Tra La La La La La La

I was helping my grandmother up the stairs last night, and by helping I mean she was grabbing the handrail while I had her butt cheeks in both hands, shoving her against gravity until we both reached the top breathless; she from the exertion of hoisting herself up, I from having to inhale a couple of rogue after-dinner farts that she swears were an accident.

The entire way up she was singing a little ditty I remembered from my childhood; a sweet little song about a little fish and.......something about a..........wait a second.

I had heard this song many, many times in my life, but last night, I heard it. 

As in, I paid attention to the words:

"bo wszystkie rybki maja pipki, tra la la la la la la"

which, word for word translates to:

"because all little fishies have vaginas, tra la la la la la la"

Only in my house would an 85 year old woman sing her heart out about an aquatic vajay-jay.*


Kinda puts Nemo in a whole new light, doesn't it?

God I love my life.


 *My grandmother, who survived WWII in Poland, was widowed in her thirties, and raised three kiddos on.her.own in a country where bread and butter were scarce commodities is a rock star, and as far as I'm concerned, she can sing about any damn thing she wants to.  And that includes but is not limited to dirty little ditties about the gynecology of fish.

I Love You Anyways, Mom.

"What should I get your mom for Christmas?"

With only hours left before our big family dinner, my father made good on his annual, frantic, last-minute call; I pictured him standing in the middle of our local mall, his handsome face contorted into his trademark scowl while he waited for my answer.

"Um, she mentioned she would like a new phone, one that she could take decent pictures with."

"Well, what do you recommend?"  

He was getting impatient now.  Who could blame him?  The only people out shopping on the day before Christmas were, well, people just like him.  I shuddered at the thought of an entire shopping mall filled to the brim with male and female versions of my father.  I love the man, but one of him on the planet is plenty, if you catch my drift.

I bit my tongue, a wise ass remark about his lack of the holiday spirit trying hard to escape my gritted teeth. 

"I suggest the iphone.  It's super easy to use."  (translation:  even my technophobe mom could handle using it)

"I'll take a look.  Call me back if anything else comes to mind."

I grabbed my iphone, headed upstairs, and asked my mom to take some pictures of my sister and I, excited to get her hooked on what I think is the smartest smartphone around (unfortunately, I've inherited some of those anti-tech genes and feel like a superstar when I seamlessy manuever through my myriad of apps. It makes me feel like a genius.  Or at the very least, much less like my mother). 

I was just sure this was the phone for her.

And then, this happened:

There's like ten more of these.  No joke.

I'm going to spare you the rest.


I had to call my dad, before it was too late.

"Hello?"

"Dad?  It's me.  I made a mistake.  I know an even better phone that would suit mom perfectly.  And you can get it at Target."

"Really?  Okay, which one is it?"

"I'm texting you the info now.  Bye!"

Introducing the Fisher Price "I can't believe I'm related to you sometimes" cell phone model.

My dad, very wisely indeed, got her some perfume instead.

With a safety cap.

The jury's still out on whether or not she's figured out how to remove it.

*sigh*