What's the funniest thing that happened when your grandparent joined social media?

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My 78-year-old grandma finally got a smartphone last month and begged me to help her set up Facebook so she could "see what all the fuss is about." I figured she'd post a few pictures of her garden and maybe comment on family photos.

Boy, was I wrong.

Her first post: "Hello Facebook people. This is Margaret Thompson. I am testing this machine. If you can see this, please let me know it's working properly."

Within an hour, she had 47 likes and 23 comments from neighbors and family. She calls me in a panic: "Why are strangers giving me thumbs up? Did I do something wrong? Are they mocking me?"

I explained that likes mean people enjoyed her post. She goes quiet for a minute, then says: "Well that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. If they enjoyed it, why don't they just call and tell me?"

Day two, she discovers comments and starts treating every post like a personal conversation. My cousin posts about her car breaking down, and Grandma comments: "Honey, have you checked if there's gas in it? Your grandfather once drove for 20 minutes on empty before realizing the problem."

Then she finds a post about someone's sick dog and writes: "I'll pray for Fluffy tonight. Also, have you tried giving him chicken soup? Works for humans."

But day three is when I knew I'd created a monster.

She calls me at 7 AM: "This Facebook is spying on me! It knows I went to Kroger yesterday and is trying to make me friends with that young man who bagged my groceries!"

I try explaining how "People You May Know" works, but she's convinced it's government surveillance. "Mark, they know I bought prunes and denture cream. This is invasion of privacy!"

Then she discovers Facebook Marketplace.

I'm at work when my phone explodes with notifications. She's posted: "FOR SALE: My late husband Harold's reading glasses. He won't be needing them anymore. $15. Also selling his favorite chair but you have to pick it up yourself because I'm not delivering furniture at my age."

The comments are pouring in. People are asking if she's okay, others are laughing, some are genuinely interested in the chair. Grandma thinks she's struck internet gold.

She calls me: "I'm getting more responses than when I put an ad in the newspaper! This Facebook is better than eBay!"

But the real chaos starts when she learns about tagging.

I'm in a meeting when I get tagged in a post that says: "Sunday dinner reminder for my family. 4 PM sharp. Bring your own drinks, I'm not running a restaurant. Mark, tell your mother to stop bringing that weird quinoa salad. Nobody eats it and it takes up space in my refrigerator."

My mom comments: "Mom, it's called being healthy."

Grandma replies: "I lived 78 years without quinoa and I'm doing just fine, thank you very much."

The whole family jumps in. My uncle defends the quinoa, my dad sides with Grandma, my sister just posts crying-laughing emojis. It becomes this huge family debate about quinoa, all happening publicly on Facebook.

The breaking point comes when she tries to friend the Pope.

She sends Pope Francis a friend request with the message: "Hello Your Holiness, this is Margaret Thompson from Akron, Ohio. I've been Catholic for 78 years and think we should be Facebook friends. I make excellent tuna casserole and my late husband always said I give good advice."

When he doesn't respond within two hours, she makes a public post: "Apparently the Pope is too busy to accept friend requests from his parishioners. Very disappointing customer service from the Catholic Church."

She now has 1,200 Facebook friends and posts daily updates about her cats, complaints about the weather, and her ongoing feud with the mailman who "slams the mailbox too loudly at 6 AM."

Yesterday she asked me about TikTok. I told her my phone was broken.