When I first got to Granny's house, Gran got annoyed with Rudy because he was sniffing at her crotch. I told her that Rudy is all about his nose and I said that by sniffing your crotch now, he could always find it later. And Dad said, Yeah, if you and your crotch ever get separated, he can find it. And then we all cracked up. Class flows like water around us Hawleys. :-)
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Gran also said some things that cracked me up. Her best line of the weekend comes at the end of this little story:
Gran is always lamenting that all of her neighbors have moved away or are moving away. On one side of her house was a couple a few years younger than her and Pop. The husband died of cancer, and the wife is now in a nursing home, so that house is empty. Behind her is an old guy and his daughter, and the guy supposedly told Gran that they're moving out near Pittsburgh because the daughter thinks she can find a new husband out there. On the other side is a couple who have a daughter who graduated from elementary school and high school with me. The husband is originally from the South, and Granny has convinced herself that the house has already been sold and they're moving back down where he grew up. And she's also convinced that this couple and the people who live behind her are gone every weekend, either house hunting or off doing something else.
Dad says he has an argument with Granny almost every day about the neighbors. She swore that the couple who are supposedly moving south were gone the weekend I was down, but Dad said they went to the pancake supper he helped organize for his Ruritan club on Saturday, and Dad, Jean, and I saw them at breakfast at the Green Olive on Sunday morning. And their house hasn't been up for sale. (Gran explains that by saying they found a buyer on their own.) And so far as we know, the wife has a few more years of work before she will be able to retire and move away. So the move south is probably at most a plan for later rather than a done deal. And I don't know about the guy who lives behind her, but there's no For Sale sign out, so if he and his daughter are moving, he doesn't seem to be in a big hurry to start the process.
Anyhow, Gran brought up the neighbors' moving, as she inevitably does several times a day, and I told her, You never know, Gran. Maybe a hunky 85-year-old will move in. "He'd have to have an ass lined with gold and a pot of money in the bank," she replied.
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Granny often proclaims that she wants nothing to do with another man, but the thought does cross her mind now and again, even if it's just to dismiss it. She said there wasn't any man worth looking at over to the church. And then she said something like, you wouldn't want a guy from church anyway because you wouldn't want him to be too good. Right on, Granny!
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Gran rarely cooks anymore, but us Hawleys can't go too long without our ground meat, so she does fry the occasional hamburger. I knew that for lunch on Saturday, Dad was bringing over some ground beef, but Gran kept saying she hoped Dad would bring something already cooked. When he showed up with the beef, she was disappointed even though I'd told her what Dad had planned to do. Dad had to leave right away to go over to help with the pancake supper.
For Christmas, among other things, I had gotten Granny a new spatula for flipping burgers. She'd been using an old plastic one whose handle had broken, leaving only a stump. On the way to the bathroom to wash up before we ate, I heard Granny say, "This spatula ain't worth a shit." I backtracked into the kitchen to see whether she was using the new one or the old one. It was the new one. She said it was too flexible. *sigh*
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Dad, Jean, Gran, and I went to dinner at the Green Olive on Friday night. They all got petite meals, and I will the next time. I got broiled salmon, and it was good. But there was so much salmon, there was no way I was going to be able to eat it all. Even the so-called petite meals were big. Gran got a slab of grilled chicken breast that she wouldn't have been able to eat in three sittings.
Here's a picture of Dad and Jean at the restaurant:
And here's a shot of Gran and me. We're color coordinated:
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I gave Gran a stuffed-animal nursing-mama cat and three kittens. The kittens magnetically attach to the cat's teats. A few years ago, I gave her the dog equivalent.
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I took Mom to dinner on Saturday for her birthday. She felt like trying the stromboli at a pretty new pizza place called Hard Times that's owned by the granddaughter of a woman who lives in Mom's building and her boyfriend. Mom said she thought the name was clever, so I didn't slag on it that much, but Hard Times? It sounds like they're going to feed you bread and water. Or the waitress is going to pull a Don Rickles on you and mock you relentlessly. Mom said one half of the couple (I'm betting on the boyfriend) said "hard" and the other one said "times," and that's the name they went with, considering themselves to be rather clever.
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When I got up on Sunday morning, Gran told me she'd had diarrhea and had been vomiting. I gave her some orange juice (yeah, a bad idea) because I was worried about her becoming dehydrated, but that came up. Then I made her drink some water. When Dad came over later, we tried some ginger ale, which always seems to help when you've got an upset stomach, but that came up too. Dad promised Gran he'd check in on her every hour or so throughout the day, and he, Jean, and I went to breakfast at the Green Olive. At dinner Friday, I'd told Dad I'd treat for breakfast on Sunday, "which is my subtle way of saying you can pay for dinner."
After breakfast, I reluctantly left Gran's place to head back to Brooklyn. I didn't want to get back too late because Bob, Jen's friend Gina, and Jen's parents were throwing Jen a surprise birthday party that afternoon, and Bob said that Gina had asked whether I'd be able to help them get ready.
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