Ain't nothing chomps at my self-sufficiency and masculinity like one of Grandma's coming-to-America stories. To hear Grandma tell it, she came to the country when she was sixteen, not knowing anybody, not speaking any English, as if she woke up one morning and found herself of Mars. But thanks to her wonderful personality and extremely old old-fashioned virtue, she pulled through to become the beloved queen of the bra-making factory where she slaved away for the next fifty-odd years.

"...And you, Grandson, why the hell can't you make friends?" is the tacit end to all of her stories.

Well, these irritating stories do give me a little bit of pleasure, thinking about how all of her friends are dead.