I love my 93-year-old grandmother

No, really, I do! And A loves having his great-grandmother visit us in New York.

But there are a few quirks with having a near-centenarian, at 93, who behaves as though she might be 33, visiting me and A. And I don't mean figuring out to which Broadway show to take her.

For my own mother who is in Florida: My apologies to you, if you happen to read this post.

For starters, my grandmother does not speak English. She was already a senior citizen when she arrived in the United States, and beyond her full-time job and duties to her household, learning a new language was "too much work." A has been filling-in-the-blanks with a lot of awkward smiles.

She does not use a cane. She does not need one.

She does not use a hearing aid. She really does need one:
Me on phone: "Hello abuela. Soy yo. Maitresse."
Grandma: "Maitresse? She eeees not here!"
Me: "No, it's ME. I AM Maitresse. Su nieta. Your GRANDDAUGHTER."
Grandma: "Maitresse? She eeees not here!"

She does not like compromise.

She insists on washing my dishes and cooking my meals. And doing the laundry, and sewing wherever sewing is needed.

She thinks A is lacking in socialization as a homeschooler. El esta muy solo. I should matriculate him in the nearest public school.

Her humor is raunchy. Things that will send her laughing beyond control are words like "ca-ca" and "pee-pee." And "huevos." I won't translate. A is waaay more embarassed than me when she decides to tell one of her funnies.

My grandmother is naturally curious.

She re-organizes my things constantly. Exhibit A: The pseudo-erotic Japanese art poster I had (which I embarassingly did not realize was erotic until I had the thing expertly framed) lying face-against the wall, is suddenly up on the wall in full view for everyone to see. A, my 11-year-old diplomat, has not commented on it.

Exhibit B: My earrings disappeared. Today, on my way to work, I scrambled to find them. "Oh, those? Why, they're upstairs, of course," she revealed to me. "Where upstairs?" I begged, with half-a-minute to spare. "Oh, you know. In the box of trinkets," she replied, rather aloof, as she walked away, into the next room.

"WHAT BOX OF TRINKETS? I DON'T HAVE A BOX OF TRINKETS." A, now becoming quite the man, intervened. "I'll go and get your earrings, mom." Moments later, my earrings appeared in my son's hands. He had no idea what the box of trinkets was about, either.

Exhibit C: A certain...erm...feminine massage device (which I really have not used lately) has disappeared, as well. It was in my non-usable purse. Magically, my non-usable purse appeared near my grandmother's bedside. I won't even ask about that one.