Monday, Nov. 11, 2002 + 1:25 p.m.
My Christian aunt calls me about two weeks ago to tell me she�s throwing this big wing-ding for my grandmother and step-grandfather�s silver wedding anniversary and I better come (they are four hours away) or I�ll be the family outKast. She said it differently than that, but it meant the exact same thing. This was like the third marriage for both of them, so they are elderly even though most folks having a silver anniversary are middle-aged. These people are so old they almost NEVER leave the house except to have surgery. Or pick up drugs. Or oatmeal. We�re talking Jesus Christ OLD. Guinness Book of World Records OLD. The gift thing was an ordeal in and of itself. What the hell do you get for someone so old that the only thing they haven�t got yet is a coffin? My aunt neglected to tell me that this was a �no gifts� party, which would have been helpful information to have since A) I am totally broke and in debt and B) I had to wrack my brain for a week before I came up with the fruit basket idea. So we pack up our entire house full of shit (since we have a three and seven year old who�s trying to get over strep throat) and shovel it into the car/truck (we drive a CRUCK) and travel over the river and through the woods to Grandma�s house. The beasties were pretty good, too � I have to give them credit. They were watching a dvds on Daddy�s Ibook in the backseat. For FOUR hours. So we get there and give them their 57 pound fruit basket, which they were happy to get even though Grandpa has only seven teeth left. That was when we found out about the �no gift� policy. Thanks, Aunt Tallulah! We were exhausted by the trip (it was 11 p.m.) and we were ready to crash, so they got out the sheets for me to put on the sofa bed. I swear to God they were burlap. But I didn�t complain���.I just kept making the bed and hoping that we had remembered to bring our own blankie with us. Then they brought out 4 blankets (made of fiberglass insulation) and a 75 pound bedspread. �We don�t want you to get cold, now�. They offered sweetly. �Sooooooo, what temperature do you keep the house at night?� I asked. �About 72 degrees, but don�t you worry, we�ll turn it up in the morning for you�. Oh. My. God. I�ve died and gone to hell. As soon as I go to sleep, Satan is going to be dancing at the end of my bed, pitchfork in hand and a signed contract reminding me of that time I promised him my unholy soul if I could have just one date with that guitar-playing freak seventeen years ago. Oh, God, what have I done? My spousal unit, who suffers from pretty severe back problems was going to sleep with our son on the guest bed in another room. I secretly wondered what kind of torture chamber awaited him, but I kept my thoughts to myself. Surprisingly enough, I got a good nights rest. My husband, however, who by the way, got to sleep on the SOFT sheets, was awakened every two or three minutes by our snoring, kicking seven-year-old as well as having to suffer lying on a bed of steel, albeit with a pretty white canopy. Night number two found him sleeping upright in a LaZboy. You might be wondering why we didn�t get a hotel room � well, I�ll tell you. While my step-grandfather drives me up a wall and doesn�t even seem to enjoy our company, my grandmother is overjoyed to have children and adults to talk to. Wouldn�t you be if you had to live with an ailing old fart who takes three naps a day and smells like mentholatum? This is totally what she lives for. Every time I mention us getting a hotel room, she nearly breaks down into tears. I just can�t do that to her. It was apparent to me after only one morning with my grandparents, that it was entirely possible that they wouldn�t live long enough to make it to their silver anniversary party later that day. My step-grandfather laid out all his pills in the morning. Eleven in the morning, 9 at lunch and yipppeeeeeeeeee � only 7 at dinner time. My grandmother wanted to make us all breakfast ALL BY HERSELF. It took about 30 minutes to fix bacon and scrambled eggs and there was just enough so that everyone could have one teaspoon of egg. Wow, I�m stuffed! The whole time I was trying to get plates and glasses and silverware and drinks out for everyone, my old fart step-grandfather was hobbling around the kitchen in his funky old-man-slippers at moss-growing speed. He was everywhere I wanted to be (the kitchen is about 3 feet by 4 feet in size) and I couldn�t get around him. He was trying to heat up some water and make his instant coffee, which, believe me, was far from INSTANT. When dealing with the elderly, �instant� is a word that just doesn�t come up. It was hard having conversations with him because he seems so angry and judgemental. He reminded us that we can�t believe anything we see on the internet because they�re all full of beans. He told me that my children�s language might seem cute to me now, but when they�re teenagers it�s going to be a real problem. What????? I asked him what language it was that he was talking about and he actually said, �the word, FART�. Just for the record, my kids never said this word in front of him. I mentioned a scenario when my three-year-old said, �my butt farted�. I thought this was funny. Apparently he didn�t. We had dinner at Red Lobster with about twenty other family members including Auntie Christian who was at the other end of the table, Praise Jesus. Hallelujah! I had a few stiff drinks praying they�d last the day and a half we had left before coming home. Sadly, they didn�t. The party went quickly and even though we had to go back to the 95 degree house, it was almost time to go home. Somehow we made it those last few hours without killing them or the kids or ourselves, but��� ���.we get to go back next month to celebrate Christmas! There�s always that chance next time.
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I am the Grim Reaper! Master of all that is |
