Ору с этого рассказа))) Автор работает в украинском...

Oru from this story)))
The author works in Ukrainian Cosmopolitan

.....
My friend’s grandmother is getting married. Her whole family is in aah.

Beauty in a month and a half 69. For the last 10 years she, according to the law of the post-Soviet existence, has been saving money for a funeral. I allocated a tiny closet in the house and put everything that was needed for my own air-clothes: money, fabric, dermatine shoes and cotton blouses in three colors (it’s not clear what color the coffin will be, the image should correspond). The family giggled and got a little angry: "Well, where do you, grandmother, die? Calm down and live for your own pleasure." The old woman agreed, but confidently continued to write herself off. “Don’t give anything for your birthday. I don’t need anything. I already had everything.”

And now - among the everyday problems of preserving strawberry jam and comparing coffin oak with coffin pine - grandfather fucked himself from neighboring cherries. Grandfather - Victor Pavlovich. He came to stay with his sister, a neighbor of our heroine, climbed to pick berries and, having stumbled, lay down on his grandmother’s site. Iodine, flirting in freshly planted carrots, similarities against the backdrop of widowhood, rapprochement on the basis of osteochondrosis - word for word and "Victor Pavlik" moves to Kiev to his grandmother. Together with it, the house is enriched with an additional cat, a strange dusty carburetor and a pair of jackets with holey lapels. Everyone is happy. Grandmother blossoms, weeds torn out, the family rejoices at the closure of the funerary theme, "Victor Pavlik" is close to his relatives. All chiki peaks.

And then the grandmother announces that she is getting married. "Everything mixed up in the house of Oblonsky." Everyone was silent. In addition to the son of a granny - the father of my friend:

- What the hell, ma ?! Marry ?! In your age?
- And what?
- You are 69! You wanted to end the other day!
- Change your mind.
- Okay ... But ... For Victor Pavlik ?! For him?
- He is Victor Pavlovich.
- And dad? Did you think about dad?
“He died a long time ago.”
- And respect ?! Respect, Mom! At least, out of respect for him ...
- To die too?

And now, in front of the cherished relatives, two pence, surprisingly straightened in the back, are preparing for the triumph. Booked a table for the cafe. They plan menus and music. They ask to make less fried, but cut the sausages with a slide. We agreed to bring chicken and pies ourselves. Grate hard, expensive to replace, dilute alcohol. How many guests? Twenty. Veil? That you, what, what a veil, at my age. Toastmaster? We take it. Cake? Two! Two cakes! Where did the money come from? So they saved up for the funeral!

The date is scheduled for September. Immediately after the potatoes.

A friend says that the ba just glows. For the first time there is so much thirst for life in her. So much pleasure from simple things: news about Putin, air, apricot and chicken droppings. She even began to joke. He says that if he doesn’t live to see the event, then you don’t need to bury her in a wedding dress: “I am ashamed in front of people, but the bride is no longer a virgin. Hee hee.” That is also hee hee.

- What should you give for your wedding, bah? - Asked her friend.
- Don’t give anything.
“Do you need anything already?”
“I already have everything.”

And smiles at her with golden teeth.
Bride.
(C) Evgenia Plikhina