Grandpa Spatula came to dinner tonight. I know this is horrible and I'm going to go to hell for even saying it, but watching and listening to him eat makes me sick. Not like "I hate you" sick, but like "watching old people eat is so totally disgusting" sick. I can't help it, I'm squeamish (sp?).
Also, after dinner we went to look at Christmas lights and since Grandpa Spatula has to ride in the front due to all his various "not being able to move around much" issues, my mom sat in the back next to me. Where she promptly started to get carsick. So, then we had to pull the car over so she could drive and my dad sat in the back next to me and spent the whole time backseat driving while my mom went about 20 m.p.h. and kept a running commentary about what was sure to be our certain death. "Oh, I just HATE driving in the fog. Oh goodness, I can't see anything. Wow, there aren't even any lines on this street, I don't know where I'm going...I hope I don't drive us off the side of a mountain...tee hee." It would be funnier if we hadn't actually been in danger of being driven off the side of a mountain in the thick-ass fog.
The grand finale of the evening was when, in trying to create a bit of levity after my mom commented that her driving might kill us, I said "Well, if dinner didn't do it, we're probably safe." That earned me a punch in the arm from my dad, a dirty look from my grandpa, and even an evil glare from Molly the Satanic Dog. Geez, sometimes you just can't win.
