Teaching Grandma Roene how "it's hard out here for a pimp"

Growing up Mormon, I wouldn't dream of watching an R-rated movie by MYSELF, let alone an R-rated movie about a pimp-turned-gangster rap star with my GRANDMA. But today, in the process of performing the proper duties of a granddaughter as my grandma's caretaker following cataract surgery, I somehow lost my mind.

When I first got home from my outpatient Granny pick-up, I confronted the prospect of spending the hours running from 9:30 until 1:20, when we would drive her to her opthamologist for her follow-up check-up, with a woman I can usually only withstand for ten minutes. I patiently endured as much as I could of an hour of the old biddies on The View yelling at each other about Paris Hilton after Barbara Walters giddily shared the news of her "exclusive" phone interview with the convict who, with the aid of a spiritual advisor during these long nine days (with only one day off) in prison, has found God and wants to sell dollhouses with her name on them for some good cause or other. After they managed to make Seth Green talking about the brilliant Robot Chicken look boring, though, I knew I needed to get out, so I asked Grandma if she wanted me to try to find the bakery her friends recommended for good scones to bring her one of her favorite English treats. Blasting my music (as much as my gentle indie music can be "blasted") down Brea Blvd., I managed to recover my good granddaughterly compassion by the time I returned about fifteen to twenty minutes later.

That's when Grandma suggested we start watching the first of her three latest rentals from Netflix, handselected by my Aunt Katherine. Looking at the choices, I burst out laughing when I discovered that my aunt had chosen Hustle & Flow. I openly admitted that it was a ridiculous selection, but also conceded that I had been wanting to see it. Still, I maintained my sanity and opted for The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill. Despite a description that included an intriguing allusion to St. Francis of Assissi and its setting in the city I have selected as the destination for my fourth of July holiday, we quickly lost interest as it became apparent that it was a documentary about a crazy hippie who feeds and names a flock of the wild offspring of some escaped domestic pet parrots in San Francisco. As he rambled on about Mingus, a parrot he originally brought into his home to tend after it broke its leg that later refused to leave, my grandma asked me when the story was going to start for the second time. I tried to explain the concept of documentary plots once more, but the look on her uncomprehending face convinced me my battle was a futile one, so I finally asked her if we should just turn it off. The relief on her face as she snatched up the remote was the only answer I needed.

I struggled to make small talk, avoiding the third movie about Russian ballet as long as I could, but when Grandma started getting after me again for not going to church, my rebellion kicked in. In some deranged corner of my brain, I decided the best way to demonstrate my long-suffering kindness was to avoid pointing out that she hasn't partaken of the Sacrament since I can remember either in favor of satisfying my curiosity about Hustle & Flow. The tables had finally turned. Now it was Grandma's turn to pretend to be entertained by D Jay and his harem.

She did a pretty good job of playing it cool. She only made one comment after D Jay dropped a few F bombs: "Do you think people understand what that word even means? I looked it up once in that dictionary of ours that is so big that it requires a stand whenever you use it, and I couldn't find it. Do you know what it means?"

"Haha, I've never thought to look."

Poor Grandma, my grandma-- who always knows she can get her sour granddaughter to stop scowling at her religious diatribes and impertinent questions about one's love life by signaling her current, though probably short-lived political alliance with these words (and the question and its follow-up exclamation never varies): "What do you think about W.? I can't BELIEVE what he's done to this country!" She demonstrated as much hip tolerance as she could, but when one of the striptease dancers at D Jay's wife's joint of employment performed some kind of acrobatics with her ass that made it shudder and quake inhumanly, she quietly said she thought she better try to grab some rest before her second appointment.

I admit: for a minute, I thought about apologizing and turning it off. But truth be told, I knew I'd feel like a total poseur if I ever walked up to a checkout line with the film in my hand, so I decided I better take advantage of Katherine's brazen audacity and kept watching.

An hour later and halfway into the film, I realized it was time to wake Grandma up for her appointment. On the way home, Grandma politely asked me how the movie was. I explained how much I was enjoying it and in summarizing my perception of where it was probably headed, I predicted D Jay would be a hit. "He hasn't made it big yet, but I think he's about to."

"Well, good. We've given them just about the right amount of time to make it, so let's go home and see how he's doing."

I suggested I should take it home to finish it and mail it that evening, but not wanting me to leave yet, Grandma insisted I watch it at her house. But that's where her tolerance ended.

"What does that (that meaning the swearing she had just inhaled audibly and indignantly about) do for you, Nicole?"

"It doesn't do anything for me. Not the swearing, anyway. I'm just watching it because I'm interested in the story."

"Is there a story? I hadn't noticed."

My turn to be indignant: "That's not fair. You didn't even watch the first half of the story, Grandma. You were sleeping in the other room. You have to at least watch it before you dismiss it as having no plot."

And then the war was on. I should have just turned it off, especially since I had to stop or rewind it every time my Aunt Lisa came in and looked at me with a "I-can't-BELIEVE-you're really-watching-this-with-Roene" look which I pretended not to notice before Grandma started talking to her loudly about anything she could think of to block out the sounds she didn't want to hear. And it didn't help me feel too victorious in my cultural conquest when Lisa always seemed to walk in during the recording session scenes that are clearly supposed to inspire club-style swaying in the audience, making me keenly aware that even this nerdy white-girl English teacher wasn't cool enough to watch this movie, let alone her granny who, I had noticed earlier that morning, had scrawled the title of a newspaper article she found last year on a piece of paper and affixed to her fridge: "The Unraveling of Society: No More Manners or Etiquette!!"

When the movie was finally over and as I drove home after struggling to make small talk with Grandma before excusing myself so I could get home to work some more on the finishing paperwork for my teaching credential, I started laughing so hard I couldn't stop. I suddenly remembered something the nurse had said to my grandma after I thanked her following her explanation of post-operational procedures: "She's a nice Nicole. Not like some other girls by that name who are in the newspaper these days."

My response? "Maybe that's because it's only my middle name. My first name is Roene, too."