Living with grandmas

This post is not about this.

This post had a lot of potential.

I was going to tell you about our 4th o’ Julio day fun including the beach and a barbecue, throw in a rant about paying $18 to go to a public beach and conclude with a stern warning to avoid “Because I Said So” at all costs.

But you already know better than to rent anything with Mandy Moore or Diane Keaton with her poofy skirts and neck wraps. (Why, dear Diane, why?)

And then I read this by my sis-in-law, which took my post in a whole different direction. Because it’s about having a 75-year-old roommate at college (and a little bit about breakfast).

And while I never had a 75-year-old roommate, I did have two 65-year-old mission companions. At the same time. And I do love breakfast.

As most of you know, I went to El Salvador on my LDS mission. While there I had some medical problems and accidental surgery. And lots of excruciating pain.

Eventually an ultimatum came from my mission president – “Go home or come to the office.”

The mission office. It’s a mythical place to most missionaries. Some covet it for its perks – air conditioning, little proselyting, rubbing elbows with the Prez himself. Some hate it for its perks.

I was in the latter group.

But going home was not an option so I agreed to transfer from my sweet life as regular missionary in Chalatenango to a temporary gig in Ilopango to San Salvador, where I would finish my mish as records secretary.

(Side note: These are real names of places in El Salvador – Ilopango, Soyapango, Chalatenango, Ilobasco, Chaparrastique, Zacatecaluca. Say them. It’s fun.)

Then he told me who my companion would be: A 65-year-old widow from California who would be the mission nurse.

I was actually thrilled. My mind filled with images of a sweet grandma who would bake me things and share precious life advice. We would develop a kinship despite our generation gap, I told myself.

Wrong.

She was a sweet, hippie grandma. She loved to bake. And she did have great life advice to impart. She just didn’t share it with me. In fact, she hardly spoke to me. Despite my efforts to be charming and engaging, she did not like me. Dare I say, she hated me.

I tried to be soft, “Golly gee, I may have lived here for over a year, but you’re my elder so whatever you say, goes.” I tried the hard approach, “Look, I know you don’t feel confident with your Spanish, but the only way to learn is to speak it so we’re going out to meet some locals.”

But nothing worked. Granola Grandma loved the males in the mission office. She loved her grandkids back home. But try as I might, she hated me.

Sometimes our age difference was the problem. Like the time I needed to make an Excel spreadsheet for a mission report, but the computer was busy so she said, “Just use a typewriter.” I tried to explain that a typewriter didn’t have the same capabilities, but she just looked at me and said, “You think you know everything.”

A few weeks into our companionship, the mission president dropped another bomb. We would be getting another companion in our apartment: A 65-year-old widow from Las Vegas who would be an additional mission nurse.

Oh, Granola Grandma was smug at first. Finally, someone who would understand her. Someone she could confide in. Someone she would like.

And I dreamed of a grandma who would actually like me.

But as fate would have it, we were both wrong.

Vegas Grandma was crazy. She had extensive plastic surgery – think Joan Rivers – and hadn’t really been active in the LDS Church for many years, which resulted in a lot of false doctrine. Also, she spoke fluent Mexican, which didn’t always translate in El Salvador. But that didn’t stop her from schooling us all in what she considered to be perfecto Spanish. (Like, “It’s not 'almuerzo,' it’s ‘el lunch-ay!’”)

Vegas Grandma ordered cable. (Not allowed to watch TV as a young missionary.) Vegas Grandma opted to share a room with Granola Grandma, relegating me to a room full of bunk beds all to myself. (Not supposed to sleep in separate rooms as a young missionary.) And sometimes I would wake up to an empty house - (not supposed to be alone as a young missionary) - because Vegas Grandma had grown weary of Granola G’s snoring and gone for a walk. And Granola left because was freaked out by Vegas, who slept with her eyes open. (Think of a really tight face lift that would render your eyelids so far from the bottom of your eyes as to make eye closure impossible.)

The two fought like cats – really, really mean rabid cats. They criticized each other’s clothes. They criticized each other’s nursing skills. They criticized each other’s takes on Medicaid.

And they wanted me to take sides.

Surprisingly, I wanted to side with Granola Grandma on most issues, even though her disdain for me hurt so badly. Because while Vegas didn’t love me, she certainly endured me. Or wanted to use me to form a Survivor-like alliance that would get Granola G kicked off the island … er, mission … forever.

One day, Vegas G was complaining about Granola G, to which I said, “Well, she hates me, you know.” To which Vegas said, “She really does.”

Turns out, Granola Grandma was listening from the other room. She came out and asked to speak with me. She said she felt bad that I sensed her hostility. And that the reason she didn’t like me was because she was JEALOUS.

Jealous? A 65-year-old woman with a life full of experience and a family was jealous of a 21-year-old girl? Yup. Turns out she envied my outgoing demeanor. She envied my knack with Spanish. She envied how many friends I had on the mission.

Of course, I told her she was ridiculous. That if anyone had reason to envy someone, it was me. That I was just a young child. That our lives could not be compared in any way. That I was so not worthy of her jealousy.

And while I’d like to say that conversation turned things around, it didn’t.

She was little nicer, but the extra animosity was channeled to Vegas Grandma instead. And you do NOT want to see two 65-year-old widows go at it. Trust me!

Finally, my time came to go home. And I did with a lot less sadness than if I’d been out in Chaparrastique with a young companion.

I have no idea how those two spent the next year alone in that house. Even our wife-beater neighbor was probably disturbed by all the fighting.

They never returned my letters.

They never answered my emails.

I’ll never know whether or not Vegas Grandma met some hot local to marry, as she dreamed of doing.

And I'll never know if Granola Grandma learned Spanish.

But I will tell you this – older people wake up really, really early. Like 4 a.m. For no reason. And they are very loud.

Let that be a warning to you.

See, this post was informative after all.

HTT - Called to Serve?

After a lil’ hiatus, I’ve decided to go all Mormon on y’alls.

But since most of my readers are LDS, and many of you are honorary members (yes, that includes you, Steph, and Peanut), I’ve decided that’s OK.

The topic at hand is sister missionaries.

For those who don’t know, members of the LDS Church have the opportunity to serve ecclesiastical missions. Basically, you fill out some general paperwork and are assigned somewhere in the world to preach the good word, do service and live 24/7 with a designated companion. (There are way more deets to this whole process and arrangement, but they are neither hot nor topical so if you want to know more, email me.)

Guys can choose to go at 19 and are highly encouraged to do so, if not expected. Gals can choose to go at 21 and are under no pressure to “serve a mission,” as we like to say. It’s a matter of prayer, reflection, life situation and personal preference. “If you go, great; if you don’t, that works, too,” seems to be the mentality.

Or so I thought.

But actually, there’s a lot of positive and negative thoughts on the whole issue. One friend was told by someone that she “would have been a better mother” if she had served a mission. (!?!?)
I did serve a mission. And I do think it made me a better mother, but that’s because I was supposed to go. Had I ignored the promptings, I don’t think I would have enjoyed the same blessings in life that I do now. But if you felt strongly that you shouldn’t go (or were already married), then you clearly weren’t meant to serve a mission. And in no way did that make you a lesser person or a worse mom or wife or friend.

When I was I teenager, I thought that every unmarried 21-year-old Mormon gal should serve a mission. I considered it like tithing – paying 10% of our earnings to the church to fund its various operations - if you had the time, you owed the Lord to give a lil’ back after all He had given you. So I was a little confused when amazing girls I knew chose not to serve missions for what seemed like personal reasons. (“I don’t want to learn a language.” “I could never get along with a companion.” “I would be homesick.” “I don’t want to get fat.”)

But now I get it. There’s just not room for a lot of sister missionaries. Not only are many areas of the world unsafe for women but many cultures wouldn’t respect them. Also, in my experience, there are good elders, there are bad elders, and there are a lot of mediocre ones. But with sister missionaries, there are really good ones, there are really bad ones, and that’s about it. Because sisters seem to go for all the right reasons, or all the wrong ones.

Which is why you often hear horror stories about sister missionaries. And why a lot of guys didn’t want to date me when I got back from my mission. (Which was easier than writing “jerk” across their foreheads, I suppose.) And why a lot of people said things like, “I can’t believe you went on a mission.” As if a decent fashion sense and sense of humor should have disqualified me for the work.

Even now, fellow church members act surprised when I tell them I served a mission, even more when I say I went to El Salvador.

But I’m proud to tell people I went. And I still reflect fondly on my time as a missionary. It was so unbelievably, freaking hard – harder than anyone could have told me. So hard that there were days I was positive that missions were a Mormon conspiracy. (“Best two years of my life, my …!”) But there were more special, sacred, amazing moments than I’d ever experienced, which made it sooo worth it. It is a priceless, treasured part of who I am.

And, despite what many people say, there is no way I could have obtained the same spiritual knowledge and experience had I stayed behind. Because no 21-year-old college lass is immersing herself in the scriptures like a missionary does. So there is that perk.

And I wouldn’t be the same person today if I hadn’t gone. Because I was supposed to go. Just like you might have been destined not to. Which makes us both wonderful.

So dish.

Did you serve a mission?

Did you choose not to?

How did you make that decision?

Do you ever have any regrets?

What advice would you give to a daughter if she was trying to decide?

Oh, and how much do you want to ban jumpers from sister missionary wardrobes? (Even though they are really, really comfortable and make hopping onto moving buses loaded with chickens and naked children really, really easy.)