I don’t what I expect when we pull into Grandma’s driveway. No, that’s not quite true. I do know what I expect. I expect to see a wrinkly, grinning old lady with a plate of cookies welcoming me into the house.

Instead I get a thin, fashionable looking woman who looks only a few years older than my mom. From looks of it, it’s not from plastic surgery either.

I shake open the door of my mom’s beaten pick-up and hop out. The woman stares at me a moment, probably taking in the sight of my boy’s boxers, peeking sarcastically over my worn jeans and the boyfriend style, country, plaid button-up that adorns my top.

“Aren’t you gonna give your old grandma a hug?” says the woman, brightly colored bangles clanking on her arms as she stretches them out. I walk over and hug her stiffly. She smells like brown sugar and fig.

I’m confused, aren’t grandmas supposed to smell like old people and baked goods?

Maybe grandmas are just different in California.