Daria’s daughter Fifi is a delicate little pink and purple princess with the ferocious heart of a budding Jersey chick, though that may be understating things. Fifi is a terrifying force of nature in striped tights and mismatched shoes. She’s ignored me since she was born, which is just as well because who wants the adorable Eye of Sauron blinking their way? No one, that’s who.

Fifi started kindergarten in September and spent an afternoon in the principal’s office in the first week. I was so proud. Her teacher says, “Fifi, if you don’t do your work you’ll have to sit in the corner.” Fifi says, “Yeah, for how long?” She’s a prodigy. Thus, I was frigging overjoyed when Daria called me up to tell me Fifi had put down her crayons and uttered my name.

Daria: You should see this picture. It’s pink, pink, pink and pink. Pink dress, pink cake, no hair. Fifi says, “This is Auntie Ta at her wedding.”
Tata: I have never worn pink to a wedding.
Daria: You made us wear pink dresses to your first wedding.
Tata: …Proof that I spent 1987 and 1988 tragically underdrunk. That’s your fault, somehow. Had you tossed me in a bathtub and poured Blue Hawaiians down my gullet you might still be drycleaning recycled rice bag shifts with plunging necklines.
Daria: You’ll be pleased to know Fifi gave the original picture to her teacher as a gift because it’s so pretty.
Tata …But you’ll send this to my current husband if I don’t hand over a dozen stuffed artichokes by 5 p.m. tomorrow?
Daria: A pleasure doing business with you.