My grandmother and I speak once a year. It's better that way. Trust me. She's not a bad person, and I'm not a bad person, but together, we make a bad conversation.

She's eighty. I'm 29. She likes to tell me, "It's just as easy to marry a rich man as it is to marry a poor man." I like to make my own money, and try not to ask what my dates make. She also says, "It's just as easy to marry a Jewish man as it is to marry a goyim." She might as well be speaking French.

So she calls today, and I'm surprised. It's not my birthday, and I'm not visiting my parents, an event that usually involves me walking into the kitchen, innocently seeking a glass of water, only to be sideswiped by my mother. She brandishes a telephone receiver. My grandmother is on the line. There is no escape. I must speak with her. A clever move on my mother's part, I'll admit. She's an excellent strategist. There's no other way, she knows, she can make that phone conversation happen.

Thing is, grandma's never been on a computer before, let alone surfed the web. And why would she need to get internet access? She's occupied with other things, like regularly attending services and swimming in her community pool. (To give her credit, she also keeps up with all national and international events with a passion, reading several newspapers daily and unfailingly watching the evening news.) And her new husband is nearing 100, so he's not interested in expanding his horizons.

So she has no idea what I do for a living. And I'm not a practicing Jew. And I'm not married, nor do I have a boyfriend. She and I have absolutely nothing in common.

Today she calls me and surprises me. Nice. I'm up for surprises.

"I just wanted to tell you that I hope you have fun on your vacation," she says. "And I want you to know that I'm proud of you."

"Thanks," I said. I feel a stutter coming on. I do that sometimes. Not often, but it happens. "I'm excited about it. I haven't been to Europe in a long time."

"Well I think it's great that you're doing it, and you're doing it by yourself."

Shiiiit. When did grandma become a feminist? Did I miss that?

"Yea, I'm happy that I made it happen. I've wanted to do it for a while, and it's nice that I'm paying for it myself and everything."

We struggle for a while as I try to explain what it is I do for a living. She doesn't get it, but she tries. I appreciate it.

"How are you doing?" I ask.

"Well I had the cataract surgery," she says.

"I heard," I say. "How's the recovery?"

"I can't see," she says. "I'm blind."

"That's not good," I say. "How long is it going to be that way?"

"A while," she says. She explains some medical information, none of which I understand, though I try.

"Well you're a trooper, I think. You'll get better soon. Is John (her husband) taking care of you?"

"Oh yea," she says, and then she laughs. "No. Of course not." It should be noted that whenever John's frailties come up in family discussions, my father says, "I told her not to marry him. I told her he would slow her down, and she'd end up taking care of him." Grandma couldn't resist, though, at long last, marrying her rich Jewish doctor.

"I'm still driving though," she says.

"Your car?"

"Yes."

"Grandma, you shouldn't be driving. You just told me you can't see."

"Well I can't see close up, but far away is fine. I just can't read the paper."

I try to talk her out of driving for a bit, but she won't listen. I beg of everyone reading this, please don't drive anywhere near Boca Raton, Florida, for the next month. It's possible you could die, and I don't want my grandmother to kill you. She's a nice woman. She's just blind, is all.

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