She's a Rejector

I honestly can’t believe this woman. Sure, she’s pretty rad for a lady past her prime, but really . . . lacy floral leggings? Halter top? Four inch heels? Even those don’t improve her lack of stature, and the cellulite in those boobies is giving me a headache. Woman needs to learn when to stop.

Honestly, the blue eyeliner is just too much. Though it does make her eyes, eerily similar to mine, pop.

Ugh, I sound like a freakin’ makeup artist, the kind made from marshmallows.

“Dahling, you look just fabulous today! Really, you simply must tell me where you shop.” She takes a long sip from the martini glass filled with lemonade. They don’t let her have alcohol so she just pretends, using the set of glasses I gave her last Christmas. Unfortunately, it’s embarrassingly similar to a grown-up tea party.

Amused, I look down, taking in my clothing for the day; I do look fabulous. Round-toed leather boots, skin-tight leather pants, artistically-ripped off-the-shoulder shirt, signature red lipstick, badass smirk – who could resist me? I didn’t blame Grandma for wanting to steal my outfit.

“Don’t you think this is a little young for you, Grandma?”

“Nonsense, dahling! You know I’m not a day over sixty-five. And please, call me Doreen.” This is such a blatant lie I can’t help but chuckle, intoning one of my signature snorts.

“You’ve already got the other ladies in the nursing home shaking their jowls at you constantly, Gra–Doreen. I don’t think this sort of outfit would improve their opinions of you.” It’s funny; sometimes, because of all her ridiculousness, I forget how fond I am of her.

“Who needs those crusty buttheads!” Wait, what?! “I have you to keep me young, dahling! I could live on your smiles alone.”

Sometimes I forget how sweet she is too.

“Thank you, Gra–Doreen. So . . . is there anything you want to do?” This is our routine. I come in, she compliments my outfit, I tell her she’s too young to wear it, she cites this as nonsense, insists she’s sixty-five, compliments me again, I thank her, and then she replies steadfastly that “Today, sugar, we’re gonna go down to the rec room; it’s time I find me a new man.”

Just as we are getting up, however, there comes a knock on the door. Grandma promptly stands up and bustles over, leaving her cane untouched; the lengths this woman goes for special treatment both cracks me up and leaves me a little bemused, considering the strong image she purposely exudes. She is surprisingly fit for, ahem, sixty-five.

“Oh my dahling Flo, look who it is! This wonderful man changes my sheets every morning, such a doll, you would take to each other so well.” With a flourish, she steps aside and tugs the man into the room. “This is Yanick.”

Standing before me is the boy who spilled the shit. His eyes are wide with shock, hand half frozen on its trek up to his beautifully messy, tawny locks. He is the epitome of the word “cute.” I can’t help but be struck by the notion to pat his head, like a little puppy or a small child. This notion is somewhat killed by the fact that he has to be over six feet tall.

One eyebrow raised: “Where the hell are you from, Mars?”

His cheeks are red as cherries. It’s adorable. “I-I’m French, actually.”

Curious yet snarky smile: “No accent?”

At this his eyebrows furrow, I’m sure he gets this a lot. “No, I moved when I was one.”

Head nod, shifting of wait, hip pops: “I see.”

We stand awkwardly for a moment or two; Yanick sneaking peeks at me and flushing every time he is caught in my unfailing gaze, Grandma staring excitedly at the two of us. The silence becomes too loud for her, apparently, because she breaks it, none too quietly.

“Oh, I have the best idea! Florence here simply loves carnivals–”

“What?! Grandma, no I don’t!”

“Doreen, dahling, you know that – and I hear there’s one a week from today, it’s right nearby! Oh Yanick, you simply must take her, I insist, it’s like fate.”

“What the hell, Grandma!”

“Oh shush. No cussing in front of our guest.”
“He’s the damn maid!”

There is a flurry of potty-mouthed banter between ‘Doreen,’ Yanick, and I, and then somehow I have a date with Frenchy, an endearingly hopeless boy that shall be sufficiently corrupted when I’m through with him.

I leave as bemused as ever.