Let’s be a visit to older relatives

I'm the empty photo albums and keepsake boxes because maybe some day you would have children but no, you hardly call, barely write and rarelyh visit... so there is nothing else to fill them with but disappointments from forgotten dreams.

I'm the empty vodka bottles bagged up by the door. I know you'll discreetly take us down the hall to the garbage chute before your mother has a chance to notice and start in on the guilt trip.

I'm a bunch of candy that is stuck together in a dish.

I’m cat hair stuck on that candy

Endless cups of rosehip tea. Games of canasta. Episodes of Dad's Army on the telly. Roast dinners with hasselback potatoes.

I'm cable news on the entire while you 'visit'.

"So, you found the right girl, yet?"

I'm people you've never heard of, their children, and their grandchildren, being discussed at length with your mom while you fiddle in your chair and stare at old pictures on the wall.

I'm the 15-year Olds in the driveway with 12,000 miles on it.

No, you may not go outside. We're visiting with grandma.

I’m that strange musty, slightly vaginal smell. I hope it’s nothing coming from where I think it’s coming from.

I’m Leticia, the Hispanic housekeeper grandma constantly berates. “I thought I told you that blouse is DRY CLEAN only??”

We're the knick-knacks everyplace everywhere. "That? Oh we got that at a motel in Florida. Try it. It flushes!"

I’m bumping the thermostat up 5 degrees “in case you boys are cold”.

I'm "that smell." The smell of the house is legendary because on one hand no one can figure it out, and on the other hand everyone has always been too polite to inquire about it. It's been decades. HI, GRANNY!

I'm the clock encased in a clear dome, keeping time with each tick and tock till my owner finally dies. Then, no one will want me, not even the people at the thrift store.

"Have I ever told you about the time . . ."

Yes! Yes! Yes!

I'm the one who doesn't just talk about recent dental work, but must also take out his flipper to show it to you.

I'm the regaled memories, all of which occurred before you or your brothers and sisters were born.

I'm the smell.

"I've got a special treat for you boys. A slice of your parents' wedding cake. I've saved it all these years."

I'm the refusal to get hearing aids, and the LOUD, repetitive conversation that results from me.

I'm the complete lack of breeze or draft. Air has not moved in this house in 10 years.

I’m invisible until it’s time to dry the dishes.

I'm Bill O'Reilly. I'm still on the TV and the bookshelves, because I "tell it like it is!"

"Guess we gotta go. It's a long drive back."

"Oh no! Stay the night. I'll fix up Grandpa's old bed for you. Nobody's slept in it since that night he passed."

I'm that one grandchild that the grandmother absolutely loves. Talks about how smart and good looking they are, knows all about what they're doing and tells everyone about them. Unfortunately, that one grandchild never visits and could not give a shit about dear old gran, while the ones that do care and do visit are only sounding boards and largely looked down on.

I'm the candy dish, with ribbon candies stuck to it.

I'm TV Guide magazine.

Most of the "grands" have never seen me before in their lives.

"Don't forget to go out to the cemetery while you're here."

We're the Delft blue ceramics on display, which oddly match the blue of Nana's hair.

I'm the grand-daughter who sits there ignored while everyone talks about the boys and what they're going to be doing with their lives.

I'm the unmistakable demand that you sit down and have something to eat. NOW! No matter whether or not you ate before you came - your ass is going to eat again!

I'm the TV set with the volume set to "everyone's yelling".

I'm the old lady who lives in the next apartment and I think it's nice that my neighbour's great nephew and his roommate visit so often.

I'm the eldergay you visit because after you transitioned out of the foster care system... there wasn't really anyone left, no matter how many times you clicked your heels. It's as close to family as you had and all they asked is for you to dust the apartment while wearing just a caftan.

I’m Pepper, grandma’s ancient corgi. I’m deaf and blind, but I just won’t die. I live in grandma’s lap, and I snap at anyone who tries to get close. Despite what you’ve been told, I’m really grandma’s favorite. I will probably live longer than grandma, and you will find her on the bathroom floor with half of her face missing. You’re welcome.

I'm the Misty cigarettes in the snap case. I'm also the O'Doul's in the fridge.

WTF R37

I'm dust

R28, that is the exact image I had in my head when R3 posted.

I'm the song, Auntie bursts into every time I come to visit. . .

I'm the mad dash over to the Gateway PC and antiquated CRT monitor as soon as the young visitor (s) appear. "Thank God, you came, Timmy! I was needing you to show me how to copy and paste again, and tell me once more about this double click thing."

I’m the event specific guilt trip declaration:”this might be my last Christmas/Easter/birthday with you kids…” reminding us that there’s no one quite like grandma.

I’m the $400 credit card charges for the telemarketing scam Mom fell for AGAIN.

I’m the kitchen which has become a shvitz, with the heat up and windows closed while grandma makes you drink hot tea to have with that piece of Entenmann’s pound cake.

I'm the half-size TV.

I’m cable television.

"And here, here's your dad at your age. Funny you don't look anything like him."

I'm the sweat dripping down your back because Aunt Vy keeps her house at 80 degrees even in the middle of summer.

I'm the decades of therapy you've had from summer after summer of listening your grandparents get it on...

I AM the older relative 😕

I'm the tube tv with the colours of the old weather channel frozen into the screen.

I’m the green shag carpet in the bathroom.

I'm the pairs of "readers" in every room in the house, along with the "readers" on a chain around Grandma's neck.

I’m the 0.12 Blood Alcohol Level which was required for me to walk in the front door of this house.

I'm the sound of hard candy clicking against dentures.

I'll have to bow out of this one. All of my older relatives are all long dead. I'm now the older relative and I don't care to have any of my younger relatives visit me.

I'm the vulture circling overhead as you discretely attach a sticky with your name under every item you want in the house.

I’m dinner at 2pm and a second dinner at 7pm.

That 7pm meal is supper to you, whippersnapper.

I'm the sound of a teacup filled with English Breakfast or Earl Grey rattling against a saucer.

R53 - that's funny - my elderly aunt gave my brother her big TV and the Home Shopping Network logo was burned into the screen.

r62 but now we keep the good stuff on reserve and serve blooming teas for guests and company.

I'm the fond and often revisited memory of when the neighborhood was all "White".

R30 "Don't forget to go out to the cemetery while you're here."

I’m the flowers for the graves.

I'm the search for another lost hearing aid.

I'm the most lurid and sensationalized "news" stories, she curates from the Post...

and repeats ad nauseum

"Well, of course he was 'foreign'!"

I'm grandpa's clothes in the closet even though he's been dead 10 years.

I'm the plaster praying hands sculpture on the coffee table.

I'm tvland or some other streaming network of classic tv. I remember all you millennial to z tards losing your shit after Bob Saget's death was first announced screaming "My father has died!". So apparently I'm your family because you never understood thje point of Pleasantville was to go out and discover a real life.

I'm the awful cooking.

"And after they all that money they spent on his education, her son is a Miner!"

"I don't know what mine he works in...something called cryptocurrency...I expect it's in Africa or West Virginia."

I'm the kitchen curtains.

I'm the toe fungus cream.

And no one born after 1980 deserves to post on this thread.

When I was a kid, there was NO cable or internet. When we went to a relative's house, we had to sit there. Every minute was like an eternity

I'm the swiftkick in the arse you get after coming here with your resentment, bitterness, multiple excues, excessive, desperate need to find a scapegoat for your own shortcomings.... and the lovely golden pond out back.

I'm the empty bottles of Librium and Xanax that have been repurposed to hold a endless variety of odds and ends.

"Now where is my actual Librium; I know it's here somewhere."

I'm The Golden Girls rerun, on tv with the volume WAY up. The older relative naps to me.

I'm the gun you've brought alone for one more 'night (with) mother

I'm the old crone way of speaking through the frozen grimace on her face that makes even the most loving statements sound like some creepy witch's curse,

"You're just bea-uti-ful, my darling...cough, cough...just bea-uti-ful."

I'm the picture of an old man praying over a slice of bread, reminding you to be grateful for what you have, you spoiled brat!

I'm the land line phone. I'm cordless, but I'm getting telemarketing calls all day and all night.

I'm this abomination.

I'm the endless guessing game to help her remember the names of those she's trying to remember...

"You know, who I mean, that young man on the television."

"No, no, not him, the one who's so handsome....you know."

"He's very popular, you must know his name."

I'm the smallest, thickest flat screen TV made -- I might actually be a PC monitor, a theory advanced by my pale rose color and brand name that is an unrecognizable hash of Eastern and Western characters. I'm the size of a small microwave and have a groovy tote handle and big remote control also in pale rose.

I sit atop an antimacassar, atop a giant console cabinet TV, dead for 30 years but grandmother won't give it up as a piece of furniture because "they don't make TVs in nice cabinets anymore."

Grandmother spent almost $600 on the pink toy TV thinking she was saving money, saying "I didn't want to spend a fortune on a big TV because they don't have wood cabinets anymore - I asked and the salesman didn't know what I was talking about." She is unaware that a giant TV that she could actually see is the thickness of a wallet and the size of a wall and costs $279 not on sale.

The old TV cabinet serves double duty to show off that gloppy orange and brown blown glass bowl piled high with sticky ribbon candy.

I'm the attempts to help her remember happier times that doesn't go as well as you'd hope.

"Yes, of course, I remember Dorothy, what terrible alcoholic she was! The parties she ruined - her poor family."

"Oh Madge, she was my friend, but the terrible things he did to her husband - she was a nymphomaniac, I think they called it."

"Yes, Lucy was pretty when she was younger, but you should've seen her before she died - just riddled with cancer - you couldn't even image!"

I’m the offer of half a medical marijuana gummy.

I'm 1 of 50 on the mantle.

I'm the whispered slurs in all of her stories:

He lost all of their money; he was a secret "gambler".

Yes, yes, but her daughter married a "negro"."

That son of hers, he was a "homosexual".

I'm the stories of dubious medical provenance:

"They say some kind of worm crawled into her ear and ate her brain away. Anyway, she was never the same after that trip to the Caribbean."

I am the other elderly woman listening to R68's stories saying "I declare!" after every story.

I'm her naive unshakeable belief in the stories she hears on Fox News

"But New York city is just a war zone now - they say you can't even walk down the street - it's like Mexico or Africa."

More dubious medical stories:

"No, she never had children. She lifted something too heavy when we were girls, and they say it titled her womb."

I'm the disconnect in her brain - again due to watching Fox News

"We maybe he's not perfect, but that Governor DeSantis is SO handsome!"

I'm the references to places and things that no longer exist:

They went to Africa - I think to Tanganyika and Zanzibar.

Her daughter is a stewardess; she lives near Idlewild.

[quote]"No, she never had children. She lifted something too heavy when we were girls, and they say it titled her womb."

"But Ma, she was a lesbian."

"You mean like Danny Thomas? Oh no, she was as White as we are."

[quote]I'm the search for another lost hearing aid.

I'm the earsplitting SCREEEEEEECH from the hearing aid once she finds it and inserts it.

When my grandparents were alive and they'd have big family gatherings there would always have to be multiple sittings for dinner. The dining room table only sat 10 and there would at times be 35 or more people there. The kids were forced to eat at kid's tables including the breakfast room and tables set up elsewhere in the house. I remember being so proud when I reached 14 and was allowed to eat at the adult's table.

I'm the boiled to death vegetables.

Your Aunt Seal was barren!

I'm the phrase, "Well, good night!" uttered after every news item received by paper or broadcast (rising prices, police brutality, gay pride parade, etc.). I mean: "I can retire to bed secure in the knowledge that I will not miss anything more outrageous than that."

I'm the word "Oriental."

I’m the conversation’s interesting turn to “the will”

[quote]I’m that strange musty, slightly vaginal smell. I hope it’s nothing coming from where I think it’s coming from.

No, you're right. It is coming from GRANNY'S PUSSY.

I'm the strap hanging on the wall just outside your bedroom... the one they're still not afraid to use.

I’m the daily schedule you’re witnessing and soon G-Pa will hobble out of the den with robe open and old man pecker swinging about. The CNA is due and he wants to answer the door.

I'm the toilet lid cover and matching rug. I reek of piss.

[quote]"No, she never had children. She lifted something too heavy when we were girls, and they say it titled her womb."

She had an illegal coat hanger ABORTION, you old bat!

I'm the police scanner propped on top of rumpled copies of Good Housekeeping.

I’m the Hustlers left in Uncle Wally’s bedroom closet when he drowned in college. Grandma’s refusal to change anything in Wally’s room after he died means there are some interesting pre-internet glimpses of male flesh in a few pictures.

I'm the back yard that you children amongst the visitors are relegated to -- or escape to, desperately -- for almost the entire duration of the visit.

I’m the love expressed by mountains of sandwiches, cakes and shortbread. My granny would have force fed us if she could.

R114, is "shortbread" the same thing as "shortbread cookies"?

I'm the weird toothpick-floss-combo plastic gizmos in a cup in the kitchen. I have a name like Pik-O-Flex or FlosPix.

I'm the long heavy sigh and sad slow head shake after the statement, "Back then, people knew how to behave."

I'm the list of emergency phone numbers. I'm posted prominently on the refrigerator.

[quote]I’m the kitchen which has become a shvitz, with the heat up and windows closed while grandma makes you drink hot tea to have with that piece of Entenmann’s pound cake.

"Would you like me to turn on another heater, dear? You look pale."

We're the family photos on the credenza, all of which were carefully re-arranged before your visit. And all of which will be carefully re-arranged again afterwards.

"No, now that Lawrence Welk is off the air the only TV we enjoy watching is Jeopardy."

I'm the protective ice that covers the sherbet and keeps it fresh in the freezer.

No comment yet about a stack of Reader's Digests either displayed or relegated to a corner?

That's because we can't see them. They're under the collection of TV Guides. All of which will be valuable one day.

I’m Pete the perverted next door neighbor and golfing buddy of grandpa. I’m 78 years old and still get plenty of pussy. I have no problem telling anyone this, either. I haven’t been able to get it up since Bush 41 was president, but I can eat pussy with the best of them. These broads can’t get enough of me. You’ll know me, I show up at every gathering clad in Vietnam Veteran hat, golf shirt, khaki shorts, white socks pulled up to me knees, gold Rolex on one wrist and medical ID bracelet on the other.

Oh and this takes place in The Villages.

I’m the crud on the silverware and glasses. I’m invisible to the homeowner.

"Say, why don't we go out on the porch and sit for a spell."

"Alright, alright. 'Brazil nuts.' Is that better?"

I'm the empty bottle of Xanax you brought. It was full last night before you took a walk. It smells like the cologne your junkie nephew is wearing today. The junkie nephew who's been to rehab twice.

"John really slapped down Dorothy last night, didn't he. And she wasn't having any of it."

We're the Hummels. One day we'll all be yours!

I am the anguished policing of toilet flushing.

“ We have very low water pressure, and it cost so much to have the plumber come out. So please please please do not put anything into the toilet does not come out of the human body.”

A little garbage can beside the toilet is available for your shit-stained Charmin. That garbage can is already full.

No plunger is available, because “that practically invites people to flush toilet paper down the toilet”.

You figure, just this once, I can flush just a tiny bit of toilet paper down the toilet after I defecate.

Soon, to your horror, you watch as the water rises out of the toilet and floods the bathroom floor with used toilet paper and just the tiniest piece of turd.

Aunt Romaine, though she is practically deaf and is 4 rooms away, can hear the sound of the first drop of water as it rises over the brim of the toilet and falls to the floor.

Holy hell ensues.

I'm the thank-you note your niece never sent for her graduation present, and which will invariably be mentioned in passing on every single visit.

I am the exciting life, well lived. I marched for equal rights for blacks and gays and women. I protested against war. I practiced free love in my youth. I will never be asked about because the body that lived me is old and withered now and therefore considered useless and annoying.

R134 I'm the WWII Pacific Theater vet you never asked about the war because you rightly sussed I never wanted to talk about it.

I'm the snack Grandma is having for dinner because she "had a big lunch".

I'm the basement that always spooked you out as a kid. And I still do.

The basement with all of grandma’s canned tomatoes and beans? YIKES

And those jars of pickled peaches that had been down there for AT LEAST 25 years. Probably still as good as the day they were sent down there.

R138 I'm not going down there to find out. You go. But watch your head.

I used to hang out with my Native American great grandfather bitchez.

He hardly talked at all but was cool as you get.

I’m the FOG.

I am with you always.

"Their son's a doctor, you know."

(Said at every get-together, at least twice.)

I’m the silver which will be yours someday.

I am the Google search “how much will someone pay for a set of silver”

I'm the tolerant, kind and understanding older relative who endures the annual-or-less visits from indifferent younger family members who turn up out of guilt, interest in "what's going to happen to their stuff" matters, and a mother's nagging.

I can do without such meaningless bother, as I have an active, interesting life.

I even turn off the air conditioning to encourage a briefer interruption from my writing my third memoir.

I'm the pill sorter/cases

lmao, R147, why the hell is the American used in that ad?

[quote] I am the Google search “how much will someone pay for a set of silver”

I'm the frustrating attempt to help them sell ANY of their old stuff.....that has absolutely no worth.

The old, ugly, dusty, out of style furniture that they want to sell for way more than it's worth. Not even a consignment store would take this shit.

The stacks of old records that they believe should be worth a fortune because they're old. Meanwhile, even the trashman won't take most of them - they're warped, dusty and smell of mildew from being in the garage since the late 1970s. (Then again, warped, dusty and smelling of mildew kind of describes Uncle Jim, doesn't it?)

I'm the crystal Whisky Crystal decanter

[quote]"Alright, alright. 'Brazil nuts.' Is that better?"

😂😂😂

I'm the vinyl record "I Love the Nightlife" in Uncle Wally's room.

You can play it loud - she can't hear anyway.

Do you self-identify as women, transgender, non-binary, or two-spirit?

Then this job is exclusively for you!

In a similar vein, R132, I'm a sign in the bathroom:

"If it's brown, flush it down. If it's yellow, let it mellow."

The piss and toilet paper in the bowl have apparently been "mellowing" there for quite some time when you arrive to add to them.

I’m Consumer Reports On Health

I’m a Lifesavr

I’m a housecoat.

[quote] I'm a bunch of candy that is stuck together in a dish.

lol I always thought this Family Guy nailed that.

I’m the haze of hand grease around knobs and wall plates. They would be embarrassed if they had better eyesight.

You can wash down the kitchen surfaces now without stepping on toes, but hallways and living areas will require charm and tsp. You do NOT make a big deal about it. You simply say it’s wall washing time.

I'm the wrinkled brown spotted dry paper like skin you are staring at and know one day you will inherit.

I’m Ajax.

I’m the abundance of delicious homemade foods that will never taste the same once the old cooks die.

I'm the container of Sanka coffee.

I am the bottle of Corn Husker's Lotion on the table in Grandpa's basement mancave , Grandma's says he locks the door and will not let her in sometimes. Grandpa quickly removes the bottle and changes the subject to football ......

"Have you found A JOB, yet?"

I'm the dentures at the bedside.

I'm AquaNet hairspray, molding your Nana's hair into a dome-shaped beehive since 1960.

I’m the missing car keys that turn up in the refrigerator or the medicine cabinet.

[quote] The basement with all of grandma’s canned tomatoes and beans? YIKES

What's wrong with canned tomatoes and beans?

I'm the magnifying glass for when readers just don't do the trick. I'm used for the fine print.

I'm the hazy, layers of cigarette smoke that fill the house forcing your weekend guests to open the window behind the bed and place their pillows on the window sill so their heads stick out in the fresh night air. I'm also the a/c turned up to a sweltering 82 because it's too chilly in this TX summer.

R16a9 = Grandma

Yall laugh but this thread reminds me so much of dearly loved and long gone people Id give anything to see once more. They had their quirks,true enough,but they also had a way of loving you that seems to have all but disappeared in this world. I can close my eyes and see me sitting in a huge rocking chair snuggled up next to my grandmother,dipping toasted french bread in a cup of REAL hot chocolate (none of that packet shit for her) and watching old movies and musicals on the tv. When we finished our snack,she would wrap me in her arms and stroke my hair while gently rocking me . Id give ANYTHING to feel that sense of love and safety once more . Aw hell,now Im crying.

R173

MARY! MARY! MARY!

but also 😭

I hate visits.

This, hanging over the showerhead in Nana's bedroom.

I'm the colorful afghan grandma crocheted laying across the back of the sofa.

I'm the forget-me-nots in the back yard.

I'm the leather snap case that holds the Salem 100's. There's even a pocket for a lighter!

I am the $3,500 worth of quarters that grandma has in a 5-gallon water jug. I am nothing compared to the $465,000 she has in her savings account.

I'm the manila folder of takeout menus from places within a 5-mile radius. I'm also the drawer of packets of condiments, plastic forks / spoons / knives, and napkins leftover from past takeout orders.

I’m the Aunt Jemima pancake mix box - saved because “they don’t make that any more.”

True story.

I'm the kiddy table you still sit at despite all your degrees, your success because you didn't pop out a kid or get someone pregnant in your teens, develop a drug habit or settle down with the first schlub that came along. Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.. that whore!

i’m a roll from the restaurant bread-basket, in Grandma’s handbag wrapped in a napkin “for later.”

I’m the weekly trip grandma takes to Ollie’s/Ocean State Job Lot/Big Lots. This time she can show off the grandkids to her BFF Florence who’s a cashier there. Grandma will give each grandkid 5 dollars to spend in the store. After shopping, grandma takes the grandkids out to lunch and ice cream.

The grandkids are in their twenties.

I'm the easy chair with the magazine holder built into the side. The magazines are the set of Woman's Day from 1981 (except August 1981 is missing) and Shotgun News from 2002, with some of the ads circled in pencil. For some reason there's also a Hello Kitty baby sock, which nobody remembers.

I'm the Lawrence Welk Show, and I'm a lifesaver. When it comes on the TV, Grandma doesn't care if we go home.

I’m baked apples for dessert. Who needs chocolate cake?

I'm the cemetery, and though everyone dreads coming here, I turn out to be a gorgeous place, and the kids have a ball chasing from tree to tree. It turns out to be the highlight of the day.

R185 I'd love the chance to go to Ollie's with my grandma now. Or my mom.

I’m laminated copies of the DNR order on the coffee table, the nightstand, the bathroom vanity, the car dashboard.

I'm the recliner, e.g., a LaZBoy. In a pinch, I can be used as a guest bed.

I'm the fancy engraved silver box and matching lighter resting on the coffee table for after dinner drinks and coffee. It will be passed around and everyone will take a cigarette.

I'm the pictures of grandma under her glass topped vanity from a long ago evening, showing her looking impossibly young, dressed in a formal gown with Jackie Kennedy-style bouffant hair, and laughing with her friends...

I was such a gay in training as a kid -- I loved visiting older relatives and others.

When we visited the parents of a very close friend of my parents, we would get ginger ale. I loved it! We only got that at home, when we were sick. They lived in a large brownstone in Brooklyn. They used and entertained in the rooms on the street level. On the second floor, they had the more formal rooms. In the basement they had a full length bar and a ship's bridge. It was cool.

Visiting my grandmother was always fun. Sometimes my cousins were there, and my brothers and I ran around like crazy. My grandmother was an excellent cook (as was my Mom), so we were always well fed. My grandparents had fixed up their basement in the 1940s. It had a full bar, real wood paneling, and benches with red leather cushions. Again, really cool.

We would visit great aunts (maiden -- but one married later in life and widowed when I was a tyke) on my father's side. They were sweet old ladies, but one was more easy-going than her sister. Unfortunately, she developed dementia, and I remember feeling sorry for her. Her sister was a force of nature. She lived between where I grew and where we vacationed. I remember when I was about 14, my Mom and I stopped for a visit. She had luncheon for us (yes, luncheon). Think lobster newburg, various molds, and great Sherry cake, and sorbets. In her younger days (she was born c. 1893), she had travelled to Europe. She was an intelligent and interesting woman.

I truly cherish the memories I have of visiting older relatives.

R195, she sounds like Mrs. Oliphant from The Saturdays.

I’m the cash or check that is the real point of this whole charade of a family visit.

I'm "Even though you were a little bastard, the last thing you'll still hear from me is 'I love you'. Call me when you get home."

R196, yes.

I'm the hallway clear plastic runner. My numerous "speed bumps" haven't managed to trip up Grandpa yet. The kids keep saying I'm a safety hazard but Grandma feels strongly that protecting broadloom from the 60s is more important.

I'm "Grandma/Grandpa, tell me about the old days."

I'm the stacks of phonebooks next to the endtable.

I'm the stretched out compression stockings on Grandpa sliding down his rail thin calves.

"There next to your mother at the beach? Why that's Jack. She almost married him, but then you suddenly came along and she had to marry your father. I run into Jack now and then. He's a lawyer here in town. Still so handsome after all these years."

I'm the suppositories you find left on the vanity in the bathroom.

I'm the sobbing as Grandma chooses to remember a family member who died before his time.

I'm also the whiskey as Grandma later processes her grief in the time-honored Greatest Generation way.

I'm the 50 half-empty bottles of expired prescription pills in the cabinet. Grandma's keeping them just in case she might need them again.

I'm the confirmed bachelor uncle who went on one date in 1934 and still refers to the convenient woman with a face like a screwdriver as his "one great love." Sure, buddy.

I'm the Sears catalogue from 1986 that now serves as a doorstop. I am also the stacks of ten dollar bills in the freezer, and the baseball bat under the bed in case of intruders.

I'm the remote control that nobody knows how to use, held together with duct tape.

I'm the smell of a roast and potatoes cooking away in the kitchen.

I'm grandson Jared. I stopped by for only ten minutes, but now I've got $40 in cash in my pocket. I also have a bottle of Vicodin. Not my drug of choice, but it'll do. Grandma's got plenty of Tylenol and whatnot to tide her over until her next doctor's appointment.

"Bye, Grandma! Love you!"

Some of these post are throw backs to the 1970/1980. Most older people aren’t the stereotype

R212 spot on but his name is Travis.

I'm the scent of stale white wine emanating from your mother's every pore as she complains bitterly about your father going deaf, doing nothing but napping all day, and never wanting to go anywhere anymore.

R213 Get with the thread. As said a few times, quite a lot of us here are the old people today. It's fun finding out that growing up we all had so much in common.

We're the grab bars in the bathroom, and some sort of shiny medical contraption that does some weird thing.

I'm the pride and joy of your Uncle Ted: the pinball machine he fixed up and got working again. But don't touch me until you get the invite: "Let's play some pinball, boys." Misbehave and there won't be any invite.

I'm the tv remote control they answer when the phone rings.

I am Pepper, the toothless poodle. I am petting him untill he wakes up from him dementia nap and he tries to bite my hand off!

I’m the bridge club where grandma would much rather be instead of at home trying to talk to her brain-dead phone-transfixed grandchildren.

I'm the shock and awe at finding a tube of K-Y on the night stand at Paps side of the bed.

I'm the 30-year-old bottles of Merthiolate, Mercurochrome, and Witch Hazel in the medicine cabinet.

r222 granny likes a little anal now and then!

Naw, R224. She's just bone dry since menopause. Without the K-Y, I supposed they'd burst into flames, giving an alternative meaning to "hot sex!"

I'm a recipe box full of yellowed index cards with recipes for sheetcakes and various Jell-O salads, along with some old newspaper clippings of "Love Is..." and "Dear Abby"

R226 But no recipe for peach cobbler: that one everybody knows by heart.

I'm the ancient portable TV in the kitchen tuned to "Perry Mason" during lunchtime, and "Wheel of Fortune" during supper time.

I’m the worry about where you parked.

R225

Don't be so sure. Menopause is actually good for some women, and my love hole is still pretty slick

[quote]granny likes a little anal now and then!

You kids think you invented sex - I learned to DP at the USO during the war!

^ it was considered our patriotic duty to motivate our boys to beat the Jerrys and the Japs...

(no offense, to your Oriental wife, dear)

I'm granny laughing with her oldest friend in the kitchen while drinking Sherry:

"With my hysterectomy, it was like they added an extra gear!"

"I can hardly get enough cock these days!"

I'm granny telling the grandkids "grandpa loved cumming all over my tits. Four kids were enough so he'd pull out and spray the old tittays!"

Wow R220, original. Someone already did a much better Pepper the dog post.

I'm the green glass Avon train perfume bottle that is used a door stop for grandma's bathroom.

R234 your family sounds demented.

I'm the extended discussions, in excruciating detail, of matter of the bowels.

I am the racist/sexist/homophobic/anti-Semitic language used to describe Barack Obama, Nancy Pelosi, Chuck Schumer, and others.

You're my greedy little cousin pawing over Grandpa's silver rowing trophy from Yale. Get your hands off that! It was promised to me, years ago.

I'm the child of the man your grandmother adopted. You are not permitted to eat or drink anything at your grandmother's house. Food and drink is for the real grandchildren. Whenever you come over, your grandmother dumps a garbage bag of mixed pieces of toys at your feet hoping that will keep you away from her until you're collected by your parents.

I’m R213 sat reading this thread on his Apple Macintosh and suddenly realising after 200+ replies that this thread is about him.

I'm the rainbow of nail-polish colors on the Directv remote's many buttons.

We're the two laminated pieces of white paper with a big blob of each color followed by an explanation of what that button does, printed in big block letters.

We're photos of the blob sheets on every family member's phone in order to make 24/7 tech-support requests slightly less fraught.

And I'm the utter chaos when, in spite of all the nail polish, the remote somehow—completely on its own, apparently—changes from the painstakingly curated playlist of ~15 channels to "all channels" and there's NO WAY TO GET OUT OF IT!

I'm the pile of assorted twist ties and bread clips in the kitchen's third drawer. Somewhere under me there are two spare AA batteries for that Directv remote.

This thread is an instant classic, it really cheered me up over the weekend.

"And there's no need for you to apologize a thing. I've got enough great-grandchildren as it is."

I'm those little decorative soaps shaped like shells that live in the downstairs half-bathroom. I smell vaguely floral, like flowers & dust.

I'm the Canada Mints.

I’m “… and Mikey - he’s actually Jean’s son, not her younger brother - had two flat tires and PopPop had to call triple A to help him”

I’m the Army picture of grandpa that grandma has out on display in the living room next to grandpa’s ribbons and Purple Heart. Grandpa always kept them in the closet because he didn’t want to boast. Since grandpa died, grandma put them out as a memorial of sorts.

R8: "I'm people you've never heard of, their children, and their grandchildren, being discussed at length with your mom while you fiddle in your chair and stare at old pictures on the wall."

I'm R8's realization a few years later that Mammaw was communicating important information about remote family members and neighbors who would cause immense problems at Mammaw's death with her will and with property line feuds.

I’m the evolution of the observation from “Madonna thinks she invented sex” to “Italian women always end up fat”.

I’m the African violets and Christmas cactus that have been on the windowsill for probably half a century or more now.

I used to go to my grandmother’s during school holidays. She lived overlooking a railway line, and she would wake me with tea and toast in time for me to see the first train going past. Important stuff when you are six. I adored her.

I’m Jergen’s.

I’m Harvey’s Bristol Cream.

Has everyone had their prunes this mornings? Anyone want some?

I’m this couch.

I'm the Garfield glasses that Grandma pulls out for Kool-Aid or juice.

"He's a fag I tell ya, a fag."

"Oh sush your mouth Pa. He is not. It's just with all that piano playing he hasn't had time to meet the right girl yet."

I'm the fart smell in r258's couch

I love this thread and have no doubt all the comments came from memories of visiting elderly relatives. I've been laughing all the way through it.

I'm the Vermont Country Store order form and check waiting to be mailed in. I'm not in the mailbox today because everyone knows that "young toughs" drive around on Sundays, when decent people are in church, looking for checks to steal.

The items being ordered will arrive right around Memorial Day.

I'm the can of delicious Danish butter cookies - only to be opened to reveal it's full of sewing notions instead.

I’m “can you show me how to see bitcoin because Agnes’s grandson bought some for her but she can’t see it?”

I'm Rose Milk and Porcelana.

I'm the gin blossoms on Uncle Peter's schnozz, but I'd rather be the varicose veins on Aunt Martha's once-curvy gams.

"You'd think that with women having babies so late now there'd be more Mongoloids running around, but you don't really see any. You know, they're very happy and lovable. I wouldn't have minded having one."

That's because pre-natal testing takes care of the defective ones grandma r268. They end up in the dumpster.

I'm a faux-crystal bowl of Werther's originals on the cluttered coffee table. The Werther's are the only items not covered in a dull layer of schmutz.

Wait -- IS it faux crystal? When Mawmaw is in the bathroom, the Werther's are dumped out and the bowl quickly turned upside down. Vintage Tiffany.

R268 "Did you ever meet Father Curtis, the parish priest? Oh, he was so GREAT with the retardeds. Such a fine man, always had a spotless office and a free minute to visit with one of your uncles about the right way to be a young man!"

I'm Lilian Vernon.

I'm the Penny Press Word Seek book on Grandma's coffee table.

I'm the explosion of crocheted lace table runners, tablecloths, and doilies throughout the house.

I’m the over-stocked, walk-in kitchen pantry. If you explore you’ll notice the further back on the shelves you pull items from, some of the expiration dates go back as far as… you don’t want to know.

I’m the exciting moment every day when it’s time to go out and check the mailbox.

I’m decaying rubber bands.

I’m unopened boxes from QVC.

[/italic] I'm thinking this is going to be me way sooner than I think

I'm the steins on every countertop and every shelf. Some of them are worth a lot, it depends on the markings underneath.

[quote]

Yes, Bernstein, Goldstein, Feldstein....

I’m the neighbor dropping by to see who is visiting. Aunt Olga head will head her off at the door and tell her to come back at 3pm.

“You’ll leave to visit Aunt Mart by 2:30, right? We’ll just Keep that old busybody out of my house until you leave.”

I’m the walnut display cabinet where the best china was kept. It was never opened, and the beautiful china was never used. My granny was lace curtain Irish to her fingertips. When she died there was all out war between my mother and my aunts over who got which tea service.

What's "Lace Curtain Irish?" That's an expression from way before my time.

R284, it's the opposite of "Pig-in-the-Parlor Irish."

[quote]What's "Lace Curtain Irish?"

R254 that's such a lovely memory. It's very sweet.

I'm the collection of The Bradford Exchange Thomas Kinkade Collector Plates neatly displayed in the étagère in the den/study.

I'm the the one that tries to talk over my own, record breaking length, flatulence. As I am speaking, I'm also dutch ovening my guests. They keep backing up, towards the door as sounds erupt from both of my ends.

I’m the reverse mortgage the kids don’t know about.

I'm the basement that reminds you of an antique shop.

THE BASEMENT IS SCARY!

I’m the plush velour padded seat cover on the toilet seat (not lid) that is so thick you can’t prop the seat up to take a piss. “For God’s sake, Mom. How am I supposed to take a leak when the seat keeps falling down?” yelled Uncle Lou from the bathroom. His sisters were not amused.

All of the younger male cousins had new respect for the black sheep of the family.

I'm knockoff Capodimonte porcelain rose bouquets.

The grandkids will NOT be fighting over me.

R294 There's real stuff among the dross but the grandkids are too ignorant to be able to tell which is which.

I'm a stick of margarine that Grandma keeps on the counter at all times. She doesn't use the margarine, except as an object lesson to any family members who come over: "if it keeps its shape on the counter, it will keep its shape in your arteries. Eat butter, boy."

I'm a memorial card attached to the refrigerator with a magnetic clip. I have an image of the Virgin Mary. On the bottom, I say, "In loving remembrance of Ellen DeSantis."

I’m “the blacks”. No visit is complete without at least one mention of me.

I’m TempTee whipped cream cheese.

I'm the wedding dress, wrapped in tissue paper and yellowing away in the box upstairs in the hall closet. She never looks at me now. What'll happen to me when she's gone?

Oh fun! I am the expiration dates of long ago that are merely suggestion, I am canned green beans, I am lace doilies covering every surface, I am the wicker basked filled with prescription bottles, I am a pink bathroom, I am the vacuum that is used maybe once a month because no one visits, I am the afghans that just seem to multiply, I am the bunnies everywhere that seem to occupy every space all year round, I am the Pennies filling endless water jugs to heavy to lift, I am the wallpaper with a border

I'm the endless attempts to remind you of friends and neighbors from long ago:

"You remember the Josephs - Mr. Joseph was an accountant, and Marilyn Joseph had the curly blonde hair and a cute figure; they had three children about your age. No? Of course you remember them, little Petey used to come over and play sometimes, and I think he was even in your grade at school. Or maybe that was your brother. But you remember them!"

"Ok, ok, I think I do remember them."

"Well, she died."

"Now, I know you must remember the Baileys - Mrs. Bailey used to make us a fruit cake every Christmas."

"Mom, I've just learned that Marilyn Joseph is dead."

"I'm trying to pick up the pieces of my life here and figure out how to go on."

I am the too tight hugs and the too slobbery kisses laid on the grandkids who don't understand who these weird old strangers are, nor why we had to get into our fanciest clothing to come to their house.

I'm the dime Uncle Fred always found behind your ear.

I was that beautiful head of hair every aunt loved to tussle.

I’m a child visiting my parents, sleeping on a cot in the room my father grew up in. I think it’s surreal, but imagine how my father must feel. He’s asleep next to me, in the actual bed he grew up in, with my mom.

I’m the awkward/creepy house rule of walking around a pitch dark house at night after bedtime with flashlights, to save on I’m the electric bill. Don’t you dare touch that switch!

I’m the deafening quiet late at night.

[quote] I’m the reverse mortgage the kids don’t know about.

I'm the reverse mortgage that "the kids" DO know about. We're (us "kids" are) the ones who took Grandma down to the bank to sign the papers. This house is supposed to be ours, anyway. We'll pay Grandma back when (if) we can.

R310 What reverse mortgage! We're the three other "kids" in the family and we know nothing about it. Or that "loan" Grandma made you.

I'm the stretch and yawn and exclamation, "Lands, we've had such a good time visiting I lost all track of time. It's 8:15 already? Of course, you kids stay up as long as you want."

I'm dinner, which is eaten at 5pm

We're the dirty dishes. The women and the women alone gather in the kitchen to wash us.

We're the half-inch wide trail of ants along the back edge of their kitchen counter that they haven't noticed due to poor eyesight.

We’re the mass cards and yellowed obituary clippings stuck between the pages of an address book in which the crossed-out entries are on track to outnumber the active any week now.

I'm the too small wicker baskets brimming with frayed ribbon and silk flowers. "They last longer!"

Yes, they last for decades, evidently, and tip over from the weight of accumulated dust if you so much as pass near them or look at them sideways. That one over there is from Mother's Day 1981. "I'm sure the card is around here somewhere, let me look for it..."

I‘m the trays of cookies, nuts, and slices of cake dolled out RIGHT AFTER you had an already hefty lunch.

Every visit you tell yourself not to snap at your grandmother for trying to force-feed you.

Ok R303, I understand.

But don't be surprised if there's no fruitcake from Mrs. Bailey this year.

I am the drawer of takeout menus, since MomMom and PopPop don't cook at home anymore. Which is weird, because PopPop used to say "only assholes blow their money going out every night".

I'm the extra bedroom always ready for overnight guests the beds and mattresses were new when granny moved into the house 40+ years ago and haven't been changed in the time she has lived there. The room is filled with mementos of every vacation and place she and grandad have visited.

I am the flat screen television that sits on top of the television that was bought in 1983.

[Quote] hair every aunt loved to tussle.

Oh, dear

I'm the little dog poops hidden in the corner of a couple of the rooms. We've been there so long we are practically mummified

I am anything elastic dissolving into dust when you stretch it.

my the aunt's nose hairs

I’m the booster seat on the toilet.

I’m gay great grandson, Jeryth, borrowing fingernail polish from the makeup case and screaming “bitch you mopped the good stuff bitch!” to Meemaw

I'm the tweezers used to pull out Grandma's one chin hair.

"That? Oh that's your Grandpa's old Shriners fez. Fifty years we were married and he never said a word to me about that Masonic mumbo-jumbo."

I'm the vintage Pachinko machine in the garage, carefully maintained by Grandpa and covered up except when family visits. The boys will spend the rest of day playing me.

I'm a bottle of Kraft Catalina dressing.

I’m that bottle of Kraft Catalina dressing, morphing into distinct components with the water visibly separated from most of the other ingredients. Which makes sense, as I have been in the fridge since before expiration dates were added to dressing.

I’m the alternating pattern of olde time butter churns and coffee grinders rendered in gold and brown on the kitchen wallpaper.

I’m the styrofoam wig form on grandma’s dresser. We’re not supposed to go in there, but that’s what makes it so fascinating.

I’m the jar of Brioschi on top of the fridge.

I'm the oil drip lamp covered in dust and never allowed to be turned on.

R180, After my mom passed and we were getting her house ready to sell, my brother and I found a stash of pre-1964 silver quarters and dollars she inherited from her mother. There must have been enough to fill a 5 gallon jug. We divided them between ourselves and have no idea what they're worth. But I'm hanging to them for awhile.

I'm the small room in the addition off the kitchen. I'm filled with 50 paper bags, and the contents are the same in every bag: Glass jars with lids, plastic margarine tubs, and rubber bands.

I’m the stack of tri-fold rough paper towels stacked in a basket near the sink. I’m gleaned from every public restroom the old gal visits. They’re free, and Bounty isn’t, and she pays for them anyway, as a customer of McDonalds and Wal-Mart and various doctors offices.

I'm just sitting around and listening to your arteries harden.

I’m the tennis balls on the walker.

I'm a box of chocolate covered cherries — partially decomposed maraschino cherries swimming in a cum-like substance, encased in cheap waxy chocolate.

Would you like one?

I used to love those r342 but the filling never looked as much like ejaculate as it does in the pic you found. I can't stop laughing.

Mmmmm...pound cake.

I loves me a good lemon pound cake.

I'm coffee cans with plastic lids, e.g., Yuban. I've got all kinds of uses in the garage, e.g., receptacle for used nails.

I'm strange foods. Canned shrimp cocktail. Underwood Deviled Ham. Vienna Sausages.

I'm "the icebox."

People born after 1935 call me "the fridge."

Maybe they're not referring to the refrigerator.

I am “the few boxes” grandma needs brought up to the attic, which turns into an entire day spent cleaning the attic. Nothing will be thrown away until she dies but it needs to be sorted and reorganized every year. Usually in July in 90 degree heat.

I'm the bit of pound cake or maybe some odd little trinket that the older relative insists you take home, "but wait, let me get a little bag for that so you can carry it with you."

"Let me get a little bag" means 15 minutes of rummaging through many cupboards full of little bags, looking for the the right one: Plastic? Paper? Bail handle? Heavy duty? One of the nice ones stuck away in a special place? "Now if I could just find the right little bag...no, no, it's no trouble at all, look at all the bags I have...I'm just looking for the right one for you."

Lol, R350, I can picture that.

I'm the final resolution of the bag dilemma: a Wonder bread bag from 1974.

What about the twist tie, though? Hoo, better find something to tie up that bag.

We're aprons, worn more as a formality in the kitchen than anything else.

We're the mismatched packets of mustard and ketchup saved from fast food places.

OMG the saving/hoarding of every little thing because "I might need it. You never know." A hallmark of the Depression/WWII generation. Going through those two events permanently altered the brains of that generation, and they kept the saving and hoarding habits for the rest of their lives.

R356, makes me wonder what the Covid is going to do to This generation.

I’m digressing, but I wholeheartedly believe that babies and small children are going to be fucked up because they only saw the faces of their closest family members for important phases of their development.

I think I've inherited some of these traits from my Depression-baby grandmother, notably the closet full of different bags.

I also save tins.

R82 - mild correction - old crone is redundant- Maiden, Mother, Crone - it's a chronological thing,,,,,can't have a teenage crone...I know, you think dying your hair gray would do it....nope. And, 'witch' was a justification to light the barbecue and cook a person..... For those of us who get to grow old, may we do it with dignity and without fear.

I’m the box of Coty foundation powder in the master bathroom.

I'm the twenty dollar bills stuffed in various places in case of an emergency, like a run on the bank.

I'm the cigarette box, matching table lighter and matching ashtray on the coffee table. As a teenage gayling, when you are the only one in the room, you light up one of the Pall Malls and pretend you are Bette Davis as Margo Channing at one of her fabulous parties in her fabulous Manhattan townhouse. You feel so glamorous!

Uh oh, is that somebody coming down the hall? Time to butch it up!

[quote] I’m digressing, but I wholeheartedly believe that babies and small children are going to be fucked up because they only saw the faces of their closest family members for important phases of their development.

Mary. I'm sure people can make up for lost time.

Triggered by r352…

I’m the collection of bread bags that gets pulled out when the grandchildren come over to go sledding. Their snow boots are waterproof, but no boot shall be allowed on until the double-socked foot is protected by a bread bag.

“Take some out for the other kids! I have a lot!”

"I got some nice sherbet at the market for after dinner."

"What's sherbet?"

I’m the fight over whether there’s a second “r” pronounced in “sherbet”.

I'm the cobwebs connecting the ever flickering lamp to the wall a foot away. I've been here for several years.

I’m Death.

I’m the Carol Wright and Harriet Carter catalogs Mother used to buy the latest in old lady fashions as well as several vibrators and dildoes found by her eldest son cleaning out her apartment after her death earlier this year. You go, Mom! (No, I didn’t bring any of them home.)

I'm the holes cut in the sides of the foam slippers so the corns aren't abraded.

I'm the granny, my husband died long ago. He was an abusive asshole, cheater and a drunk, but I only remember the good times. Don't you dare to say anything bad about him, he was a saint!

"I've got an idea. Why don't I get the projector out and show you kids the slides we took in Hawaii right before your mother was born. I think it's been a while since you've seen them."

I'm bedtime.

^^at 8pm

We're ABC, CBS and NBC. Your older relatives are our only remaining audience.

I'm the insomnia.

After dozing off on the sofa at 8pm, you'll reawaken at 8:45 and be up until after midnight, blasting your TV (keeping the neighbors awake). Don't even try to thwart me with sleeping pills or melatonin, either- I am as inevitable as the death that's coming for you soon.

I am the perfectly cooked pot roast that has been the main course at family gatherings for decades. I am served on great-grandmothers old china. I'm that same pot roast warmed up several hours later, for an early supper before everyone piles into the car for the three hour drive home. Finally I am the warm memories of being loved by these long-gone relatives who are still alive in my heart and soul.

I'm Sanka, the only coffee Gramps drinks.

I’m the separate bedrooms.

I‘m the urn in the window

R358 I do the same too it must be a disease.

I'm the three bags full of 100 Watt lightbulbs about to replace the 40W and 60W bulbs in the elderly relative's home.

The falls. The stumbling about. The unseen dust and debris in dark corners. The hope that $75 worth of lightbulbs will arrest the shrinking of the pupils and rods and vision itself.

The house is now lit up like the inside of a tanning booth and Mother was both delighted and appalled to spy a peppermint beside her "reading" chair.

R383 I'm the tacked down throw rugs.

I’m the new girlfriend/boyfriend/in-law who is stuck in the sofa listening to Nana while everyone else is gathered in groups of 3 or 4 and catching up on gossip.

I’m Saltines. Try one. They’re still very good. Sometimes simple is best.

I’m Tyrone Power on TCM. He was so handsome.

R386 I used to love saltines with margarine when I was a kid.

OP congratulations again on a great thread idea. Fun to read, fun to post.

Is there any easy way to see which posts here got the most w/w's, to see which resonated the most?

I’m the little plastic cups of extruded vanilla ice cream “sundaes” with chocolate or strawberry toppings squished on top. I’ve melted and refrozen. The cardboard disc that serves as a top has a tiny tab that’s impossible to pray away. There are little wooden paddles used to eat me, but they’re not very effective. We can’t ask for actual spoons because Great-Aunt Julia has already settled into her chair and we don’t want to dirty her spoons.

Just shut up and eat me.

I'm the family photos shown on the Kodak Carousel Slide Projector

I'm Dixie cups--and the dispenser for them on the side of the cabinet by the sink.

I'm Death. Again. Still right outside.

I’m the stale and bloom covered piece of chocolate that has been displayed for over a year on a porcelain dish behind a frilly glass cabinet.

I'm the scratchy VHS tape of Stevie Wonder's "I Just Called to Say I Love You" grandma taped in the mid-1980s that she likes everybody to watch. She used to play it for the twins, Jordan and Kaylee who were forced to go live with their father and his new husband after his wife Rosemary's 'suicide.'

Everybody thinks the husband poisoned Rosemary. But they're wrong. It was Kaylee who accidentally poured rat poison onto the tablespoon for mommy when mommy was paralyzed (again) with a hangover and unable to get out of bed. Jordan got to go to school, but Kaylee got to stay home and play nurse for mommy.

Dad came home and wiped the spoon clean of fingerprints before wrapping Rosemary's hand around it. He and Kaylee don't talk about that.

Stevie Wonder hasn't commented.

We're the seemingly endless drive to get to Grandma's house and the amazingly short drive to get back home, even though the distances are the same.

I'm the "antique," metal Saltines box that has been parked on top of the icebox for close to 60 years. The crackers inside have likely only been inside since about 1978. The grandkids (in their 50's) will squabble over me once she's gone.

I’m the feral cats who slink around the property. We are infested with fleas and ticks. Sometimes we give birth to kittens in a cardboard box on the side porch (put there for that purpose) and if we visit at the right time and they’re old enough, we can play with them.

It’s the ONLY reason we have the slightest interest in going there.

^My grandmother's house was in the middle of a big pecan orchard. She fed the feral cats that lived under her house, a huge washtub with milk and white bread torn up in it. The whole herd would come scampering up to eat it together, in the evenings. They were her "employees": they kept rodents out of the house, and (more importantly) they killed the horde of squirrels that were constantly after the pecans on the trees.

I'm the checkbook, still in constant use to pay bills and get cash back at the A&P.

I'm "my cheaters," as in, "Oh dear, I can't read a thing without my cheaters. Can you read these dosing instructions for me? You have young eyes."

I'm Vandermint liqueur.

"You don't have to tip THAT much!"

I'm the all-you-can-eat buffet place in town. Your aunt loves it when you bring her here. She can drink ice tea all afternoon.

I'm the seven-inch stack of Medicare medical bills, statements, reports, "this is not a bill" materials and appointment cards.

I'm the vaguely medicinal scent hanging in the air . . . Is it Vick's VapoRub? Ben-Gay? Campho-Phenique? All of the above and more?

^That stack of Medicare (AND AARP, don't forget!) paperwork is just a couple of weeks' worth.

I'm the old coffee can in the kitchen filled with old bacon grease.

I am the homemade from scratch buttermilk pancakes cooked in r408's old bacon grease from a coffee can and they are the best you'll ever have.

I'm the assortment of old margarine tubs now used to store leftovers.

I'm a Fostoria fruit bowl brimming over with gift cards to Cracker Barrel and Red Lobster, Best Buy, and Bed+Bath+Beyond that the older relatives don't know what to do with (or how to use.). And their grandchildren have no idea that they "gave" them as birthday gifts.

I'm assorted notes and phone numbers on bits of paper attached to the refrigerator.

There's something both poignant and foreboding about the shaky, crabbed handwriting they exhibit.

I'm the lingering scent of Vicks Vap-O-Rub.

I am sad that some version of this thread awaited our forbears, as it awaits us as well.

I'm the giant economy jar of cinnamon in the cupboard. I last about a week, because in this house there's nothing that doesn't taste better without a good dollop of cinnamon on it.

I'm the random assortment of chipped saucers (matching cups have not been so lucky) under R253 's collection of plants on the windowsill.

I’m a Blackout Cake from Ebinger’s. I haven’t existed in decades, since my Brooklyn bakery long went out of business; but I am mentioned, without fail, every time a “store-bought” dessert is served. No other dessert is as good as me.

I'm Cousin Gloria and I agree with r417 and will gladly revel in it with her every time we get together, chat on the phone, or have dessert anywhere.

I'm "if you didn't want them to eat it, you shouldn't have slept so late", Grandpa's bitchy response when the parents find him letting the grandchildren have hot dogs and ice cream for breakfast.

I like your grandpa, R419!

R419 Of course we slept late! We got woken up three times last night when Grandpa kept heading to the toilet.

Oh, Jenny. Always blaming others. You know good and well my midnight pee is in a gallon milk jug I keep on my side of the bed. If you kept waking, it’s probably because you and your husband drank 4 bottles of wine while MomMom and I watched “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang” again with the kids.

I’m “no TV after 8 P.M.”

I'm that long extendable grabber thing with the remote control claw for reaching high items that grandma and grandpa never use but the kids think is the coolest toy

[quote] I'm the giant economy jar of cinnamon in the cupboard. I last about a week, because in this house there's nothing that doesn't taste better without a good dollop of cinnamon on it.

I'm that ancient cinnamon. I no longer have flavor.

I’m the old bottle of Mrs. Dash that is also flavorless.

I'm the trash and recycling totes placed at the curb a good 24 hours before collection.

I'm the vanity, mirror and upholstered chair the master bedroom. Resting on the vanity table top (protective glass covering the hardwood surface) is an artfully arranged antique mirror, brush and comb set and a delicately embroidered jewelry box.

I'm the hearty aroma of Naugahyde, skin oil, sweat, and tobacco endemic to the family room, in which the windows have long since been painted shut.

I'm the Lawry's seasoned salt. Unlike the cinnamon and Mrs. Dash, I'm fresh.

I'm the extra large box of prunes I'm used before every meal.

I'm all the stories about the Depression.

I'm a dusty 30-year-old quilt made of crocheted squares, in acrylic yarn.

I’m the liver pills you’ll be asked to fetch. You’ll find us in the pie safe.

I'm the plastic pill cutter from Walmart. The 10 mg pills are cheaper than the 5 mg pills, so Grandma cuts the 10 mg pills in half to save money.

I'm the stifling temperature. How in God's name can these people still be so cold when it's 84 degrees in here? You'll understand in 60 years.

I'm the oddly distorted hands and feet, from rheumatoid arthritis and bunions.

R428 I'm the faded, sepia-toned photos under the protective glass top of the dressing table.

I'm school referred to as "your studies."

I'm grades referred to as "marks."

"How are your studies going? Are you getting good marks?"

I'm a vintage Kit Kat clock, still ticking away in the kitchen under a nacreous layer of permagrease.

I might also be the poodle or owl version.

I'm circus red with white leather interior boat of a 1974 Cadillac El Dorado. After a few near misses, Mom doesn't let us ride with Grandpa anymore

I'm your mom's cousin's weird husband. I blast FOX news so constantly that when he finally turns it off on the way to a fish fry at the local supper club, you notice the Fox News logo is somehow burnt into the tv screen

I'm going to take my afternoon nap. You all keep posting.

I'm the grandpa who asks my financial analyst husband how things are going "down at the shop".

I’m the sixties sleaze paperbacks with cover art featuring scantily dressed damsels in distress with bound bodacious ta-tas.

The stories have nothing to do with the covers.

"What a delicious roast, Grandma! By the way, I see that extra room upstairs is empty. Did the young guy who was renting it move out?"

I'm the 12 yr olds digging around in the attic we found grandpas old porn collection we spend the rest of the afternoon quietly looking through everything, we found pictures of grandma she when she was young dressed in leather.

R447 Have you forgotten about me? I'm that leather strap again.

I hear footsteps climbing the attic stairs.

R395

Geeze! You made a charming thread very creepy.

I'm Grandma, seeing k d lang on the TV and thinking she's Erroll Flynn.

I'm assorted pills for "my sugars," "the ol' ticker," etc. If you try to find out specifically what the pills are for, you realize Granny and Gramps don't ask, don't know, and don't care. The doctor said take the pills, so they take the pills.

You might be treated to an interesting garbled explanation. "The doctor says my veins aren't draining to my lungs like they ought."

I’m the Nok Hockey table in the rec room

K D Lang does NOT look like Errol Flynn, Grandma. She looks EXACTLY like Wayne Newton.

In the young family next door that grandma is obsessed with. Gran gladly tells her real family that the neighbors say "that I'm just like family" - and she is, until they move away and stop contacting her after a month as they get on with living their life with their real family.

I’m the hundreds of Beanie Babies mouldering in the attic.

We're the wonderful stories Grandma could tell (and some of Grandpa's stories) if only someone would listen and snap out of their stupid little lives for a few minutes.

[R456] I wish I had one of those grandparents that could tell a good story. Whenever I try and talk to mine they have no insights at all. Every question I ask is met with "Well, that's how it was" or "We just did it because we did it". However, they can talk at length about the comings and goings of the neighbors for the last 10 years, or how terrible service is these days. I suspect most people are in the same boat and insightful, reflective grandparents with stories to tell are the minority.

I'm sorry, R457. I grew up with all four grandparents willing and eager to talk about their childhoods, their own grandparents and other relatives, being chased home by ravenous wolves in the old country, etc. Wish I'd written it all down—but I did write down a lot of it.

My great aunt died in 2007, just a month short of 98 years old. She shared a lot of family stories with me over the years, and left me all the family pictures, documents and history that she had gathered. It's priceless to me, and I treasure it so much. I think she enjoyed that there was finally somebody in the family that was interested in where we came from. She was a good old aunt.

Had a relative who as she aged got really cranky and defensive if you asked about the past. Assumed it was memory loss and she did not like to be reminded of it.

I'm the older relative who believes everything that comes out of my mouth is intensely interesting and amusing. I end many observations and stories with an "And what do you think of that?"

There are no interesting stories, no wolves from the old country, uplifting or startling stories, just long-winded reports of small slights, many of them imagined, and all of the things I should have said back had my mind been quicker, all the retorts to the gal at the coffee shop who can't mange to keep my cup perfectly refilled. It's a symbol of the sad state of things and I want you to know about it. I want everyone who will listen to know all about it.

I've no time for the least interjection or comment from you: my face turns from a fake smile to a wizened prune saying, "uh huh, uh huh, uh huh" impatiently to speed you along and get back to my little story.

I add accounts if relatives who don't have time for me to the gal at the coffee shop who can't pour s cup of coffee. I'm not charming stories but s catalogue of fucking complaints everytime I open my mouth.

My husband’s family is from the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides. His great uncles were all part time poachers, fishing and hunting illegally on the big estates.

He remembers that whenever he visited with his parents, they would have a huge frozen salmon thrust at them with the instruction, “Take a fish!”. It would defrost on the ferry and the long drive back to Glasgow. Salmon for dinner.

I'm the right wing vote against my own interests, If I can't pay for my medical care, no one should.

I’m the litany of complaints about grocery clerks, receptionists, fast food workers, admins, cable companies, waitresses, tradespeople, car dealerships and bank tellers. I’m always right and it’s certainly not because of my cognitive decline.

I'm the 50 years old powder box with my puff. I still smell the same

Some very bitter Bettys on this thread.

I’m the ominous photo album filled with pics of long dead friends, acquaintances and relatives.

I’m the Sidney Sheldon paperbacks that open to the dirty parts automatically

I’m the rotary phone that somehow is still being leased from the phone company.

R459 That is a lovely story and so nice of you take her cherished pictures and documents, she must have been so pleased when you did that. I know that many old people fear that everything they have will end up in a dumpster, especially these days when all photos and stuff are digital.

At least for us single elder gays there will be no physical porn stash to be discovered by whoever it is that does the rummaging whilst looking for any cash, jewellery etc. We can at least take comfort in that, well that and surgical stockings and stair lifts.

R470 I'm that fun stairlift in your grandma's East 80s brownstone. The one your stupid dad sold in 1968 after she died then put the proceeds into Penn Central.

I am a small, yappy, overfed lapdog that looks like a ball of fur with teeth

And smells like something from the Nineteenth Century.

triggering your sense memories, r473?

I am 1978 and wondering why the heck all these folk are reminiscing about me.

I am the shiny kind of Scotch tape

I'm the stiff whiskey and soda I need before we set out and after we get home.

We found several rolls of shiny scotch tape (some of it decades old) in my grandmother’s desk after she died. Where do old people find it?

R478 At the Scotch Boutique, of course!

Well, before it closed after the mall opened. But got a lifetime supply of the stuff at the close-out sale.

That was after the NEW mall opened, R478. The Scotch Boutique in the old mall was truly a paradise from an ere that is sadly long gone.

R480 No, the original Scotch Boutique was in town, with a great location wedged between the A&P and Woolworth's.

Tape was discounted a bit at Woolworth's, so you could buy a few rolls there then take 'em next door to the Boutique for a full-price refund. That's why the place was always so well stocked.

Is shiny scotch tape sold at the notions counter?

I'm a round rubber grippy thing that makes it easier to open jars.

On one side it says "FRANKLIN APPLIANCE REPAIR — CALL OV-6-9826."

I am probably 60 years old.

I still work.

I'm the drawer full of used wrapping paper and ribbons. The shiny scotch tape is somewhere...

I'm a box full of old Xmas cards, with envelopes, and a spiral bound notebook, expanded and edited over the years of addressees for outgoing Xmas cards.

[italic] How many of us have just cited things from our own parents' home?

[italic] I'm shiny Scotch tape, Dixie cups, and more-straight from my momma's house.

I'm the overstuffed and colorcoded rolodex sitting by the landline phone/answering machine, filled with names and phone numbers of people who haven't been contacted in years, some of whom have long since gone.

I'm the 78 albums sitting within built-in shelves in the wall near the grand piano:

James Melton Sings Irish Songs

Jeanette MacDonald Sings Sacred Songs for You

A dramatization of Robin Hood with Basil Rathbone

and the original cast of Bloomer Girl with the cloth on the spine coming off.

No one has played any of us for sixty years.

R488, look a little more closely and I'm sure you'll find "Merry Christmas" by Bing Crosby among them. Maybe even a Xavier Cugat.

I’m the empty terrarium. Shitzy left her lizard with Grandma for Summer break and the cat ate it.

My grandmother loved her Bing Crosby records. My siblings and cousins and I just didn't understand why he was so popular. He was definitely one of those big stars of a certain era who just didn't translate to modern audiences.

Albums? What are those? We're all up to date here with eight-tracks! Now, do you want to listen to Gordon Lightfoot or Jim Nabors?

I am dentures in a glass of water.

I am the myriad words for electronic devices, or anything whose name has been forgotten.

"Whoozis." "Thingamajig." "Whatchamacallit." "Doohickey." "Kajigger." "Whatsis." "Thingamabob."

I'm "tin foil," used to wrap any leftovers that haven't been stored in Parkay tubs in the fridge.

I haven't been made of tin since FDR was president.

I’m the hearing aid that’s discretely switched off when you start retailing all the tedious details of your mundane life.

“Discretely” doesn’t mean what you think it means.

I’m the face-a-mask-ksksk.

I’m worn just on her chin, or just across (but not covering)her nose. She takes me off to cough all over her cat Bootsie.

It’s a wonder this old woman is alive.

I’m Dad’s helpful questions when he asks me to mop the kitchen floor because “mama doesn’t have the arm strength”

“Did you want to take up the heater vent in the floor and dust it too?”

I'm the DIY wallpaper that looks like it was put up by Lucy and Ethel.

R488 has been rifling through my Grandma’s records

I’m the warshing powder and bluing.

I'm the do-it-all sewing machine which could roast a turkey with the right attachments. Only Grandma knew how to run the thing.

I’m the distinct footsteps and cabinet doors opening and closing you hear in the kitchen at 2am every night when there is no one in there.

I’m the sewing patterns Grandma (r503) kept at her sewing machine. We were used to make far out bell bottoms for all my aunts.

I'm Coffee Nips candy.

I’m the gold crown which one of those stale old Coffee Nips ripped right off of grandpa’s last molar.

I am the 50 year old top loading dishwasher only used approx 4 time a years . I will still work but am loud as fuck

OMG R508 ! I rented a house in Orlando that had one of those. It scoured all the gilding off some of my china ! Id give anything to have one like that now . Mine is 3 years old and SUCKS.

I'm the tupperware orange juice pitcher sit at the back of a kitchen cabinet.

I'm the group of DL commenters whose assorted grandparents were apparently mostly born in the late 1800's.

r511 it would blow their minds that today's grandparents (of adult grandchildren) are of their own generation.

I'm the "clicker" used to change the channel.

This is the most amusing thread we've had in a long time.

I’m the Emo Phillips haircut worn by both Aunt Francine and Uncle Phil.

Yes, the caregiver takes good care of them.

I’m the grudges faithfully tended to for 7 decades.

I am twisted, yellowed, dried strips of fly paper studded with 20 year old corpses of flies.

Fresh eggs for breakfast laid by the hens that morning.

I’m the three varieties of Metamucil.

I'm the paper calendar on the side of the fridge, courtesy of the insurance broker. I'm randomly anotated with doctor's appointments and "seniors days" at various local stores.

I’m the long lonely stretch of time that passes before any one else darkens the door again.

I’m Grindr discreetly looked at in a quiet part of the house during down-time alone. I’m creepy.

I’m wondering “who is that 0 feet away from me” on Grindr at PopPop’s house?

I'm the awkward silence after Grandma answers your question, "Who are all these smiling people around the fireplace in this photo?" with "That's back home around Christmastime. Those are me and my brothers and sisters. That one died of TB the next year. This one ran off with a huckster and we never heard from her again. That young lass in the middle is me. I remember that scarf, maybe I still have it somewhere. Sylvie here got killed in a trolley accident back in the 50s. Danny was in the war, and was never quite right after that. This one, Bill, never got married and we didn't see him much after he left home. [italic] sigh [/italic] . I'm the only one who's still alive."

I'm the silence after the sound of a fart when everyone looks somewhere, ANYWHERE around the room to avoid one anothers' gazes.

I’m the dreaded maudlin goodbye. Grampa says a little prayer for me. Gramma fishes around in the pocket of her housecoat for a $20 bill in case I need “help along the way”. They both get red-eyed and ask if I’ll come visit then again (“Of course!”). A final round of hugs and kisses, and I get in the car. And they stand at door and watch me leave waving goodbye. Then Grampa motions for me to roll down my window, and as I drive away, I hear him yell “Watch out for your speed. This cop around here’s an asshole!”

[quote] Gramma fishes around in the pocket of her housecoat for a $20 bill

Yes the housecoat from r157!!!

r526 does anyone ever see each other alive again?

I’m grandma asking: “How come you don’t have a girlfriend? Don’t you like girls?”

I'm the list of people who died since the last visit, followed by the medical updates, all the new ailments, meds and "useless doctors" unable to fix the unfixable.

nice way to kill a thread with your depressing post r529

I’m the empty Ensure cans and gin bottles in the recycling bin.

I'm the farmhouse in Kansas in the '60s. There is a family room with a TV and old couch and chairs and and the Reader's Digest collection. Everyone congregates there and the grandkids sit on the floor in front of the TV. Off to the side is a spotless formal parlor with a nice couch WHERE NOBODY EVER SITS. It's for formal occasions only and family doesn't count. When kids go in the parlor they have to sit on the floor. Even when there's a big reunion and lots of grandchildren are staying over and there are not enough beds, a couple kids are forced to sleep on the FLOOR in the parlor because the parlor couch is OFF LIMITS. That night one child tries to sleep on that parlor couch and grandma somehow senses this and gets up in the middle of the night to make that child get off the couch and back onto the floor.

I'm the cardboard card with slots for $5 worth of quarters that my aunt used to give me and my younger brother when we visited.

Thank you Aunt Mary. My mom thought you were a congenital liar, but you were always good to us kids.

R532 I'm the preacher come for my annual go-round to the congregation. I get to sit in the parlor.

I am thé distinctive musty smell of decay that lingers around them and suffuses their wardrobes.

I hate myself for noticing, just as I hate myself for begrudging the endless list of tasks presented to me on arrival.

as we come to post 600 we've come full circle

r535 see r11

I’m the Dremel used to trim those thick, ridgy toenails.

I’m dead batteries in every remote control.

I'm the wall covered in clocks.

I’m the goiter.

I'm the burn marks in the stove top burners. I can't be cleaned and the Uncle Ben's Instant Rice that burned in the pot for 2-1/2 house before the home aide arrived cannot be scrubbed clean. The gas supply switch for the house 8s turned off and now I'm the burn marks from paper and metal that caught fire in the microwave - the only cooking option left.

I'm the spot beside where the car is parked in the driveway. I'm the cause of two of the three falls that required hospitalization this year, and the second broken hip. If I can trip up the old gal once more she'll be statistically dead and genuinely living on borrowed time.

I'm the big round automatic pill dispenser that sits in the center of the kitchen table. Actually I'm a timed dog food dispenser you bought for your mother, and $200 cheaper than the pill dispenser that does the same thing. Every morning and afternoon a compartment door dliwsbopen and a group of pills are set on the edge of the kitchen table. They will be there, seven or eight little groups of them, when the son comes to reload the pull machine. "Why don't you take your pills? There's a whole week's worth sitting on the table?" "Because I needed water to wash down the pills" [and forget before ever reaching for a glass or water]

I'm the assisted living facility where Mother will soon get her pills on time and not a stove with which to burn the house down.

I'm the yappy Corgis

I'm the will not mentioning him for "reasons that are well known to R541".

I am the 5 yr old great nephew who doesnt want to be kissed and tickle by old Aunt Hilda’s mustache

I’m the Nilla Wafers to go with your tea, I’m the most decadent dessert this house has seen in ages.

I'm the bowl of sweet-and-sour hard candies that even demented old grandmas won't eat.

I'm the list of former child stars, boy bands and pop divas' ages I've memorized to remind them despite their pleas and denials they've finally become so old, old, old.

I'm the "ointment" in the bathroom that is packaged in old-timey tins like this:

I’m my aunt’s collection of early 70s tiger beat magazines that grandma keeps stacked next to the LPs.

I'm the giant King James Bible with the naked angels painting sitting open on the coffee table.

I'm being able to turn EVERY conservation back to politics:

".... And the last one in the picture is Janet, remember she was an old maid. She just loved Adlai Stevenson. He was a Democrat, but nothing like how the liberals are trying to destroy the country today. Can you believe what they are trying to do? Now Trump is a true fighter for us....."

"How is the roast? I spent all day cooking it. I was able to catch a rerun of Gilligan's Island and Hannity, you know he is the most intelligent person on television. Trump is on all the time. Trump is the Christian president..."

Hi grandma. Brought you that hog leg you asked for.

This is some good shit!

It’s hot as hell in here! Turn down the heat, bitch!