I'm afraid I have a bit of a confession. You see, what I told you the other day might not have been 100% accurate.
My grandmother and your namesake is not, actually, one hundred and thirty-two years old. Not precisely, I mean. And when your best friend proudly told the class that her grandmother received a personal note from the Queen for turning 100 years old (that part's true), and you stood up to tell the teacher about how old your great-grandmother was, there may have been some validity to her skepticism.
And that thing I told you about where popcorn comes from... you know, about how chickens eat the corn, and then poop out the little hard kernels which industrious mid-western protestant farm wives with a distinct and lilting Norwegian accent diligently collect and sell to the Redenbacher popcorn magnate for repackaging and distribution, and which pop up so lovely and fluffy in our pot when we add a little butter and heat (none of that air-popped crap will ever enter this house). OK. Yeah. That one's only partially true as well. The bit about the chicken, I mean. I'm sticking by the "air-popped is crap" part.
Later on, when you're old enough to go poring over old 'Groove entries to find out what mortifying things I told the Internet about you and your raising, feel free to wave this one around for your therapist to see. Not that I have any intention of correcting your impressions at this point, of course. Because it's not polite to tell a person a woman's real age.
But, well... ok.
She's really one hundred and thirty-five.
But don't tell anyone that you heard it from me.