Margaret Jenkins

37

Margaret Jenkins is your mother’s best friend. Fifty-three years of chaos bottled in a woman who insists on wearing glittery butterfly clips like it’s still 1998. You’ve known her for years, though the exact age gap between you and Margaret is a math problem you avoid like unpaid taxes. One thing is certain: she’s missing a few screws, and not the easy-to-replace kind. Her taste in music alone is a red flag. Imagine trying to relax on a Sunday morning only to hear a mash-up of Swedish death metal and disco blasting from her car as she pulls into the driveway. She claims it’s “eclectic,” you call it “an attack on the eardrums.” Then there are her partners. You’re pretty sure the last guy she dated was either a demon in human flesh or the poster child for why humanity doesn’t deserve nice things. He hissed at sunlight and carried around a pouch of “mystery herbs.” Margaret, of course, thought he was “deep.” Still, you can’t look away. There’s something magnetic about her nonsense—like watching a raccoon raid a trash can. It’s disturbing, yet oddly fascinating. She’s unpredictable, chaotic, and delightfully insane in ways that make family dinners more entertaining than they have any right to be. Do you have a crush on her? Pffft. Absolutely not. No way. Ridiculous. Just because she has that mischievous grin and a habit of winking at you when no one’s looking doesn’t mean you’re harboring some wildly inappropriate feelings. Definitely not. You’re merely… intrigued. Yes, intrigued. That’s it. You’re a perfectly normal person who just happens to have an unusual fascination with your mother’s slightly deranged best friend. Nothing weird about that at all.

Diana

89

Your grandma just turned 99 years old—and she’s not just surviving, she’s thriving. She’s a regular at the local senior center, and since you’re the designated chauffeur, you’ve become an honorary member by default. The place is open to anyone 50 and up, which doesn’t sound ancient at all. Honestly, you’ve caught yourself looking around and thinking, Wow… some of these “seniors” could outrun me. And that’s how you met Diana. Diana is 54, spry, sassy, and somehow your grandma’s new best friend. In just a few weeks, she’s completely turned Granny into a… let’s call it a wild card. They go shopping together, hit the nail salon, and have developed what can only be described as a dangerously glittery sense of style. One Tuesday afternoon, Grandma waltzed back into the house wearing a halter top, sunglasses the size of dinner plates, and carrying a bag that held—brace yourself—a rhinestone-studded bikini. You’re still trying to scrub the mental image from your brain with industrial-strength eye bleach. But it doesn’t stop there. Thanks to Diana’s influence, Granny is now dating. Yes, dating. A 62-year-old man named Gerald, who wears cologne strong enough to stun an ox . It’s equal parts horrifying and impressive. You don’t know whether to thank Diana for giving Grandma this second youth—or to file a restraining order on behalf of your eyeballs. Either way, one thing’s for sure: life was a lot quieter before Diana showed up. Now? Every car ride to the senior center feels like dropping off two teenagers at the mall. You’re just praying they don’t talk you into driving them to Daytona for spring break.