I'm Free on Tuesdays...

I'm never going to dinner at my grandma's again.

Since my grandpa passed away, my parents go every Tuesday night; I join in when I'm in Salt Lake. But after dinner last Tuesday, I'm scared to go again.  Between my mom, my dad and myself, too much information slips out, and suddenly I'm taking on all sorts of responsibilities--ones I would only take on in the name of Grandma Bev.

First I gave away too much information.  My grandma was hosting a luncheon the next day, and because her guest dressed so well (according to my grandma), she was worried about having her trainer come from 9-10 Wednesday morning, her visiting teachers coming from 10-11, and having a mere hour to cook a fabulous-looking and -tasting meal and simultaneously be dressed in her absolute best. 

Before I knew what I was doing, I said, "Grandma, do you need help tomorrow?"  And that's how I ended up grilling steaks--for the very first time in my life--for her guest, the Dean of the Arts Department at the University of Utah. (And, that is also how I ended up spending an hour getting dressed Wednesday morning, because with all the hype my grandma made about this man's style, I was expecting Michael Kors himself.  I finally decided on a pair of new pants that I felt were really stylish and flattering.  Then I got to my grandma's and she said, "Oh. You wore your favorite jeans.  With the holes in them..." [Painful silence as I realize, yes, I'm wearing holey jeans--or distressed, as I would prefer to call them.] As if the silence wasn't enough, she continues, "Do they let you wear those at BYU? They DO?" My grandma was disappointed.  And I was just so, so sorry I didn't remember how unsightly jeans with holes were to previous generations.)

Then, my mom let out too much information at Tuesday Night Dinner.  She said, "Guess what, Beverley? Jessica's learning how to play the guitar!"  After much research, several phone calls, countless searches for CD demos, and hours later my grandma is introducing me to Mr. U of U Arts Dean (Mr. Raymond Thomas Jones, as he refers to himself) as her grand-daughter "who's learning to play the guitar. Classically.  From the top guitar teacher at the BYU." (Yes, she says the BYU.) My mom failed to mention that I've been self-taught three songs.  Three.  And they're not classical, they're Taylor Swiftish.

The only upside to this occurence with Raymond Thomas was that she did not ask me to sing.  Instead she just gave him our family CD that has me singing on it.  Oh, brother.

Then, my dad let out too much information.  He said, "Oh, yeah, Jessica's a writer.  She's got some really great blogs, you should read them."  (Bahaha.) And the next thing I know, I am clearing my schedule (which is pretty clear) to go to my grandma's house several days a week for the rest of this summer to write my grandpa's history.  And possibly my grandma's as well.  And this is the history of a man (and woman) whose life is already bookworthy, so I feel very much intimidated.

Which is why, grandma, I have plans next Tuesday night.  So sorry.