Sunday, August 31, 2008
Out to Lunch
We took my 97-year-old grandmother out to lunch today. It did not go well. We pulled into her driveway and found her wandering around the yard; apparently she had decided that she was unhappy with the height of her hedges and should do some impromptu yard work. Given that she uses a little cart with handles on it just so she can walk around her living room (she calls it her derrick), trying to wield enormous clippers was probably a bad idea. We finally managed to disarm her and get her into the car -- this is a three man job, by the way -- at which point she settled into a pleasant narrative about the various things that are objectionable about various fictional characters' personal grooming and hair. (We're looking at you, Erica Kane.) Once we arrived at the restaurant, she announced that she couldn't hear anything because the television was too loud (there was no television anywhere in the room that had its sound on) and that we would just have to speak up. So we spent the hour screaming three or four word sentences at her. The secret was just to ask her a three or four word question about the forties and let her go on for twenty minutes. She ordered the taco salad, which she ate about six bites of before attempting to crush it up to fit into a to go container. Then it was back to the car, where she asked me to turn off a radio that was of course not on. My pantomime skills come in handy yet again.
We took my 97-year-old grandmother out to lunch today. It did not go well. We pulled into her driveway and found her wandering around the yard; apparently she had decided that she was unhappy with the height of her hedges and should do some impromptu yard work. Given that she uses a little cart with handles on it just so she can walk around her living room (she calls it her derrick), trying to wield enormous clippers was probably a bad idea. We finally managed to disarm her and get her into the car -- this is a three man job, by the way -- at which point she settled into a pleasant narrative about the various things that are objectionable about various fictional characters' personal grooming and hair. (We're looking at you, Erica Kane.) Once we arrived at the restaurant, she announced that she couldn't hear anything because the television was too loud (there was no television anywhere in the room that had its sound on) and that we would just have to speak up. So we spent the hour screaming three or four word sentences at her. The secret was just to ask her a three or four word question about the forties and let her go on for twenty minutes. She ordered the taco salad, which she ate about six bites of before attempting to crush it up to fit into a to go container. Then it was back to the car, where she asked me to turn off a radio that was of course not on. My pantomime skills come in handy yet again.
