Last year my 82 year-old grandmother was mugged walking home from a casino at 3:00am on the boardwalk in Atlantic City. Unlike most kindly grandmothers who are home and asleep in the middle of the night, this was a typical night for mine, who spent most evenings at the craps table, sipping bourbon into the early morning hours.
After the mugging grandma moved out here to Los Angeles to be closer to us, her family. My dad asked me to help my newly relocated, vulnerable grandma out whenever I could. Wanting to help, get closer with her in her last years, and of course, make her life a little easier, I made sure to see her at least once a week.
Now when I used to visit her back in Atlantic City, we always did a lot of the same things, but I was a kid, happy to be away from my parents’ watchful eye. So I was happy, and I never really questioned it. Our routine was a little quirky, but fun. However, the L.A. version of grandma is a whole new kind of grandma… a stealth force, iron-fisted grandma, who would bitch-slap General George S. Patton and laugh at his cry-baby tears. And now she’s mine. Every week we run errands… lots and lots of errands.
My grandmother’s name is Verna, she’s a lifelong, heavy cigarette smoker, and she only smokes one thing - Virginia Slims Luxury Light 120’s, which are apparently hard to find. CVS is the sole destination for her favorite vice. And not only do they carry them “but at a great price” according to grandma. So CVS is always the first place on the list.
Next we hit Rite-Aid where she buys TreSemme Freeze-Hold Mega Fast Drying Hair Spray. They do sell this at CVS, but it’s over 79 cents less at Rite-Aid, so, of course, she has to buy it there. Smart and Final is third in the batting-order; she likes their Green Apple lollipops covered with caramel. She claims they help her smoke less although I have yet to notice a decline in her three pack a day habit.
Up next we go to Pavilions to get Milk Chocolate Covered Dove Bars, for some reason most stores only carry the Dark Chocolate variety. These might as well be dipped in bacon fat as far as Grandma is concerned, so, ok, Milk Chocolate it is. Always.
Our last stop is Ralphs and although they’re lacking in the Dove Bar department, their prices are substantially lower than Pavilions. This is where she does the remainder of her shopping. The average time spent in Ralphs is about an hour and a half, although once recently on a sweltering afternoon we were there for over two hours, but that was because the manager had to explain to grandma that you can’t just break up any half dozen eggs, and that only particular egg types are intended to be sold that way. It was a heated discourse that my grandmother eventually ended with a dismissive flail of the hand, while saying none so quietly, “Ah, what kind of schlub works at the grocery, anyway!”
In addition to our destination hit list, the reason shopping with grandma takes so long is how she insists on following the grocery manifesto in the exact order in which it was written. For example: milk, paper towels, bananas yogurt, and tissues. She will go to the dairy section and grab the organic lactose free milk, go find the pick-a-size paper towels, get the (not too yellow not too green) bananas and then head back to the dairy section for whatever yogurt is on sale just to make her way over to the paper goods aisle for the second time for the tissues that do not contain lotion. It’s the most inefficient way I have ever seen anyone do just about anything and this is why we are there for hours and most of the employees know us by name. I’m surprised they don’t charge us rent.
I once asked her why she shopped in this rigid “letter of the law” style and her response was that Los Angeles grocery stores are different from the ones in Atlantic City. Now I speak pretty clear English… but, seriously, what the fucking hell does that mean? Is she suggesting that produce and paper goods are always in the same aisle back east? Uh, maybe, but somehow I doubt this, as all stores pretty much keep like items together. This incredible logic has very little to do with the store and everything to do with the grandmother.
I haven’t even gotten to our bi-monthly trips to Target. Wait, is that my cell? What do you know, it’s Grandma, she needs me to come over to help her return something to the 99 cent store. I think we’re getting closer.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Chivalry, My Ass
On Halloween night at Bar Nineteen 12 in the Beverly Hills Hotel, I was hit-on by a man who was 83 years old… I am 35.
It never ceases to amaze me how some men behave. With guys my age, I get it, manners be damned: their mothers never taught them, equality of the sexes, female empowerment, hey, I get it. I’m lucky if a guy holds the door open for me when I’ve got an armful of groceries. But older men? Now that’s a different story. They come from a sepia-tinted time when decorum and social etiquette were everyday stuff. They were weaned on it, like mothers’ milk. Despite my quasi-feminist, post-post modern leanings, I am a girl after all and sometimes I like to be treated like one. So, hey, bring on the old fashioned gentlemen!
After catching up on the heavy drama of our lives for a good hour of so, my friend, Esmeralda, and I were about to leave the bar, when a nattily dressed, silver-fox of a man, named Jarred - I’m guessing early 50’s - introduced himself to me. We were quickly invited to his table, and we ended up sitting and chatting with him. Along with our drinks came the arrival of Jarred’s two friends.
Esme ended up in a deep conversation with Jarred and somehow I ended up with each of Jarred’s friends on either side of me. Frank, a dark haired, Captain of Industry type, claimed to be related to the mob, needless to say I had some questions. Frank said he didn’t want to tell me too much in fear that it would scare me off. Clearly he didn’t consider that having to push him off of me every few minutes was having precisely the same effect. The other friend, Sergio - a spry 83 with a very thick Italian accent - appeared to be more mild mannered, but that didn’t last long.
Last call was announced and the three men tried to convince us to go back to Sergio’s suite where he would cook “the best Italian food we had ever had” and then we could all go swimming. As if this was EVER going to happen.
When the check arrived Esme and I went out on the balcony to have a private chat. As we were talking and laughing about the surreal septuagenarian quality of the evening, our waiter came over and tried to hand us a check. Without even looking at it, I told him to send it over to the men who had so kindly invited us to their table for a drink. The waiter told me that they had requested it be sent to us.
Um, well… what?
Just then, Sergio swaggered out to find me and asked if I would be interested in getting a room for the night with him. I could hardly believe what was happening. These three aggressive men, who wanted us to go home with them, sent us a check for our drinks! Really?
Jarred and Frank walked over to us and asked if we were ready to head over to Sergio’s. Esme is much more reserved than me, she was happy to pay the bill for us both. It had absolutely nothing to do with money; this was about so much more. I spoke up, the three men stood there while I told them I thought they had a lot of nerve sending us a bill for two drinks after being so aggressive and all the while hoping we would go home with them. What the hell! They all denied that they had been the one to send the bill our way, looking at each other as if to blame the other one.
The bill got paid, I am not sure how they resolved it and I don’t care. Needless to say, the aging lotharios were left to carry-on without us.
Ah, chivalry!
It never ceases to amaze me how some men behave. With guys my age, I get it, manners be damned: their mothers never taught them, equality of the sexes, female empowerment, hey, I get it. I’m lucky if a guy holds the door open for me when I’ve got an armful of groceries. But older men? Now that’s a different story. They come from a sepia-tinted time when decorum and social etiquette were everyday stuff. They were weaned on it, like mothers’ milk. Despite my quasi-feminist, post-post modern leanings, I am a girl after all and sometimes I like to be treated like one. So, hey, bring on the old fashioned gentlemen!
After catching up on the heavy drama of our lives for a good hour of so, my friend, Esmeralda, and I were about to leave the bar, when a nattily dressed, silver-fox of a man, named Jarred - I’m guessing early 50’s - introduced himself to me. We were quickly invited to his table, and we ended up sitting and chatting with him. Along with our drinks came the arrival of Jarred’s two friends.
Esme ended up in a deep conversation with Jarred and somehow I ended up with each of Jarred’s friends on either side of me. Frank, a dark haired, Captain of Industry type, claimed to be related to the mob, needless to say I had some questions. Frank said he didn’t want to tell me too much in fear that it would scare me off. Clearly he didn’t consider that having to push him off of me every few minutes was having precisely the same effect. The other friend, Sergio - a spry 83 with a very thick Italian accent - appeared to be more mild mannered, but that didn’t last long.
Last call was announced and the three men tried to convince us to go back to Sergio’s suite where he would cook “the best Italian food we had ever had” and then we could all go swimming. As if this was EVER going to happen.
When the check arrived Esme and I went out on the balcony to have a private chat. As we were talking and laughing about the surreal septuagenarian quality of the evening, our waiter came over and tried to hand us a check. Without even looking at it, I told him to send it over to the men who had so kindly invited us to their table for a drink. The waiter told me that they had requested it be sent to us.
Um, well… what?
Just then, Sergio swaggered out to find me and asked if I would be interested in getting a room for the night with him. I could hardly believe what was happening. These three aggressive men, who wanted us to go home with them, sent us a check for our drinks! Really?
Jarred and Frank walked over to us and asked if we were ready to head over to Sergio’s. Esme is much more reserved than me, she was happy to pay the bill for us both. It had absolutely nothing to do with money; this was about so much more. I spoke up, the three men stood there while I told them I thought they had a lot of nerve sending us a bill for two drinks after being so aggressive and all the while hoping we would go home with them. What the hell! They all denied that they had been the one to send the bill our way, looking at each other as if to blame the other one.
The bill got paid, I am not sure how they resolved it and I don’t care. Needless to say, the aging lotharios were left to carry-on without us.
Ah, chivalry!
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