Yeah, there is more. There's ALWAYS more.
When it comes to pole-dancing grandmas, how can you ever get enough?
To recap, my mother is 79. She pole-dances. It scares me.
So, it's Passover, and most of the seder dinner crowd has gone from my parents' house. My children, husband and I remain. (We always do -- otherwise, who would put the extra chairs down in the basement and take the leaves out of the dining room table? We all have our jobs.)
Anyway, we're sitting around in the family room. For some reason, my mother gets a bright idea.
"Oh, Roo-girl," she says cheerfully. "I need to show you my shoes!"
Um, ok. So we're all expecting some kind of expensive designer something-or-other that is typical of my mother and would undoubtedly make my daughter drool.
But instead, she brings out a flannel drawstring bag.
Which she ceremoniously un-drawstrings ...
And opens ...
And pulls out a pair of shoes.
Not any shoes, mind you. CFM shoes. For pole-dancing.
Yes, those are the actual shoes, on my mother's actual feet
What is that pink thing that just fell out of the bag and onto the floor?
"Oh," says my mother, without batting an eye. "That's my G-string."
*blink blink blink*
Drummer Man looks up from his magazine and arches one eyebrow.
"I got a couple of singles," he says, with that trademark deadpan delivery.
None of us will ever be the same.