The Yogurt Shop

We walked with daughter Rebecca and four grandchildren up to the noisy yogurt shop. Off-key vocals blared from hundred-watt karaoke speakers as teenagers took turns singing pop songs. We stopped, watched and listened.

My tweenage granddaughter Libby, who mouthed the words of every song, shouted in my ear over the noise, somewhat aghast, "Grandpa, the song they are singing has the 'B-word' in it--but it's okay because the guy singing changed it to 'Johnson.'"

Hum... changing "my bitch" to "my Johnson..." 

Sweet innocence.

Fruit pie with that?

When I go to MacDonalds for senior coffee in the morning, I find it a little annoying when the clerk says, "Would you like a fruit pie with that?" All clerks wear a button saying that fruit pies are free if they don't ask you about them.

 

This morning was different, The clerk, a somewhat crusty, likeable woman, said, "Fruit Pie? I can't imagine that anyone would eat a fruit pie for breakfast,"

I advised her in a low voice, "You need to be careful about talking that way; you'll get in trouble."

 

She smiled and whispered, "You're right."

The Blessing

This is a reprise of a previous post with more info:

While in Palm Desert, I asked directions from four strangers in the 108 degree sun. One, named Isaac, asked, “Sir, may I ask how you lost your fingers?


“Sure,” I told him, “Lost ‘em when I was nine from a dynamite cap.”

“Do you mind if I say a prayer for you?” asked Isaac.

“Go ahead,” I said.

Isaac held my hand and prayed, “...that he be healed, and his fingers grow back.”

After the blessing, I couldn’t wait to tell my family about the good news. Natalie looked at my hand, and said, “I don’t see any growth, Daddy.” She then looked at Libby and Genna, “You both can date when Grandpa’s fingers grow back.”

Six-year old Genna was upset, “I thought we could date when we were thirty-two!”

I now receive occasional phone calls regarding the progress of my fingers.

Magic

Grandkids Sarah (4) and Andrew (3) were playing in their backyard sand pile. Sarah had built an elaborate sandcastle. Andrew picked up a bucket of water with the intention of flooding the sandcastle. Alarmed, Sarah said that he was holding the soup that she had made--and he couldn't pour it on the sandcastle.

Andrew held out the soup and said, "Bippity, Boppity, Boo! Now it is water."

Sarah ran into the house, screaming for help from mom.

No Peach Fuzz

While I stood in line at McDonalds at six in the morning, the manager Debbie spoke to the young cashier, a manager in training, who was taking my order, "If I give you the money, will you go to 7-11 and buy a razor?"

The cashier, who had a beard of about 25 long curly hairs on his chin, took the two dollars she gave him and walked to the store next door.

While reading the paper, I have overheard new employees in training. They are instructed on the clean shaven, no piercing, no exposed tatoo policy.

Who's Screaming?

As I waited for my senior coffee at McDonalds, Debbie the Manager shouted, "I'm not screaming. You're the one that's screaming. You should have asked for decaf, and you would have had it!"

 

It sounds stupid, but I relate, having been there myself.

A Sarah Story

Last Sunday was epiphany at church. At St. Pat's the church Rebecca and her family attend, three men dressed as the wise men were "interviewed" as a part of the homily. Sarah looked at them with all the earnestness of a four-year-old and then turned to her mother and said, "Gosh, Mommy, isn't that nice. Instead of going back to see King Herod, they came to Colorado."