On Mealtime Conversations

I was watching the Orioles/Pirates game on MASN.

My grandmother opened the door to the basement.

“What are we having for breakfast?” she called down.

“Breakfast?” I said, confused. It was 7:30. At night. The Orioles pitcher had just given up a solo shot to the Pirates.

“Breakfast,” she said. “Is it up or down?”

“Up or down? What does that even mean?”

“Breakfast!” she yelled. “I just got up! I need something to eat.”

“I can fix dinner,” I said. “Breakfast is still about twelve hours away.”

“It’s not dinner time. I just got up.”

“From your nap.”

“I don’t take naps.”

She slammed the door. I heard her stomp away, saying, “I’ll fix something myself.”

I went up to the kitchen. I tried, again, to explain that it was 7:30. That it was dinner time, not breakfast time.

“I’m going to have toast,” she said.

“Okay,” I said.

“You don’t know how hard it is. I can’t see.” This isn’t a new symptom. My grandmother has been claiming blindness in one eye or the other for months.

“You have glasses.”

“I’m blind in one eye, and I’m blind in the other eye.”

“Okay, then,” I said.

Back to the ballgame. :/

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