god fixed my grandmother's lawn mower
That was the big news when I called my parents yesterday. Typically I call and there's nothing going on, just the usual maternal-grandmother-is-still-a-fundie-christian and paternal-grandmother-is-still-a-paranoid-schizophrenic stuff. My parents, although slightly off, are remarkably well-adjusted (all things considered).
Anyway, so my mom couldn't wait to get on the phone because she had a story to tell. Seems that my grandmother (her mother) called to tell her that her prayers were answered and god fixed her lawnmower. The day before, it wouldn't start. She pulled and pulled the little ripcord thing and no go. So she "prayed and prayed and prayed" that night and came out in the morning and tried to start it and Oh! Choir of Angels! God had answered her prayers and fixed her lawnmower.
Because, you know, it wasn't just flooded from all the attempts to start it and had twelve hours to settle itself down. Also, god doesn't have anything better to do than answer her lawnmower prayers. This is the same woman who thought the Puerto Ricans living one street over were terrorists because they weren't white people and they had out of state license plates. Oh, and she's going to heaven because she bought a thousand new (plastic, lime green, unmatched-to-the-decor) coat hangers for her church, never mind she's a racist, bigoted, most decidedly un_Christian person. The kind that gives good Christians a bad name. Yeah. Coat hangers. That's gonna do it.
My other grandmother, on the other hand, is a complete whack job but at least has actual medical reasons for part of it. My grandfather forgot to get his penicillin shot during WWII, if you know what I mean. But there's also a genetic predisposition to being a complete whack job, as her mother was hatefilled old biddy as well (always nice to the grandkids, though). Although some of that could be blamed on being married off to her first cousin at age 14. Ah, Italian immigrant families of the '20s. Gotta love it.
The big news from my Dad was this: "You'll be so proud of me! My new favorite drink is cappuccino!" I was proud of him, until he continued on with his story. "I get it at Sheetz [local minimart kind of thing]." I burst out laughing and tried to tell him that frothy warm brown from a spout is not a cappuccino. But he insisted, his argument being that's the best they can do in my hometown. This is actually true. I told him the next time they went over the mountain [next time they drove to college town (with creamery!) 30 miles away] they should stop at a Starbucks.
Would that I were there to witness that
Hi Mom. Hi Dad. Yes, they do read this.