Went to R’s mother’s place for a Thanksgiving dinner. Ate so much that I literally couldn’t remember the PIN for my bank card. Actually.
(It came to me when I got home. I really did think, briefly, that I was having a stroke or something.)
It was good, small affair. One semi-heated, brief argument about the niqab, as is the new tradition in this nation of ours, but since R’s mum also sent home an army’s worth of Thanksgiving rations and uses ‘Maudite marde’ liberally, and unironically, in conversation, I can deal. Also, her cat is a fucking beaut, but Greta Garboed the whole night.
Speaking of old ladies who fear(ed) foreigners a bit, this week, I found myself thinking about staying at my grandparents’ house, and how my grandma would assault the grandkids every morning to wash our faces, our necks (‘never forget! a lot of people do!’), and behind our ears with a warm, damp facecloth she had rubbed Camay, or, later, when that was no longer available, Dove soap into on one side, and then ‘rinsed’ us of with the opposite, less soapy one.
That grandma was a difficult women in a million ways, but that was a really lovely thing she did. Sure, maybe it was a passive-aggressive comment on our general state of cleanliness, but sometimes I miss it. And over the last couple of days, I’ve been washing my face the same way in the morning. My grandmother had beautiful skin even in her 90s, so maybe she was onto something.