’t know.
Me: Gwen.
Gma: Eh, that is what I thought.

As I sat there listening to all the things that Emmy and Gma had done I began to grow a bit jealous. I also noted that there were several paintings around the apartment.

Me: Gma? Have you been painting? (Holding up painting) This is really cute.
Gma: Not mine.
Me: Are you sure? It has your name on it.
Gma: Not mine.
Me: Who else would have put your name on it?
Gma: Someone sneaky.
Me: Hmmm…(holding up photo of Gma painting) What are you doing in this photo?
Gma: Painting with Emmy of course. I just did blue circles.
Me: Ah. I see.

Obviously, I need to visit Gma a little more often so I can bump Emmy* out of the running for favorite grandchild.

*Child’s name has been changed.

Adventures with Uncle Mike

To honor the impending arrival of Great Uncle Mike (83), I have decided to post a memorable experience of the last time he came to visit.

What you should understand about Uncle Mike is that he is a bachelor, 100% pure New Jersey, and 75% crazy. I have spent even less time with him than I have with my grandma. It was my uncle’s official duty to bring my grandmother to me last year. Yes, an 82-year-old man was responsible for bringing his 88-year-old sister with Alzheimer’s. Not the brightest idea in the world, but it wasn’t my idea.

My plan was to make Uncle Mike love this town so much he would move here on his own, while he was still lucid. Uncle Mike loves the outdoors and hiking, canoeing, etc. So, what better way to make him love *Rolling Plains but to take him down on the trails by the river and let him see he could go there everyday.

Driving in the car:

Me: Uncle Mike, I have a surprise for you. You are going to love it!
UM: (Thick New Jersey Accent) Is it prostitutes?
Me: (Not thinking I heard correctly) What?
UM: Are you takin’ me to some prostitutes?
Me: Uncle Mike! I don’t know where to find prostitutes.
UM: Well, ya just dangle a dolla bill out da winda. Is there a downtown?
Me: That is not your surprise. I really don’t think that will work anyway.
UM: Well, that’s probably for the best. It’s been a while. It’d be like stickin’ a limp noodle in a tiger’s ass.
Me: WHAT? No, No, prostitutes Uncle Mike. (pulling the car up by the trails) Here Uncle Mike. See isn’t it beautiful here? You could go walking everyday!
UM: So, there really aren’t any prostitutes?

I am quite sure my uncle was kidding around, but seriously, I had only met this guy twice before. Although I was unable to talk him out of leaving his beloved NJ, I am very excited that he has decided to come back out for a visit and to see his sista.

Grizzly’s Conversations

For some reason, my grandmother refuses to understand that a girl my age, 25, can be single. That added to the fact that “I don’t really know her” leads to quite a few problems. When we go out to lunch, I usually take her to Grizzly’s. Why? There doesn’t seem to be a lot of people there and I wanted to see how she reacted to all of the taxidermy animals. We have had many conversations at Grizzly’s but one in particular stands out in my mind.

Sitting down at the table:

Gma: (looking around) This is an interesting place. I bet a lot of people come here.
Me: Yup. It is very popular. (We are the only ones seated.)
Gma: So, how is Richard doing?
Me: Oh, he’s fine, busy.
Gma: Is he a nice husband?
Me: I guess so.
Gma: How long have you two been married?
Me: I am not married to Richard. He is my father.
Gma: Oh? Why didn’t anyone tell me that?
Me: We did Grandma. You just don’t remember.
Gma: That could be. So, are you dating anyone?
Me: No.
Gma: Why not.
Me: I don’t want to.
Gma: (as waitress approaches the table) Are you a lesbian? Do you like girls?
Me: (In disbelief that my grandma knows what a lesbian is) No!
Waitress: Do you two need a minute?
Me: YES!

My grandmother has not asked me that question again. This is something that is an oddity and something I am extremely grateful for.

“Was he handsy? Did he get fresh? You know what boys want don’t you?”

This past January I was on a date when my phone rang. I apologized to my date, grabbed my phone and saw that it was Gma. I ignored the phone call and put it on vibrate. She tried to call several more times.

When I got home I called her right away to see what the big commotion was:

Me: Grandma, what is going on? You called eight times within two hours
Gma: Oh, did I?
Me: Yes. What do you need?
Gma: I have to ask you a question.
Me: Okay.
Gma: I can’t remember. What were you doing when I called?
Me: (uttering words I should never have uttered) I was on a date, Grams.
Gma: Your boyfriend?
Me: No, just a first date.
Gma: So, what was he like.
Me: Nice. Very polite.
Gma: Was he fresh?
Me: Fresh?
Gma: Was he handsy?
Me: (Dying a little bit) No Grams, he wasn’t handsy or fresh.
Gma: Well, what are guys like these days?
Me: They are all a little different.
Gma: Was he fresh with you?
Me: No Grandma!

As you can imagine, the conversation looped and circled mostly in regards as to whether I got, shall we say, “busy” with my date or not. After hanging up the phone and not figuring out the original reason she called, I was happy the conversation was over and done with. After all, she can’t remember that I’m not Richard’s wife, how is she going to remember I went on a date? Boy was I wrong!

Phone call several hours later:

Me: Hi Grandma.
Gma: How did you know it was me?
Me: It shows up on my phone.
Gma: Oh. (Pause) I have to ask you a question.
Me: Okay.
Gma: Where is my checkbook?
Me: I have it, Grams.
Gma: That is what I thought. So, tell me about your boyfriend.
Me: I don’t have a boyfriend.
Gma: You went on a date.
Me: How do you remember that?
Gma: Because you told me.
Me: Umm…he is very nice and polite.
Gma: Handsy? You know what boys want?
Me: Umm…to play checkers?
Gma: Some, perhaps. But was he handsy?
Me: No Grandma.
Gma: But he is your boyfriend, right?
Me: No. We have only been on one date. We can see other people.
Gma: You see other boys too! You are one of those girls!
Me: Grams, it was one date. We aren’t boyfriend and girlfriend.
Gma: So you go out with more than one boy at once?
Me: Grams can we change the topic.
Gma: Oh. Well, where is my checkbook?

That conversation was almost five months ago and for some strange reason she still remembers it. He and I are no longer dating and in fact there were quite a few dates after him. When Gma asks about him I just change the name and occupation to whomever I am dating at the moment. That you see, Grandma can’t remember.

"What town are we in?"

It may be hard to believe, but New Jersey is actually quite a bit different than North Dakota. In New Jersey all the towns seem to run together. (At least in my experience.) One block you are in one town and the next block you have entered into a completely new one and across the street is yet a different city. Where Grandma and I live is completely different. Everything can be found in the exact city we are in. Well, almost everything. This confuses my grandmother quite a bit.

Gma: Which town are we in?
Me: ***Rolling Hills, Grandma, Rolling Hills.
Gma: Rolling Hills, oh.
(silence)
Gma: So, which town are we in?
Me: Rolling Hills. We will always be in Rolling Hills.
Gma: Well, where do I live?
Me: Rolling Hills.
Gma: Is that where Richard lives?
Me: No, you and I live in Rolling Hills. Richard lives out west.
Gma: You live in Rolling Hills, too? I didn’t know that. Why didn’t anyone tell me?
Me: We did, Grams, you just can’t remember.
Gma: Could be.
(silence)
Gma: So, how long have you and Richard lived together.
Me: We don’t live together, Grandma, we used too but not anymore.
Gma: Why not? Wasn’t he a good husband?
Me: Grandma, Richard is my dad.
Gma: Your father? When did Richard have a child?
Me: A while ago.
Gma: Oh my. I didn’t know that. Why didn’t anyone tell me?
Me: We did, you just can’t remember.
Gma: Could be…What town are we in?

This is our typical car conversation. If I’ve heard it once I have heard it a thousand times. The conversation is on a continuous loop. The good thing is that at least I will never forget where I live…hopefully.


***Town name has been changed***

And you're not gonna reach my telephone! My telephone! M-m-my telephone!—Wait, nope, that’s my TV remote.

While in New Jersey, Grandma supposedly had 3 telephone handsets, when she was delivered into my hands, she only had 2. After a few weeks and a lot of confusion, I found out why.

Me: Grandma is there something wrong? You don’t pick up the telephone when I call.
Gma: This stupid telephone is broken. I need a new one.
Me: Here, let me see it, Grandma.
Gma: Terry, my name is Terry.
Me: Here, let me see it, Terry. (She hands me the silver object she was holding in her hand.) Terry, this is the television remote.
Gma: What?
Me: You can’t talk into this. It is for the tv only.
Gma: That is a phone.
Me: No, it’s not.
Gma: Well, why didn’t anyone tell me?
Me: I don’t know but this is a tv remote.

By this time I knew to always carry a marker, tape, and blank pieces of paper around. I labeled each of the phones with ‘phone’ and the television remote with ‘T.V.’ That problem was solved…for now.

FLASH BACK--Lock your fridge doors and guard your children, Gwen is coming to town!

Ah yes, Grandma had always been kind of blunt or at least that is what I thought about her. When I flew to New Jersey to visit her for a week. right after my freshman year of college, I found that out. At this point in time, I hadn’t seen Gma in around 5 years and as I stepped off the plane I saw this wily, little, white haired, old woman trying to push past security personnel. She was desperately scanning the passengers trying to find me. As I smiled and walked toward her, I saw her eyes fall and her mouth curled in disgust. Wow, what a greeting. I know I may be a little rotund and I won’t be winning any beauty contests anytime soon, but I hadn’t expected the look of utter rejection that was written across her face. As we met we kissed the air beside each other’s cheeks and did a light arm touch. Yep, Gma thought I was a fatty.

Now, you might be thinking that I’m a little harsh for thinking that about her. It gets better my friends, much better. Little did I know, Gma was afraid. Yes, she was afraid that I would eat her out of house and home. I didn’t notice it the first few days but I thought it weird that she never wanted me to help her in the kitchen. Heck, I am from N.D., I can cook. Things came to a head when her next-door neighbor, Palma, came over for a visit. I was introduced very civilly and genteelly and Palma seemed like a very warm and lovely woman. For the first time since I had been in N.J. Gma asked me to go into the freezer and get us all an ice-cream bar. Diligently I stood up, walked through the dining room and into the kitchen. Palma and Gma settled themselves in the living room. As I reached into the freezer my supersonic ears picked up on the conversation.

Palma: She seems like a very nice young lady. Very polite, very bright.
(At this point I am thinking to myself, “Hey, at least someone from N.J. likes me.”)
Gma: She is quite fat isn’t she? They have to be big-boned out there. You know, to take care of all the cows and etcetera.
Palma: (with a shocked voice) Terry! Don’t say things like that. She is a very lovely young girl.
Gma: She is fat. I haven’t been letting her near the icebox or cupboards all week. She might eat everything.

At this point I was simply in shock. Wow! Way to boost my self-esteem. I walked back through the dining room and into the living room. All conversation had stopped, poor Palma looked horribly uncomfortable. I gave her the biggest smile I could possibly manage and handed her an ice-cream bar. Gma and I split one.

Christmas 2009— Presents? What presents?

As I mentioned before in Christmas 2009—The Saga of Taco Dip, this would be Grandma’s first Christmas in N.D. and because of a horrible snowfall I was not able to make it over to her house on Christmas Day.

On Christmas Eve I had dropped off all of the presents from our family. Don’t let me fool you. When I say “our family” I mean that I picked out all the presents, wrapped them, and then said it was from a different family member. From my brothers, Grandma was getting a picture frame with a picture I had taken at Thanksgiving of the 3 of them together. My reasoning was that she could never remember what they looked like or who they were and now she would have a constant reminder. From my father was a picture of the 2 of them together. Same reasoning applies. I had gotten her some fancy handkerchiefs she had said she wanted and some new towels for her bathroom.

Seeing that I didn’t have any presents to open on Christmas, I was very excited to watch her open hers. After cleaning up the melted eggnog flavored ice-cream that she had transferred from the freezer to the fridge (and eaten half of) I went behind the couch to bring out the presents.

Me: Grams? Where did your presents go?
Gma: Presents? What presents?
Me: The presents I left here for you and told you not to open until we could do it together.
Gma: Someone must have stolen them!
Me: I don’t think so, Grams.

I looked all around the apartment and finally opened the door to her closet. There they were- partially unwrapped and disheveled.

Gma: Oh yes, I have been meaning to ask you. What are these things?
Me: Those are your Christmas presents. It looks like you opened them.
Gma: I didn’t.
Me: No one is going to come in and open your presents up, Gma.
Gma: (shrugs) Hmm.

As I started throwing out the tattered Christmas wrapping paper, I picked up the picture frame of my brothers and Grandma. I don’t know exactly what she did but she stuck some sticky substance down inside the glass. The picture was torn and bent and she had attempted to stuff it back into the picture frame. At least the towels and other picture frame were all right and she certainly enjoyed the handkerchiefs because I saw one of them sticking out of her purse.
Lesson learned: Don’t bring over any presents you don’t want opened right away!

Christmas 2009—The Saga of Taco Dip

This was Grams first Christmas as a resident of N.D. and I was going to make it as special as I possibly could. Needless to say, I didn’t want to pack up Grandma, 2 medium sized dogs, presents, and luggage into my little Mazda, with hazardous road conditions, to drive to my parent’s house. Plus, if we actually made it there I would have to constantly monitor her and dole out her medications. It was much easier to stay right where we were.

In preparation for the long holiday weekend I purchased a ton of food. Christmas Eve we invited Grandma’s best friend (when she can remember her), Jeanne, up for our evening meal. I made lasagna and we had pie with eggnog flavored ice cream for dessert. Tomorrow, we would have Cornish game hens, stuffing, carrots, pasta salads, and more pie for dessert and we would just have leftovers for supper

There is one important item I am leaving out though, the taco dip. I love taco dip. I wanted to dig into the taco dip, but I waited. As I drove home that night (after stopping off at Wal-Mart to grab another Cornish game hen so Jeanne wouldn’t have to spend Christmas alone) I thought about that taco dip. Oh, it was going to be so good.

I awoke Christmas morning to find that it had snowed quite a bit. So much in fact, that there was no way I was going to make it to Grandma’s apartment. I felt bad at first, but at least she could go down and eat with Jeanne. I, on the other hand, was screwed. All the groceries I had purchased were at Grams. All I had was a half-frozen Cornish game hen-seriously, a Cornish game hen and condiments.

I was unable to leave my house until Monday when someone came to shovel me out. This whole time, while I survived on my game hen and knoephla, I dreamed of the day I would see my taco dip again.

First thing Monday after work I drove to Gma’s. My stomach grumbled and my mouth watered as the elevator ascended to the 3rd floor. My mind raced…taco dip…taco dip…taco dip. Oooh…leftover lasagna. FOOD!

I entered the apartment, greeted Grams, ran to the fridge, ripped open the door, pulled out my taco dip container—empty. Empty?

Me: Grandma? Did you eat all the taco dip?
Gma: No.
Me: Grandma? How did you eat the taco dip? Do you know where the utensils are?
Gma: No.
Me: Grandma? You didn’t even open the bag of chips? (I looked down at the empty container and was sure I saw the tell tale signs of a finger swipe.) Grandma, did you eat this all with your finger?
Gma: No.

I still had a chance. I had the lasagna.

Me: Did you eat some of this?
Gma: No.
Me: (I looked down at the dish. It looked as though she had grabbed the lasagna and mushed it with her hands.) Are you sure, Grandma?
Gma: It was good.
Me: So, you ate some.
Gma: No.

As I cleaned up the fridge, (she had moved the eggnog flavored ice-cream from the freezer and it leaked everywhere) I realized I had learned a very important lesson that day. Only bring food the day of, if you want to eat any of it.

Merry Christmas…blah blah blah

Being the awesome

granddaughter that I am I thought that Grandma should send out Christmas cards this year. I purchased some cards and brought them to her apartment. I explained to her what we were about to do and settled ourselves in front of the dining room table. I would be writing out the cards because she has a bad hand.

Me: Okay, Grandma, who do you want to write to first?
Gma: I don’t care.
Me: How about your brother, Mike? That would be good, huh?
Gma: Why should he get one?
Me: Because he is your brother. What do you want to write to him?
Gma: I don’t know. Right whatever you feel like.
Me: These are your cards, Grandma. How about we start off with ‘Merry Christmas’. What should we put next.
Gma: Ummm. Merry Christmas…blah blah blah. Who cares?
Me: Okay, I will just write something. (I write in the card) Okay, why don’t you sign it.
Gma: How should I sign it?
Me: Love, your sister?
Gma: Whatever.
Me: Who’s next? Your son, Richard or do you want to do the boys first?
Gma: What boys?
Me: Your grandsons.
Gma: Skip um.
Me: We can’t skip them, Grams. What do you want to write?
Gma: Merry Christmas…blah blah blah.

This continued on for quite sometime. I wrote out the cards, stamped, licked, and addressed them. She half-heartedly signed her name.

As I started to pack up the cards:

Gma: What about you? Don’t you get one?
Me: Well, I am staying here so I can spend Christmas with you, so you can just tell me Merry Christmas.
Gma: No, you are getting one.
Me: Okay.
(I pull out a card and hand it to her with a pen)
Gma: You write it.
Me: I am going to write my own card? Okay, what do you want to say to me?
Gma: Merry Christmas…blah blah blah.
Me: Oh. I see. (I finish writing) Okay, it is ready for your signature.
Gma: How should I sign it?
Me: How about “Love Always, Grandma” with X’s and O’s
Gma: Hmmph.

Oh, well. At least I got Christmas card this year even if I did have to write it out myself!

Just call me Terry

As I mentioned, I really had not spent a lot of time with my grandma until I moved her closer to me. The 2nd day she was here she became very agitated with me. The reason: I called her Grandma.

Me: Grandma, I am just going to hang up your shirt over here, okay? Is there anything else you want or need.
Gma: Don’t call me that.
Me: Don’t call you what?
Gma: Grandma.
Me: Why not?
Gma: Call me Terry.
Me: That seems kind of disrespectful.
Gma: Call me Terry.
Me: Alright, Grandma…I mean Terry.

The next day I came over too see how everything was going.

Me: Hi Terry, did you sleep okay?
Gma: Terry? Terry? You think you can call me Terry?
Me: Ummm…what…?
Gma: You should be calling me Grandma. How did Richard raise such disrespectful children?
Me: What? You told me yesterday to call you Terry.
Gma: I never did.
Me: Okay, Grandma.

(Around 12 minutes later)

Me: Okay, Grandma, I am going to take off now. Call me if you want anything.
Gma: (shaking her head) Don’t call me that.
Me: Don’t call you what? Grandma?
Gma: Yes. I don’t like it.
Me: Okay.

This went on for quite some time but now that she actually remembers that I am her granddaughter, we have been sticking with Grandma or sometimes even Grams.

Adventures with television (part 1)

There are times in life where I have taken for granted the capability to run a remote control. Now, a remote control may seem easy enough to use. (As long as it isn’t a universal remote control.) But when you are 89 and really don’t give a damn, a remote control can be your biggest enemy.

Less than a month after Grandma came to North Dakota her television broke. Let me clarify, she thought her television was broken. After a frantic telephone call I rushed over to deal with the problem. Buying a new tv would be easy enough, the problem would be how I would haul the thing to her new apartment by myself. Thankfully, things never came to that.

Me: Grams, the tv is unplugged. Did you unplug the television?
Gma: No.
Me: Well, how did it get unplugged?
Gma: I don’t know.
Me: Well, I am going to plug it back in again.
Gma: Are you sure you should be doing that?
Me: Yes, Grandma. It is just a plug-in.
Gma: If you break something, you bought it. You don’t know me.
Me: Yes, I know Grandma.
TV flickers on
Gma: It works! You are really good at this stuff.
Me: I know. I majored in it for a semester.
Gma: You what.
Me: Nevermind.

I left her place after telling her once again not to unplug the tv, but to push the “power” button on her remote.

The next day on the phone:

Gma: The tv is broken. I need a new one.
Me: Is the tv unplugged.
Gma: What?
Me: Did you unplug the tv?
Gma: No.
Me: Is the cord from the back of the tv plugged into the wall.
Gma: I don’t know.
Me: Can you look.
Gma: Wait a minute. Wait a minute. The TV isn’t working.
Me: I will be over later to look at it, okay?
Gma: I need a new tv. This one keeps breaking.

When I went over there that night I found that once again the tv was unplugged.

Me: Grams, the tv is unplugged. Did you unplug the television?
Gma: No.
Me: Well, how did it get unplugged?
Gma: I don’t know.
Me: Who else would unplug it?
Gma: I don’t know.
Me: Okay, Grams, don’t unplug it again or the tv won’t work. I am going to tape a note right beside it that says “DO NOT UNPLUG”. If you unplug it the tv will be broken.
Gma: (shrugging) Whatever.

I would like to say that was the end of our adventure with her broken television, but she continued to unplug it. After about the 32nd time I was unsure of what to do. I couldn’t just keep running over there to plug it in. Finally, one night I came up with a great idea.

Me: (holding my purse) Grandma, can you go downstairs and see if my purse is down there.
Gma: No, go do it yourself.
Me: I really have to go to the bathroom.
Gma: Fine.

Very quickly and with a lot of grunting and groaning I pushed her large entertainment center over 4 inches, right over the plug in. (Insert evil laugh) With that the television was never broken, or at least broken that way, again.

Lunch, maybe?

Grams and I go out for lunch once or twice a month. Today was supposed to be just like any other time. (Which you will here more about later.) For some reason it didn’t go as well as planned.

5:56 a.m.-phone call #1-

Gma: Are we doing something for lunch today?
Me: Yes, Grandma.

6:44 a.m.-phone call #2-

Gma: Are we supposed to do something today?
Me: Yes, Grandma, lunch.

7:23 a.m.-phone call #3-

Gma: Are you coming over today?
Me: Yes, Grandma. We are having lunch.

9:30 a.m.-phone call #4- IGNORED

9:35 a.m.-phone call #5- IGNORED

10:14 a.m.-phone call #6-

Gma: Am I supposed to do something today.
Me: Grandma, I am picking you up at noon for lunch.

10:15-12:00 - SILENCE –

I arrive at noon to find her sitting and eating.

Gma: Were we supposed to have lunch today?
Me: Yes, Grandma.

Shit Happens.

Shortly after Grams moved into the assisted living facility, I popped over for what I deemed as laundry day. Before she moved in I had put a laundry basket in her bathroom and when she came I told her that is where she should put her clothes. It had been about 10 days since she had moved in but there was no laundry in her basket.

Me: Grams, where are your dirty clothes.
Gma: I washed them.
Me: Where is the washing machine?
Gma: I don’t know.
Me: Then how did you wash your clothes?
Gma: I washed them.
Me: Where?
Gma: In the washing mashine.
Me: Where is the washing machine?
Gma: I don’t know.

Frustrated, I started going through her closet and drawers. She wearing the same shirt that she was wearing the day she moved in. Had she really done laundry? She didn’t seem capable to me. I found one item of dirty clothing in a drawer and decided to wash some of her shirts because they smelled funny. Suddenly, Gma handed me a dirty item of clothing.

Me: Where did you get this?
Gma: Over here.

She signaled to a suitcase in her closet. I prayed, “Please, God. Please, let me find at least one pair of dirty underwear. Please! Please!” God answered my prayer. Grams leaned over the suitcase then straightened and forced something into my hand with a “Here, wash this.” As my hand made contact with the item, I felt a squish and smelled a smell. NO! No! She wouldn’t? I looked down and saw that my hand was covered in fecal matter. I closed my eyes. I knew I couldn’t react as I wanted to. Our relationship was still too shaky at this point and I needed her to trust me. I looked up at her and she turned away as though nothing had happened.

I simply walked to the bathroom rinsed the clothing she had handed me and washed my hands. After that, I stared in the mirror for a while and thought to myself, “What have you gotten yourself into?’

“You Don’t Want Me to Smell Like a Whore do You?”

Gma had been complaining about her foot for quite sometime before I decided to take action. She seemed to be a hypochondriac to me and I had taken a look at the foot that was supposedly bothering her. It didn’t look that bad to me. She just wanted something to complain about. When the nurse at her facility called me to talk about it I knew something needed to be done. The nurse said they could soak her foot a couple of nights a week but I didn’t know how that would make her foot better. I knew what would make my achy feet feel better, a pedicure. Better yet, a pedicure that I would make Gma pay for. Heck, the reason my feet hurt was because she was running me ragged, I reasoned.

I scheduled our pedicures for Saturday at the most suave and sophisticated spa that can be found in our region of N.D. I was a little leery about taking her on a Saturday that was 4 days away from shower day and sometimes her smell can be quite overpowering. It was one thing if I smelled her but I didn’t want the people at the spa to gag. I reached her apartment and stepped inside to find that she was still in the same shirt I saw her in days earlier. Thank goodness I had brought my perfume along! I walked over to her closet and picked out a new outfit for her and helped her change into it. As I pulled out my perfume bottle she turned toward me.

And the burn of the day goes to…Grandma!
Gma: What are you doing?
Me: Spritzing you with my perfume.
Gma: Why? Do you want me to smell like a whore?

I can’t be completely sure of my facial expression at this moment but I am sure it was something very memorable. (If you don’t have Alzheimer’s.) I spritzed her a few times (and a few more for good measure) and off we went in my little Mazda. If only I knew where the place was. I had Mapquested directions but Gma’s constant chatter and the fact that I had the heat turned up full bore, which made her smell even worse, were distracting me considerably. Why was this woman always so cold?! I desperately wanted to open a window and take deep breaths but that would make her even colder. At last we found our destination and as I raced around to open the door for her I noticed the ground was slick with ice. We moved with baby steps up to the front of building and through the door.

Lets fast forward to the actual pedicure, we were led down a steep flight of stairs and I could just picture her falling and yet she refused to accept help even from the railings to her left and right. We were seated next to each other and the women began our pedicures. Gma sat perched on the edge of her seat watching every movement the woman made. Gma made a few comments to the overly pierced young lady and when the person doing my feet started to laugh Gma had found a captive audience. Oh sweet Jesus!

Gma: What is this called?
Me: A pedicure?
Gma: Why am I doing this?
Me: Because you were complaining about your foot hurting.
Gma: Oh. I see. Well you don’t know me.
Me: I know Grams.
Gma: (To pedicurists) I don’t even know who this girl is.
Me: I am your granddaughter.
Gma: Who?
Me: Your granddaughter. Richard’s daughter.
Gma: I didn’t know that. Why didn’t anyone tell me?
Me: We did, you just don’t remember.
Gma: That could be.
(During this whole episode the pedicurists are attempting not to laugh.)Gma: Is he tough?
Me: No, Grandma.
Gma: (To pedicurist) She works for me you know.
Me: No, I don’t. I am your granddaughter.
Gma: Gma: I didn’t know that. Why didn’t anyone tell me?
Me: We did, you just don’t remember.
Gma: That could be.

Silence ensued for a couple of minutes and the pedicurist handed each of us color wheels so we could pick out the polish we wanted.

Gma: I don’t have time to pick. You do it.
(Hands me the color wheel.)
Me: You better be nice to me grandma or I will have them paint your toes black.
Gma: Yah, well I can kick your you know what. You don’t know me. I will.
Me: I know you will Grandma.
Gma: You don’t know me.
Me: I know Grandma.
Gma: How long have you and Richard been married?
Me: I am not married to Richard he is my father.
(At this point my pedicurist snorted and had to leave the room for a few minutes to compose herself.)

Since Grams had been having trouble with her foot I got her the extra special package and the pedicurist began to cover her feet in a thick green paste and wrap it with saran wrap.

Gma: (loudly) I don’t think this girl knows what she is doing. Why are my feet green?
Me: To moisturize, Grams, to moisturize.

We were left alone for awhile and shortly after we were finished and let out of the pedicure area and went to a sitting room so our nail polish could dry. My grandmother had been astonished by the thin flip flops they put on her feet and forgot there was water in the bowl. She dunked her whole foot back in. I toweled it off. After a few minutes our nails were dry and I proceeded to put on my shoes and socks and then picked wet cotton out from between her toes and slipped on each nylon knee high and shoe.

I dropped her off shortly after that and sat in my car and laughed. It isn’t everyday you get called a whore by your grandma!

Introduction

Let’s start out with a little background info on the relationship my grandmother and I have shared up until the point of September 2009. (Don’t worry it won’t take long.)

The best way to describe our relationship is a direct quote from my grandmother. My grandmother always says, “You don’t know me.” Tis true. I do barely know this woman or up until September 2009 I barely knew this woman. Now, I may know her better than she knows herself, although she does throw me for a loop every once in awhile.

My grandmother, Teresa, was born in Europe either in Russia or Germany. She immigrated with her parents and her little brothers and they settled in New Jersey. For now, we need not go into specifics but needless to say, Teresa had a son, my father, Richard. Richard didn’t stay in New Jersey but came to North Dakota. I know, I know, what you are thinking. Why would someone come from New Jersey to North Dakota and if I had a $1 for every time someone asked me that I would be a very rich woman. Being that my grandmother lived so far away I rarely saw her. I have pictures of her being there shortly after I was born and I know that she came out every year for exactly one week up until I was around 13. She sent very few letters and in fact wouldn’t have sent any if I hadn’t sent her one in the first place.

I flew out to visit her for a week after my freshman year of college and made sure that I called her at least once a month to check up on her. In September of 2009, I moved her from N.J. to N.D. to live in an assisted living facility less than 10 minutes away. My father, who lives over 4 hours away from us, didn’t seem up to the challenge and it seemed like the right thing to do. The following posts will not be in any particular order and I hope they give you a chuckle or at least a smile.