The Diner

My grandmother’s social life these days consists entirely of doctors and dentists. By proxy, this also means that Joanna and my social life consist entirely of doctors and dentists. If a doctor even slightly hints to our grandmother that she may have to come back again for one reason or another (discomfort, pain, etc.) my grandmother will go back, even if she doesn’t feel any discomfort. I have a feeling she is lying when she actually says she does feel a little bit of pain or says she needs to go back. For her, these visits are the equivalent to a night out.
She of course does not take into account how much gas costs, Joanna’s blood pressure, my rage, or anything else a normal person would take into account. For her, we are nothing more than a chauffeur service to her dates with Drs. X, Y, and Z.
This is a woman who used to dress to the nines to travel the world, and now, her big plans include a day in the dentist chair. Is this what happens when you get old? All the things you once feared in life become hobbies? I am pretty certain this isn’t a trait found everywhere, as our dad’s mother used to actually want to do fun things whenever her grandchildren visited her. Alice just doesn’t have that particular gene that would make her go out of her way to please others. If she did, I wouldn’t be spending every single Monday in the goddam dentist’s office.
The one doctor my grandmother should be going to more is the ear doctor. She has a hearing aid, but still can’t hear for shit. My sister and I were driving her home from her dentist today, and while we passed my house, I noticed there was a package on the front stoop, and, being the anal sonofabitch I am, asked Joanna to turn around so that I could put it in the house. For some reason, any change of direction startles the elderly, and my grandmother wanted to know what was going on:
ALICE: Where are we going?
JOANNA: Back to Kathy’s house to pick up a package.
ALICE: What are we doing?
JOANNA: Going to Kathy’s house. There’s a package by the door and we want to put it in the house.
ALICE: What’s wrong with the door?
JOANNA: NOTHING. We are putting the package in the house that’s BY THE DOOR.
ALICE: We’re going to Kathy’s house? Why?
JOANNA: BECAUSE THERE’S A BUNCH OF GUYS MASTURBATING ON THE FRONT LAWN AND WE ARE GOING TO CHECK IT OUT!!!
Grandma stopped asking after that.
After this, we went to the local diner in our town for lunch. It’s obvious that once upon a time, this diner catered to young Pleasantville like couples, but now, the clientele is strictly made up of people who collect social security. Maybe these are the Pleasantville couples left over from the 1950’s, but I think not, as these people don’t look like they were ever young or in love.
The waitresses here are all a little past middle age. They are the type of waitress who call you “honey” or “sweetie” but you would never want to be on their bad side. Our waitress today was Pam. Pam is the name I appointed her because she looks like a Pam. She’s usually the waitress we get when we take our grandmother here for lunch, and I don’t think she has ever actually told us her real name. She was perfunctory as usual, and my grandmother noticed that she was perspiring. I could understand why, as she was running all over her section as fast as her orthopedics could carry her. When it came time to deal with the tip, my sister confused my grandmother by leaving it on my grandmother’s credit card. This was confusing because usually, when one pays with a credit card at this establishment, the person you pay will give you the cash for the waitress out of the drawer. It was a new girl at the register, so she just put the tip on my grandmother’s credit card. This confounded my grandmother for the entire ride home. It seems like a simple concept, as it is how most restaurants work. For the life of her, my grandmother just did not understand that the tip could be taken out of the card. Even though Joanna wrote in the tip amount on her copy of the receipt, my grandmother was under, for some reason or another, the impression that she had douped the waitress out of a tip. Joanna even told the waitress that her tip was on the credit card, (Pam even winked and gave m sister finger pistols to signal her understanding) and my grandmother was still unconvinced.
I like to think that we got through to her somewhere between our stop at the bank and her home, but probably not.

-Kat