(no subject)
My Grandmother, who has been a schoolteacher for as long as I can remember, is retiring. Some of you may read that and think of it as a good thing, perhaps something to "aww" over. But you would be wrong.
My Grandmother is the sort of high-energy person who cannot sit still for any length of time. She always has to be puttering about, doing something. A quiet evening with a book or the television (read: my idea of a good time) does not count as "something" by her definition. Work was something she seemed to enjoy -- but more importantly it kept her busy. Summers, when school was out, are always nuts, because she needs to be entertained and is constantly dropping hints about how no one visits her enough, how we should all go do things as a family, etc.
Sure, you might think "Oh, geez, Liz, why not just visit your Grandmother from time to time and make an old lady happy?" Well, I do visit as much as I can possibly stand to, but it is a long way from my definition of fun. When visiting it's the torment questions, comments, and criticsm. Why don't I dress better, how I could stand to lose weight, why do I cut my hair so short like a boy, how my face could be so pretty with a little make-up, why haven't I gone to graduate school already (and when I was in school, why weren't my grades better since I'm so smart after all), when am I going to get a better job, why haven't I written a book like I talk about, why did I ever get those two terrible dogs, and oh gee lots of girls my age are married these days, when am I going to bring a boyfriend over for dinner?
In short: it's hell.
And now she's retiring. She'll be like this twelve months a year. Oh god.
To celebrate this delightful fact, we are apparently throwing a party at which I am told I am required to wear a dress.
So what I'm saying is, please, one of you nice wonderful lovely people, please kidnap me this weekend. I would be ever so much obliged for your help.
My Grandmother is the sort of high-energy person who cannot sit still for any length of time. She always has to be puttering about, doing something. A quiet evening with a book or the television (read: my idea of a good time) does not count as "something" by her definition. Work was something she seemed to enjoy -- but more importantly it kept her busy. Summers, when school was out, are always nuts, because she needs to be entertained and is constantly dropping hints about how no one visits her enough, how we should all go do things as a family, etc.
Sure, you might think "Oh, geez, Liz, why not just visit your Grandmother from time to time and make an old lady happy?" Well, I do visit as much as I can possibly stand to, but it is a long way from my definition of fun. When visiting it's the torment questions, comments, and criticsm. Why don't I dress better, how I could stand to lose weight, why do I cut my hair so short like a boy, how my face could be so pretty with a little make-up, why haven't I gone to graduate school already (and when I was in school, why weren't my grades better since I'm so smart after all), when am I going to get a better job, why haven't I written a book like I talk about, why did I ever get those two terrible dogs, and oh gee lots of girls my age are married these days, when am I going to bring a boyfriend over for dinner?
In short: it's hell.
And now she's retiring. She'll be like this twelve months a year. Oh god.
To celebrate this delightful fact, we are apparently throwing a party at which I am told I am required to wear a dress.
So what I'm saying is, please, one of you nice wonderful lovely people, please kidnap me this weekend. I would be ever so much obliged for your help.