{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.