“Ground Control, This is Grandma.”
I wanted my grandkids from LA to see the baby chicks at IFA in Spanish Fork. I don’t care if they did raise a chick in kindergarten last year, where, I’d like to point out, it probably died a horrible big city death squeezed senseless by a bunch of over-privileged, coddled little off-spring of the typical 50-year old LA parent. (I’m not saying this is my kids, but it sure seems like a bunch of the “grandparents” I see picking up their little accessories are too old to be around five-year–olds too long.) I wanted it bad enough to pitch a grandma-flavored fit. I promised we could go to the park afterwards, if they would only go to the d@*n farm store and look at the babies. I don’t know what came over me. I sat on the couch in the kitchen knowing I wasn’t going to move until they agreed to IFA. It was pretty much IFA or die. As a result of this fixation, things had started to fall apart badly last week during their visit. They came Tuesday night and by Wednesday I