Husband's grandmother - we'll call her Dorothy because, well, that's her name - has moved in with us.
She's demented and nobody else would take her, which speaks volumes about two key points. First, she was a hateful, selfish woman even in her best years. Second, all four of her children are a lot like her in one way or another. (They're also incredibly resentful, which, to be honest, I can now completely understand).
As callous as I may seem about the old bag, she's here because I do, in fact, have a heart. It's attached to my husband who doesn't want to see his grandmother - however mean - sent to a "home" while she's still lucid enough to realize her family threw her in there.
The fact that she's the Grinch reincarnate simply makes it easier for me. If she were a sweet old lady, I might feel guilty laughing at her, and with nothing to laugh about in this trying escapade, I might actually lose my mind. So I laugh.
And every day, I wonder more and more if I'm turning into her, because the humor I find in this situation can only be described as plain old mean.
For instance, when we brushed only half her hair straight one morning, leaving the other half fuzzy and rough, and she said she liked it, we left the house that way. We ran errands all day long and every time she peeked into any reflective surface (which was often - the woman is vain) and cursed the hairdresser who cut her hair, I laughed. Actually, I'm laughing right now thinking of it. She looked ridiculous. As did her hot pink pants. Those, however, were all hers.
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