“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!