Let The Wild Rumpus Begin!

As some of you may recall, my husband and I moved in with my grandma a few months ago.

To say the transition has gone well is an understatement. I was concerned that we would drive her crazy, but she seems to still like us, at least so far. She likes to cook, which means Jon is no longer forced to fend for himself while I have Trader Joe’s Frosted Mini Wheats for dinner. I come home from work to freshly washed laundry, piping hot dinner, and leftovers to take for lunch. Not only that, grandmas are a fount of freaking knowledge about a ridiculous amount of stuff. When we brought our dog, Lola, home from surgery, we were both absolute train wrecks as we tried to get her to eat or drink water, since she had fasted since the night before. No amount of coaxing, pleading, or begging was getting it done. We watched helplessly as she struggled to get comfortable, knowing she must be incredibly thirsty and that if she would JUST DRINK she would feel a little better. I stepped into the other room for a few minutes, and came back to this–

an older woman with short brown curly hair in a white button up with a black sweater over it, feeding a small dog water with a dropper

A dropper! That idea had never even crossed my mind. When you’ve raised a bunch of kids and grand-kids and great grand-kids, you pick stuff up. Lola loved the dropper so much that she refused to drink out of her bowl for a few days.  She had determined it was much nicer to be hand fed whatever she desired. Because Jon and I are both hopeless suckers when it comes to that dog, we obliged.

It’s not totally one-sided, the benefits of our situation, I swear. My nana loved to garden, but due to caring for my grandpa quite intensively at the end of his life and having some minor mobility issues, gardening wasn’t much of an option. I have been redoing the backyard; planting new flowers, pulling weeds, trimming bushes, and making it pretty, which she seems to be enjoying. Mostly though, we brought Lola. I’m pretty sure we could get away with any sort of misbehavior as long as we don’t try to take the dog anywhere. Those two are thick as thieves now, cuddling together on the couch watching the Food Channel and Lifetime movies like it’s their jobs. While I still hold top billing in my little pups brain, the tides are slowly turning. She goes to bed with Nana at night, gets her tucked in and comfy, then comes back out to hang with us. She goes to sleep in our bed, but bails about halfway through to make sure Nana doesn’t get too lonely in her room.

All in all, the situation is perfect. Except for one thing– sex. There is nothing but a bathroom separating our bedrooms, and you can hear everything in that house. While I have an incredibly open (some might say creepily open, but I say fuck them) relationship with my grandmother, I don’t need her hearing the noises I make while I am boning my husband. We have gotten creative about it, like sneaking out to the detached shop in the backyard that Jon has been renovating into his sculpture studio. Sorry, Nana, if you’re reading this. The sawdust on the ass of my pajama pants that night wasn’t from helping run wire out there. Mama was horny.

But Nana is in South Carolina visiting her sister for the next two weeks. She has jokingly told many people that Jon and I will be having a “sex party” the entire time she’s gone. Considering the first thing I did upon getting home from work the day she left was demand Jon take his pants off, she’s not far off. If you guys don’t hear from me for awhile, please don’t worry. And Nana, we promise to steam clean the furniture before you get back.

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