Sweet Jeebus, she's driving me crazy. How is it possible for a sweet, little old lady to be so . . . so . . . aaaaaargh!
Today, she needs to go to the post office.
Fine.
She needs to get dog food.
Fine.
And it HAS to be from PetCo (which happens to be at the center of a small nexus of evil along State Street in a crowded strip mall).
Fine.
Oh, and she needs bird seed too. (This involves wandering aimlessly around the giant PetCo while she mutters about not remembering what kind of birdseed it is she usually gets to feed the eight million obivously starving little birds outside--do you think they all sit outside her bedroom window at night sending her telepathic messages: Feed us, or we'll kill the little brown dog?)
Fine. We'll go to PetCo; we'll go to the post office.
In the meantime, she's asks me what do I want for breakfast/lunch (I slept late--which she has pointed out to me, as if I've somehow disrupted her plans for the day; but it's not like she couldn't have gotten me up earlier).
Hmmmmm. I look inside the fridge.
Turkey leftovers.
Hmmmm, I've been eating those at least twice a day for two days now. And let's face it, I'm not crazy about turkey. It's really the crap you get along with the turkey that I get excited about: the stuffing, the mashed potatoes and gravy, the sweet potatoes--all the stuff that you slather the turkey in to give it taste. But those things are long gone. Besides, it's all the stuff you can make with the turkey later, like turkey tetrazzini, turkey chili, turkey enchiladas that I like about turkey leftovers. Notice how none of these things involve slathering two slices of dry bread with mayonaise, throwing a chunk of cold turkey on it, and then for some reason calling it a sandwich.
And, as full as the fridge appears, we really only have a strange assortment of cheese products (not like real cheese, but Kraft cheese in various sizes, shapes, and colors), precooked microwaveable bacon, two cartons of eggs, some rotting vegetables, some stale restaurant leftovers from some time last week, and some low carb bread in there. Out of sheer self-preservation, I scrambled two eggs for lunch.
And now, I'm sure she's wondering why I'm sitting typing at the computer and not toting her off to the post office--mind you she'll wait in the car at the post office (so why is she coming along at all?).
I love her. I do. She just drives me bonkers.
And she's just brought me a Russian teacake cookie. Sure, it's been in a tin in the garage for a month, but she found them at last. And she made them especially for me. A month ago.
You want another sordid truth . . .? I like the Russian teacake cookies, but they're not my favorite. I really, really like the little pudding cookies she makes for Erik. But if I eat them, she scolds me and tells me those are Erik's cookies.
Yes, of course they are. That's why I wait for her to retire to her room for the night and then I raid the forbidden cookies. Don't worry, Erik, I'll save some for you! But only if you get back here soon and keep me from throttling a cute little old grandma.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Friday, December 23, 2005
Spinstering With The Grandma II
OK, so I know I said there would be more on my adventures with The Grandma in the wilds of New England over Turkey Day, but this entry isn't one of them. This entry's sole purpose is to ponder the motivations of The Grandma at Christmas time.
Every year The Grandma gets some weird notion in her head that she must get the three grandchildren (and now this includes the fabulous fiance as well)some sort of themed gift. One year it was harmonicas. For several years in a row she got us all flashlights. This year, I'm not sure if there is one single themed gift she is bestowing on the grandchildren. Truth is, she hasn't had much of an opportunity to shop. My mother has been insanely busy popping out babies left and right. She saw 31 patients the other day while her co-worker, the other midwife in the practice, delivered THREE babies. (Question to the people of Rockford, have you ever heard of birth control, or maybe reading a book?)
Anyway, this has left me as the official driver, errand-runner, and Toter of The Grandma To All Various and Sundry Places All Over the City Regardless of How Insane the Traffic Is. I don't mind. Mostly. It seems this year, however, she has gotten it into her head that she MUST find and purchase a wall clock for a certain couple's new(ish) apartment. Oh, Sweet Jeebus help me. We looked at Target. We looked at Gordmans. I questioned the sanity of this expedition. And then, we looked at Kohl's. They had all of six wall clocks to choose from, but The Grandma was insistent on selecting one. For a moment, she had her eye on a wooden one with a brassy metal pendulum. It'd be perfect . . . for The Grandma's bathroom. And then, she had her eye on a simple silver one that reminded me of a hubcap with a clock face in it. It'd be perfect . . . for Monster Garage.
In the meantime, I'm making noncommittal noises as she asks me "What about this one?" Hmmm . . . yeah, that's a nice clock. And, I'm entertaining myself looking at the kitchen clocks all shaped like kitchen appliances and gadgets--a coffee pot, for example. I picked up the one that looks like a toaster with a little piece of toast popping out the top and laugh.
"You like that one?"
Oh great, now I've made it look like I think this is the clock to buy. Hmmmmmm . . . yeah, that's a nice clock.
"You think they'll like that one?"
Hmmmm . . . . I think it's cute and kinda funny. And a tiny bit tacky. And kitsch. I shrug and don't make eye contact. Not that tacky kitsch isn't OK, but I'm not sure it's at all what the couple would want. Besides, I don't think they have any wall space in their tiny one-booty kitchen.
Oh, well.
Twenty minutes later (because it took that long to make our way to the registers and check out), we're picking our way out of the parking lot, the new toaster-themed clock in the back of my car. Great, and on Christmas morning, I get to say I helped pick it out. Joy. The news will be made that much more teeth grindingly fun when they all realize I got to pick out my own present from The Grandma, since I took her shopping. I wrapped it myself and put it under the tree. I got to wrap the clock too. Wrapping is part of the Driving Miss Grandma job.
Never fear. The Grandma's kept all her receipts. Now if she can only find them. She's put them in a "safe" place.
Every year The Grandma gets some weird notion in her head that she must get the three grandchildren (and now this includes the fabulous fiance as well)some sort of themed gift. One year it was harmonicas. For several years in a row she got us all flashlights. This year, I'm not sure if there is one single themed gift she is bestowing on the grandchildren. Truth is, she hasn't had much of an opportunity to shop. My mother has been insanely busy popping out babies left and right. She saw 31 patients the other day while her co-worker, the other midwife in the practice, delivered THREE babies. (Question to the people of Rockford, have you ever heard of birth control, or maybe reading a book?)
Anyway, this has left me as the official driver, errand-runner, and Toter of The Grandma To All Various and Sundry Places All Over the City Regardless of How Insane the Traffic Is. I don't mind. Mostly. It seems this year, however, she has gotten it into her head that she MUST find and purchase a wall clock for a certain couple's new(ish) apartment. Oh, Sweet Jeebus help me. We looked at Target. We looked at Gordmans. I questioned the sanity of this expedition. And then, we looked at Kohl's. They had all of six wall clocks to choose from, but The Grandma was insistent on selecting one. For a moment, she had her eye on a wooden one with a brassy metal pendulum. It'd be perfect . . . for The Grandma's bathroom. And then, she had her eye on a simple silver one that reminded me of a hubcap with a clock face in it. It'd be perfect . . . for Monster Garage.
In the meantime, I'm making noncommittal noises as she asks me "What about this one?" Hmmm . . . yeah, that's a nice clock. And, I'm entertaining myself looking at the kitchen clocks all shaped like kitchen appliances and gadgets--a coffee pot, for example. I picked up the one that looks like a toaster with a little piece of toast popping out the top and laugh.
"You like that one?"
Oh great, now I've made it look like I think this is the clock to buy. Hmmmmmm . . . yeah, that's a nice clock.
"You think they'll like that one?"
Hmmmm . . . . I think it's cute and kinda funny. And a tiny bit tacky. And kitsch. I shrug and don't make eye contact. Not that tacky kitsch isn't OK, but I'm not sure it's at all what the couple would want. Besides, I don't think they have any wall space in their tiny one-booty kitchen.
Oh, well.
Twenty minutes later (because it took that long to make our way to the registers and check out), we're picking our way out of the parking lot, the new toaster-themed clock in the back of my car. Great, and on Christmas morning, I get to say I helped pick it out. Joy. The news will be made that much more teeth grindingly fun when they all realize I got to pick out my own present from The Grandma, since I took her shopping. I wrapped it myself and put it under the tree. I got to wrap the clock too. Wrapping is part of the Driving Miss Grandma job.
Never fear. The Grandma's kept all her receipts. Now if she can only find them. She's put them in a "safe" place.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
A Spinster Winter's Tale
My apartment complex is comprised of several odd little buildings on a plot of land half surrounded by a wooded "mountain" (hence the clever name, Tekoa Mountain Apartments). There are about 27 units in this complex, mine being in the back of the property, hedged in by several other units, all with their own, private outdoor entrances and backdoors leading out onto a green expanse of lawn, and of course, Tekoa "mountain" (I say "mountain" because it's more like an over-glorified hillside with lots and lots of trees). The wooded "mountainside" is home to all sorts of little and not-so-little woodland creatures. Some, I've seen with my own eyes--a fisher cat, for example, which is evidently some strange creature from the weasel family that likes to eat squirrels, and not an animal I'd like to have any sort of personal encounter with. There have been bear sightings in the woods out back. And, of course, there is an abundance of fuzzy little woodland creatures like raccoons, bunnies, chipmunks, squirrels.
Now, here in the frigid northeast, it gets dark by 4:30. The Ted, however, doesn't really care and still insists that I walk him after dark. No problem. I walk him in the lighted areas in front of my apartment and around the small property (and I use "lighted" in the loosest sense of the word--there are lights, and they emit a sort of luminescent glow, but it's more decorative than functional, but it's better than nothing which is what is out back).
So, I'm out walking the Ted--he has a routine when we walk, a list of specific points where he feels the need to leave his liquid calling card, places where he needs to snort around to see what's up with the other dogs in the apartment complex. So, we sort of follow a route around the property. And, on this particular occassion, the Ted has decided to poop in one of his usual spots. It's dark. It's about 7:30 at night. I've had a long, long, long day at work, involving adventures with irate strange students and endless department meetings. And, to top it off, I had no heat or hot water the day/evening before, nor that morning. So, I've been heating the apartment with my oven, and I havnen't been able to shower in over 24 hours. I'm tired. I smell. I haven't eaten since that morning. I'm standing, in the cold, in the dark, waiting for the Ted to finish his business, fumbling with the little baggy dispenser on his leash so I can clean up after he's finished with his business, and I suddenly hear this old, cranky, disembodied voice.
"Why are you letting your dog poop in my yard?"
I'm tired, and my brain's cogs are cranking at an unusally slow pace. My first reaction is, where is that voice coming from? I look around to see a floating head backlit in a small window of the nearest apartment. It's the kind of window they stick in a bathroom, it's small, and relatively useless--kind of like the outdoor lighting. And then, my next reaction is, YOUR YARD?? Where in your lease does it say this patch of grass belongs to you? I, of course, have yet to respond to Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants' floating head, so it speaks again.
"What do you let your dog poop in my yard for?"
By now, my brain has defrosted a bit, The Ted is finished with his business, and I'm scooping it up in a baggy. I respond, trying not to be rude, "Don't worry, I'm cleaning it up."
Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants doesn't hear me, or he doesn't care--I don't know, he's busy doing something in his bathroom while screaming at me. "Why don't you walk your dog out in your own backyard? You've got all that space back there."
Hmmmm, you mean the pitch black field adjacent to the wooded "mountain", Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants? Where there have been bear sightings? "There's no light back there. The areas out front here are lighted at night." And I'm a total clutz and have a strange need to see where I'm going without getting mauled by happy little woodland creatures or falling flat on my face because the ground is uneven.
Again, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants doesn't seem to understand my crazy moon language. "How would you like it if I walked my dog in front of your apartment, and just let me him poop wherever?"
I'm tying closed the baggy I've scooped Teddy's poop up with--and let it be known, I'm one of the only tenants that cleans up after their pet, and Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants is NOT one of those chosen few who follow my example. I stared back at the floating head of Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants and replied as sweetly as possible, "I don't care where you walk your dog, as long as you clean up after it." And, at that I left Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants to grumble incoherently as I walked over to the dumster and chucked in my little blue plastic baggy of Teddy poo.
What makes this even crazier is that I've had polite conversation with Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants, on multiple occassions, one just recently. So where is this sudden animosity coming from? And where does it say on his lease that this corner of grass belongs to him? Bite me, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants. He, I'm sure, HAD heat and hot water for the last 24 hours. He's probably had a hot shower today. He's probably eaten dinner by now. I didn't see him at my interminable meeting. And whatever he's doing in his bathroom, screaming out the window at me, I don't know. But he and his poopy little dog can take long, midnight strolls in the field out back of my apartment any night they want. And get mauled by a bear. Or fall in a dark sink hole where no one will find them until morning because there's absolutely NO LIGHT back there.
What's that I hear--it's that fabulous Christmas tune: "It's the most wonderful time of the year . . ." Hmmm, yes. The Holiday season where everyone's full of happy holiday cheer. Happy Holidays, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants. Teddy has a present for you. I wrapped it myself in this cheerful little blue plastic bag. Enjoy.
Now, here in the frigid northeast, it gets dark by 4:30. The Ted, however, doesn't really care and still insists that I walk him after dark. No problem. I walk him in the lighted areas in front of my apartment and around the small property (and I use "lighted" in the loosest sense of the word--there are lights, and they emit a sort of luminescent glow, but it's more decorative than functional, but it's better than nothing which is what is out back).
So, I'm out walking the Ted--he has a routine when we walk, a list of specific points where he feels the need to leave his liquid calling card, places where he needs to snort around to see what's up with the other dogs in the apartment complex. So, we sort of follow a route around the property. And, on this particular occassion, the Ted has decided to poop in one of his usual spots. It's dark. It's about 7:30 at night. I've had a long, long, long day at work, involving adventures with irate strange students and endless department meetings. And, to top it off, I had no heat or hot water the day/evening before, nor that morning. So, I've been heating the apartment with my oven, and I havnen't been able to shower in over 24 hours. I'm tired. I smell. I haven't eaten since that morning. I'm standing, in the cold, in the dark, waiting for the Ted to finish his business, fumbling with the little baggy dispenser on his leash so I can clean up after he's finished with his business, and I suddenly hear this old, cranky, disembodied voice.
"Why are you letting your dog poop in my yard?"
I'm tired, and my brain's cogs are cranking at an unusally slow pace. My first reaction is, where is that voice coming from? I look around to see a floating head backlit in a small window of the nearest apartment. It's the kind of window they stick in a bathroom, it's small, and relatively useless--kind of like the outdoor lighting. And then, my next reaction is, YOUR YARD?? Where in your lease does it say this patch of grass belongs to you? I, of course, have yet to respond to Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants' floating head, so it speaks again.
"What do you let your dog poop in my yard for?"
By now, my brain has defrosted a bit, The Ted is finished with his business, and I'm scooping it up in a baggy. I respond, trying not to be rude, "Don't worry, I'm cleaning it up."
Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants doesn't hear me, or he doesn't care--I don't know, he's busy doing something in his bathroom while screaming at me. "Why don't you walk your dog out in your own backyard? You've got all that space back there."
Hmmmm, you mean the pitch black field adjacent to the wooded "mountain", Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants? Where there have been bear sightings? "There's no light back there. The areas out front here are lighted at night." And I'm a total clutz and have a strange need to see where I'm going without getting mauled by happy little woodland creatures or falling flat on my face because the ground is uneven.
Again, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants doesn't seem to understand my crazy moon language. "How would you like it if I walked my dog in front of your apartment, and just let me him poop wherever?"
I'm tying closed the baggy I've scooped Teddy's poop up with--and let it be known, I'm one of the only tenants that cleans up after their pet, and Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants is NOT one of those chosen few who follow my example. I stared back at the floating head of Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants and replied as sweetly as possible, "I don't care where you walk your dog, as long as you clean up after it." And, at that I left Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants to grumble incoherently as I walked over to the dumster and chucked in my little blue plastic baggy of Teddy poo.
What makes this even crazier is that I've had polite conversation with Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants, on multiple occassions, one just recently. So where is this sudden animosity coming from? And where does it say on his lease that this corner of grass belongs to him? Bite me, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants. He, I'm sure, HAD heat and hot water for the last 24 hours. He's probably had a hot shower today. He's probably eaten dinner by now. I didn't see him at my interminable meeting. And whatever he's doing in his bathroom, screaming out the window at me, I don't know. But he and his poopy little dog can take long, midnight strolls in the field out back of my apartment any night they want. And get mauled by a bear. Or fall in a dark sink hole where no one will find them until morning because there's absolutely NO LIGHT back there.
What's that I hear--it's that fabulous Christmas tune: "It's the most wonderful time of the year . . ." Hmmm, yes. The Holiday season where everyone's full of happy holiday cheer. Happy Holidays, Mr. Old Man Cranky Pants. Teddy has a present for you. I wrapped it myself in this cheerful little blue plastic bag. Enjoy.