I'm becoming my grandma

Grandma Dorothy was definitely the more eccentric of my two beloved grandmothers. (Webster defines eccentric as: 'deviating from conventional or accepted usage or conduct especially in odd or whimsical ways'.)

Yet her quirks, odd habits, expressions and dry humor were what made her both endearing and entertaining.

Grandma was a failure in the clean house realm. I remember times when my family would stay a night in her home in north Seattle, a delightful Tudor style home which I'd give my eyeteeth to have today. While dad took grandma out on errands, my mom, sibs and myself would quickly remove piles of newspapers, vacuum what floor space we could find, wash dirty dishes and wipe down counter tops. We'd receive a chastising upon her return. And, viewing the situation through my continual age-acquired wisdom, I suppose it was a sort of arrogance on our part; forcing our standards on her. Yet, we were simply concerned for her health and safety.

Although I managed to escape her 'unkempt' house gene, I share many of her tendencies. I'm an avid animal lover, particularly dogs. I'm a bibliophile. I have a morbid interest in death and I am a hoarder of sorts.

Which brings me to the reason for this post.

I posted last month about my worn-out, pink, chenille bathrobe. I've purchased a new one since then. It's purple velour and a vast improvement over the rag I've been wearing. But something (the Grandma Dorothy in me, I'm sure) keeps me from tossing my pink robe into the dumpster. Perhaps, like Grandma, I'm holding onto the old because of the comfort and security it gives me.

So, should you pay a surprise visit to me in the early morning hours, you'll find me comfortably attired in my my old, pink robe.

Just call me 'Ma Kettle'! No, these aren't my slippers.....

My purple robe hangs patiently in my closet. I will wear it when I have house guests.