So, I've spent the last week with my family because we all got together to celebrate my grandparent's 60th wedding anniversary. If you knew my grandmother, you'd know what an accomplishment this is on the part of my grandfather. Here are a few things you should know before we get into the heart of the story:

-I come from a deeply religious, Protestant family. And not just Protestant, but Pentecostal. My dad is a pastor, and his dad was a pastor, and his dad was a pastor, so as you can see, this religion thing has been taken seriously in my family for a long time. (Just as a note of clarification, however, you should know that we do NOT handle snakes. That's not Pentecostal, that's crazy.)

-My grandmother talks a lot. In fact, I would call it incessant. She cannot abide silence, so even if there is nothing to talk about she will continue to talk anyway. And pretty much whatever she can think of to say comes out of her mouth. I think as she gets older she has less control of her "Maybe-I-Shouldn't-Say-That" filter. In fact, I think it's probably stopped working altogether. But, I digress.

-My grandfather is very demure. I'm not sure if he's always been this way or if it's just because he's never been able to get a word in edgewise. But, he is so quiet and just sits and nods his head. Occasionally, you will hear him say, "Praise the Lord" or "Thank you, Jesus." If you don't know him this can be disconcerting, but he's not really talking to anyone in general, he's just expressing his thanks to the Good Lord. At least that's what my grandmother says he's doing. I, personally, think he's just testing to make sure his voice is still there since my grandmother hardly ever lets him talk, but that's just my opinion.

-My grandmother is a hyperchondriac. Oh yeah, and she's afraid of thunderstorms. When my dad was a kid, she read somewhere that in a storm you were safer in your car because the rubber grounded you. Growing up in Texas, they had more than their fair share of tornadoes, which makes it a wonder that my dad and my aunt are still alive. Even the slightest mention of a storm and my grandmother would have them in the car for the night. I don't know - maybe that's why my grandfather always says, "Thank you, Jesus." Maybe he's referring to all the times he was spared death by way of a spiraling automobile, but, I digress again.

-My grandmother, who is a hyperchondriac, is also afraid of death. (Seems natural) She would like for you to believe that she's not afraid to die, but she is. And now that she's getting older this is translating into other things like putting our names on her possessions so that when she's gone there will be no fighting over who gets what. This becomes important later. For now, just know that it is annoying.

So, like I was saying, it's a blessed miracle that they have been married for this long because I've only known my grandmother for a little over 28 years and I really cannot take more than a few days of exposure to her at one time. My mind is boggled at the idea of 60 years. But, according to my grandmother, those years have flown by. My grandfather appeared to nod his head at this statement, but I couldn't tell if he was falling asleep or just assenting to her comment because he knew he would never really get a chance to voice an opinion anyway. I think it's probably something he just does by habit now, bless his heart.

She has crazy notions about all kinds of stuff, like what God wills. For instance, we dropped her off at her house before we went to the store and as she was getting out of the car, she leans in and says, "Bye, honey. I'll see you in a few minutes, Lord willin'."

I can identify with that. I, too, was hoping that the Lord was willing for there to be a good parking place, no lines and quick assistance in the store so that it truly will be only a few minutes.

She starts to shut the door and then opens it back and says, "Because you know the Bible says that we are to say 'Lord willin' in everything we do." Ok, didn't see the conversation going this way.

And just when you thought we were going to get out of the driveway, she opens the car door one more time and says, "Grandpa and I don't always say 'Lord willin' like we should, but it's always in our hearts."

Do not pass go, do not collect $200.

I'm speechless. Good thing my reflexes were still working: I locked the door before she could open it again. Mean, I know, but sheesh - I had to do SOMETHING.

By the grace of God we made it back to their house within 15 minutes or so, and there wasn't any further mention of God's will in my shopping trips. But, before we left to go home, she did manage to work in one last reminder that she will be dead soon and she does not want any fighting over what she has.

"I've got my post-it-notes, Tiff. I'll just put your name on the bottom and when I'm gone you'll know exactly what is yours." I'm starting to run out of things to claim because she's been doing this for the last 10 years and I think that pretty much all of the desirables have been spoken for.

Anyway, our flight left at 6:30 AM, so we had to leave their house at 4:30 AM in order to have enough time to turn in the rental car and check in. She gets up to see us off and as we are getting in the car, she's standing in the doorway to her house waving and yelling, "Is there any of my stuff that you want, Tiff?"

"No, Grandma. I think we've got everything we need for the trip."

"No, honey, I mean is there anything of mine that you want when I'm gone."

"Sure, Grandma. I really like that bar of soap you have in the shower. It's whittled down to fit right in the curve of my hand. Do you think you could take it out and put it in a plastic baggy so that we can store it in the freezer until you kick the bucket. Oh, and make sure you etch my name into the soap because I don't want any of my sneaky cousins snagging it before I get to it."

Ok, obviously I didn't say that, but it would have been darn funny if I had. Lord willin', it will still be there when the time comes to collect my inheritance.

I found out today that I got a B+ in my class this semester. You know, the Chaucer class. I don't know why I'm surprised or upset; with the way I procrastinated on the paper that counted 40% of my grade, do I really have a right to be disappointed? No, but I am anyway.

And I love the process of self-reassurance that occurs upon the discovery of this type of news. I engaged myself in all manner of self-edifying shit talk, but it didn't really do me any good.
I say to myself, don't worry about it. If you got a B+ think of how bad those other morons in your class must have done!

"Why, Self," I say, "I think you're right. The whole lot of 'em must have barely slid by. After all, I was the smartest one in there and my writing far excels the other people in my class."

Like that lady, Josey. You know the one; there's one in every class. The one who thinks that all of her words are inspired by God and therefore must exit her lips for the education of the uninspired around her. I suspected there was something weird about this woman the first time I laid eyes on her; my suspicions were confimed before she was even through with her first sentence.

"Well, my herbalist said.........."

Whoa. You lost me at "herbalist."

I'm sorry, but we're the Lit. majors. Maybe you've got us confused with the weird-freaky-lady majors. They meet down the hall to the left and out the window of the sixth story. When you've hit the sidewalk you know you're in the right place.

And it only got worse from there.

Josey, it seems, is 57 years old. After putting aside all of her own desires to ensure the proper upbringing of her children (the spawn of Satan, I can imagine), she suddenly found herself divorced and alone at 50 years old. My first thought was to wonder why it took the poor man so long to realize he was married to a whack job, but that was not material to the story at this point. She decided that she would finish her bachelor's degree in English at a local community college and then she enrolled in the graduate program I am in. We found all of this out within the first five minutes of class.

Well, I managed to make it all semester without having to engage in a personal conversation with her. The last night of class I got onto the elevator, punched the button, and turned around to lean against the hand rail. I glanced down the hall and see her making a bee-line for the elevator, and I am holding down the "Close Doors" button with all my might and the damn doors just. will. not. close. She scoots in and says, "Thanks, dear one, for holding it for me. These elevators are dreadfully slow and it would have been next century before I would have caught the next one."

I think I was looking at her, but to be honest I don't remember. I do recall having the thought that I must control my facial expressions and not let her know that I think she must be Mork's long-lost sister.

"You know, I was up all night because my horse foaled."

Blank stare.

"I thought we were going to have to call the vet, but everything turned out just right. Thank Gawd, I had my special gloves. It really is a messy business you know."

Do I dare breathe? Maybe if I stand really still and don't breathe she will forget I'm here. Where are my invisible glasses, dammit?

"And, it's a good thing that my boyfriend had come home a few hours earlier." She turns and looks me dead in the eye. "He's a truck driver, you know, and years younger than me. It really is sinful," she says rolling her eyes with this sumptuous grin on her face. "So you know, I come in from this messy business and get in the shower....and well" (hand over mouth and a quick wink) "I'm sure you can guess the rest."

Am I dead? Is she really saying this? Is that a little bit of throw-up in the back of my throat?

By the time the doors opened, I didn't know if I could control my legs from running. My mother tried to teach me to be polite but I don't think she knew anyone like Josey. So, I non-chalantly turn out of the elevator and I hear her footsteps behind me.

No, God. Say this is not happening. Please tell me that the trucker seducer is not following me.
Oh no. Maybe she likes girl truckers too. Maybe she wants to see my headlights. Oh shit. Why don't I have MACE on my keychain? Ok, if she grabs me from behind I can elbow her with my left arm and whirl around and scratch her eyes out with the keys in my right hand, all the while screaming, "HELP! I'M BEING ATTACKED BY A HORSE WHISPERING, SWITCH HITTING, ENGLISH LIT MAJORING FREAK." I think that about describes it.

And just about the time I have the nerve to look over my shoulder (with my deadly keys poised and ready to attack) she turns down the hallway to the right and I turn left.

Whew.

I was breathing heavy and sweating. My pulse was racing. I pulled out my phone and called my husband. "Don't worry, honey. I'll be home in a little while. It was a close call but I escaped from the boogey woman."

I think I am a bad mother.

I do not like to sing with my child and she loves to sing all.day.long. And I do mean ALL.DAY.LONG.

So we're sitting in the car driving and she says, "Mommy, will you sing a song with me?" She might as well have said, "Mommy, I want to grow up to be like Madonna." After my eyes had rolled around in my head a couple of times, I finally answered her.

"What do you want to sing, sweetheart?"

"Old McDonald's" (and yes, she says McDonald's - plural - like the restaurant, which she thinks is owned by the farmer himself)

Now, "Old McDonald" is the most dreaded song in her repertoire. She does not just name the animals that might possibly reside on the McDonald farm, she names all the things AROUND the farm.

"And on that farm he had some..." grass, houses, airplanes. Holy Cow (no pun intended) - I didn't realize Donald Trump was a farmer!

So you can imagine my frustration. But, I'm trying to be a good mother, so I indulge her.

"Ok," I say. "I'll sing it one time." Of course, that one time can last until kingdom come, but for the sake of keeping the peace I clear my throat and dive in.

Seventeen stanzas later (and half my hair pulled out from the frustration) she ends the farm song. "GOOD GOD," I say to myself. How could one person love Old McDonald so much! I don't even think Mrs. McDonald likes him that much. Sheesh.

And just when I thought we were all done, I hear a little voice, "This old man, he played one...."

Here we go again.