Why I love my grandmother.

14 Aug

After some last-second family planning, we went out to dinner with our cousins who live in Israel. I hadn’t seen them in over a year, and they were lovely and adorable (e.g. a seven-year-old cousin: “Well my busdriver is in jail now!”). I’m glad I got to catch them before they flew back.

To the point: my grandparents were there. My mother’s parents live in the Bronx, and sometimes meet me after, say, I cover a stabbing. As avid subscribers to the Daily News, they scan the headlines to see if I’ve contributed anything. So my grandmother brought a manila folder to dinner. In it were all of my clippings for the summer. I was so excited! That cuts out so much work for me.

But then, I noticed, on everything I’d worked on, my name was underlined. In red. Which means I probably can’t use them for professional purposes. Oops. But grandma was so cute about it: “I had a feeling that I was doing something wrong as I underlined, but I just had to.”

Meanwhile, lots of sneezing today. Yuck. I think people on the subway thought I had swine flu or something.

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