For the Love of 'Old Money'

Chapter 3- GRANDMA

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I enter Grandma Faye's one-bedroom Soho apartment, which she generously shares with me. I put my keys back into my thrifted Coach crossbody and hang it on one of the wall hooks, hoping my keys don't get lost in the ripped bottom seam again.

Our apartment is small, but pretty large by New York standards, and the high ceilings make it feel even more spacious. What cramps the space is the copious amounts of unnecessary items my grandma buys from local thrift shops. (Apparently, multiple salt and pepper shakers shaped like animals are not a frivolous purchase)

For a lady who refuses to buy ketchup, and instead hoards packets from every fast food joint around, my grandma sure spends her money on some ridiculous stuff. But, who am I to judge? I own a T-Rex shaped taco holder.

Yep, those living in a glass houses, should not throw stones. And although my house isn't all glass, it possesses some floor to ceiling glass windows. Figurative and literal, and I'm unwilling to part with Tex-Mex-Rex. Plus, Grandma Faye is in her eighties, so she is officially 'I'm too old to care about what anyone else thinks' age.

If she wants to clutter her apartment with knick knacks that make her happy, then fine by me. I only step in when her purchases get out of control. (Which has been occurring more and more often) *depressed sigh*

Jodie, one of grandma's two caretakers, greets me as I walk in. "Hey Emmy! Don't you look cute today in your little business outfit."

"Why thank you!" I do a little curtsy. "Sooooo...did she give you any trouble today?" I ask, knowing she probably did.

"Nothing I couldn't handle," Jodie replies, and I fully believe her. There are certain people in this world who are naturals at taking care of others. You know the sort, the ones who bring soup when you're sick, drive you to the doctor, or baby you after dental surgery. Jodie is a natural. I'm both appreciative and envious. Unfortunately, the caretaker gene skipped right over me. Don't get me wrong, I'll totally help someone who needs it. But don't expect me to be good at it or to do it with a smile on my face. (Did I mention, I'm slightly germaphobic?)

The familiar thick New York accent reaches my ears. "Emmy, is that you?"

I shoot Jodie a grateful smile, wave goodbye, and head for the bedroom where my grandma's voice originated.

"Yep, it's me!" I call back. "Jodie just left. I'm gonna get me a water. Do you want anything before I come in there?"

"Yeah, I'm hungry for some scrambled cheese eggs with green peppers,"she says, and I inwardly groan. Usually when someone asks if you want anything, you either politely decline, or you ask for something simple. (think bottled water, coffee, pop tart) Well, not grandma Faye, who tells you exactly what she wants no matter how difficult it may be.

Ten minutes later, I'm carrying a plate of scrambled eggs and my tumbler filled with water. I hand her the plate and sit on the edge of the four-post bed. Grandma is relaxing in her favorite recliner, watching the local news. Her bedroom has ample space, even with a queen bed, dresser, corner tv stand, and her big comfy recliner. Far removed from the broom-closet bedrooms in most NYC apartments. She spends most of her time in here, leaving the living room and kitchen as my domain.

"That Tara girl looks like a deer caught in headlights," she says, referring to a local news anchor. "It's all that Botox and filler she's had pumped into her face. Jokes on her, because she still looks 49, only now, she looks scared about it."

Yep, you don't want to be on the receiving end of my grandma's insults. She's one brutal old lady. And the worst part, her insults have disturbing accuracy. Grandma Faye is pretty much the Simon Cowell of judging your appearance and life choices.