The infamous crazy Jewish Grandma Lorraine in all her bleach-haired, sequined glasses wackadoo glory.

“Grandma Loves Chachi”

A few years ago, I called Grandma for one of our weekly chats (more commonly known in my family as “Helen’s Grandkids Call Her Every Day, So You Better Feel Guilty Enough to Call Me or Else You Will Be Cut from the Will”) when she casually brought up that friends of our family has bestowed on her the honor of being grandmother to their twin baby boys. (Note: This is also within the same year that Grandma called to tell me, on two separate occasions, that two completely unrelated people had named baby cows after her.)

As I began my pre-judgment of this decision, mentally weighing what life lessons my grandmother would pass along to these poor unsuspecting children, she informed me that the childrens’ godfather was none other than Scott Baio. “Um, like Chachi?” I asked in disbelief. Grandma reassured me that not only was it, in fact, THE Scott Baio of “Charles in Charge” fame, but that during the course of the bris, she and Mr. Baio became very good friends. Apparently at one point, Grandma even began espousing romantic advice (which is not entirely uncommon, just ask any single person who has been left alone with an elderly Jewish woman, regardless of whether or not you actually know said Jewish woman.). “I don’t like the blond girl he’s dating,” Grandma told me as though a) She knew Mr. Baio intimately and b) Someone had asked her opinion. “She’s just not good for him. I can tell.” (This is the kind of wisdom that gets cows named after you, folks.)

While years have passed, Grandma still maintains a close “relationship” (at least in her mind) with Scott Baio. I am already anticipating the great stories that will surely come when the two are present at the twins’ bar mitzvah. I can only hope for a karaoke duet of “Hava Nagila.”

“Why All the Waiters in California Hate Grandma Lorraine”

(and it’s not, as the Jewish stereotype would have you believe, that she doesn’t tip well.)

Unsweetened iced tea. An entire ramekin of Sweet n’ Low. Accompanied by another ramekin of lemons. A separate glass of nothing but ice. “And don’t forget the straw!” This is what Grandma orders to drink, without fail, whenever we go out to eat. It also bears mentioning that, by the end of said meal, 99% of the Sweet n’ Low ramekin will be unused, along with nearly every single lemon and, with the exception of a stray cube or two, the whole glass of ice. Why would you request all these extra items if you weren’t going to use them? “I just want what’s coming to me.” Grandma explains. (Note: Making waiters routinely schlep a trayful of unused iced tea accouterments surely means that she has other things coming to her besides Sweet n’ Low.)

In addition to her beverage-related demands, Grandma is also notorious for being hostile or insulting to waitstaff. In fairness, I think it’s a case of “she just doesn’t know,” but it still keeps us perpetually embarrassed and mouthing the words “I’m sorry” to servers in restaurants up and down the Pacific Coast. On one memorable trip to California Pizza Kitchen (in, yes, California), Grandma attempted to express her distaste for the War in Iraq by telling our waitress that “if you send that tip money to Iraq, I’m going to shoot you in the head.” At this point, we were mouthing the words “I’m sorry” to the frightened waitress at a rapid fire pace between trying to educate Grandma on why you can’t just threaten to shoot waitresses in the head. Gradnma’s reply: “Well, I just really don’t like the war.”

While Grandma is oblivious to what she’s putting our waitress through, Grandpa grimaces on the establishment’s behalf.

“Jesus II”

My mom and step-father’s living room, Christmas 2007. My folks are leading us in Christmas carols from their church hymnal as some sporting event plays out (on mute) on the television. We are singing the last chorus to “O Come All Ye Faithful” as Grandma belts out, “Chri-ist the queen” and copious laughter ensues.

My brother: Grandma, I think it’s “Christ the King.”

Grandma: Psshh, well I don’t even believe in Jesus anyway. [Note: Although we realize this, her being Jewish and all, she has never been one to raise the issue during Christmas celebrations and thus her statement was met with uncomfortable shock from my parents.]

Mom: Well, but even so, it’s Christmas, Mother.

Grandma: Well, that’s fine, but I don’t like that Jesus 1. Only Jesus 2.

Me: [Confused, obv.] Umm, Jesus 2? Like post-resurrection Jesus?

Grandma: The one with the cross.

Me: [Still confused] Okaaayyy… What about “the baby Jesus?” The one in the manger? Him too?

Grandma: Yeah, he’s okay.

Me: So, which Jesus is it that you don’t believe in?

Grandma: [Insert disgruntled sigh here] I told you, Jesus 1. He’s dead to me. Jesus 2 I like. Y’know, just forget it.

Again, another Grandma incident we still have been unable to make heads or tales of, even a year later. That said, I’m convinced “Jesus 2″ would make one helluva summer blockbuster. Michael Bay, take notice.

“Grandma Talks to Stuffed Animals”

One Christmas in Arlington, Grandma tagged along with me as I went out to Toys R’ Us to find my then-9 year old sister a gift. As we browsed the aisles, Grandma soon became transfixed by the “hottest toy of this year’s Christmas season-” the Furby. “It’s talking to me!” She squealed excitedly, watching it’s wide-eyed, beaked face and its mechanical movements. “That’s the point, Grandma. There’s a sensor or something in it that reacts to movement and noise.” Explaining this to Grandma, though, was as futile as trying to tell a toddler that his Tickle Me Elmo wasn’t really alive. “Listen to him! He really likes me!” She carried on, giggling like a kid. At this point, we were now getting strange looks from fellow shoppers.

I managed to pry her away from her new furry friend long enough to make our intended purchase and head back to the house. Once home, though, she continued talking about the Furby to whoever would listen. “It really liked me!” She insisted. Feeling the tug at my heartstrings that only having a wackadoo grandma can bring, my brother and I went back out to Toys R’ Us to buy Grandma her own Furby.

In addition to talking stuffed animals, Grandma also collects (and then tries to give me and my brother) odd knick-knacks of unknown origin (see “the peanut lady” as shown by my brother Michael).

“The Meaning of Brunch”

An actual telephone conversation between me and Grandma, circa 2006

Grandma: The family [Note: Everyone of my grandparents' age within a 20 mile radius of their condo who we are forced to questioningly refer to as "Aunt?" and "Uncle?"] is coming over for brunch on Sunday to see you all.
Erin: That’s nice.
G: Is there anything special you want to eat?
E: Oh, just the usual brunch stuff. Maybe a fruit salad.
[Long pause]
G: Well, what about coleslaw? That’s kind of like fruit salad.
E: Um, sure. That’s fine, I guess.
G: Great! Then we’ll have the kosher hot dogs, some baked beans and Grandpa’s brownies.
E: Wait- We’re talking about the Sunday brunch still, right?
G: Yes.
E: Hot dogs for brunch?
G: Yes.
E: How is this brunch, Grandma?
G: Brunch is just the combination of ‘brunch’ and ‘lunch.’ And Phyllis will bring the potato salad.

Grandma’s “brunch’ is met with mixed reactions.

P.S. Two years later and the art of brunch is still lost on Grandma Lorraine- but darn it, Grandpa can make some great brownies.

…And how do you follow up stories of deranged, elderly extended family members?
with FUN LINKS!

My co-worker, whose house has been plagued with rats, and I found this website for those who have an affinity for the species and even offer adoption kits and (of course) tasty recipes: www.roofrats.org

Top 10 Reasons Sarah Palin Cancels the Debate: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/david-weinberger/top-10-reasons-sarah-pali_b_130008.html

One of my favorite blogs (other than Poshdeluxe.com, of course) looks at the photographic collages of Laura Kicey.
http://ohjoy.blogs.com/my_weblog/2008/09/laura-kicey.html

If you are going to surf the web on your lunch break, visit foundmagazine.com. All the fun of digging through your high school’s dumpster, but without the bad smells.