The Shredder

Phone call transcription:

"Anyu, what do you want for your birthday?"'

"A man..."

"Walmart is fresh out of those, what else?"

"A nice rich husband to take me out dancing."

" Yes, that's located in the same isle as 'Man', and that isle is closed due to severe shortages...Seriously, mom, do you need anything?"

"I vant a paper shredder."

"Wait, didn't I already buy you a paper shredder a while ago?"

"I gave it avay."

"Well, if you didn't need it then, why do you need it now?"

"I don't vant anyvon to go through my trash and find my social security number."

"Then why did you give away your paper shredder?"

"I vanted to look good."

"...so you gave someone a USED paper shredder?"

"Yah, so I need another von."

"Are you going to keep it this time?"

"Yes. But your aunt might need it. And then you can just buy me anodder von next year."

"Well, why don't I just buy you TWO paper shredders so you can keep one and give the other one to her for her birthday? You know, from both of us?"

"Vhat are you talkink about, are you crazy? I don't need two shredders! Just buy me a good von, not some El Cheapo von from dah Dollar Store."

"They don't sell shredders at the Dollar Store."

"And don't you dare give me YOUR shredder, Stephie, you need dat! For your important documents."

"I don't give people used paper shredders as gifts, Anyu, I think you're the only one on the planet that does that.

"You make sure you shred all important documents, you hear me, Stephie?"

"Yes, okay, I'll shred all my important documents. And while I'm at it, I'll shred my driver's license, birth certificate and social security card."

"Nooooooo!"

"Oh, my gosh, I'm kidding, Anyu. Don't worry, I shred what I need to shred."

"Don't photocopy your social security card, Stephie. Don't give it to anyvon, you can't trust it! If you copied it, make sure you shred it. But don't cut your fingers."

"Okay. I have to go now."

"Vatch your fingers!"

"Okay."

"And shred credit card offers, don’t just throw them dah garbage."

"Okay, mom, I gotta go."

"So, did you buy your aunt a shredder, too?"

"No, Anyu, please, I have to go."

"Because I don't tink she needs one now, but her burstday is not until September. You remember, right?"

"Yes, September 1st, I remember. Listen, mom, I really gotta go."

"Are you still coming for my burstday?"

"Yes! That's why I was calling, to see what you needed!"

"Vait vait vait! It's your burstday, too! Vhat do you vant? Be honest, do you need a shredder, too?"

"Jesus, mother, we are not exchanging shredders for our birthdays! I told you, I have a shredder! To be honest with you, for my birthday, your gift to me should be you buying YOURSELF a shredder so we can never, ever speak about shredders ever again!"

"So vhat do you vant?"

"Just some Poppy Seed Beigli (Hungarian Dessert Roll) from the farmer's market. That's all I want. Really. Don't buy me a shredder."

"No shredder?"

"Seriously. No shredder."

"Vhat if dey don't have the poppy seed?"

"Then get me the walnut kind, I don't care."

"But vhat if they don't have it? Sometimes they don't have it."

"Mom, I really don't need anything..."

"But the valnut..."

"I'm sorry I asked! Um...pineapple. I like pineapples. Just buy me one pineapple and put a bow on it, that's all I really want."

"Pineapple? I'm going to look cheap if I only give you a pineapple."

"Then buy me 500 pineapples! Mother! I gotta goooooooo! Please! Don't worry about my gift! I'll see you later!"

"Okay. You bring the shredder. Don't forget it at your house."

"Okay!"

"...and not a cheap von."

"Okay, bye."

*click*

So, okay, everyone, I need a little help. My mom’s birthday and my birthday are both on May 3rd, so if you can find her a husband who already owns a paper shredder, that would be enough of a gift for all of us. She likes long phone conversations, long walks on the beach, and really long chest hair. Any takers?

Fit to Be a Mother

When I was in college, my roommate offered me her usual Friday-night babysitting job because she has a hot date instead.

“No freaking way,” I said, “When my cousin had a baby, they had to sit me down on the couch and surround me with pillows so I wouldn't break it's neck with my man-hands.”

“This isn’t exactly an infant, she’s three-and-a-half. She's much less breakable.”

“But I don't know how to change a diaper!”

“Three year olds don’t always wear normal diapers, they have pullups. Man, you haven’t been around kids much, have you?”

"I was the baby of the family, so how the crap am I supposed to know this stuff?"

“Well. It pays $11/hr. And they have all the premium cable channels.”

I was normally paid $6 an hour to serve rich people ice cream in a store with no air conditioning or cable TV. The offer sounded tempting, but I was still a little concerned. Just as I started thinking about the horrifying legends of babysitters accidentally putting babies in the microwave, the phone rang.

Of course, it was my mother. “Stephie, you vant to come home tonight and go to dah Hometown Buffet for dinner?”

“I can't, I might have to babysit tonight.”

“Babyshit? Who vould ever let you babyshit? You're not fit to be a mother!"

Of course, I decided to take the job out of spite.

I arrived at the house and Mr. Dad and Mrs. Mom gave me the tour of their lovely, probably ridiculously expensive, downtown Philadelphia apartment. As they showed me the downstairs, I spotted the big screen television. I got a brilliant idea; if I could just tire the kid out, she would go to bed and I could watch as much Comedy Central as I wanted.

On the way out the door, Mr. Dad left five dollars on the table. “Be a doll, go get her some iced cream with bananas.” Last time I checked at my own ice cream parlor, five bucks got you a melty swirl cone with no bananas to speak of, but who's counting?

As the couple walked out the door, I heard a faint, "Ooooo, icie-cream!" from below the table. A little curly haired blond girl with huge eyelashes stared up at me. "You have icie-cream?"

"No, but we can go get some!" I said, trying desperately to buy her love. I grabbed the money, took her hand, and locked the door behind me.

We slowly, but surely, walked through a very nice neighborhood to get to a 50's style ice cream parlor that was about seven blocks away. Although she could walk quite well, she kept on laughing and trying to throw herself down on the concrete. I got scared that some crazy bicyclist would go by us too fast and hit her, so I decided to carry her the rest of the way. I learned very quickly that kids are really heavy, squirmy, and kinda pointy.

Once we arrived, I ordered her a strawberry "icie-cream" with rainbow sprinkles and a side of bananas. They didn’t have any kiddy chairs, but the attendant assured that the stools were safe. I sat beside her with my arms stretched out, ready to catch her like a freaking baseball, in case she decided to dive off head first onto the linoleum. Although the attendant gave me some funny looks, the kid didn’t seem to care, and she voraciously devoured the entire concoction. I'm not even sure how much she even swallowed since most of it was on her face or flung onto the table. After cleaning her up, I carried her back home, getting jabbed with her now sticky, pointy elbows the entire way.

"Music Time!" she demanded as we walked in the door.

Mrs. Mom had told me that she liked listening to cassette tapes and dancing around, so I grabbed the collection and put on every awful Raffi and Sesame Street tape I could find. We sang and danced for ten minute until she screamed, “Pee Pot! I want the Pee Pot!”

“Okay, fine.” So, I took her to the bathroom.

She stopped in her tracks and looked at me like I was some kinda nut. “No, I don’t have to go.”

“Okay...”

We went back to Happy-Fun-Music-Hour and I did my best Baby Beluga swimming dance move. She started screaming, “Pee Pot! Pee Pot! Pee Pot!”

I took her to the toilet again. There was no peeing in the pot. This went on like this like two more times, and then she started to cry. Hysterically.

I had no choice but to call Mrs. Mom. “Your daughter keeps yelling that she wants the Pee Pot, but when I take her to the toilet, she won’t go. Does she have a little potty or something that she uses instead?”

Mrs. Mom started laughing hysterically. “It’s Teapot, not Pee Pot. She wants her “I’m a Little Teapot” cassette tape. Okay, so I'm a moron.

We danced around to the freaking teapot song for about another hour, I made dinner, we finally went to the "actual" Pee Pot, and then I started to get really tired. "Time for a bed!"

"Lez pay Barb-beeee's Dream-how!" she said without missing a beat.

The hours of Comedy Central watching were quickly slipping away. I came to a startling conclusion: Children don't GET tired. Obviously they are like some kind of rechargable battery that gets more life every time they drink a Juicy Juice.

After playing with Barbie and her numerous outfits, careers, and very abused Ken's, I said, "Okay, wow, it's late, time for bed!"

"I'm a dradle!" She started spinning around and knocking crap over. Everywhere.

I finally managed to lure her into bed with a bedtime story. Just as she closed her eyes and I turned the last page of "The Berenstain Bears and the Slumber Party", Mr. Dad and Mrs. Mom burst through the door. Of course, the kid jumped out of bed, so all my bedtime efforts were in vain. I should have strapped her in like Nagymama always did to me.

"So how did you do?" Mr. Dad asked, "I hope she wasn't too much trouble!"

"No, she was fine, except it was really tough to get her to walk so I just carried her back and forth to the store. Man, you guys must have arms of steel!"

Mrs. Mom looked shocked, “You carried her the whole way? Why didn’t you use the stroller?”

My brain started churning. Stroller: A device that transports babies. One does not use a stroller for a child with working legs. Error, error, does not compute.

They must have seen the confused look on my face because they never called me again. Either they assumed that I was a complete moron because I did not take a class in “Stroller Function and Etiquette 101” or they saw my horrible "I'm A Little Teapot" dance moves on NannyCam and was afraid that I would be a poor influence on their child’s dance-skill development.

Either way, my mom was right, I'm not "fit" to be a mother. I would need to go to the gym at least like four time a week to build up enough muscle to wrangle a squirmy little kid.

Moms and Dads of the world - my hat's off to you!

Photo by Michael Chambers

Snacky Cakes®

On April 5th this year, Nagymama turned 97-years-old. To celebrate such a momentous occasion, I decided to make a platter of ninety-seven of her favorite Snacky Cakes® for her to enjoy.

"You're freakin' crazy," my mom said over the phone. "Where you gonna get ninety-seven cakes?"

"Snacky Cakes®, mom, yah know, the Little Debbie kind that she pretends to bake for all the neighbors."

"You know, Nagymama, she just von't eat! Your aunt cooks her all dese nutritious foods, spinach, soft paprikas, everyting, and for some reason she just don't eat!"

"But she still eats cake, right?"

"Yes, vell, but she should eat more than just cake."

"Okay, then, I'll put some brownies in there, too."

Don't get me wrong, I am a big believer in health food, but once I am 97-years-old, I'm not going to eat spinach, either. If you make it past 90, you should be allowed to eat whatever the heck you want. If Nagymama asked to eat nothing but Cool Whip, chocolate sauce, and vodka off the tanned body of a male stripper, I'd wouldn't really blame her. It would just give me more to write about.

Despite my mother's apprehension, I went to the local grocery store to pick up Nagymama's ninety-seven little gifts. I must have looked like a lunatic in the pastry isle:
"Okay, Zebra Cakes come in packs of ten, but Honey Buns come in packs of six, and Butterscotch Krimpets come in packs of twelve. Which Snacky Cake® combinations should I use to get to ninety-seven without going over? The square root of the Cosmic Brownies divided by the radius of a Swiss Roll is...pie?"

After trying to do the math on my cell phone, I decided to just buy buttloads of them and feed the excess Snacky Cakes® to my roommate. I put together a fabulous spread in a big Tupperware cake saver (pictured above), put the lid on, and decorated the top with a pair of "Sock" Papucs (the socks with the little plastic grippies on the bottom). I also added to the Earth's growing trash problem (pictured below).
The next day, I called my mom to let her know I was "dropping by". My cousins get mad at me if I give more than four hours' notice before coming home because my mother frequently panics endlessly about my hour-and-a-half commute. "Did you talk to Stephie? Vhen is she comink? Is she brinking anyvon? Who's drivink? Are you goink to vatch movies? How many? Is Richard Gere in dat von? So did you talk to Stephie? Vhen is she comink?"

I was surprised when my aunt answered the phone. "You know, Stephie, your mom is upset with you because you never call."

"Uh, I talked to her two days ago, after attempting to call her three times this week and getting no answer. Why don't you hook up the answering machine I bought her?"

"You didn't even remember to call on Nagymama's birthday."

"I'm on the phone now. Today is her birthday. What is the problem?"

"But it's late now, why didn't you call earlier?"

"What the crap are you talking about?! It's three in the afternoon! Next time, I'll call at three a.m. so I don't miss it. Let me talk to Anyu for a sec."

I could hear my mother in the background, "Who is dat?"

"It's Stephie, hold on, I'm talking to her. You know, your mother says you never come see her."

"Oh, my gosh, I was just there a few weeks ago, and you people haven't even seen my 'new place', which I've lived in for two years now, by the way. Let me talk to Anyu."

"You didn't even come see Grandma for her birthday."

"I am freaking loading presents into the trunk as I am talking to you, for the love of God and all that is holy, let me talk to my mother so I can come by for dinner."

"Oh, you're coming by? That's good."

I heard my mother gasp in the background. "Stephie is coming over? Noooo!"

My mother wrestled the phone away from my aunt. "Don't come here, Stephie! The house is a tornado from Grandma, I can't handle it!"

"Don't worry about the house, I just want to say 'Happy Birthday' and give her cake. She'll be happy. It's fine..."

"Don't come over. Today's no good. I wasn't expecting to see you until our family vacation in May. I can't handle seeing you 'til May. The house isn't clean. Here, talk to Grandma."

I heard Nagymama's familiar breathing on the phone."Hallo?"

"Boldog születésnapot, Nagmama!" I shouted at the top of my lungs. "Happy Birthday, Grandma!"

"Tank you, tank you. I am very busy now, you call backs tomorrow. I talk to you den. Bye-bye."

Click. And that was it: I'm damned if I come over. I'm damned if I don't come over.

My cousins still wanted me to come by and hang out, but I was so frustrated about the whole situation that I just ended up cleaning out random boxes of string from the shed and weeding the garden. And during this weeding process, not only did I somehow hurt my tail bone, but I ended up killing all the hyacinths I was so desperately trying to save. Oh, and the Snacky Cakes®? I forgot them in the trunk, so now instead of giving Nagymama ninety-seven fresh, tasty little treats, she's going to get a really big, disgusting, melted one.

Moral of the story? Yah try to do something nice, and all you end up with is a pile of dead flowers, melted cake, and a pain in the ass.

Happy Birthday, Nagymama! I tried!

The Red String

Last weekend, I was suddenly inspired to start a garden, despite the fact that I have a million impending deadlines to deal with, a stack of receipts to calculate for my taxes, and an illogical fear of worms. I think part of the reason I was compelled to rip apart the weed-filled flowerbed is because for the first time in history, Nagymama is getting too old to upkeep her garden, and some sappy part of me wants to follow in her footsteps. I also convinced myself that I will save a ton of money on produce, which is probably a lie given the time and energy that gardening takes, but I figured I'd give it a shot.

I knew that if I was to start a garden, I would need tools, which were in the old shed filled with junk from the 85-year-old lady that formerly owned the property. So, on Saturday morning, I put on an old sweatshirt and my spelunking gear and entered the evil, dark, dank shed. I didn't have to clean very long before I came upon a large cardboard box that was completely filled with little bits of string (and spiders. Oh, man, sooo many spiders...) All of a sudden, flashbacks of Nagymama popped into my head. What the hell is it with old ladies and string?

Nagymama always kept every piece of string that entered our home. She horded the string that came with boxes of baked goods. She collected the ties from old bath robes. She ripped elastic bands out of old clothing. Of course, Nagymama's most famous use of string was to save shoelaces in order to tie the corners of the blanket to the mattress so my skin wouldn't get exposed while sleeping. We all know how that turned out.

Even with this extraordinary string collection, once a month, Nagymama ordered my mother to go to the dollar store and buy her balls of red string. Nagymama never knit, and we certainly didn't own a giant kitten, so I suppose she wanted all these balls of string because really liked bundling things. For instance, since I didn't have a proper dresser, she bundled all my clothes with the string and set them top of an old cardboard TV box covered with a Hungarian embroidered tablecloth. This was always an issue in the morning when I wanted to grab something to wear and I could not untie her double knots. Of course, if I ever tried to cut the precious red string, she would immediately grab the fa kanál and start screaming like crazy!

What confused me the most about the red string was that Nagymama HATES the color red. I was never allowed to eat red Italian ice, I would get in trouble for wearing a red clothing, and to this day, she yells at me when I paint my fingernails a deep shade of ruby. "Red is dah color of streetvalkers!" she told me as a child as she scrubbed my head with a bar of Dove soap, trying to "get the red out" of my hair. Perhaps she should have tried Visine; apparently that "gets the red out". Sorry, I had to make that pun; if I didn't, someone else would.

I mentioned this red string story to a co-worker, and she admitted that her great-grandmother also toted around red string because it was supposed to protect against the evil eye. Apparently, her great-granny frequently tied bits of red string around their wrists and and stuffed wads of it into their coat pockets. Holy cow! It all makes sense now! Nagymama was protecting my hideous 80's clothing from "Szemmel Verés", the Evil Eye!

After all this reminiscing, I sorted through the box of string from the shed, and didn't see a single strand of red string. I figured that the former owner wasn't superstitious, she was just crazy. As I placed the box on the heap miscellaneous trash, I started to realize how useful some of the shreds of string would be to tie some of my freshly-planted tomatoes to their stakes. And then I started to think about all the rusty tools and bits of wood that needed to be tied together before they were put out for trash pickup. And then I thought I should keep some bits of the stronger string in my trunk in case some part of my crappy Honda falls off and I need to tie up my muffler.

*GASP!* I've caught Old-Timer's Disease! I'm beginning to like string! I might as well just start wearing papucs everywhere and force feeding everyone Little Debby(tm) Snacks, because I am basically Nagymama, Jr.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have things to bundle.

Photo by Nico van Diem

Quick Bite: April Fooled

No one ever calls my home phone number except for telemarketers and my mother. After listening to six "very urgent messages about your car's warranty," I finally heard a familiar voice:

Hallo, Stephanie....dis is your modder. Don't forget, today is April Fooled, so be careful nobody puts poison in your food.

Wow. Next March 31st, I'll make sure to sleep with a gun in case someone tries to sneak into my kitchen and put poison in my cereal or worse... my GOULASH!

Did you play an April Fools' joke today? What was the worst April Fools' joke played on you? Or were YOU the one that played it?

Photo by Georgios M. W.