Meet My Grandmother

Meet my Grandmother. She's ninety-six years old, lives in her own house, drives her own car (hereafter referred to as her "wheels"), and power walks the mall like nobody's business.

* side note: I feel like such a slug. A jiggly, jiggly slug.

You should know that my Grandmother has always been and will always be referred to as Grandmother. Not Grandma. Not Nana. And never, ever Meemaw. For the love of all that is holy, do not call this woman Meemaw. 

The woman is amazing. Simply, unequivocally amazing.

While in her 80s, she was in two separate but horrific car accidents, battled colon cancer, and broke her hip while at work. Let that last one sink in for a bit. While at work, people. Like, at a job. I kid you not. Her reason for being at work at age eighty-five? She's a nurse and nursing is what nurses do. My favorite part about her working until age eighty-five? Her grousing about all the "old" people she took care of. Oh the irony - those old people were twenty years younger than her.

Besides being a nurse, there are three things that my Grandmother truly, deeply loves: God, Oldsmobile, and Taco Bell. Probably in that order.

One of the worst days of her life was when Grandmother discovered Oldsmobile was going out of business. Closing it's doors forever. Outrage does not begin to convey her emotion on that day.

Grandmother (just this side of hysteria): What am I supposed to drive now? I've got to have wheels, Oldsmobile wheels. I can't start driving a Chevy now. At my age? Pfft. 

*side note: she now happily drives a Pontiac G6 because it's "zippy and you can get it up to 80 mph before you know what's going on. You'd never guess it wasn't an Oldsmobile."

** side note: I (and my family) sincerely apologize to each and every driver in central Illinois. If you see a tiny woman with a glass eye sitting on a pillow (I kid you not) behind the steering wheel in a Pontiac G6, just pull over and let her buzz by you. Trust me.

That's my Grandmother. Bulldozing through life at eighty miles per hour, snarfing Taco Bell. She does love her some Taco Bell (Grandmother's partial to their Mexican Pizzas). I'm proud to say that I introduced the Grandmother and the Bell back in '88. To date, it's my only successful attempt at match making. And really, what's funnier than a woman ordering a Mexican Pizza and a senior citizen's coffee?

Although if I'm going to be totally truthful, her love for fast food does not stop at Taco Bell. It includes Burger King, too.

Every time I get nostalgic about the Christmases of my youth, I feel an overpowering desire for a Whopper with Cheese. And fries. Christmas dinner just wasn't complete without the paper envelope of french fries. For reasons that totally escape me now, Burger King is where we spent many a Christmas dinner with Grandmother. I should point out that the holiday was always celebrated on the Sunday before Christmas with Grandmother, not on December 25 so the King was always open regular dining room hours (drive-thru open late).

Now that I'm really putting some thought into it, Grandmother grooves to almost any kind of fast food. McDonald's (pronounced Mack Donald's). Arby's (known as the Hat Place). Fazoli's (AKA Fuzzy Lee's). And her newest find is Dairy Queen (they have ice cream!). She wanted to go to the DQ for lunch yesterday, but then thought we should go someplace nicer.

Steak N Shake.

Fun fact, Grandmother style: Know what makes Steak N Shake more highfalutin' than Dairy Queen? Dining utensils that don't come wrapped plastic, but in a napkin. 

After lunching at Steak N Shake (complete with napkin enfolded forks), we went back to her house and I saw a giant zucchini sitting in her back screened-in porch. Here is (almost) verbatim the ensuing conversation.

Me: Where'd you get the giant zucchini? 

Grandmother: The backyard.

Me (getting suspicious): Your backyard?

Grandmother: Yep.

Me: You don't have a garden …

Grandmother: My neighbor has a garden and his zucchini plant grew over onto my side of the fence. The law clearly states that any and all produce that grows on your side of the fence is legally yours. Look it up. I took some tomatoes, too.

Me (outraged at her thievery): What?! You can't just go picking that man's produce!

Grandmother (very calm): It's not his produce, it's mine. The law very clearly states if it grows in my yard, it's mine. Dang good tomatoes, too. Want some?

Me: NO … can I take a picture of your giant zucchini?

Grandmother: Only if I can be in the picture.

Meet my Grandmother. She's ninety-six, loves fast food, fast wheels, and stealing the neighbor's produce.

I hope I'm just like her.

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