Celebrity Smackdown: Brett Favre Edition

Dear Brett Favre,

As recently as last week, the image above would've evoked a hearty "Well, hello there, howdyado?" from me, followed by some awkward winking and possibly throat-growling.

Whenever your Wrangler ad came on the ol' telly, I made everyone stop talking so I could gawk at your grizzly hotness in perfect silence.

When T tried repeatedly to dissuade my adoration by reminding me that you are a grandfather, I told him to shut it. I would totally have brought you tea and wrapped you in an afghan and rubbed your bunions.

The fact that you were married and, by all appearances, a devoted family man, made you even more attractive. You stood by your wife through her battle with cancer. You're actually involved with your kids (and, OK, grandkids). And something-football-quarterback-records-blah blah blah.

All awesome.

And then, I found out you're being accused of parading your weiner around like a show dog at the Westminster.

By a myriad of women, some of them married, and all of them NOT YOUR WIFE.

And there's always the possibility that those women are lying. But if we've learned anything at all from President Clinton and Tiger Woods, it's that where there's a Paula Zahn, there's usually also a Monica Lewinsky waiting to throw a stained dress at you, and where there's a reality show contestant with incriminating voicemails, there's also a Perkin's waitress waiting to "take your order," if you get what I'm saying.

So today, Brett, I'm officially breaking up with you.

You're no longer my Sunday afternoon boyfriend.

While I'll never deny that you rock the crap out of a pair of jeans...you really need to learn how to keep them on. I'm saying.

Now quit all your boo-hooing and go get some help, instead of buying your wife a giant diamond like everyone else in this situation seems to.

All the best (you stinky, stinky cheater),

Shannon

Stop trying to pretend you know me

At some point during in Advertising 101, they must preach it from the pulpit loud and long: If you want to get someone's attention, hit 'em where they live. Go local.

It makes sense. As Big Brother-y as it can feel at times, I sort of like that sites I visit on a regular basis know my preferences well enough to recommend things I'd like. And while it doesn't always follow that ALL people from a certain region will be interested in the same things, it makes more sense to show me, an Ohioan, an ad for a leaf-blower than, say, alligator repellent.

(Disclaimer: I have no idea if there is such a thing as alligator repellent. It sounds sort of fake, like snipe hunting.)

But when did companies start simply inserting the name of your town or state in every ad, regardless of whether or not it makes sense?




Really? Did she? Is that mom even from Ohio? Or does her face also appear next to the Nebraska and Vermont ads? Because she and her cute little baby are just part of a stock photo suite, and that probably isn't even her kid, because she looks about 12?

(And why the ridiculously-specific (and yet devoid of a comma) dollar amount?)

And I hate the ones that mention the specific town even more:

"A woman from {Your Hometown} discovered the secret to better abs -- with NO WORKING OUT!"

"A {Your Hometown} father discovered the cure for chlamydia -- right in his backyard!"

Hm. Really? Our town is a teeny village surrounded by almost nothing but farmland and trees. You're telling me I could be shopping at Kroger next to the woman who figured out how to get a six-pack without exercise? Someone figured out how to use dandelions to cure venereal disease? Because that's all that's growing in backyards around here.

Advertisers: Stop trying to bond with me. I see through your little charade, and I remain unimpressed.

(Oh, and I don't have chlamydia. Just in case you were worried.)

All I have back there are some stray Cheerios and a flyswatter

A family in Buffalo had the above painting hanging out behind their couch for 30 years, then pulled it out and did some research on it. Turns out it could be a Michelangelo original worth $300 mil.

Story here.

It had been hanging on the wall, until one of the kids knocked it down with a tennis ball in the '70s.

Why don't I ever find anything cool when I clean behind the couch? I don't even find any pennies; I'm pretty sure Murray eats them.

(Relax, he doesn't eat pennies. He only eats dimes. He's a high-roller.)

(I'm wondering what it says about me that, when T was telling me about this story and said, "Guess what this family found behind their couch after 30 years?", my first thought was "A dead missing relative?" I'm thinking it's time I stop watching Hoarders.)

As Week One draws to a close...

...just thought I'd clue you in to what the majority of my activity this week, the first week of my vacation, has amounted to:

Mmmmm...recliner...

(And give it up for supporting breast cancer research, even while napping. Multi-tasking -- woot! Also: That shirt is more than 10 years old. I'm thrifty.)

Have a great weekend, y'all.

My crafty coming-out

I can't draw.

I took piano lessons for 11 years and I still can't manage to play with two hands unless I make up the left-hand part myself.

And I'm pretty sure a career in bomb-diffusing is NOT in my future.

Hand-eye coordination? I don't have it. In spades.

So it makes no sense that I would be a crafter, because most crafty activities (knitting, crocheting, carving, jewelry-making, etc.) require some part of your brain to connect with your hands. And as my childhood piano teacher will tell you, that just ain't in the cards (sorry, Jan).

And yet, I have this:


An entire closetful of tried and mostly-succeeded-in but nearly-always-abandoned crafting efforts.

See that sewing machine in there? A gift from my lovely mother-in-law. Never been used. Don't know how to work it. There's a whole bagful of beading supplies, slightly used. 500 skeins of yarn, because I can't pass a yarn display without buying some, but I also can't manage to finish a project before I either get busy and don't have time to finish it or get distracted and just move on to something else.

Because I have the attention span of a gnat.

This vacation, I was determined to finish something.

I have two current projects. The first is a knitted blanket for my niece's new baby brother (although not my nephew). When my niece was born, I made her this blanket:

Which quickly became her must-have-or-won't-sleep-a-wink-GIMME-BLANKET blanket:

Her mama asked if I'd make one just like it, in blues, for her new baby boy. Here's what I have so far:

Considering it took me at least six months to make the first one, I think I'm doing pretty well so far. But there's no way I'm finishing it in the next week and a half because...I don't want to spend my entire vacation knitting.

I was, however, determined to finish project #2.

A few months, back, I spotted a lonely denim jacket on a clearance rack at the mall. Marked down to $5. Five dollars?! Is it made of asbestos? Why the disdain for this lovely specimen. Upon closer inspection, I saw the problem:

Rhinestone buttons. HUGE, gawdy, sparkly, no-need-for-lightbulbs-cuz-we-got-these-here rhinestones. In every place you'd put a button and in some places you just shouldn't. Perfect for boot-scootin'. Not so perfect for Ms. WP.

But: five dollars.

So I plunked down Mr. Lincoln and started scouring craft stores for appropriate substitutes. And you know what I discovered? Craft stores A) charge too much for buttons and B) have a really crappy selection. Plan B: I went to Goodwill, found an old jacket with some cute, wooden buttons, paid three dollars for it, cut off the buttons and, voila!

The new jacket didn't have quite enough buttons for the transplant, so I foraged in my own tiny button collection and added these to the pockets:

I think it came out super-cute!

And, more importantly, it's done. :)

Late-edition Wordless Wednesday: Photo! Of! Mystery!

More tomorrow...

A love letter

Dear T,

It really started nine years ago today, not eight.

You called me at work the day before and said, "Let's go out to dinner tomorrow night." I didn't suspect a thing until you said, "Why don't you choose someplace nice and make a reservation?" instead of "I'm thinking Casa Fiesta."

I was totally on to you.

But you still managed to surprise me.

We've just finished getting dressed, we're standing in our bedroom in our stocking feet...and you get down on the floor.

I immediately think you dropped something. Or threw out your back.

But then you look back up at me and fish something out of your pocket. And you take my hand. And you look into my eyes. And you say wonderful, beautiful words just for me. You ask me a question in that inimitable, boyish way you have. And I forget what to do, because I'm just so happy, and I can't stop looking at your handsome face, so sincere, and yet just a glint of that ornery streak I love so much. And I realize you're looking at me expectantly... Oh! Yes. YES! Yes, I will; of course I will.

Yes.

That might have been the first AND the last time we ate off of a table with a white tablecloth.

Until exactly one year later.

When we did this:

Eight years have gone by so quickly! We've made a lot of mistakes.

But this certainly wasn't one of them:



T, you are the best thing in my life. The best decision I ever made. The most generous person I know. The silliest (with your made-up songs for every situation), the most serious (about football, and the people you love), the most supportive (could.not.make.it.through.one.day.without.you), the smartest (every day you floor me), the most passionate (about me, and our future, and our families, and what you know is right...and football).

And the kindest. Watching the gentle way you care for our sick little one... I can't even talk about it.

I always knew I was capable of taking care of myself, of making it on my own, of going it alone.

But you found a way to let me keep that part of myself and somehow still be my missing piece. The love of my life. My true partner in every sense of the word.

The man who still gives me butterflies every time he calls me "Bunny."

And the man who still makes me laugh by singing songs about my butt, and manages not to roll his eyes when I call today our "Shan-iversary" every.single.year.

The two kids in that picture up there? Wow, could we tell them some stories. They have NO idea about that one thing, for example. And holy cow, that other thing is going to surprise the sh-- out of them.

And even though they knew they'd end up here, still in love, eight years later?

They had no idea it would feel this amazing.

Just think of what we'll have to look back on eight years from now! Probably even that one thing we've been talking about. And in fifty years? We'll definitely have done that other thing by then.

I can't wait.

I love you forever, no matter what.

S

"Off"

Last night, before I went to bed, I did something amazing.

It's something I hardly ever do. It's usually reserved for special occasions, like the night before Christmas, or New Year's Eve. Or an unusally uneventful weekend.

I turned off my alarm clock.

Ordinarily this would be extremely ill-advised for a Sunday night.

But as it happens...

...I'M ON VACATION.

For the next 14 days, there will be no more alarm clocks.

No deadlines.

No commute.

No conference calls.

No to-do list.

No bedtime.

It's like summer vacation for old people.

Since we canceled our trip to the Gulf Coast to avoid leaving our ailing furry one, I find myself staring down the barrel of two weeks' worth of staycation-ery good times.

Sleeping in. Reading good books. Catching up on e-mail that has nothing to do with corporate interests. Watching the entire last season of The Office on Netflix instant streaming. Finishing everything on my DVR, even that one old movie I've been saving for three months until I had time to really sit down and enjoy it. Reading blogs and actually having three minutes to spare to comment on the author's inspiring (or just plain hilarious) reflections.

Sitting at my computer and realizing that whatever writing I do will be just for me.

A massage.

A trip to the zoo to see whatever animals are still braving the brisk Ohio weather.

A day or two with my best girlfriends.

A very special day tomorrow that I'll write about...tomorrow.

And, most importantly, days and days and days of uninterrupted hang time with my three favorite boys, two of whom are snoring on the couch next to me as I write this.

As you can see from this picture...

...we're all really excited about it.

A culinary delight...for four-year-olds. And me.

In certain areas, my taste in food tends to lean toward that of a preschooler in church.

I enjoy a gourmet meal as much as the next gal, but hand me a baggie of dry Cheerios and a glass of apple juice and I'll probably be just as happy.

So I guess it shouldn't come as a surprise that I came up with this equation recently:

+

Two days in the fridge

Then warmed up

+

=

A fabulous fall treat for the tastebuds.

It sounds random and weird, but it's seriously fabulous. The extra time in the fridge makes the chili thicker and heartier somehow, and the little cheesy fishies are the perfect complement.

(Disclaimer: Eating this in church not advised.)

Wordless Wednesday: Drifting across the moors...of my backyard

It's not a lake. It's just fall fog in Ohio.

I think it's beautiful. :)

Inexplicable

Will someone explain to me why these guys now have ANOTHER show on television?

Two rapping brothers who are famous because of their awful dating shows, searching for Sasquatch and other legendary monsters in swamps and forests and...

Um...why?

Especially when the people who actually do this sort of thing for a living are FAR more entertaining:


The folks on Swamp People are just...real people. Not caricatures. Not wannabes. They just do what they've been doing for generations: Hunt alligators and fish and take care of their families and pass on family traditions.

Personally, I don't love the hunting/killing aspect of Swamp People, just because I hate the idea of slaughtering animals, period. But I do eat meat, so I can't be a total hypocrite. (Also, alligator is tasty.) The alligators aren't hunted for sport, nothing goes to waste, and the people on the show at least appear to do it responsibly and within the law. And they're...compelling personalities.

And they aren't rapping brothers who are famous because of their awful dating shows.

I'm sure not everyone agrees with me. Which is why Real and Chance: Legend Hunters exists in the first place.


Blech.

Fall is yummy

There are 500,000 reasons why I love fall.

Bonfires.

Air so crisp and devoid of humidity that I feel like I can take my first full, deep breath since we left April behind.

Crunching leaves on sidewalks.

Apple cider.

And these:




Ohhhh, concord grapes. So unlike any other, inferior grapes, with their show-offy sweetness and seedlessness and easily-digestable skin, and being all, "Oh, look at me, I'm available all year!" You are sour and sweet and tart and gooshy, and you pop right out of your deep purple skin and leave behind hard little seeds that require awkward spitting into a napkin.

(OK, as I'm writing this, it's sounding less and less appetizing.)

Every fall, I scour our local farmer's markets for these little seasonal beauties, since the stupid national chain grocery stores are apparently too good to carry them. And from September to early November, I'm in heaven.

It's my secret dream to have a huge vineyard filled with nothing but concord grapes, and then eat all of them myself, fighting off anyone who tries to share my bounty.

Sigh.

Also, quick callback to an earlier post wherein I extolled the virtue of the Andes mint and vowed to try a few recipes including those little gems. 36x37 did indeed come through with some Andes mint brownies, and they were little chocolate squares of minty HEAVEN (thanks again, M!).

And, I created this at the office last week:

That's Swiss Miss hot chocolate with Andes mints crumbled on top. Slowly melting into the cocoa. Creating a smooth, creamy, mint-a-riffic chocolatey confectionery delight that I intend to recreate upon every opportunity. In other news: IT WAS REALLY, REALLY TASTY.

It almost made up for the return of football, and my subsequent Sunday-afternoon widowhood.

Inspiration

Don't you just love when someone gets you the PERFECT gift?

(The only thing better, of course, is getting the perfect gift for someone else.)

In my life, the giver of the perfect gift is usually T. I swear, for a sports-crazed, "typical" male, he has an uncanny way of knowing exactly what I want/need at any given moment. And he cooks, and gives great backrubs, and remembers all major holidays and anniversaries. I know: He's a keeper.

But I digress.

This time, I'm talking about my best friend, B. Who's not only incredibly talented herself (I hope someday the whole world will see your amazing photos, Beezy!), she's incredibly encouraging and supportive of her friends, too. And lately, she's been on the receiving end of a lot of my rants about my "failure" to really make any progress on the non-day-job writing projects I'm longing to finish.

She took me out for sushi (the girl knows the way to my heart, for sure), and handed me a gift bag with a sparkle in her eye.

"I thought maybe you could keep this in your home office, or wherever you do your writing," she said. "Sort of like your little muse."



Love. I just love it.

And every time I look at it, it reminds me that I not only HAVE a story to tell, I also have someone (many someones, actually) who believe in my ability to tell it.

Thank you, B! And thank you to every one of you who read this blog, and who encourage me in my other projects, too. It's been a rough, uphill summer, and each one of you is helping me climb.

Semi-Wordless Tuesday ('cause I break all the rulez)

This is a window box from the house where my cousin got married last weekend.

(The house was built in 1848, but I'm pretty sure the window box doesn't date back that far.)

I'm sort of obsessed with this picture. I even made it the background on my phone.

It's my secret dream to have window boxes like this.

Although I'm fairly certain they'd look less rustic and perfect on my vinyl siding.

Best laid plans, blah blah blah

So, remember that weekend of nothing I was all jazzed about on Friday?

Well, that'll teach me to brag.

Long story short, I ended up working most of the weekend. And then I did some laundry.

But in between editing content documents and writing marketing copy and deciding if I really cared enough to separate the lights from the darks, I found time to do some of this:



And a little of this:



Not sure what's happening here. I think he burped. Lucky for you, I caught the magic moment on film:



Looking sort of worried -- maybe that Pupperoni from earlier was repeating on him:

All better and back to being the handsomest boy around:

What? Is that a cat??

Pouting, because it WAS a cat, but Mommy wouldn't let him chase it:

Twenty minutes outside, chilling in the yard with my two best boys, enjoying perfect, sunny fall weather...

Work? Laundry? What?

It was the best part of the weekend, and I guarantee it's the only part I'll ever remember. As it should be.

In all its wonder and glory

That's what I have planned for this weekend.

No. Thing. NOTHING.

I'm so excited I could cry. Or squeal most unattractively. Accompanied by an equally unattractive interpretive dance depicting my excitement about said nothingness.

I'd never complain about the time I spend with friends and family and volunteer organizations and the like. I LOVE those times.

But sometimes, it just feels GREAT to look at the ol' planner and see nothing but blank space. With endless opportunity to fill it up with whatever I want. Or...not.

To look around my house, see what needs to be done and think, "I could do any or all of these things this weekend. Or, I could do NONE of them."

It feels like I just took a huge breath of crisp, autumn air, and then nestled into a warm blanket.

(Ooh -- maybe THAT'S what I'll do this weekend.)

Whatever I do, I fully intend to enjoy my nothing time. Please enjoy yours!

Unsolicited advice: Once you slide the lock...

Things to do while in a bathroom stall:

1. Go to the bathroom.
2. Change your clothes (with your shoes on, because: ew).
   

Things not to do while in a bathroom stall:

1. Breathe heavily.
2. Have a phone conversation.
3. Grunt.
4. Talk to yourself or others.
5. Sing and/or rap to yourself.
6. Tap your foot (we’ve all seen where that can get you).
7. Catch up on work (no one wants to be handed a document you were holding while making wee-wee).
8. Play games on your cell phone, muttering expletives when you lose points. Or drop your phone in the toilet.
9. Do anything except go to the bathroom or change your clothes. With your shoes on.

This has been a public service announcement, courtesy of the person in the next stall over.

Thanks ever so.

The Reveal (and Some Revelations)

So, before you scroll down (or just look down, depending on how big your monitor/phone screen is) to see the glorious new 'do, please allow me to share a few revelations with you:

1. I don't know how it happens, but every time I get a haircut and I think this is going to be THE greatest haircut ever because the stylist did something completely different this time, and wow, is my life going to be different... Yeah. It somehow ends up looking like the same hair I had before, only shorter. So the impact is kind of...wanting.
2. It's apparently really hard for me to take a picture of myself that A) isn't from a weird angle, B) shows the actual thing I'm trying to show (in this case, the hair), and C) doesn't make me look like an absolute weirdo. The faces below would seem to range from "bewildered surprise/bemusement" to "mugshot." And these were the GOOD ones.
3. I...like my haircut. :) Even though the stylist was an absolute lunatic with only a tenuous grasp on reality, miracle of miracles, she did a good job. I think the straight (which I did for the wedding) looks better than the curly (which I do for the everyday, since I don't like spending 45 minutes with a flatiron), but overall, I'm pleased.

So now that I've placed way more importance on this than could ever be warranted, I give you:

"Yes, I will give you my kidney, kind sir!
As soon as I remember how to blink."

"I'm ready to serve my time, warden.
With strength, and quiet dignity. And frizz.
Amen."

(A side shot of the curls.)

On the road (again)

"Are we there yet?"

"Funny, Grandpa."

We're five minutes into the trip, and we're just settling in. Mom's at the wheel, Dad, Grandma and Grandpa are sitting semi-comfortably in the back. I'm riding shotgun. From the mirror in my visor, I can see the back-seat occupants shifting to find a comfy butt-groove.

Since we're stopping for breakfast in 15 minutes, it hardly seems worth the effort at this point.

Gone are the days of my youth, when a family road trip meant logging as many miles as possible at a clip, and stopping to go to the bathroom was considered a sign of weakness (something I'm still trying to train out of my husband). Now? We're relaxed! There's time to spare if we need. Because the wedding we're traveling to is three hours away, and it starts at 4:00...

...and it is now 9:30 a.m. There's no sense rushing, after all.

After a leisurely breakfast at Cracker Barrel with enough sodium to kill an ox (say what you will, though -- there's something about a table piled high with biscuits, gravy, bacon, sausage, eggs and grits; it just feels homey), we...don't hit the road. I emerge from the bathroom to find the other four members of my party in different corners of the gift shop, browsing for cheesy merchandise.

But once everyone's satisfied with their purchases (and I've misread a label and therefore purchased Garlic Dill-flavored pretzels), we're off! Same seats as before, five happy bandits (now with full bellies and an armload of over-priced crap) hitting the open road!

If you're confused, it's OK. I did tell you on Friday that we were driving two cars on this trip. Friday evening, my mom called and said, "Grandma said she's sad that we're taking two cars. She thinks we won't get to talk if we do that. So we're all driving in their Lincoln Town Car. I told her you get carsick, so she and Grandpa and Dad volunteered to sit in the back so you could ride up front."

Now, hopefully in the time we've spent getting to know one another, one thing has become clear: I am sarcastic and, at times, mean. And the idea of being sandwiched in a car with four other people does NOT sound like my idea of a great weekend.

But I'm not a robot, people! I'll be damned if I'm complicit in making my tiny, adorable grandmother SAD, of all things! And the fact that she volunteered to ride in the back -- because I do get extremely carsick -- well... I'm powerless against that, OK?

As we jump on I-71, though, one thing becomes apparent: Grandma is not only generous and adorable, she's now also extremely hard of hearing. "Conversation" involves repeating things multiple times and/or turning around in my seat and shouting in her direction.

"WHAT? Shark bites?"

"No, no -- they put up new lights."

"Mark Price?"

"NEW LIGHTS!!"

Bless her heart, she eventually gets tired of the whole thing, and the back seat occupants turn to their newspapers while Mom and I chat.

When we near the hotel, though, she perks back up -- and all of a sudden I remember why this trip may make me insane.

DAD: (talking to my mom, who's driving) G, you have to watch for 275.

GRANDMA: (yelling) 75? Doesn't that go to Florida?

DAD: No, TWO-seventy-five, Mom. It goes around Cincinnati.

GRANDMA: (now appointing herself junior navigator, since apparently one isn't enough) OK, G, you're going to be looking for 275. North.

DAD: No, South!

GRANDMA: What? Pouch? What?

EVERYONE ELSE IN THE CAR: SOUTH!!!

GRANDMA: OK, G, what you're looking for is 75 South.

I realize I may not make it to the wedding, because I may have to throw myself out the window before we even get to the hotel.

On the way to the wedding, it's even worse. The map provided by the couple isn't proportional, and we're WAY out in rural Indiana, and we quickly have no idea where we are. I try to take advantage of the GPS in my phone and punch in the address of the family farm where the wedding is taking place; GPS's official position is "Huh?"

We stop in front of a one-room house with an open door that has a sign reading "Mike's Palace. Back Off!" Miraculously, Mike of said palace knows the farm we're heading toward and gets us on the right road...which leads us through a town called Friendship, which sounds lovely but which today is hosting the most bizarre flea market/festival/campsite I've ever seen. We pass by a giant banner that says "Body Piercing: Half Off!" next to the largest display of cow skulls in the history of time, and I hysterically think we may have passed into another dimension from which we can never return.

All four members of my party are alternately reading signs from Bizarro Flea Market out loud, yelling at people in the road, shouting directions at one another or trying to call someone from the wedding party. I consider making a break for it, but I'm too scared to get out of the car.

But then: We've made it. We're there. And the farm is nothing short of amazing: Acres and acres of land several miles from any other home, with a breathtaking view of rolling, plush, wooded hills. The house was built in 1848 and is simply exquisite. The driveway is lined with lights and tulle and flowers and greenery. Our family is there to greet us, and are simply thrilled to pieces that we've made it, and hug us extra tight to prove it. My dad checks out my mom's wedding duds and tells her she looks cute.

It's a wedding!

And my cousin S faces the love of her life under a beautiful trellis, and they take their vows:

Her son and daughter are junior attendants, and the newlyweds' three-month-old son serves as "Little Groomsman":

And S is more radiant than I've ever seen her:

And as we're listening to a reading from Anne Morrow Lindbergh's "A Gift from the Sea," I can't even remember feeling irritated before. The couple is standing before us, so in love, and every member of my family is crying with happiness, including yours truly.

And then, of course, it's time to party -- in the decked-out, AMAZING-looking barn the groom's father constructed just for the occasion:

When it's time to go, I offer to drive. I hear my grandma whisper to my dad, "Is Shannon a good driver?" Sigh.

The next day, after another long family breakfast, we hit the open road once more. This time, all of us are exhausted, but we can't stop talking: about the wedding, how beautiful S looked, how much fun breakfast was, how happy we are that we came.

And we sing: You Are My Sunshine, Amazing Grace, K-k-k-katy, I've Been Working on the Railroad, hymns we remember from church, songs we made up.

And my heart just overflows.

(Here's where I was planning to post the video I have of us singing, which my phone just steadfastly REFUSES to give up. You'll just have to take my word for it -- we're a family of pretty good singers.)

I can't believe I ever balked at taking this road trip, smooshed into a car with these people I adore. It's something I'll always remember.

Then, around the midway point in our journey home, my 64-year-old father gets antsy in the backseat and turns into a four-year-old:

When they drop me off at home, my grandma hugs me tight, grabs my face with both hands and says, "I like you. You know that?" Then she hugs me again and says, "Oh, I'm just so glad you came!"

Oh, me too.