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😃
living with your grandmother
for any parasocial bitch that could possibly gaf
and knows about niche internet celebs like me:)
i took the semester off because of my brain and im living w my grandmother in the city in the smallest state of the world.
my grandmother is loud and asks me uncomfortable questions but Im going to blame it on her age and not get angry she has so little time they were talking abt alzeimhers meds at dinner and I really hope I don’t get it the man there was talking about his pastrami parties where they all get around the table and pick add the fresh peppery pastrami sizzling out of the oven
and how his father used to make pastrami in Brooklyn and that he had a pastrami business anyway
an elderly woman just explained to me her peace and acceptance towards her own death If I go I go she said
thinking why some people can go and be all peace and noncommittal what luck and privilege! to sacrifice your body and time to ur kids and ur husband and ur work and still have enough to have a country and community that loves you to be seen as worth peace even in death
my grandmother is loud and asks me uncomfortable questions but Im going to blame it on her age and not get angry she has so little time they were talking abt alzeimhers meds at dinner and I really hope I don’t get it the man there was talking about his pastrami parties where they all get around the table and pick add the fresh peppery pastrami sizzling out of the oven
and how his father used to make pastrami in Brooklyn and that he had a pastrami business anyway
an elderly woman just explained to me her peace and acceptance towards her own death If I go I go she said
thinking why some people can go and be all peace and noncommittal what luck and privilege! to sacrifice your body and time to ur kids and ur husband and ur work and still have enough to have a country and community that loves you to be seen as worth peace even in death
Apr 12, 2024
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🗝My grandmother got dementia this past year and for months I was scared to go up to visit her because she felt distant, and I didn't really know how to talk to someone with dementia.
Eventually I got over myself and started visiting her a couple times a week. Often she wouldn't know who I was, but her face always lit up whenever she saw me that it didn't matter in the end.
One day, I was helping her walk to her room to lay down, when she looked at me with such alertness in her eyes and started asking me all about how my job was doing, stories she remembers about me, and telling me how she feels in her day to day. We talked for almost an hour like this before she lapsed back into a more confused state.
Looking back, I realized that must have been the most I talked to her in one sitting and although that filled me with a lot of regret and guilt, I am so grateful I got the chance to connect with her before it was too late.
She's in a nursing home now, and doesn't recognize me anymore, and that's okay.
May 15, 2025
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🗝i’m lucky enough still have a grandmother in my mid 30s—which I think is an age where you’re settled enough to finally get to know your adult family members on a personal level. The generation gap definitely means I’m always on my toes when we hang out cos I can never predict what she’s gonna do, but she’s funny and wise, makes friends wherever she goes, doesn’t give af, is a mean cook, can do quiet company like no one else, and loves me to smithereens.
Dec 4, 2024
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👴I remember driving out to my paternal grandpa Herb’s house in the lower valley, one of the oldest neighborhoods in town which was kind of an agricultural area where people had larger plots of land; irrigation ditches lined either side of the street. His neighbor had a pony that would sometimes be in their front yard, to my excitement and delight.
Upon our arrival, would sit me down in his living room, first thing, to give me porcelain dolls and Scooby Doo toys and VHS tapes he had ordered from QVC or catalogues. My dad’s and uncle’s playroom was still perfectly preserved as it was when they were kids in the 1950s, filled with their toys and books, the walls and decor all painted in bright primary colors of blue and yellow and red. My deceased grandmother’s pewter vanity set was still arranged on her makeup table in their bedroom, her glass shoe and bell collections still sitting on their display shelves atop a glass-topped desk lined with pink satin and lace. He had a huge library filled with books—Hemingway, Thoreau, Faulkner, Steinbeck, etc.
His kitchen smelled like the old bananas he would buy and forget to eat. I remember running out into his backyard in the winter to crack the frozen water in the stone bird bath and the dry mud beneath my feet; walking through the groves of pecan and pomegranate trees and picking up the fallen treats!
He had a stroke one day and was lying on the ground for a few hours before anyone found him. I remember finding out right before my mom took me and my sister to the grocery store—I said we should get him flowers. When we returned home, we learned that he had passed. I was 6 years old. I lamented that it couldn’t have been my other grandfather instead. I was even angrier now that he wanted me to call him Papa; that was a name that could only belong to Herb. We picked out all of his things to keep before the estate sale—my grandmother’s bells and shoes found a new home in my bedroom, on their same display shelf, which would become my desk; many of his books have moved with me wherever I’ve gone.
—
Visiting my maternal grandparents in third grade… my nice aunt was supposed to pick us up from DFW airport but something came up so my other aunt came instead. She was very late; we were sitting there for at least an hour, maybe two. I was reading my hardcover copy of Bud, Not Buddy by Christopher Paul Curtis, which I had just won as a prize for getting first place in the spelling bee.
By the time my aunt finally came, my mother was in a tizzy—and it didn’t help that they already had a bad relationship. They started arguing with each other and my aunt dumped all of our luggage out of the trunk of her BMW in the middle of the pickup area road. They continued to fight on the drive, started slapping and clawing at each other with my aunt at the wheel.
We pulled over at a gas station in Grapevine, Texas and they got out of the car—screaming and hitting each other, circling the gas pumps. I was used to this kind of thing happening; I was just trying to focus on my book. Someone working at the gas station called the police. They asked my mom if she wanted to press charges against my aunt, who I guess was the primary aggressor, and my mom declined. The sheriff’s office gave me an honorary deputy sticker or badge.
My aunt’s millionaire new husband (when they met, she was married to her first husband, and he was her boss) retrieved our luggage from the airport and brought it to us, apologizing profusely. We walked to the Double Tree hotel across the street where my aunt’s husband had booked us a room; my grandfather was coming to get us now but he lived further out in the country, so it was going to be a while until he could get to us. I still remember the warm chocolate chip cookie they gave me at the front desk.
We waited in our room and looked up a pizza delivery place in the phone book. My sister had the worst ARFID I’ve ever personally seen in a person to this day, so it was a great victory that we were able to get her to eat pizza with red sauce—I remember feeling my mom’s tangible relief. The crust was thin and the slices were cut into squares.
My grandfather came after nightfall and we drove all the way home in what I recall to be terse silence—I was glad to be able to read my book now. My grandfather seemed to place all of the blame entirely on my mother, based on what I had heard of their brief conversation, which I thought was odd. We got out of the sliding doors of the Honda minivan and I felt the warm damp lake air hitting me like a wall, heard the crickets chirping in the dark. We entered the house through the garage and my grandmother gave me a stiff hug and a peck on the cheek to greet me before going to bed. She smelled like powder and tuberose. My mom had to pretend like nothing was wrong. We walked through their big empty house and went our separate ways—my mom went to her room and my sister and I settled into ours, trying our best to go to sleep in our frilly little twin beds.
Upon our arrival, would sit me down in his living room, first thing, to give me porcelain dolls and Scooby Doo toys and VHS tapes he had ordered from QVC or catalogues. My dad’s and uncle’s playroom was still perfectly preserved as it was when they were kids in the 1950s, filled with their toys and books, the walls and decor all painted in bright primary colors of blue and yellow and red. My deceased grandmother’s pewter vanity set was still arranged on her makeup table in their bedroom, her glass shoe and bell collections still sitting on their display shelves atop a glass-topped desk lined with pink satin and lace. He had a huge library filled with books—Hemingway, Thoreau, Faulkner, Steinbeck, etc.
His kitchen smelled like the old bananas he would buy and forget to eat. I remember running out into his backyard in the winter to crack the frozen water in the stone bird bath and the dry mud beneath my feet; walking through the groves of pecan and pomegranate trees and picking up the fallen treats!
He had a stroke one day and was lying on the ground for a few hours before anyone found him. I remember finding out right before my mom took me and my sister to the grocery store—I said we should get him flowers. When we returned home, we learned that he had passed. I was 6 years old. I lamented that it couldn’t have been my other grandfather instead. I was even angrier now that he wanted me to call him Papa; that was a name that could only belong to Herb. We picked out all of his things to keep before the estate sale—my grandmother’s bells and shoes found a new home in my bedroom, on their same display shelf, which would become my desk; many of his books have moved with me wherever I’ve gone.
—
Visiting my maternal grandparents in third grade… my nice aunt was supposed to pick us up from DFW airport but something came up so my other aunt came instead. She was very late; we were sitting there for at least an hour, maybe two. I was reading my hardcover copy of Bud, Not Buddy by Christopher Paul Curtis, which I had just won as a prize for getting first place in the spelling bee.
By the time my aunt finally came, my mother was in a tizzy—and it didn’t help that they already had a bad relationship. They started arguing with each other and my aunt dumped all of our luggage out of the trunk of her BMW in the middle of the pickup area road. They continued to fight on the drive, started slapping and clawing at each other with my aunt at the wheel.
We pulled over at a gas station in Grapevine, Texas and they got out of the car—screaming and hitting each other, circling the gas pumps. I was used to this kind of thing happening; I was just trying to focus on my book. Someone working at the gas station called the police. They asked my mom if she wanted to press charges against my aunt, who I guess was the primary aggressor, and my mom declined. The sheriff’s office gave me an honorary deputy sticker or badge.
My aunt’s millionaire new husband (when they met, she was married to her first husband, and he was her boss) retrieved our luggage from the airport and brought it to us, apologizing profusely. We walked to the Double Tree hotel across the street where my aunt’s husband had booked us a room; my grandfather was coming to get us now but he lived further out in the country, so it was going to be a while until he could get to us. I still remember the warm chocolate chip cookie they gave me at the front desk.
We waited in our room and looked up a pizza delivery place in the phone book. My sister had the worst ARFID I’ve ever personally seen in a person to this day, so it was a great victory that we were able to get her to eat pizza with red sauce—I remember feeling my mom’s tangible relief. The crust was thin and the slices were cut into squares.
My grandfather came after nightfall and we drove all the way home in what I recall to be terse silence—I was glad to be able to read my book now. My grandfather seemed to place all of the blame entirely on my mother, based on what I had heard of their brief conversation, which I thought was odd. We got out of the sliding doors of the Honda minivan and I felt the warm damp lake air hitting me like a wall, heard the crickets chirping in the dark. We entered the house through the garage and my grandmother gave me a stiff hug and a peck on the cheek to greet me before going to bed. She smelled like powder and tuberose. My mom had to pretend like nothing was wrong. We walked through their big empty house and went our separate ways—my mom went to her room and my sister and I settled into ours, trying our best to go to sleep in our frilly little twin beds.
Jul 16, 2025
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⭐just got my Brooklyn library card today. libraries are stunning, reverent places.