My Georgia grandmother is still here in the hospital down the street. I genuinely love visiting her and trying to make her hospital stay tolerable, but at the same time I think I’m getting a bit of a Florence Nightingale syndrome. I find myself telling people, “I’m sorry I can’t come to your party. I was up early bringing quiche Lorraine and piping hot coffee to my grandmother who is in the hospital. You understand why I’m exhausted.” As we were waiting for the elevator at Scott Stadium this afternoon, I said to everyone within earshot, “I’ve been riding the elevator a lot lately, going up to the fifth floor and back, visiting my sick grandmother in the hospital.” I am discovering there is a certain selfish allure to being a caretaker. How can I top the martyrdom tomorrow? Can I smuggle a kitten into the hospital to replace my grandmother’s beloved stray cats that she feeds in Georgia and misses terribly? Can I organize a bridge team comprised of all my most entertaining friends and throw her a card party in her room? Can I befriend Venus Williams, who my grandmother feels a certain kinship with because they both have long legs? There’s gotta be something more. This whole ordeal makes me wish I was a doctor or a certified nurse. Then at least I could do more than just bring her fattening foods and make sure her blanket is tucked securely under her shoulders. Then at least I could maybe fix her for real instead of doing all this other showy, superficial stuff. We’ve been joking a lot about the elderly lady who was recently murdered by her daughter at an assisted living place in town. I believe her daughter smothered her with a pillow. For some reason this strikes us all as extremely funny right now. But I think my grandma is trying to stay jolly and entertaining for us just in case. “This is the best quiche I’ve ever eaten,” she says. “I appreciate everything you’re doing. Please don’t kill me.” “Oh grandma,” I say. “I could never do that. Taking care of you makes me feel so good about myself. And plus, you have cable TV and wireless internet in your hospital room, and I usually get to finish your chocolate pudding.”
UVA football far above Willis
When my aunt and uncle invited me to watch UVA play Duke today from their private, air-conditioned box at Scott Stadium, I naturally said yes. Not because I like football, even remotely. Not because I own an orange, a blue, or an orange & blue item of clothing. Not because it ever pumps me up to see my home team win. I went to the game because I knew my friend Willis would be there in the sun-hammered stands, sitting with the common people, sweating in the 92-degree heat, unable to buy so much as a beer to quench his thirst (they don’t sell alcohol at Scott Stadium – this is the reason you will find a lot of airplane bottles hidden in sundress cleavage at ballgames). Meanwhile I would be in the BOX mingling with wealthy, sophisticated Charlottesvillians who not only didn’t yell “You suck!” when a Cavalier fumbled a play, but who also provided complimentary salmon pate and cupcakes for my lunch. You see why I was excited. This afternoon’s text messages:
Willis: At the stadium give me a call and we will meet at halftime or something.
Wistar: This box is awesome. We”re at goalpost uva team side duke’s endzone. Might not want to leave.
Willis: You suck it’s damn hot out here.
Wistar: I don”t know if i can leave or if u can come up. [This was a lie. I knew I was free to go downstairs because I had made inquiries. I asked my cousin if she had ever left the box to explore the regular stadium. “No,” she said. “Why would I?”)
Willis: I’m in sec 522 what would you like 2 do?
Wistar: Have a good life. I am the one drinking wine & caviar n the ac [Here I took some creative license. It was actually smoked salmon and capers on the buffet table, not caviar. I stood conspicuously in the doorway of the box, hoping that Willis had some binoculars so he could see me drinking my red wine from a goblet.]
Willis: I probably cant come in there you could get back in with your ticket how about you come to my section?
Wistar: Mayb i eat anothr free hot dog now
Willis: You’re the worst and not my friend anymor.
Wistar: Mayb i come c u after this cold beer
Willis: No seriously I hate you.
I went to see him in the stands of course. I stayed for four minutes of the second half. Four real minutes, not four football minutes (an hour). Willis was wearing jeans that were rolled up to his knees. He looked tired and kept wiping the sweat from his eyes. He had taken off his shoes and the tops of his feet were sunburned. For a second, I almost felt bad. Willis went to UVA. He drives from DC to Charlottesville for almost every home game, spending tons of money on hotels, tickets, plastic UVA cups full of soda, etc. He is a true fan. He has probably painted his face before in UVA colors. He probably owns Cavalier underpants. And meanwhile it was all I could do in the box to take my eyes off my sandwich and bottomless cup of cold beer and look at one of the box’s three plasma TVs to figure out which team had the ball. Not to mention I had prime viewing of all the cute hoi polloi babies in tiny cheerleader outfits and UVA t-shirts walking by with their parents below the box. “Look how cute that one is!” I’d say to Darren. “What are you – the baby police?” he’d respond.
Willis, I wish that my box didn’t belong to someone else, and I could have invited you in. 😉 Here is some belated box food for you:
-Hotdogs from silver serving tray, served with tongs, loaded with all your favorite condiments
-Cooler of iced sodas, including Coke Zero which tastes just like Regular Coke
-Cup of chilled gazpacho
-Mini fridge full of Heinekens
U-V-A! WA-HOO-WAH! xo