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Wednesday, November 30, 2005

My grandmother is approaching that age. The age that many identify as the age where you begin starting to make meals for yourself and then forget them on the counter for several weeks. The age where you reintroduce your immediate family members each time they see each other. The age where you live in constant fear of cows attacking and killing you and your loved ones. In other words, the age when it's time to go live in a home.

Over the Thanksgiving holidays, my paternal extended family got together for a family photograph, something we haven't done in over ten years. The family all met for the pose1, and according to my sister, the embarassment she sustained was dwarfed only by the hilarity that she recognized it for after the fact.

"Madge, this is Tara."

"Grandma, Tara has been my cousin ever since I was born. We've met."

"Well, we're all family here."

Aunts and cousins primped for the photo, bickering ensued, and no one could sit still for more than five seconds at a time. But things really took a turn for the worst when my grandmother couldn't find her bag.

"Where's my bag? I can't find my bag!"

"Do you remember where you left it last?" asked my aunt.

"Fuck off," my grandmother scowled, walking away with a toss of her hair.

If there's an expression that says "Bitch, you're going to a home," it was on my aunt's face.

"I'm really concerned for her well-being," my aunt said later, "maybe we should put her in a home."

1Excluding myself, who didn't wake up in time in Austin and missed the photograph. I'm being inserted digitally. Really.


Blogger Ben said...

I'm being inserted digitally. Really.

That's so damned post modern.

I think you should digitally insert a bag too.

And a dragon.

6:46 PM  
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