{The Grandpa Syndrome}

I need to tell ya’ll something.

I’ve known for weeks … months actually. And I believe it’s time to disclose a very important fact to my hoards of grandpa blog fans. {You know, the ones who have been camped outside the house, fighting for a photo or autograph with the famed Granddaughter. Or the ones who follow me in public just to catch a glimpse of a tender moment between me and the Old Man. Let me live my life people! Having nearly 8 people read your blog can get to be so stressful. I’m a real person, too!}

Anyway …  back to the seriousness of my disclosure. I’ve had the symptoms for, well, most of my life. But, I self-diagnosed myself just this morning with a very serious condition. As I “slept in” till 7:38 a.m., I lay in bed {feeling totally rested} and I understood the terrible truth. I think I have Grandpa Syndrome.

I’ve tried to suppress it for most of my life by attempting to stay out late, go on roller coasters and eat asparagus {despite Grandpa’s depression-era-eat-everything-on-your-plate mentality, he HATES asparagus}. But living with Grandpa for more than 8 months now has robbed me of all hope of overcoming the sad fact that I live like an old person.

I’ll finally just say it: I like playing BINGO. I’m an overcautious driver, but still almost run things over. I’d rather nap than update my blog.

There, it’s out there. It’s nice to get that off me chest. It just feels right, you know.

Anyway, I have about 2 months worth of golden blog material to chat about. So, let us get down to the nitty gritty.

I think you should know the ex-convict is in jail! {Again.} At least we believe he’s still in jail. I guess all we really know is that he was in the slammer a few weeks ago when Grandpa’s cell phone was ringing every 47 minutes with “a special message from the Bonneville County Corrections Facility.” All it wanted was for him to pay for an inmate’s {we all know who that could be} collect call, so he could be begged to fork over “only $500 dollars in bail.” Oh, yes please!

Well, we convinced Grandpa that it was probably a bad idea. {I mean, think of how many manager special treats you could by with $500. It doesn't make sense.} So, now he’s without his ex-convict chum … which, unfortunately, he’s not totally excited about.

Without the ex-con, Grandpa’s tried {and failed} to waste his money and resources on us. The other day, we finally took down the trampoline for the season. A sad day for me, but a relief for the grandpa. {He tried to put it away in his 6 x 8 foot greenhouse and quickly realized that wouldn’t work, so we packed it up and hauled it away.} For the occasion, we borrowed Jordan’s parents’ utility trailer. Though it was parked at the house for less than 24 hours, Grandpa was eager to pack that away too.

Here’s a taste of that conversation:

Grandpa: “What’re you gonna do with that trailer?”

Me: “Oh, we’re leaving right now to take it back to Jordan’s parents’ house.”

Grandpa: “You know, I’ve got a place to put it if you need it.”

Me: “No thanks, grandpa. They have a place to park it over there.”

Grandpa: “We could take it to Shelley. I have a place where I can park stuff like that.”

{Time out. What? Where does he get all these random friends and random places?}

Me: “Umm… I think Jordan’s mom and dad would probably just want it back. They like it at their house.”

Grandpa: “We could just run it down to Shelley …”

Me: “I love you, Grandpa. See ya later!”

Grandpa: “Do you need any money? I’ve got money, you know.”

I just closed the door, pretending not to hear the rest of that conversation.

At this point I’m starting to understand why it’s so easy for ex-convicts to take advantage of the old man. He’s happy to offer up his life savings, his greenhouse, his basement, and apparently other people’s private property for free use.

Out of all the Grandpa Syndrome symptoms I’m experiencing, I still don’t do that.

I happily keep my pennies to myself and despite the fact that I’m 24, graduated from college and married, and still don’t have any property to offer to others.

Failure or accomplishment?

You decide.

{Grandpa Needs Presents}

I know what you’re thinking.

“What am I going to get Grandpa for his birthday tomorrow?!”

Forget the fact that I haven’t posted in almost a month. Grandpa needs presents!

Now there’re a few things he NEEDS and a few things he would RATHER have.

First of all, he NEEDS to update his wardrobe. Although, he has plenty of new, stylish old-man clothes {like plaid shirts and chinos} he’d RATHER wear mismatched or stained outfits - with a belt … and suspenders {you never know when you’ll need both, you know?}

He also NEEDS a vacation. Who says you should stay at home all the time just cause you’re old? Just last week, his two best buddies {Ferris and Charlie} road tripped it, to Canada. Ferris {a former World War II pilot} usually flies his own plane on these little adventures, but for reasons unknown - but best for everybody - they decided to keep both feet on the ground for this one. But for some reason, Grandpa said he’d RATHER stay home. You can’t miss an afternoon at the senior center without the threat of loosing you’re popularity, I guess. And what if he missed the latest episode of “Yukon Men”? That just wouldn’t do.

Finally, Grandpa NEEDS new ears. The hearing aids just aren’t cutting it. Even when he remembers to put them in, he often gives me “the pity laugh.” When Grandpa has NO IDEA what you’re saying he gives you the pity laugh and then says something that has nothing to do with the little chat you’re having … or he just walks away and that’s the end of the conversation.

Dialogue with grandpa isn’t even the most exciting part. Lately, he likes to turn the upstairs TV to FOX NEWS and the downstairs TV to CNN and crank up the volume so the whole neighborhood knows the nitty gritty details of Obama and Romney’s race to the death. I don’t even have to be in the same room to know that Obama’s running the country into the ground or Romney is too rich to understand real Americans … or whatever. I don’t really do politics.

But my personal favorite aspect of Grandpa’s hearing problem is waking up to the incessant beeping of his alarm clock on Saturday mornings. I don’t know how it can wake me from a dead sleep one floor up and not even phase the sugar plum fairies dancing around his head less than one foot away.

But the bright side is that after the alarm goes for an unnatural amount of time, the radio turns on and Rush Limbaugh serenades me back to sleep. Oh, how I love Saturdays!

Oh geeze. Look at me; I’ve totally lost my train of thought. My excitement for tomorrow morning overcame me. We were talking about what to get Grandpa for his one and only 83^rd birthday weren’t we?

You know what? Scratch my previous ideas for Grandpa’s birthday presents. If you want to gift your way into Grandpa’s heart, give him a whole bag of chocolate bridge mix or a Smith’s Manager Special rhubarb pie.

Here’s to 83 years of Harold R. Orme. Without that man, I wouldn’t have such an entertaining grandpa, or a blog.

{The Welcome Home}

I’m feeling a bit rusty.

Since my last post, my days have been less pathetic than normal, so I haven’t had as much drive to update the blog. It’s amazing how my pitiful loneliness really kicked my writing skills into gear. I don’t think I’ve put that much effort into a tapestry of words since my flash-in-the-pan as an actual, paid-by-the-hour, investigatory journalist. You may recognize me now … I was the one proclaiming the important news like what 8-year-olds think about Valentine’s Day or the details of an old lady’s bubble gum collection ... you know, the real breaking news. But that’s a full 17 months that we’d all be better to just forget.

As I was saying though, many things have happened as of late. Most importantly – the trampoline is fixed! This is good for everybody. Grandpa no longer asks about it and I may bounce to my pleasure.

Next up, Jordan is home for good! While it’s exciting to be married again, this is also very good for the daily Grandpa-Lindsey interactions. Now we can tag-team. When I don’t think I can chat any longer about the neighbor who may or may not be in the hospital {or dead…we’re not exactly sure what happened there}, I can defer all questions to Jordan and it’s like a whole new way of life. I let him jump right in and I can go back to doing my crossword puzzles.

Since Jordan decided to give up the estranged lifestyle, I’ve had a lot more drive to do life’s funner things and almost completed my first crossword without googling the clues.  It was wild.

Despite all the changes around here, many things are the same and Jordan is quickly getting reacquainted with the grandpa lifestyle.

I’m not sure what Jordan wore to bed for the past three months, but at grandpa’s house, it’s always a good idea to be fully clothed at all times. The old man often likes to “check in” before bedtime. Throughout the summer, grandpa would occasionally peak through my bedroom door at about 11 p.m., flick on the light – I’d try to pretend he didn’t wake me out of a dead sleep and burn out my retinas with the unexpected flood of luminosity – and we’d say goodnight. {These days, I’m not as lame and can stay up past 10:13 p.m., just so you know.} Now that Jordan’s home, grandpa does about the same thing, but when he checks in he just says, “See ya later.” And closes the door. Maybe I’m just used to it, but I think it took Jordan by surprise the other night. 

In the last few week’s, Jordan’s also joined the Battle of the Bathroom Towels. It’s been a long, hard skirmish and grandpa’s troops have been resilient. I don’t know why, but I have this thing about people using my bath towels. It’s not just grandpa, it’s anybody. I like to clean my face and dry my bum with a towel that’s reserved for me and me alone. It’s one {of many things} I refuse to share. I just like to know that if it’s dirty, it’s my own dirt that made it that way. Anyways, long story short, grandpa likes to share towels. I’ve tried many methods to keep our towels separate, but I haven’t found a solution that can stand against grandpa’s sneak attacks.

Suggestions concerning this new ailment will be accepted and if I get one that can conquer the Towel Thief I may consider a Grandpa Diaries Giveaway of some sort – just think of it, you could win a weekend away with grandpa or something exciting like that. Get your ideas in if you want a chance at that. 

{For The Love of Grandpa}

It’s been brought to my attention that some may mistake my honest humor as cynicism … well, you’ve hit it on the button.

I promise each documented happening has been the honest to goodness truth. When reflecting on my daily grandpa experiences, I get the whole shoulder-angel-and-devil thing. Unfortunately, the little hellion on my left shoulder quashes the adorable cherub’s upbeat encouragement on my right; resulting in a slew of sarcastic internal thoughts {but it’s all thunk in a loving way, of course}.

These notions often end up streaming straight from my head and into my computer. I can’t stop it.  {Jordan would be the first to attest to my incapacity to think before I speak … or publish in this matter. I always ramble awkwardly/ incoherently/ shamelessly; and it’s usually to his detriment}. Sometimes I’ll be in the middle of a sentence and I’ll think, “Don’t say that.” And then I say it. Why? I don’t know. Like I said… I can’t stop it.

But to make up for any misunderstandings, I’ve decided to dedicate this post to the reasons why I LOVE my grandpa. {I’ve also been out of town for a good chunk of the week, so I didn’t soak up as much of the awe-inspiring craziness as I normally do.}

The following is my All-The-Things-I-Love-About-My-Grandpa-Plus-A-Few list:

1. I LOVE when grandpa tells me my meals are “just like uptown.” {or “downtown” he likes to substitute the two just to change it up a little bit.} I don’t know how he remembers uptown/downtown, because right now there’s not a ton going for those locations in good ‘ole Idaho Falls – today it’s a little more eastside, but any who, that’s open for debate. No matter the context, I’m sure this is a complement. Who thought frozen cordon bleu and Lipton Rice Sides were comparable to any public food establishment? I’m honored.

2. I LOVE grandpa’s cinematic tastes. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy his choice of television programs most of the time, too. There’s nothing like building a lasting grandfather/granddaughter relationship while watching TruTV. He even gets his Jersey Shore on every once in a while {though I don’t think he totally knows what’s going on.} But it’s the movies that I enjoy the most. Since moving in, I’ve watched a handful of movies with the old man, including: “The Natural”, “The Ides of March” {edited version, of course, which didn’t really make any sense. Apparently all the important stuff happens during the scandalous scenes. But – to use grandpa’s words – it was a good time, nevertheless}, “Eight Seconds”, “A League of Their Own”, “Sleepless In Seattle” and “You’ve Got Mail.” You might note that half of the movies we watch are Tom Hanks classics. Grandpa loves him some Tom Hanks. Though he usually thinks “kissing shows” are gross, he thinks Hanks is the  BANANAS!   

3. I LOVE grandpa’s stories. Though I’ve heard most of them 101 times {“The Dumpy Sheephearder”, “The Boxing Record: 55-5-1” or “The Time I Blew-Up The Beaver Dam With A Stick Of Dynamite” – Don’t worry, I’ll devote entire posts to these stories; they’re pretty classic. This is just to tickle your curiosity.} Anyways, though I’ve heard most of these stories a million times, the facts change just a little bit with each telling. Grandpa gets so excited to tell a story, even though he pretends like it’s not a big deal. He always makes them truly entertaining.

4. I LOVE being able to say what grandpa’s thinking before he says it {see All-The-Things-I-Love-About-My-Grandpa-Plus-A-Few #’s 1 and 2}. I always try to beat him to the punch and call our meals “uptown” and our movies “kissing shows” before he does. I think it takes him by surprise, like “That’s exactly what I was just thinking!” I LOVE  it.

Though there are many more reasons why I love my grandfather, my word count is getting a little high… who likes to read more than 600 words in one sitting? Not me. And this is becoming downright novel-ish.

Perhaps this week I’ll spend a little more time with grandpa, just so soak up the good things.

We could wander downtown for a truly uptown meal, then end the night with a good Tom Hanks kissing show.   

{The Grandpa's Favorite}

Well … it’s happening.

It’s 7:12 p.m. and I’m sitting in my PJs, eating an orange popsicle and watching track cycling.

I’m becoming grandpa. 

You may be thinking, “Don’t worry, that’s just a one-time thing.”

But, yesterday, I wore a sweater and ski socks around the house all afternoon because I was SO COLD! I’m a little scared…

Now, I have a few things to get to concerning grandpa, but first, let’s address track cycling. Why is this on primetime? First of all, I didn’t even know this sport existed and maybe that’s my bad, but this sport is super lame. For those of you who aren’t familiar with track cycling, people have to push them to get them going {I thought after you learned to ride your bike, people stopped doing that…} Anyway, then they start getting the speed wobbles. And I don’t mean the go-so-fast-you-wobble speed wobble, I’m talking about the so-slow-you-might-fall-over speed wobble. They “race” two laps at the slowest pace possible. For real, they have to do that thing where you turn your front wheel back and forth to keep from falling over. Then the last lap, they go as fast as they can. I don’t get it.

Oh good, springboard diving is on! This is much better. We can all calm down.

Now, let’s get back to life with grandpa, shall we?

I’m starting to understand what it feels like when you’re a mom and you spend all day feeding and cleaning and putting up with your kids and then they get super excited and forget about you when the dad comes home.  {Does any of that make sense?} 

Well, all week I feed and clean up after and hang out with grandpa. But when Jordan gets home, HE’s the apple of grandpa’s eye. Grandpa even documented Jordan’s arrival on the calendar – “Jordan Returned.”

I have a few ideas why grandpa loves Jordan more than me.  

{1} Jordan always edges when he mows the lawn. First of all, I don’t think grandpa believes girls are physically able to mow the lawn - even though I do it 75% of the time. However, I don’t edge because I’m still playing the “I don’t know how to use a gas-powered edger” excuse. And I’m gonna play that card for as long as it works. In reality, I just really hate when the grass whips my legs :(

{2} Grandpa thinks I’m a wimp because I’m afraid of bats. Well, when you’ve slept in a room fluttering with hantavirus, you might understand where I’m coming from. But grandpa simply catches the bats with his bare hands {fact}, squeezes their heads with his thumb and finger {fact} and throws their remains to the wayside {FACT}.

{3} I want to kill the damn squirrel that grandpa keeps feeding. {Please excuse my language, but it’s gotten to that point.} He keeps a pile of bird seed right outside the basement door and EVERYTIME I go outside the squirrel runs across my toes and up a tree {okay that’s not a fact, but the squirrel is really too close for comfort.}

I always knew Jordan would be the cool parent – he let’s kids run wild, while I prefer the Iron Fist Method. 

He’s the kind of guy who would let his kids do track cycling if that was their dream… and I don’t think I could do that.

I guess I’ve got a ways to go to becoming the “cool” parent in this relationship. But at least I’m dominating with my old person skills while lounging in my jammies and eating orange popsicles.

{The Helping Hand?}

I’m back! Did you think I’d given up? After the hordes of fan mail begging me to update the blog, I decided to get back in the saddle. Oh, no one sent any fan mail?  My bad.

One thing I’ve come to find since moving in with grandpa is how awfully helpful he can be. Literally. Awfully helpful.

It’s true … he does attempt to make my bed when I’ve left it a mess after waking up before the birds to go to work. That’s cute. But I draw the line at saving used garbage bags. Each day, after grandpa takes out the trash, I take out the garbage bag. This action requires much stealth. I can’t simply grab the bag and say, “Hey grandpa, I’m just gonna throw this away, too. You know, it’s okay to toss the bag with the trash. We have more bags and I’m happy to buy them if that will clear your waste-not conscience.”

But no. If grandpa catches me taking the bag, he throws me a suspicious glance and says, “I already took out the trash.”

And I say, “Well, it’s sometimes good to take the bag, too. Actually, it’s always good to take out the bag.”

And he says, “Oh no. Your nose is too sensitive.”

Woe is me, to be cursed with this hypersensitive sniffer. {It’s often the cause of my distress in this house.}

Grandpa also helps out by going to the grocery store. Now this really can be helpful…except when grandpa’s memory fails and he buys all of the same stuff. For instance, after grandpa’s latest grocery store venture, I’m faced with the challenge of eating 10 lbs. of Idaho’s finest Russet Burbank potatoes. But no fear. I cranked up the oven on the hottest day of the year and we had baked potatoes for dinner. To make things better, I didn’t realize grandpa was “helping” to cool off the house by opening the backdoor. The 97-degree summer breeze really made things easy for the Little Air Conditioner That Could. {That’s what I’ve started calling the poor AC unit. Every day it rallies through grandpa’s helpful hand – "I think I can, I think I can." What really dampens its spirit is when the grandpa turns it off and pulls on a sweater as the temperature drops to a frigid 82 degrees.} Nothing sounds better than a steaming hot spud while soaking in your own sweat, right?

But grandpa seemed to enjoy the meal …  except for the part when he said, “Nevertheless, that was a good dinner.” What does that mean? Nevertheless? Nevertheless what? We weren't talking about anything, so I'm not sure where the "Nevertheless" came from or where it was directed. Oh well. At least he said it was good.

Grandpa then allowed me to clean up the dishes and put away leftovers while he went to his burrow to watch the World Series of Poker, Greco-Roman wrestling or the Hutterites. {Those are just a few of his favorite programs.} This is good because I can monitor where the dirty dishes go and what scraps are saved. But his helpful hand didn’t leave with him. When I went for a plastic baggie, I found a used fried chicken bag in the drawer. You know, just in case we wanted to reuse that to hold a sandwich or something.  

Oh, grandpa. 

I like help, but maybe this whole experience is to force me into becoming more independent. Jordan's probably behind the whole thing ... no worries, I'll resist.

So this week’s lesson? Conserve! {Or throw away all that you can while the old man’s not looking…}

{The Where's Waldo Theory}

So, I'm back for round two. 

Like every other week in the last five months, this one has not been a disappointment when it comes to compelling grandpa stories. I wonder if he knows he's so funny...most likely, no.

Despite my many accomplishments in life {such as mastering the hula-hoop, being meticulously clean, dominating anyone in "the count-and-capture" game Mancala, and packing suitcases like a pro...I get that from my papa. In fact, Jordan says I get all my most notable habits {that's what I call them; Jordan calls them compulsions} from that man...} Anyways...I digress. Where was I? Oh yes. Despite my many accomplishments {see above} I made a pretty impressive discovery this week. What was so impressive? For the first time in my life I successfully implemented the Scientific Method to produce a terrifyingly accurate theory. And today, I choose to unveil the findings.

Do you remember Where’s Waldo? If not, it’s unfortunate for you because I think that thick-spectacled man in the striped turtleneck molded my childhood. When I was little, I had not one, but two Where’s Waldo books at my house. I could spend hours looking through each page of disgusting, white trash cartoon characters packed in obviously hilarious places such as, the airport. A beach. A museum. Or even, Waldo Land {where every one looks like Waldo, but only one is the real Waldo! It’s crazy…} Anyway, regardless of the fact that I had memorized the pages and knew exactly where Waldo was hiding/lost to the world, I could still spend hours examining the books.   

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “How does this circle back to grandpa?” Well, in the last week, we’ve had a shortage of acquaintances in the hospital, so the “Where’s Jordan?” conundrum has taken its place as the No. 2 topic of conversation.

Here’s how it goes:

Every day grandpa says, “Where’s Jordan?”

And every day, I say, “Well, Grandpa, he’s in Utah…at work…he comes home on weekends.”

Then grandpa says, “He works a lot.”

I say, “Yep.”

Grandpa says, “He likes computers.”

“He sure does, grandpa.”

Then, grandpa throws a twist in the conversation by stating, “I guess Jordan will be home later tonight, then.”

"No-"

Wait. Are we still in the same conversation? I didn’t think we’d finished talking about the fact that Jordan doesn’t live in this house 90% of the time. Didn’t we just establish that Jordan “works a lot,” every weekday, “in Utah?” {I’m sourcing the above conversation, in case you’ve also already forgotten the exchange.}

No matter how many times we come to the conclusion that Jordan lives and works in another state, grandpa still loves the conversation. This is in direct relation to Where’s Waldo. No matter how many times you’ve found Waldo, it’s always fun to look again for that crazy athazagoraphobic {a person who fears being forgotten or ignored – I looked it up and that’s the closest thing I could find to describing Waldo…}.

So, after {1} Stating my hypothesis, {2} Testing my hypothesis and doing bunch of other things that I’m sure are part of the Scientific Method, I’ve concluded that grandpa has Where’s Waldo syndrome {along with cardiac arrhythmias, melanoma and an uncanny love for stale sweets}.

Though many events added to this week’s excitement, I decided my scientific discoveries were of the most importance. You’ve all missed out on a horde of racial slurs and the ex-convict {who has his own name tattooed above his bellybutton…I know this because he comes to visit only half dressed, but of course I promptly remind him, “No shoes, no shirt, no service”… side note: my dad says his tattoo helps him remember his name when his head is up his … umm … well, you know {I had to edited his full comment for content}. 

But, don’t worry, I’ll be sure to talk more about the ex-con and grandpa’s version of “Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Moe” in future posts. It’s inevitable. Perhaps we’ll get to explore those other politically incorrect topics next week.  

Until then, I’m going to track down those old Where’s Waldo books and attempt to explain the unexplainable to my perplexing, old friend.