Posted: May 18, 2012 | Author: grannyismywingman | Filed under: Uncategorized | 1 Comment
As you may have noticed, Granny and I took a brief hiatus from our dating marathon last week. Don’t fret, we’ll be back into wining, dining, and bitching our brains out shortly but I had to make a quick run to Kenya where I founded and operate a charity.
My life is a balancing act of good and evil. I work in a nightclub strutting around in sequins and stilettos selling booze at exuberant prices to wealthy suits in order to get some kicks and make a living. All that opulence led me to a Robin Hood-esque mission of forming an organization where I can link into the moola and make something good come out of it.
Last week instead of stalking future lovers on the internet I was hanging with some kids in Nairobi where my organization buys textbooks, university scholarships, and runs reading clubs for girls. Twice a year I make the trip to Kenya to get my fix of love and reality, a hold on myself and the world around me, and give some good back. If you want to stalk me/get involved you are more than welcome to: www.thereadproject.org
Anyway, my trips to Kenya shake Granny up for two reasons. 1) She’s a neurotic Jew. 2) She’s jealous that I haven’t invited her to come along with me.
Prior to this trip she tried to scare me off with her witchy ways, “I’m worried there will be life threatening danger this trip,” she prophesized like a mad woman. Luckily, I ignored her and went on my way. When I got home I called her.
“Where ya been?” she asked me, as if she forgot that I had gone to sub-Saharan Africa. In this dating process Granny and I have gone from talking weekly, to daily, to hourly. The week absence of calls while abroad was tough for both of us.
“I didn’t die,” I notified her.
“I’m just glad you’re back,” she told me. “I guess because I’m getting older, with every trip you take I worry more.”
I wasn’t ready to let the witch off so easy. “You told me I was going to die,” I reminded her. I wanted to drill home how crazy and out of line her remark was.
“You know it’s like poo-poo God,” she explained. “You know the Jews? Poo-poo poo-poo? I was warding off the bad spirits.” She may be more of a Jewess sorceress than I originally understood. I only know about one kind of poo-poo.
“Let’s not get into it, no depressed state of mind, please,” she said. “You’re home, you’re good. I feel very comfortable having you home. When you go back I’ll worry again. If I were there with you, I wouldn’t worry…” she began then giggled. She’s always subtly suggesting that she’d like to join me on a trip.
“You want to be my sidekick in dating and charity?” I asked.
“Absolutely. Anytime,” she said definitively.
Although emotionally rewarding, my visits tend to be exhausting, highly physical, uncomfortable, and fast-paced. “How would you feel about pooping in a hole?” I tested her.
“Sleeping in a hole?” she asked.
“Pooping. Pooping in a hole.”
“Oh come on, I did that in Yugoslavia twenty years ago,” she bragged. “And you know what? In a movie theater. You just followed your nose to the poop hole, you knew where it was. Trust me on that one.” She went further, “And next door was the restaurant we ate in, and I even remember what I got for dinner because there was no choices. I got spaghetti bolognaise,” she paused to heave. “Oh God, it’s gagging me now that I’m thinking about it. Really, I know about poop holes. I also experienced one in a country next to Israel. It was a friendly country but the poop hole was not pleasant.”
“They never are,” I confirmed.
“Been there, done that,” she said referring to the poop hole, but really it applies to most experiences in my life.
LISTEN TO OUR CONVERSATION: conversation.mp3