My grandma turns 92 years old today. That's old. And now I'm going to tell you about her.

My grandma's name is Vida, which I think is a very pretty name. As I mentioned, she's old. Way old. I suppose it's impressive that she's 92 and still alive, but what's even more impressive is that she's 92, she lives alone in a great big house, she cares for herself completely, and she's probably healthier than both you and I put together (with only our healthiest parts contributing, of course). We're convinced she'll never die, mostly because she really wants to.

A few years back, Gram fell down the stairs. She smacked her head on the wall so hard that she actually cracked it. The wall, not her head. She did, however, receive quite the concussion and her random ramblings following the concussion before she arrived at the hospital have been the object of family jokes ever since. She's really proud of the crack in the wall, too. I brought my (now ex-) boyfriend over there and she showed him the hell her cranium gave that wall like a new mommy showing off her first-born. Did I mention she's deaf and he was from England, so she couldn't understand a word of what he said? The trips to Gram's were always interesting.

About the deaf thing... She says she'd buy hearing aids if she knew she'd live just two more years. Wishful thinking, lady. We'll all die before you do. Just buy the hearing aids.

Now speaking of the need for hearing aids... I called the old lady to wish her a happy birthday today. After shouting into the phone three times that I am AMANDA, PATTI'S DAUGHTER, she said, "Oh, okay! When are you coming to visit again, Norma?" Throughout the entire conversation she thought I was Norma, my 65-year-old uncle's wife. And I just let her think that. It's easier that way, and the yelling was just waking up my roommates.

Last year she broke her ankle going to feed leftovers to the neighbor dog. I went to her house shortly after the accident, where she was walking from the living room to the kitchen with a walker. About half way to the kitchen she muttered, "Ah, to hell with it," tossed the walker aside and hauled ass to the kitchen table to whoop me at rummy.

Like any good grandma, she force feeds. I can't go to her house without having her shove cinnamon rolls and cookies and potica and strudel down my throat. Gotta keep those grandkids fat, you know, with winter here and all. She also force feeds the neighbor dog, Farley, who happens to be a massive idiot of a Saint Bernard.

Last time my sister visited, there was this exchange:

Gram: Look at these eggs! They only cost 19 cents!
Angie: Wow, Gram, that's great.
Gram: Who cares if they're rotten for a price like that!? If they are I'll just feed them to Farley.

Lucky Farley. I think I'll stick with the pastries.

There are just so many great stories and I don't care that you don't care, but this lady just kills me!

My sister and I went over to her house last summer to play cards. She got up to go to the bathroom, and came back giggling and wiping something off her shirt, at which time she announced, quite cheerfully, "I puked!" Then she sat down and kicked our asses at rummy, without another word of the vomit.

Oh goodness. I'm GLAD she'll never die. I know you won't read this, but happy birthday anyway, you old fart.