Quick Bite: Pee-Zamas

After I came out from the bathroom during my family's weekend retreat, my family noticed that had changed into comfortable red fleece bug-eyed penguins pajamas with matching velvet penguin flipflops.

Anyu looked at me up and down and made the same face she always makes when she's disappointed. “Stephie...had yer boyfriend seen dose pee-zamas?”

“Yes, he’s seen them, he thinks they’re cute.”

She just shook her head.

“Stephie, with pee-zamas like dat, you’re never gonna get laid.”

Pillow Talk

The LBI Bible Conference has a package with a modest, but clean room that includes a set of bunk beds, two queen-sized beds, a small bathroom, and three-square meals a day for only $77/person for an entire weekend. That’s a pretty good deal, despite the fact that I always get a headache from spending 72-hours solid with my family.

We all got there late Friday night, so as soon as we walked into our assigned room, my cousin collapsed onto the nearest bed. She was exhausted from the nearly two-hour drive filled with criticizing, agonizing, and general GPS worshipping. I decided I needed a break as well, so I threw my bag on one of the beds and fingered my pocket for my cell phone.

I looked over at my mother who was noisily rummaging through piles tinfoil-wrapped sandwiches. “Anyu, I’ll be right back.”

She furrowed her brow, “Vait, vait, vait, vhere are you goink?”
“I just want to call my boyfriend to let him know we got here okay, I’ll be right outside the door.”
“Nooooo! Somevon is going to steal you, Stephie!”

“What the heck are you talking about? I am a 6-foot tall adult on a Bible Conference compound in the middle of an island that only has one bridge to the mainland. No one is going to ‘steal me’!”
“I heard on 20/20, when you are on dah cell phone and not paying attention, dey can push you in the car. You stay here and talk.”

“Irina is trying to sleeping, we’re probably disturb-”

My cell phone started ringing and vibrating to the theme song to “The Super Mario Brothers Super Show”. I didn't even need to check the caller I.D.

“Anyu, it’s him, I’m gonna go out for a second.”

“Nooooo! Stay here!”

“Why, so you can listen to my conversation?”

“I don’t care about vhat stupid crap you talk about, just don’t go outside.”

“I don’t understand this. I’ve lived on my own for eight years, I’ve walked through West Philly at midnight and I’m fine.”

“Sometimes vhen you're here, I can't handle it, so I vorry. If you die in Philly, it’s your own stupid fault, but if someting happens vhen you are in front of me, I vill never be able to forgive myself. You’re not gonna die on my vatch!”

“Would you people please shut the hell up?” said the pile of blankets that used to be my cousin.

I rolled my eyes. My phone lit up with the message, "One missed call."

“Forget it, I’m going to go talk in the bathroom.”

I ran into the bathroom, shut the door, and pressed my speed dial.

“Hey, hun, we’re here!" I said, happy to speak to a friendly voice that didn't nag me. "Oh, and don’t mind me if I sound echoey, I have to sit on the toilet to talk to you because mom doesn’t want me going outside. No. I am not actually ‘on’ the toilet, I am just sitting on top of it. Yes, my pants are on...”

There was an urgent knock on the door followed by a shrill, “Stephiiiie!” My mother yanked the door open.

“What?! Do you need to pee or something?” I asked, attempting to shield the phone from the reverberating shouting.

She pushed past me into the tiny bathroom with a bunch of pillows tucked underneath her arms. “Princess Stephanie! I brought you pillows for your throne!”

My boyfriend overhead and started laughing, “Did she just call you ‘Princess’?”

“She’s only saying that to show off because you’re on the phone...Oh, my gosh, she’s putting pillows on the toilet...”

My mom shook her finger at me, “Don’t look so crazy, I just don’t vant your ass to catch cold. Now sit.”

“That’s freaking gross. I don’t want to sleep on toilet-pillows! GET OUT OF HERE!”

“So, put towels between the pillows so dey don’t get germy...”

With all the shouting, pillow poofing, and towel tossing, the bathroom suddenly felt very claustrophobic. “Anyu! Fine! I will sit on the pillows. But please, get out, I'm on the phone!”

At that very second, another phone started ringing in the distance. Anyu dropped everything and sprinted out of the bathroom, “Oh, dat’s Sophie on dah line, I have to catch it!”

“Good,” I said to my boyfriend, who was still laughing in the background, “Someone called Irina’s cell phone, so at least now Mom will be distracted. God, sitting on this thing is weird, I feel like I am ready to lay a darned egg or something. So. How was your day?”

As he started to speak, my mom yanked the door open. She was awkwardly holding my cousin’s cell phone and screaming into it from three inches away. “Oh, Sophie, Stephie is here vit me, Stephie, say, ‘Hi’ to Sophie.” She shoved the phone in my free ear.

“Ah! Ah! Sensory overload!” I screamed.

My boyfriend chimed in, “You know what, hun, I’ll just call you back when your mother isn’t there. And you aren’t talking on two phones. On a pillow. On a toilet. Have a, um....fun?Vacation?”

“Yeah, wish you were here.”

“Yeah, well, no offense, but I’m pretty glad I’m not!”

Photo by Christian Kitazume

GPS vs. LBI

Every year, my mother, cousins, and I spend Mother's Day weekend on the Jersey Shore, specifically LBI. Although LBI stands for “Long Beach Island”, I always call it “Large Bowel Irritation” because of the amount of stress and anxiety that goes into this vacation, especially the hour-and-a-half car ride from our home in Central Jersey.

"Okay," my aunt said, as we were leaving, "So vhen you get to dah main road on dah island-"

I interrupted. "Don't worry, I have a GPS."

"Vell, it gets very confusing, so you have to make sure to look at the John...Ron...Surf..."

"I'm bringing the GPS, don't worry."

"Yes, the...Don...Juan, um, you make a left at the...Ron Paul Surf Shop."

"It's Ron Jon. And don't worry, I have a GLOBAL POSITIONING SYSTEM. So no matter where we are, we can find-"

"Yes, uh-huh, let me draw you a map."

After about thirty minutes of map-drawing, agonizing, and direction-correcting, we finally got to the car. I plugged the GPS in and waited for the stupid thing to find a satellite signal.

"Vhat is that, a rah-dio?" my mom asked. "Play some romantic music, none of this other crap you listen to."

"No, Anyu, it's a GPS. I was trying to explain to your sister that-"

"Do you have Roy Orbison? I vant to listen to Roy Orbison."

"I don't have a stereo, mom, someone broke in and stole it, remember?" I pointed to the gaping hole in my dashboard.

"Then why don't you listen to music on this portable radio instead?"

"It's not a portable radio, mom, it's a-"

"Turn LEFT onto CEDARS LANE," the GPS said in a robotic female voice.

The entire car fell silent.

My mom raised her eyebrows. "That's our street!"

The machine continued to chirp orders, "Immediately turn RIGHT onto STELTON ROAD."

"Oh, my God, Stelton Road...I think it's taking us to the highway!"

"Yes, Anyu. I programmed this thing to get to LBI, so it's giving us directions."

As I turned the wheel, the GPS said, "In 1.2 miles, turn LEFT onto highway 287 south."

"287! I can't believe it said 287!" my mom shouted.

"Yes, um, just so you know, it's gonna say every street on the route to LBI, so, uh, don't get too excited."

"Vhy didn't you TELL US dat you had dis vonderful machine?"

"I told your sister. I told you. I shouted it from the highest rooftop! What do you need, a tattoo on my head?"

"Stephie, don't leave dis in the car, or dah robbers are gonna take it again, just like they took your stereo because you left it in the car."

"The stereo was built into the car. I couldn't exactly take it with me on adventures."

"No, I see you it sometimes, you carry your car stereo with you. I see it, in your ears!"

"That's an iPod."

"Oh. So, don't play the music too loud in your ears. You'll hurt your drums!"

Eventually, the GPS brought us to LBI, but the saga didn't stop there. (to be continued)

Photo by Jan Roger Johannesen

The Oldest Mother

One Sunday morning, our pastor has a special request after his sermon,“Would all the mothers in the church please stand up?” About half the congregation rose to their feet.

“In honor of this Mother’s Day, we would like to honor our special mothers! Let's give them a hand!”

My mother scowled during the applause. “See, you’d better appreciate me! Look how everyone else appreciates me! You never clap for me...”

I rolled my eyes; I never win these arguments. “Mom, I DO appreciate you, remember that time I...”

“Shhh!" She interrupted, "Be quiet, the pastor is talking!”

The pastor smiled upon the rows of women, all glowing in a maternal light. "Today, we would like to treat our oldest mother! Mothers under the age of forty, please sit down.”
My mother immediately sat, even though it was a complete lie. She gave me the killer, "Don't you dare say a word," stare.

He continued, “Any ladies under fifty, have a seat..." Fewer women remained standing. "Now anyone under sixty, please be seated.”

Nagymama sat down, “This is stupid, my legs hurt,” she said in Hungarian.

My aunt pleaded, “Stand back up! They are trying to honor the oldest mother!”

Meanwhile, the pastor continued to speak, “Anyone below seventy, please sit down.”

My mother and aunt tugged on Nagymama's elbows and she swatted at them like flies, “The both of you are crazy! Go into the water and go under it!"

“Anyone below eighty sit down.” Only one woman remained standing. The usher ran over to give her an extra microphone.

"Mrs. Daga! How old are you?”

“Eighty-two,” she said sheepishly.

“Is there anyone in the congregation older than eighty-two?” The entire church fell silent, except for the Hungarians arguing loudly in the back.

"This guy talks too much," grandma complained. "He's just always going, 'Pa pa pa pa pa,' spouting off nonsense! Let’s go home.”

The pastor ignored the bickering and continued, “Okay, so I guess the prize goes to…”

“Vait, vait, vait!" my mother yelled as the ushers started to hand the Bath & Body Works gift set to Mrs. Daga. "I tink we haf dah oldest modder!” All heads turned to my grandma.

“How old are you?” the pastor asked. Nagymama looked like a deer in headlights as the usher put the microphone in her face.

One of the other ushers chimed in, “Pastor, she doesn’t understand. Here, let me try in German…” He walked over and yelled right in her ear, “Wie alt bist du?”

My mother looked at her, "Anyu! Hány éves vagy?"

My aunt grabbed her arm, "Câţi ani ai?"

It didn’t matter if we asked in English, German, Hungarian, Romanian, or Pig-Latin, Nagymama just clutched her purse and sat with her lips sealed.

“This is ridiculous,” I said, “She’s ninety-”

Before I could even finish that number, Nagymama leaned into the microphone. “Hallo?” she said, her voice echoing through the vast church walls.

“Yes, Karolina! How. Old. Are. YOU?”

Nagymama laughed, “Sex-ty four.”

“No, wait, she’s not sixty-four, she’s-”

Nagymama looked over at me and glared. She softly but firmly said,“You shut your mouth before I shut it for you."

So, on that day, Mrs. Daga was accredited as the oldest mother and received the complimentary Bath & Body Works Gift Set, regardless of the fact that Nagymama had at least ten years on her.
Moral of the Story: You are only as old as you feel. If you feel good, you might as well skip the door prize and lie through your fake teeth.

Photo by Julia Freeman-Woolpert