My grandmother’s name is Irma. She’s 100 years old. She grew up over a German butcher shop in Buffalo, New York, and spent her life traveling the West as a biochemist. I moved in with her in New Mexico last winter. She’s lots of fun.
Just the other day, when I picked her up from her ladies’ book club, she was carrying a giant white box with a beautiful red velvet cake inside. The ladies had all decided to do a gift exchange. The only problem was that my grandmother had not brought a gift. As Gram was leaving, the hostess became suspicious and asked her what she had brought to exchange for the cake. Without skipping a beat, my grandmother told the hostess that her gift had already been taken and that it was a gift card, if the bitch must know. But she was caught red-handed and the hostess ratted her out to my parents, who live next door.
When you’re 100, I think one of the things that is both good and bad is that you’re kind of back to being a child again. We’re hosting the next book club, and we’re going to fill the dining-room table with cakes.
Irma’s World
