{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.

{The Grandpa}

Welcome to the wonderful world of Grandpa Orme. {That's pronounced 'or-m'...so let's not have anymore questions or mispronunciations...mkay?} Though many may think life with an 80-something, ex-sheephearder / boxer isn't anything to blog about, I'm here to tell you that 3% of the world will enjoy this old fella's quirkiness. Although me and the octogenarian have the same three conversations everyday - {1} whose at the family cabin, {2} whose in the hospital and {3} what we're gonna do with the ultra-fun and bouncy, but temporarily broken trampoline in the backyard - I usually have one or ten entertaining stories a day about life in the slow lane.
Before we get too attached, I'll be honest. This may end up being my one and only post, but I've encountered one too many stories - the kind that aren't always funny at first, but become hysterical shortly after - to not document any of it.
First I'll give you a little background. Yes, I'm a college graduate; yes, I'm married; and YES, I do live at my grandpa's house. But let's look past all the What-A-Looser jokes and the "hmm-well, that's probably nice for you" reactions. So, my husband and I moved in last March, hoping to save a little money and keep the grandpa from overdosing on Tylenol P.M. In that time, I've had way too many awe-inspiring events to recount, but here's a few quick examples: the time grandpa helped turn my fajitas into soup by adding a liter of water to the crockpot, the time grandpa turned the fireplace on to heat up the already 80 degree house, the time grandpa made a hotdog with ketchup and mustard on a cinnamon burst "bun", and all the times he brings home "manager special" meats, pies, cookies, cinnamon rolls, fried chicken and Tampico Mango Punch.
For the time being, my husband lives in Salt Lake during the week while I'm left to fend for myself at grandpa's. I spend most of my time keeping grandpa's best friend / ex-convict from leeching money and "storing a few valuables" in the backyard greenhouse, or sorting through the dirty dishes grandpa so kindly puts away in drawers and cupboards, or pretending to eat the months-old ice-cream and pies littering the fridge and freezer. I find myself searching out new ways to scrape my uneaten "treats" {that's what grandpa calls these rock-hard, iced-over things} into the garbage or disposal when he's not looking - this is the only time I've ever needed tips from someone with an eating disorder ... how do you hide that much food without anyone knowing? Although he's forgetful, nearly deaf and only sees with the aid of Coke-bottle glasses, it's surprisingly hard to throw anything away without him noticing.
Though many experiences are frustrating, disgusting or awkward, I'm just starting to understand the guy I've called grandpa for my entire life. At the end of all this, I'm sure I'll look back and be glad for all this...probably...we'll see.
So, let the games continue.