I regretted the Ice Cream Sandwich post once my dear father decided it would be a good idea to show my aunt and uncle, while I was sitting there, cringing. My father regrets nothing. If you miss the Ode, or haven't seen it yet, email me. I'll send it to you as long as I don't have to be there when you watch it.
Happy Fourth, Interweb. My cousin and I talked through a patriotic concert, we swam, ate grilled burgers, watched fireworks on TV while the old folks snorted about money literally going up in smoke, and other such festivities. I showed Grandma the cool features on my laptop, like how it could take photos. No matter how many times I told her, she never looked at the lens, always at the the pictures. As I've said before, it's tempting to stare at one's good-looking mug when it's filling the screen.
Grandma, who will turn 98 in December and still gets around, wanted to see the pictures I had taken of Water Play days at work. At the bar in my aunt's house, with my parents and aunt and uncle milling in the background, I was showing her pictures of the children, telling her about each toddler's idiosyncrasies. "This child likes to yell my name until I pay attention, then will have nothing to say," and the like. Grandma was just tickled, commenting on how cute the kids all were. She'd ask leading questions, like, "Are they a-cryin when they get there in the morning?" or "Do they try to talk to you?" just to get me to imitate them (Grandma is a big fan of the impression). After going through the majority of the pictures, she made this gem of a comment:
"They're just like little humans, aren't they?"
I took a deep breath, ignored the uproarious laughter in the background (Grandma didn't pay attention to her offspring), and said, "Yes, Grandma. The kids are just like little humans." I did not laugh, just smiled extra hard.
After a moment I dared to turn around, and Dad said, "Now, I expect that to show up on your blog."
And there you have it.