We had dinner at some Chinese joint last night to celebrate mom and Ted’s respective birthdays. My grandmother joined us and as usual, had many bizarre and hilarious things to say. We were sitting outside, in a beautiful little Asian garden, opening presents and eating potstickers. Grandma, having always possessed a knack for poetry, had written Ted a little rhyme on her fancy stationary. We were amazed at this underused talent as this poem was read aloud and thus, gave her a round of applause. Delighted, she then had to tell us the story of how she came to write this wonderfully received poem.
“Well, you know. There’s a story there. The little man who puts on my socks was telling me…”
Wait a second. The little man that puts on your socks? You have a little man that puts on your socks?
“Oh yes. And I have a lady who puts in my ear thing.”
You have an ear thing?
“Well, yes. Oh dear. Yes. But I didn’t want to tell you. I’m testing it out.”
So you have an array of oddly shaped staff who put you together every morning?
At this point, my mother leans over. “The little man who puts on her socks is named Masoor.”
No one else seems to be finding this bizarre. Ted resumes opening his presents, a basket filled with toys for his cross country train trip. As he opens a little fan that sprays water, Grandma screams, “Oh, that looks vulgar!”
Alex tries to reign her in by asking her to resume her poetry story.
“Oh, yes. My poem! Where was I? Hmmm.” She’s talking while attempting to maneuver a pot sticker into her mouth. It lands on her lap. She remains oblivious. “Well, I’ve completely forgotten. I have no idea what I was talking about.”
The table collectively takes a sip of wine and responds in unison, “The little man that puts on your socks…”