ME: Grammy, are you dancing?
GRAMMY: What if I am?
ME: Sorry, Grammy. It’s just . . . .
GRAMMY: It’s just old people aren’t supposed to dance. Isn’t it. We’re supposed to shrivel up and die.
ME: No, Grammy. That’s not what I meant at all. I just didn’t know you liked to dance.
GRAMMY: Well, I do. Or I used to. I dreamed of being a ballerina once upon a time.
ME: Really, Grammy? What happened?
GRAMMY: What happened? I was born at the wrong damn time, that’s what happened. War. Influenza. Depression. More war. Who the hell had time to think about themselves? Hey! What are you doing? Let me go.
ME: Sorry, Grammy. You’re not dead yet and we have all afternoon.
GRAMMY: You’re trying to kill me. Aren’t you? It’s payback for telling Julius to wash your sofa.
ME: Well, now that you mention it - prepare yourself, Grammy. You are about to be dipped!
GRAMMY: Oh Lord. I knew I should have had that whiskey with lunch.
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1 comment:
Talk about me finding great pix, Barb. You exceed my ability by leaps and bounds. Kind of like playing hypolo, my word verification for this comment.
Jet
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