A couple of weeks ago I heard a radio announcer talking about a recent poll taken regarding holiday shopping. The poll concluded that people were more likely to shop in stores that hung signs stating "Merry Christmas", as opposed to stores that wished their customers "Happy Holidays". The radio announcers then went on to discuss how this took (or not) into account consumers who were not Christian, and concluded with how Kim Kardashian might be pregnant with the holiday spirit, regardless of her recent marital troubles.
After hearing that incredibly enlightening diatribe on the radio, I started seeing a lot of posts on Facebook talking about the reason for the season, and how people should be ashamed of themselves for not wishing Merry Christmas to others. This got me thinking, and when I get to thinking, usually trouble, and sarcasm abound. I couldn't help but wonder what the hell difference it makes to anyone what seasonal greeting people use with one another; isn't one just as good as the next? Can't we all just get along with the idea that people are going out of their way to be considerate in offering any kind of greeting at all? I also can't help but point out that the reason for the season is a celebration of life, love, and hope (which I may be mistaken in confusing with the reason why Jesus' story is so compelling to begin with), with Christmas and Hanukkah and winter solstice celebrations all thrown into the mix. And, while I'm not anti-Christmas, or anti-Christian by any stretch of the imagination, isn't one of the tenets of Christianity that we shall not judge and everyone is included? These troublesome thoughts combined with seasonal malaise and a severe case of motivational deficit disorder put me in a real foul mood. Not the "I'm going to jump off the bridge in Bedford Falls until Clarence saves me' kind of mood, but there was no holly in my jolly.
In the midst of this emotional state, I started listening to the oldies station in the morning on my commute to work; truth told I was looking for a little auditory holiday cheer to get me into the spirit, and offer a little mental stability (I know, I know that's a tall order for a a twenty minute ride). Complete aside, there are some really, really sucky Christmas songs out there. The radio station is sponsoring a program where people in need can have their holiday wishes come true. These wishes don't include laptops or a gaming system. Their wishes include the most basic desires people might have for their family: a decent meal and maybe a gift or two for their children. Sadly, there are a lot of people out there who really are in need. Amazingly though, there are a large number of people out there who are willing to give over some of what they have in order to meet those needs; somehow the radio stations are willing to put these groups of people together and get it done. I must say that while my heart broke a little which each of these stories, it lifted my spirits considerably to get a glimpse of people taking care of one another.
Fast forward a couple of days, and I found myself at Kohls on the hunt for a red sweater for my toddler that didn't include teddy bears wearing ski caps and scarves. Not being able to find the sweater, I found myself in the incredibly small toy section of Kohls. In this section, I ran into a little old lady shuffling around, muttering to herself and fingering many of the toys. After a few moments, she asked me if kids still like Matchbox cars. I told her I thought they did and she confessed that she was there to buy some presents for Toys for Tots. She wasn't on the hunt for a perfect toy for her grandchildren, but rather to buy toys for kids she'd never even met. Emotional state: fair to middling.
Most recently, I've learned of a friend of a friend who is in the process of going through an international adoption. I find myself amazed by the courage and hope that it takes for someone to go through this process: lengthy and costly and no doubt heart-wrenching for all participants. In the end though, this unites people across oceans in order to create families and provide love and care where there was none before. Through tears and wishes of smooth sailing for this new family, my holiday spirit returned.
I know it's corny to point out that there are miracles happening daily, minute by minute all around us. I am grateful to be given the opportunity to the see the light in the dark, and in these instances, I feel proud to count myself among the humans. I didn't know I was looking for it, but finding evidence of hope and love just may cause me to wish you a Happy Samhain.
This weeks tip: With people coming over your house, you may feel the need to spruce up a little (Christmas tree pun intended). In order to remove scratches from your wood tables - mine are caused by small children who have taken a fancy to using forks as instruments on the dining table - you can use coffee. Yep, a little instant coffee dampened with hot water into a paste and rubbed on the surface until the scratch matches the surrounding surface will set you up quite nicely.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
I'm a stranger here myself...
Having grown up in an overpopulated city with lots of old buildings, I learned to do without a lot of life's niceties. The beauty of growing up without something is that you wind up not needing what you don't have. Take that even further and you even wind up not knowing what you don't have. If you followed that shallow and faulty logic, I will attempt to wow you with the things that as an adult living in suburgatory I have learned to live without most of my life. Things that I now live with daily, and in many instances I have come to whole-heartedly loathe, or at the very least, find extraneous.
The most loathsome household 'appliance', in my suburban life, is the garbage disposal. Supposedly the garbage disposal was invented to cut down on food waste and odiferous trash. It is, in short, a trash can right there in your kitchen sink. You read that right - a trash can in the sink. Initially, when I came upon such a modern convenience, I was enthusiastic to the point of getting carried away. My enthusiasm led me to learn many important lessons (the hard way, of course). Lessons include, but are not limited to: pork chop bones do not belong in a garbage disposal, pork chop bones and spoons will make the same teeth shattering noise in the disposal regardless of how many times you flip the convenient little switch to rattle those sonsabitches down into the nether land of your sink, and shrimp tails are not too easily disposed of and may or may not cause your disposal to quit functioning - many experiments have been done with this one and it comes out with 'not' clearly the forerunner. The most important lesson I have learned about the disposal is that if someone who lives in the apartment above you has a faulty disposal, his or her overflow will affect (negatively) your sink and dishwasher function. You are then required to bail out any excess water and other people's food flotsam, which can definitely cause temporary insanity and an insistence on using the term 'bucketing' in lieu of bailing. I have come to terms with having this 'modern convenience' in my home for many years now, but I still treat this filthy, temperamental appliance with the utmost care and consideration. And while I have learned to live alongside the disposal, mostly peaceably, I can't help but wonder: why wouldn't you just use the garbage can (or at the very least the toilet bowl)?
Talk of the disposal, for me, almost always leads to talk of the trash compactor. Again, a nifty little convenience, perhaps for those without legs. When first presented with the compactor, I was curious about how it worked. I was shown that you put the trash in and then change-o presto, the trash is smooshed (yes, I believe that it a word). Done and done, kinda like the Jetson's. Unbeknown to me, we had a trash compactor in our house in New York my whole life. It was called a leg - stick your foot (shoes recommended) into trash can and step - very effective method for smooshing trash. While I don't find the compactor to be as loathsome as the disposal, color me very unimpressed.
Another modern convenience in the suburban landscape is central air conditioning. I know, I know, this is not so modern and many people have enjoyed a freezer like home for eons. I am not one of them. As a child, my parents had air conditioning in one room - theirs. The rest of the rooms of our home were cooled by fans and open windows, and on especially hot, muggy nights, I got to sleep on the floor of the room with the air conditioning. I truly believe, that not only was this important for building character, but helped me avoid sinus issues for much of my life. Now, I'm not going to lie, I like a nice refreshing burst of recycled air as much as the next guy, but I have to ask: is there such a thing as too cold? I find that when I enter a room with air conditioning after having left a room without, I enjoy the coolness that much more, and appreciate the warm spots in a house after having gotten enough cold air for a little while. I guess I like a little control over my body temperature.
As I continue to grow into adulthood, I can only hope that there are technologies that continue to astound and amaze me; maybe I will find them more useful than the ones mentioned above, or maybe I will still walk around wondering what happened to the rotary phone.
This weeks tip:
When your garbage disposal gets too smelly - and trust me it will (especially if you've been experimenting) there are a number of things you can do to deodorize this garbage can in the sink. They actually sell tablets that you can throw in there, or you can throw any citrus peel in there and turn it on. It leaves a nice smell, and also helps dislodge any crud that may have gotten stuck on. I like to use lime, just because I like limes (especially those floating in vodka), but any citrus rind will do. You could also throw baking soda down the black hole with ice cubes. This will deodorize and help to keep the blades sharp (because goodness knows, you don't want dull blades when throwing trash into your sink)
The most loathsome household 'appliance', in my suburban life, is the garbage disposal. Supposedly the garbage disposal was invented to cut down on food waste and odiferous trash. It is, in short, a trash can right there in your kitchen sink. You read that right - a trash can in the sink. Initially, when I came upon such a modern convenience, I was enthusiastic to the point of getting carried away. My enthusiasm led me to learn many important lessons (the hard way, of course). Lessons include, but are not limited to: pork chop bones do not belong in a garbage disposal, pork chop bones and spoons will make the same teeth shattering noise in the disposal regardless of how many times you flip the convenient little switch to rattle those sonsabitches down into the nether land of your sink, and shrimp tails are not too easily disposed of and may or may not cause your disposal to quit functioning - many experiments have been done with this one and it comes out with 'not' clearly the forerunner. The most important lesson I have learned about the disposal is that if someone who lives in the apartment above you has a faulty disposal, his or her overflow will affect (negatively) your sink and dishwasher function. You are then required to bail out any excess water and other people's food flotsam, which can definitely cause temporary insanity and an insistence on using the term 'bucketing' in lieu of bailing. I have come to terms with having this 'modern convenience' in my home for many years now, but I still treat this filthy, temperamental appliance with the utmost care and consideration. And while I have learned to live alongside the disposal, mostly peaceably, I can't help but wonder: why wouldn't you just use the garbage can (or at the very least the toilet bowl)?
Talk of the disposal, for me, almost always leads to talk of the trash compactor. Again, a nifty little convenience, perhaps for those without legs. When first presented with the compactor, I was curious about how it worked. I was shown that you put the trash in and then change-o presto, the trash is smooshed (yes, I believe that it a word). Done and done, kinda like the Jetson's. Unbeknown to me, we had a trash compactor in our house in New York my whole life. It was called a leg - stick your foot (shoes recommended) into trash can and step - very effective method for smooshing trash. While I don't find the compactor to be as loathsome as the disposal, color me very unimpressed.
Another modern convenience in the suburban landscape is central air conditioning. I know, I know, this is not so modern and many people have enjoyed a freezer like home for eons. I am not one of them. As a child, my parents had air conditioning in one room - theirs. The rest of the rooms of our home were cooled by fans and open windows, and on especially hot, muggy nights, I got to sleep on the floor of the room with the air conditioning. I truly believe, that not only was this important for building character, but helped me avoid sinus issues for much of my life. Now, I'm not going to lie, I like a nice refreshing burst of recycled air as much as the next guy, but I have to ask: is there such a thing as too cold? I find that when I enter a room with air conditioning after having left a room without, I enjoy the coolness that much more, and appreciate the warm spots in a house after having gotten enough cold air for a little while. I guess I like a little control over my body temperature.
As I continue to grow into adulthood, I can only hope that there are technologies that continue to astound and amaze me; maybe I will find them more useful than the ones mentioned above, or maybe I will still walk around wondering what happened to the rotary phone.
This weeks tip:
When your garbage disposal gets too smelly - and trust me it will (especially if you've been experimenting) there are a number of things you can do to deodorize this garbage can in the sink. They actually sell tablets that you can throw in there, or you can throw any citrus peel in there and turn it on. It leaves a nice smell, and also helps dislodge any crud that may have gotten stuck on. I like to use lime, just because I like limes (especially those floating in vodka), but any citrus rind will do. You could also throw baking soda down the black hole with ice cubes. This will deodorize and help to keep the blades sharp (because goodness knows, you don't want dull blades when throwing trash into your sink)
Monday, July 25, 2011
Survival of the Fitless
A few weeks ago my kids had some friends over for a marathon play date. For the record, the very word playdate makes me cringe with its cutesy implications & smacks of everything that is wrong with the land of suburbia. I have never had a play date in my life, although I did go to other peoples houses and play without the need for official naming and so forth. Anyway, there were these kids at my house, playing all day and at one point they were riding scooters and bikes in front of the house. Like a dutiful mother, I sat on my paltry excuse for a stoop and watched them zip back and forth and bicker about who had a longer turn on the Razor and who didn't want to use the Jackknife scooter. Like a playdate, I never had a mother sit on the stoop just to watch over me as I played - if my mom was sitting out on the stoop at all it was to smoke cigarettes and b.s. with the neighbors after dinner. At one point the kids got bored and decided to take turns riding the baby around in his wagon, a big sturdy ride complete with seatbelts. The baby was enjoying himself quite a bit and the kids seemed to enjoy pulling him around and taking turns hopping in and out as his passengers.
After a while, thunder threatened our fun and then lightning reared its mysteriously beautiful and frightening head. I decided that since I was in charge of other peoples children, I best take them inside and away from all the metal, wheeled objects lying about. The girls and I started putting the bikes and scooters in the back yard while the boys were in charge of the wagon. I saw them out of the corner of my eye hop into it together and position themselves at the top of my pretty steep driveway. I also saw them wiggle the handle around and scoop it up towards them, knowing full well that they intended to sail joyously down the driveway and into the street. I muttered a half-hearted 'be careful boys' and continued with my task while silently praying they would pick up enough speed to get all the way across the street and experience a little terror and a lot of fun. Was this very mature of me? Certainly not, but I was a kid who set garbage cans up at the bottom of a hill and skated full speed into them, hoping that the bus wasn't coming; I know the joy of moving downhill on wheels. Just as they were about to set off, my neighbor across the street came over and admonished the boys for not playing safely, thereby forcing me to fake chastise them and usher them in doors. I was really rooting for them and was more bummed out about their thwarted plan than they appeared to be.
Just the other day, I read an article about the safety and lameness of all the new play structures found around the country. They're all really sturdy and made of insanely colorful plastic. They are also low to the ground and are all surrounded by wood chips, or rubber pads in case anyone falls. Nice to look at, but apparently not all that challenging, disallowing for kids to take risks and adequately cope with fear. The playgrounds I grew up with were made of metal - slides (you were really taking your life in hand when going down a metal slide in mid-summer heat), swings (without restraining harnesses), and monkey bars (alarmingly and thrillingly high). There were see saws made of splintery wood and very little, if any padding beneath anything. It seems to me that the playgrounds of yesteryear really were a test for survival. If you made it through a childhood of burned thighs, splinters, and falling from high places while playing tag, then you were meant to pass into adulthood as a fairly well adapted human being. If you didn't have the stamina for such things, you were weeded out at an early age, thereby saving everyone a lot of trouble down the line. Safe play and plastic play structures make me realize that Darwin just may have been onto something.
This weeks tip: Blood can be removed from clothing with the use of hydrogen peroxide and cold water. If you are inclined to do laundry after suffering an injury including bloodletting, wet stain(s) thoroughly with cold water and pour peroxide directly onto stain. The peroxide will do that weird bubbling thing that makes peroxide so much fun. You can rub it in and continue applying water and peroxide until the stain is lifted. Afterwards, place clothing in a load of wash using cold water, hot water will set stains.
After a while, thunder threatened our fun and then lightning reared its mysteriously beautiful and frightening head. I decided that since I was in charge of other peoples children, I best take them inside and away from all the metal, wheeled objects lying about. The girls and I started putting the bikes and scooters in the back yard while the boys were in charge of the wagon. I saw them out of the corner of my eye hop into it together and position themselves at the top of my pretty steep driveway. I also saw them wiggle the handle around and scoop it up towards them, knowing full well that they intended to sail joyously down the driveway and into the street. I muttered a half-hearted 'be careful boys' and continued with my task while silently praying they would pick up enough speed to get all the way across the street and experience a little terror and a lot of fun. Was this very mature of me? Certainly not, but I was a kid who set garbage cans up at the bottom of a hill and skated full speed into them, hoping that the bus wasn't coming; I know the joy of moving downhill on wheels. Just as they were about to set off, my neighbor across the street came over and admonished the boys for not playing safely, thereby forcing me to fake chastise them and usher them in doors. I was really rooting for them and was more bummed out about their thwarted plan than they appeared to be.
Just the other day, I read an article about the safety and lameness of all the new play structures found around the country. They're all really sturdy and made of insanely colorful plastic. They are also low to the ground and are all surrounded by wood chips, or rubber pads in case anyone falls. Nice to look at, but apparently not all that challenging, disallowing for kids to take risks and adequately cope with fear. The playgrounds I grew up with were made of metal - slides (you were really taking your life in hand when going down a metal slide in mid-summer heat), swings (without restraining harnesses), and monkey bars (alarmingly and thrillingly high). There were see saws made of splintery wood and very little, if any padding beneath anything. It seems to me that the playgrounds of yesteryear really were a test for survival. If you made it through a childhood of burned thighs, splinters, and falling from high places while playing tag, then you were meant to pass into adulthood as a fairly well adapted human being. If you didn't have the stamina for such things, you were weeded out at an early age, thereby saving everyone a lot of trouble down the line. Safe play and plastic play structures make me realize that Darwin just may have been onto something.
This weeks tip: Blood can be removed from clothing with the use of hydrogen peroxide and cold water. If you are inclined to do laundry after suffering an injury including bloodletting, wet stain(s) thoroughly with cold water and pour peroxide directly onto stain. The peroxide will do that weird bubbling thing that makes peroxide so much fun. You can rub it in and continue applying water and peroxide until the stain is lifted. Afterwards, place clothing in a load of wash using cold water, hot water will set stains.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
You shoot, you score???
When I was in the second or third grade, I decided I wanted to play basketball. I'm pretty sure one of my friends was going to play and like any good little follower, I was going to play too. Like most of the other girls on my team, I had never played before but this didn't stop me from joining the team at St. Matthias. Our first practice was held in the ridiculously small gymnasium that was also being used by a team of teenage girls. They had half the court and we had the other and our coaches showed us how to make shots by swooping the ball between our legs and where to stand around the key. At our first game my team only stayed on half the court. Good thing it was the side of the court we had practiced on, or we would've been completely screwed. We didn't know that we were supposed to use the whole court and subsequently we lost. We were trampled. All it took was that one embarrassing game for us to figure out a pretty frigging important aspect of the game. After each game, my father would take me home and make me watch St. John's college basketball to show me how it was supposed to be done. That season, all of us little girls learned how to play the game, and probably most importantly, how to lose. I can assure you, we survived the losing.
Last summer I signed my then three year old daughter up for soccer. She wanted to play the game her older brother had been playing and I thought it would be a fun activity for her. And it was, for approximately half an hour. The remainder of the time was spent crying that she didn't want to run, she wanted to be on her brother's team and that it was too hot. After about two weeks of cajoling and arguing with her, I stopped taking her. I was not going to spend my time dragging her around a soccer field only to torture the both of us (and it was really hot). I also vowed that she would wear the team shirt until she died because it amounted to a hundred dollar tee shirt after I paid the fees for her to be on the team in the first place. At the end of the season she received a trophy and a certificate. The girl who played what amounted to one game, got a trophy. Apparently it's the leagues policy for every kid to receive a trophy regardless of their participation level or proficiency.
This summer, my son is playing baseball. Machine pitch baseball. A few summers ago he played tee ball but was bored to tears. He's seven and a half (about the same age I was when I started playing basketball, mind you) and watching his baseball game is not unlike watching paint dry if you're on a bad acid trip. Each 'inning' is comprised of every kid on each team getting up to bat. No one strikes out, no one gets tagged out at base and the inning is over only when each kid has gotten up to bat. Matter of fact, there are no outs at all. There were a lot of runs scored, as each inning had about fifteen kids batting, but I couldn't tell you who won because no one was keeping score. I'm all for slowing down a game for the kids to learn, but shouldn't they learn some of the pretty major parts of the game in the process? I feel certain that we'll be getting another trophy at the end of this snooze fest of a season.
The troubling thing for me regarding the lack of score keeping, and the trophies given out just for showing up (or not) is that all these kids are learning that there is no competition, there is no winning or losing. There is just mass movement towards mediocrity that only requires showing your face at a certain place, at a certain time. I wonder where is the fine tuning of skills, the pride taken in learning how to do something better than others your age, the realization that you really suck at something, and its time to move on? If we're not careful here, these kids are going to get used to being awarded for producing the least amount possible and getting patted on the back for it with enthusiasm - oh never mind, that's perfect for the adult working world.
This weeks tip: If you have little kids playing sports outdoors, you're going to wind up with some dirty, smelly clothes. You can use white vinegar to deodorize and help remove stains from their sweaty, grimy gear. You can remove perspiration stains from clothes by hand washing the item one cup of vinegar and one quart of water. You can also remove stains from clothes by rubbing the stains with white vinegar and then washing as you regularly would (you can do this with upholstery also).
Last summer I signed my then three year old daughter up for soccer. She wanted to play the game her older brother had been playing and I thought it would be a fun activity for her. And it was, for approximately half an hour. The remainder of the time was spent crying that she didn't want to run, she wanted to be on her brother's team and that it was too hot. After about two weeks of cajoling and arguing with her, I stopped taking her. I was not going to spend my time dragging her around a soccer field only to torture the both of us (and it was really hot). I also vowed that she would wear the team shirt until she died because it amounted to a hundred dollar tee shirt after I paid the fees for her to be on the team in the first place. At the end of the season she received a trophy and a certificate. The girl who played what amounted to one game, got a trophy. Apparently it's the leagues policy for every kid to receive a trophy regardless of their participation level or proficiency.
This summer, my son is playing baseball. Machine pitch baseball. A few summers ago he played tee ball but was bored to tears. He's seven and a half (about the same age I was when I started playing basketball, mind you) and watching his baseball game is not unlike watching paint dry if you're on a bad acid trip. Each 'inning' is comprised of every kid on each team getting up to bat. No one strikes out, no one gets tagged out at base and the inning is over only when each kid has gotten up to bat. Matter of fact, there are no outs at all. There were a lot of runs scored, as each inning had about fifteen kids batting, but I couldn't tell you who won because no one was keeping score. I'm all for slowing down a game for the kids to learn, but shouldn't they learn some of the pretty major parts of the game in the process? I feel certain that we'll be getting another trophy at the end of this snooze fest of a season.
The troubling thing for me regarding the lack of score keeping, and the trophies given out just for showing up (or not) is that all these kids are learning that there is no competition, there is no winning or losing. There is just mass movement towards mediocrity that only requires showing your face at a certain place, at a certain time. I wonder where is the fine tuning of skills, the pride taken in learning how to do something better than others your age, the realization that you really suck at something, and its time to move on? If we're not careful here, these kids are going to get used to being awarded for producing the least amount possible and getting patted on the back for it with enthusiasm - oh never mind, that's perfect for the adult working world.
This weeks tip: If you have little kids playing sports outdoors, you're going to wind up with some dirty, smelly clothes. You can use white vinegar to deodorize and help remove stains from their sweaty, grimy gear. You can remove perspiration stains from clothes by hand washing the item one cup of vinegar and one quart of water. You can also remove stains from clothes by rubbing the stains with white vinegar and then washing as you regularly would (you can do this with upholstery also).
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Any day now...
A little over a month ago I was considering my options for health insurance for my family. I won't bore you with all the dreadful details, but everyone knows insurance is expensive and I wanted to see if I could get a better deal with an individual plan for my family than I get through the group plan from my job. I called a broker, got facts, got prices, called human resources got more facts, more prices, etc It was overwhelming to say the least. In the midst of looking at all of this information and feeling too paralyzed to make a decision before the enrollment period at my job ended, I had a wonderful, unburdening thought. I will ask Dad. Dad knows about all this stuff and while he won't tell me what to do, he'll lay it out in a way that will make the decision easier for me. A few minutes after comforting myself with this thought came the crashing, heart wrenching realization that I couldn't ask Dad. He died almost nine years ago. Then, I had myself a good cry. I don't know why the realization hit me so hard at that moment, and when I asked my mother later when this sort of heartbreak would stop, she simply replied that it wouldn't and that she was sorry.
This week was the ninth anniversary of my dad's passing. It is, as it has become, a sad and contemplative week for me. I had some Budweiser and listened to The Doors and Otis Redding (favorites of my dad) and thought about writing something worthwhile about my father. I thought long and hard but everything I came up with seemed trite and did nothing to say anything real about my father. I made a list of some of the sayings he used : she looks like 10lbs of shit in a 5lb bag, it's colder than a well diggers asshole out there, they can burn you but they cannot eat you, etc. Thinking of my dad's witty one liners did a lot to improve my mood, but did so very little to accomplish actually saying anything about him (the fact that he was funny was sort of implied). This went on for most of the week until I decided to scrap the compulsion to write anything about him at all.
Then, a miraculous thing happened. I spoke to my brother. My baby brother, who is currently in the midst of putting together a benefit for a friend of his who has recently and suddenly gone blind due to diabetes. On Facebook my cousin Tara made this comment about my brother in regards to the benefit: "Funny on the outside, but completely filled with a huge heart on the inside. Sounds comfortably familiar to me. I know he's smiling down on you ;). " And there, my dear cousin hit the nail on the head. She managed in a brief comment to say about my father what had been alluding me all week.
My dad was funny and brusque on the outside. Downright intimidating sometimes. He had a way with language that sometimes had you wondering whether you should be laughing or heading for the door. There was no one he didn't make fun of, no one was safe and he certainly wouldn't have been considered politically correct (not that he cared to be either). Ballbusting was a specialty of his, nay an artform. Thing is, while he made fun of you, he made fun of himself too so that you never walked away feeling bad about yourself; you walked away laughing and feeling good about the world. He was terrible with names and called everyone, friends and strangers alike, some endearment or another. Chief, big guy, sweetheart, doll. He did it in such a way as to never make these endearments seem cheesy or diminutive, rather they seemed genuine and they were.
He had a HUGE heart. He did things for people that we didn't even know about until after he died. Loaning people money, time, his home, his clothes, his love. One of my cousins told us that my father gave him his first baseball glove after realizing that my cousin's father never did. It meant a lot to my cousin and a lot to those of us who never knew. He went out on a limb to get people whatever they needed, even if they hadn't yet realized they needed anything.
I am saddened, all the time, that my own children will never get to know my father. He would've eaten them up, of that I am sure. I like to think that he might have had a hand in choosing the precious souls that have been placed in my care. Every once in a while I see something, a rascally look, a chuckle, or a quiet act of kindness in one of my kids, and I know my father is around, always.
I'm not sure I accomplished what it was I set out to do when I set out to write about my father. I know that I'm a hell of a lot closer than I was at the start of the week. I know that I could think for years and write for decades and never get down in words what it meant to have such a man in my life to shape the person that I am, the person I watch my brother being. Any day now I will stop feeling weepy when I think of the loss of my father. Any day now it will be only laughter (which it often is) when I think about him.
This weeks tip: Chris Rock once said that real dad's deserve the big piece of chicken (paraphrasing here) - if you need to sew two chicken wings to a pork chop to get that big piece of chicken for the man you will celebrate this father's day, then goddammit go out and do it (or you know, buy him a tie). Either way: Celebrate we will, for life is short but sweet for certain (D. Matthews)
This week was the ninth anniversary of my dad's passing. It is, as it has become, a sad and contemplative week for me. I had some Budweiser and listened to The Doors and Otis Redding (favorites of my dad) and thought about writing something worthwhile about my father. I thought long and hard but everything I came up with seemed trite and did nothing to say anything real about my father. I made a list of some of the sayings he used : she looks like 10lbs of shit in a 5lb bag, it's colder than a well diggers asshole out there, they can burn you but they cannot eat you, etc. Thinking of my dad's witty one liners did a lot to improve my mood, but did so very little to accomplish actually saying anything about him (the fact that he was funny was sort of implied). This went on for most of the week until I decided to scrap the compulsion to write anything about him at all.
Then, a miraculous thing happened. I spoke to my brother. My baby brother, who is currently in the midst of putting together a benefit for a friend of his who has recently and suddenly gone blind due to diabetes. On Facebook my cousin Tara made this comment about my brother in regards to the benefit: "Funny on the outside, but completely filled with a huge heart on the inside. Sounds comfortably familiar to me. I know he's smiling down on you ;). " And there, my dear cousin hit the nail on the head. She managed in a brief comment to say about my father what had been alluding me all week.
My dad was funny and brusque on the outside. Downright intimidating sometimes. He had a way with language that sometimes had you wondering whether you should be laughing or heading for the door. There was no one he didn't make fun of, no one was safe and he certainly wouldn't have been considered politically correct (not that he cared to be either). Ballbusting was a specialty of his, nay an artform. Thing is, while he made fun of you, he made fun of himself too so that you never walked away feeling bad about yourself; you walked away laughing and feeling good about the world. He was terrible with names and called everyone, friends and strangers alike, some endearment or another. Chief, big guy, sweetheart, doll. He did it in such a way as to never make these endearments seem cheesy or diminutive, rather they seemed genuine and they were.
He had a HUGE heart. He did things for people that we didn't even know about until after he died. Loaning people money, time, his home, his clothes, his love. One of my cousins told us that my father gave him his first baseball glove after realizing that my cousin's father never did. It meant a lot to my cousin and a lot to those of us who never knew. He went out on a limb to get people whatever they needed, even if they hadn't yet realized they needed anything.
I am saddened, all the time, that my own children will never get to know my father. He would've eaten them up, of that I am sure. I like to think that he might have had a hand in choosing the precious souls that have been placed in my care. Every once in a while I see something, a rascally look, a chuckle, or a quiet act of kindness in one of my kids, and I know my father is around, always.
I'm not sure I accomplished what it was I set out to do when I set out to write about my father. I know that I'm a hell of a lot closer than I was at the start of the week. I know that I could think for years and write for decades and never get down in words what it meant to have such a man in my life to shape the person that I am, the person I watch my brother being. Any day now I will stop feeling weepy when I think of the loss of my father. Any day now it will be only laughter (which it often is) when I think about him.
This weeks tip: Chris Rock once said that real dad's deserve the big piece of chicken (paraphrasing here) - if you need to sew two chicken wings to a pork chop to get that big piece of chicken for the man you will celebrate this father's day, then goddammit go out and do it (or you know, buy him a tie). Either way: Celebrate we will, for life is short but sweet for certain (D. Matthews)
Saturday, June 11, 2011
A Tale of Two Donnies
My brother had two friends named Chris: good Chris and bad Chris. Good Chris was a regular kid, played sports, spoke normally, ate large amounts of pizza and played video games with my brother. Bad Chris wore lederhosen. You read that right, he was a thirteen year old kid, living in Queens in the twentieth century, and he wore lederhosen. Frequently. He also mumbled a lot, looked moist, had a vacant stare, and seemed to stumble around the streets while playing roller hockey with the other kids. He was a nice enough kid, if you could get him to speak coherently, but he was a grade A goof, ergo Bad Chris. Fortunately, for me, my brother spent a lot more time with Good Chris as he got older because he was allowed out after dark and didn't bring headgear to sleepovers.
Since my experience with bad Chris, it seems that I have a preternatural sense for goofballs and losers; people I refer to as strays. I lose patience easily with these societal castoffs and tend to steer clear. This is not true of the rest of my family who is decidedly nicer and more patient than I. Members of my family have been known to drag around with whomever they find out in the streets, inviting them to dinner, holiday celebrations and to live in the basement in some cases. I remember visiting my parents for the first time after their move to Colorado, when a guy I'd never seen before ambled down the stairs (from the bedrooms above) to fix himself a garden burger. No one seemed to notice this guy but myself and I watched incredulously as he sat down at the dining room table to eat his meal. I had to finally ask who the hell he was. While my immediate family is ridiculous in their stray pickup, no one can beat my husband for his uncanny ability to attract and become entangled with the sorriest of human creatures.
Years ago my husband worked for UPS in the middle of the night. He drove every night to and fro by himself and put up a notice on the work bulletin board to see if there was anyone interested in carpooling. This innocuous notice brought a couple into our lives who I came to refer to as the Chubbs. I don't know what their actual names were, but they were a young couple who approached my husband about the carpool. They asked if he would mind driving every other week, with him beginning the rotation. The first week of his driving went without a hitch, they lived close by and he didn't mind the company. When their turn came around, it was revealed that they didn't have a car. THEY DIDN'T HAVE A CAR. What they really wanted was someone to drive them to work and later someone to drive them to work after waking them up by flashing his headlights at their window. Sometimes he had to bang on the window because they were in too much of a stupor after partying all day long to get up with just a flash and a horn toot. Most people, and by most people I mean me, would've washed their hands of these meth addicted messes as soon as their end of driving fell through. Not only did he continue to drive them, but he had them to our house for Christmas Eve one time. They brought us a really nice bottle of scotch as a gift, which the male Chubb proceeded to drink until it was empty. The female Chubb also got extremely intoxicated and they had some sort of disagreement during which the female fled and the male had to be carried home. My husband stuck by them until he no longer worked for UPS and checked in on them every once in a while afterwards. We haven't seen them in years, but if you ask my husband, he will refer to them as his friends.
While the Chubbs are part of our history, my husband has more recently acquired a man we call Ron-Don. On either side of our house, their are men named Donnie. There is a good Donnie who lives with his girlfriend, tells funny stories and is nice to my kids when they're out playing in the yard. Bad Donnie reminds my husband of Sally Struthers, if Sally Struthers were strung out on heroin and aimlessly roamed the streets talking to herself. I think he looks more like an old, white version of the disadvantaged children Ms. Struthers works to raise money for. My husband mistakenly called this Donnie Ron once, a mistake for which he has been verbally abused going on three years now. Ron-Don is a drunken, mumbly mess who likes to stop by, holler at my husband and borrow money. My husband has driven this man to the store, to see his father in the hospital, loaned him money and invited him in for vodka and Pepsi cocktails (this combination alone offends me on many levels). On one such visit, Ron-Don insulted our paint choices and commented that our fishbowl was dirty. This from a man who wears his hair in bobby pins. Ron-Don had moved away for a about a year, but has recently returned to his family home (he is in his fifties). I think I saw him and my husband out for a joy ride last night.
This weeks tip: Changing your phone number is free if you tell the phone company that you are receiving a lot of solicitor calls or calls from creditors that are not yours.
Since my experience with bad Chris, it seems that I have a preternatural sense for goofballs and losers; people I refer to as strays. I lose patience easily with these societal castoffs and tend to steer clear. This is not true of the rest of my family who is decidedly nicer and more patient than I. Members of my family have been known to drag around with whomever they find out in the streets, inviting them to dinner, holiday celebrations and to live in the basement in some cases. I remember visiting my parents for the first time after their move to Colorado, when a guy I'd never seen before ambled down the stairs (from the bedrooms above) to fix himself a garden burger. No one seemed to notice this guy but myself and I watched incredulously as he sat down at the dining room table to eat his meal. I had to finally ask who the hell he was. While my immediate family is ridiculous in their stray pickup, no one can beat my husband for his uncanny ability to attract and become entangled with the sorriest of human creatures.
Years ago my husband worked for UPS in the middle of the night. He drove every night to and fro by himself and put up a notice on the work bulletin board to see if there was anyone interested in carpooling. This innocuous notice brought a couple into our lives who I came to refer to as the Chubbs. I don't know what their actual names were, but they were a young couple who approached my husband about the carpool. They asked if he would mind driving every other week, with him beginning the rotation. The first week of his driving went without a hitch, they lived close by and he didn't mind the company. When their turn came around, it was revealed that they didn't have a car. THEY DIDN'T HAVE A CAR. What they really wanted was someone to drive them to work and later someone to drive them to work after waking them up by flashing his headlights at their window. Sometimes he had to bang on the window because they were in too much of a stupor after partying all day long to get up with just a flash and a horn toot. Most people, and by most people I mean me, would've washed their hands of these meth addicted messes as soon as their end of driving fell through. Not only did he continue to drive them, but he had them to our house for Christmas Eve one time. They brought us a really nice bottle of scotch as a gift, which the male Chubb proceeded to drink until it was empty. The female Chubb also got extremely intoxicated and they had some sort of disagreement during which the female fled and the male had to be carried home. My husband stuck by them until he no longer worked for UPS and checked in on them every once in a while afterwards. We haven't seen them in years, but if you ask my husband, he will refer to them as his friends.
While the Chubbs are part of our history, my husband has more recently acquired a man we call Ron-Don. On either side of our house, their are men named Donnie. There is a good Donnie who lives with his girlfriend, tells funny stories and is nice to my kids when they're out playing in the yard. Bad Donnie reminds my husband of Sally Struthers, if Sally Struthers were strung out on heroin and aimlessly roamed the streets talking to herself. I think he looks more like an old, white version of the disadvantaged children Ms. Struthers works to raise money for. My husband mistakenly called this Donnie Ron once, a mistake for which he has been verbally abused going on three years now. Ron-Don is a drunken, mumbly mess who likes to stop by, holler at my husband and borrow money. My husband has driven this man to the store, to see his father in the hospital, loaned him money and invited him in for vodka and Pepsi cocktails (this combination alone offends me on many levels). On one such visit, Ron-Don insulted our paint choices and commented that our fishbowl was dirty. This from a man who wears his hair in bobby pins. Ron-Don had moved away for a about a year, but has recently returned to his family home (he is in his fifties). I think I saw him and my husband out for a joy ride last night.
This weeks tip: Changing your phone number is free if you tell the phone company that you are receiving a lot of solicitor calls or calls from creditors that are not yours.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Mama said ...
There's a schmaltzy little essay entitled 'All I Really need to know I Learned in Kindergarten' that's been around for a dogs day written by a man who calls himself Robert Fulghum. You have probably read it (most likely on a poster in a school building or pediatrician's office), or at least heard some variation of it at some point in your life. It's a feel good little piece of sentiment, speaking about how to treat others and the world around you. I like it fine and find it pure genius if I'm in an 'I love being a teacher' kind of mood. On the other three hundred and sixty days of the year, I am a realist and understand fully that everything I need to know, I learned at my mother's kitchen table. Below is a condensed list of the wisdom passed along to me by my mother:
Optics: My mother taught me that if you stare at a light long enough and someone accidentally hits you in the back of the head, you will forever see everything with a twinkly glow. I know this was meant as a warning, and a veiled threat (because she was the only one who might 'accidentally' hit me in the head while in the kitchen), but I took it as a challenge. Who doesn't want to see everything with a twinkly glow - isn't that why there are drug addicts?
My mother also taught me that the rolling of eyes, or giving of the finger, or making mocking faces can be seen through walls and even in the dark. Oh, and you can most definitely have eyes in the back of your head.
Global warming: My mother taught me that if she was cold, I better put a sweater on. While it defies all laws of logic, it's true. If your mother says its cold, you better get your ass in a sweater or a long pair of pants post haste, or she will only get colder.
World Economics: My mother taught me that there are children starving in both Africa and Asia. Not only are they extremely underfed, but they enjoy half eaten meat loaf and ketchup soaked veal cutlets. In their honor, I learned to eat what was put in front of me or risk getting accidentally smacked in the head.
Gravity: My mother taught me that if you put your finger in your belly button and twist it around, your ass will fall off. I have always liked having an ass and while I have been tempted on more than one occasion, I have not put this to the test.
Laws of motion: My mother taught me that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. For example, if you are riding a bicycle (which is surely an example of motion) and are returning home late, you will fall off the bicycle when your mother scares the crap out of you by sitting on the front stoop with a vicious look waiting for you -motion ends as you try to decide whether or not to keep pedaling toward angry mother or to give it all up for a life on the streets. Stop motion, fall down; simple cause and effect. It is here I learned too, that stupidity is a punishable offense.
Audiology: My mother taught me that hearing, at times, can be supersonic. These times include, but are not limited to: cursing under my breath, screaming at my brother (while she was at work in Manhattan and we were in Queens), sighing inaudibly, and when I heard her calling me while underwater.
Environmentalism: My mother taught me that cleaning up after your self is of utmost importance - she had her own ideas about carbon footprints. People who, for example, leave their shoes and jackets lying around, will find themselves shoeless and jacketless. Furthermore, waste was not acceptable. Doors should be closed, lights turned off and plates cleaned. It is important to note here that my mother was married to none of the following: Con Edison, Brooklyn Union Gas, or a man owning a frigging restaurant.
Dental Hygiene: My mother taught me that mouths are for eating, kissing and conversing (which may or may not include yelling). Mouths are not for uttering curse words to anyone. People misusing their mouth will learn to clean it the hard way by being force fed Ivory soap. Soap rubbed onto the bottom of your top front teeth will leave a lasting impression and implore one to consider proper mouth etiquette in the future.
My mother also taught me that if you steal a Hershey Bar on the way to your first dental appointment from the A&P, you will be forced to return the melty candy bar to said A&P under extreme duress and apologize to the cashier, manager and deli clerk.
Advocacy: While all the above lessons are of extreme import, there is one lesson that stands above the rest: Don't take shit from anyone as there is NO ONE better than you and NEVER let anyone, anywhere tell you what you can and cannot accomplish (because if you do, shame on you!).
This weeks tip: Happy Mother's Day - no matter what kind of mother you have - celebrate that crazy bitch (maybe that's just my kind)!! Oh, and if my post didn't provide enough laughs, read Tina Fey's prayer for her child (she gets paid to be funny after all):
http://melodygodfred.com/2011/04/15/a-mothers-prayer-for-its-child-by-tina-fey/
Optics: My mother taught me that if you stare at a light long enough and someone accidentally hits you in the back of the head, you will forever see everything with a twinkly glow. I know this was meant as a warning, and a veiled threat (because she was the only one who might 'accidentally' hit me in the head while in the kitchen), but I took it as a challenge. Who doesn't want to see everything with a twinkly glow - isn't that why there are drug addicts?
My mother also taught me that the rolling of eyes, or giving of the finger, or making mocking faces can be seen through walls and even in the dark. Oh, and you can most definitely have eyes in the back of your head.
Global warming: My mother taught me that if she was cold, I better put a sweater on. While it defies all laws of logic, it's true. If your mother says its cold, you better get your ass in a sweater or a long pair of pants post haste, or she will only get colder.
World Economics: My mother taught me that there are children starving in both Africa and Asia. Not only are they extremely underfed, but they enjoy half eaten meat loaf and ketchup soaked veal cutlets. In their honor, I learned to eat what was put in front of me or risk getting accidentally smacked in the head.
Gravity: My mother taught me that if you put your finger in your belly button and twist it around, your ass will fall off. I have always liked having an ass and while I have been tempted on more than one occasion, I have not put this to the test.
Laws of motion: My mother taught me that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. For example, if you are riding a bicycle (which is surely an example of motion) and are returning home late, you will fall off the bicycle when your mother scares the crap out of you by sitting on the front stoop with a vicious look waiting for you -motion ends as you try to decide whether or not to keep pedaling toward angry mother or to give it all up for a life on the streets. Stop motion, fall down; simple cause and effect. It is here I learned too, that stupidity is a punishable offense.
Audiology: My mother taught me that hearing, at times, can be supersonic. These times include, but are not limited to: cursing under my breath, screaming at my brother (while she was at work in Manhattan and we were in Queens), sighing inaudibly, and when I heard her calling me while underwater.
Environmentalism: My mother taught me that cleaning up after your self is of utmost importance - she had her own ideas about carbon footprints. People who, for example, leave their shoes and jackets lying around, will find themselves shoeless and jacketless. Furthermore, waste was not acceptable. Doors should be closed, lights turned off and plates cleaned. It is important to note here that my mother was married to none of the following: Con Edison, Brooklyn Union Gas, or a man owning a frigging restaurant.
Dental Hygiene: My mother taught me that mouths are for eating, kissing and conversing (which may or may not include yelling). Mouths are not for uttering curse words to anyone. People misusing their mouth will learn to clean it the hard way by being force fed Ivory soap. Soap rubbed onto the bottom of your top front teeth will leave a lasting impression and implore one to consider proper mouth etiquette in the future.
My mother also taught me that if you steal a Hershey Bar on the way to your first dental appointment from the A&P, you will be forced to return the melty candy bar to said A&P under extreme duress and apologize to the cashier, manager and deli clerk.
Advocacy: While all the above lessons are of extreme import, there is one lesson that stands above the rest: Don't take shit from anyone as there is NO ONE better than you and NEVER let anyone, anywhere tell you what you can and cannot accomplish (because if you do, shame on you!).
This weeks tip: Happy Mother's Day - no matter what kind of mother you have - celebrate that crazy bitch (maybe that's just my kind)!! Oh, and if my post didn't provide enough laughs, read Tina Fey's prayer for her child (she gets paid to be funny after all):
http://melodygodfred.com/2011/04/15/a-mothers-prayer-for-its-child-by-tina-fey/
Monday, April 18, 2011
Calling all guestbloggers....
So an old friend was kind enough to volunteer writing on my blog. I am so grateful for her willingness to be associated with me & honored that she chose to do so. Coincidentally, I have recently watched 'Waiting for Superman' and have been writing & re-writing a post about my feelings towards it & the profession that I have been in my entire adult life. Alice's post is so very timely for me & has made me realize the HUGE impact educators have on us all. Thank you, so very much, Alice!!!
This one is for Kell, first let me say, thank you for allowing me to visit Zazoosworld. I love to travel and this is as good a place as any to go, even better than others some might say. I’ve been thinking what could I say that would fit into such a fine place, then it came to me. How you ask? This is the one thing that Kelly commented on while visiting http://www. alicebentonsblog.blogspot.com – a teacher, albeit, a different one.
Favorite Teachers
Most people have a favorite teacher and honestly I could name many that have served me well. I have been blessed enough to have had good teachers from grade school all the way through college.
When I really sit down and think about which teacher in high school not only expanded my knowledge, but also widened my perception, it would have to be Mr. Chimenti.
Mr. Chimenti was my music teacher in high school. His love of song was contagious. Yes, of course he mentioned lots of groups that the typical teenager didn’t want to hear about, but his passion for it made you pay attention.
The class was introduced to all forms of music ranging from Opera to Beatles. Mr. Chimenti made me want to sing and learn more. His multi-faceted lessons fostered an open mindedness towards classic music and a love of the opera. His class enhanced my current life by adding culture to it.
Real teachers make you feel confident while relating to their subject matter. They also add substance and greatness to your life. Kudos to Mr. Chimenti, as well as all of the other great teachers!
Saturday, April 16, 2011
You ain't nothing but a hounddog...
While many of you are aware of my mother's hatred of cats, and our inability to ever have one (I'll not go into my babysitting of a brand new baby cat for one long weekend because to the best of my knowledge she managed just fine when returned to her owner), you may not be aware of the plethora of pets we had throughout my child and young adulthood. We were the proud owners of a number of dogs, reptiles, amphibians and even a rodent or two.
My parents marriage began accompanied by dog by the name of Sniffles; a big German Sheppard type animal who lived in my parents three room apartment with them before I was born. While I never knew Sniffles, I heard tales of his shenanigans when I was small. He ate frozen pork chops, roast beefs and had an affinity for jumping out of their second story windows after a duck who lived in a neighboring yard; remarkably, I've known of a number of people in New York City who kept ducks in their backyards. What became of Sniffles is quite unknown to me, but it occurs to me that his absence in my childhood could be seen as a harbinger of doomed pets to come. As a small child, I was kept from my rendevous with furred animals due to allergies including but not limited to milk and animals. I suppose this I why I never had a pet cow.
Around the age of four or five, I was allowed to have a beta fish (also known as a Japanese fighting fish) and I named him Harry. He sure was swell. He did what most fish are known to do, swim endlessly, but he'd mix it up every now and again by puffing out his fins when shown a mirror. Warrior fish. Harry's only trial on this green Earth was the bearing up of my uncles' inability to walk past his fishbowl without throwing in some beer or salted nuts. Harry handled this harassment with grace and good will, although I suspect that this treatment led to his desire to jump out of the bowl every few months. Not even a dime store fish would like to be seen as a side show. On one such occasion, Harry spent a number of hours behind the breakfront in the dining room coated in dust (the best of housekeepers my mother was not). Assumed dead, he was placed in the toilet for his watery interment. Right before being flushed, he came back to life and swam his little heart out right there in the can. Harry held on as a member of my family for much longer than I think most pets who only cost a dollar would, and I still think of him fondly. He was the only pet I had until my dear brother decided we needed a hamster.
Hamsters are fun, especially ones named Popcorn - which incidentally makes a great porn name for my brother. You know the one where you take your first pet's name and the street you lived on? My brother is Popcorn 69 when you play this game and this tickles me to no end. Popcorn seemed to be a happy little creature running crazily on a wheel that went nowhere. The wheel was composed of cheap metal and squeaked like mad. While this was no deterrent to Popcorn, the noise drove my mother crazy. She decided to remedy the situation by oiling the wheel. Since she didn't have any WD-40, she figured vegetable oil would work just as well. And, it did. What it also did was make Popcorn's fur quite greasy, which then disturbed my mother because with his slick hair, the hamster reminded my mother of a rat (and maybe one or two Italian guys she knew). It was this realization that led her to bathe the hamster, something which I feel certain no hamster had willingly undergone before or since. After his bath, the hamster seemed cold, so my mother decided to blow dry his fur. The poor guy was never the same again. He died in the dead of winter, frozen solid in his little metal home. After an attempt at burial in the schoolyard down the street (frozen dirt), we threw him in a shoebox and promptly into the trash.
After Popcorn, we were determined to make a real go of this pet thing. There were a string of pets in and out of our house. The dog named Liquor who incessantly jumped on my brother and scared the crap out of him. I believe, wholeheartedly, that he went to live with some real nice people who had a farm. There was the turtle named Askhim who was put into hibernation and forgotten in the garage. The miniature frog who committed suicide by starvation, the vegetarian lizard named Frank, and another turtle named Hank who was accidentally microwaved. None in this long line of disasters made us think that we were not pet owners at heart.
When I was a junior or senior in highschool, my parents brought home a sad little dog named Tequila. She was the runt of a litter and born with a backwards paw and no pads on the bottom of her wayward foot. It is with Tequila that my family showed its true colors in terms of pet ownership. We treated this dog like the baby of the family. She had surgery to repair her bad leg and was shuttled, weekly, back and forth to a specialist for her ailing leg. Frankly, my mother treated this dog better than my brother or me. She carried, rocked, and hand-fed the poor creature. Maybe it was empty nest syndrome, or maybe it was to make up for all past pet misdeeds that occurred in our house. Whatever the reason, poor Tequila was only to last two years (longest up until that point) in our house. She died in my mothers arms one summery day of kidney failure.
No quitters, our family continues to welcome pets into our homes - with a modicum of success. Shabba, our dearest golden retriever remained with us until she was over a decade old. Currently my mother has a 'dog' named Luna. Luna's doghood remains questionable as she appears to be a cross between a cat and a fox, but she and my mother are great friends. My husband and I have been successful owners of two dogs now well into adulthood (no need to go into our own small rodent years). Whatever the outcome I feel certain we will take the leap again and again into pet ownership.
This weeks tip: You can remove pet stains from your carpeting with products you already have at home. You'll need warm water, liquid detergent, a white towel (cloth diapers work well too) and vinegar. Initially you will want to remove whatever mess your dog/cat has left behind and rub the area with a white towel that has detergent on it. Rub it enough to remove stain and blot the area. Mix 1/3 cup of vinegar with a 2/3 cups of warm water and drizzle onto stained area. Place another clean towel on top of stain and walk over the area to soak up excess moisture. Place a heavy object on top of the towels and let sit for about four hours. Remove the towel and use a bristle brush to bring back nap of carpet.
My parents marriage began accompanied by dog by the name of Sniffles; a big German Sheppard type animal who lived in my parents three room apartment with them before I was born. While I never knew Sniffles, I heard tales of his shenanigans when I was small. He ate frozen pork chops, roast beefs and had an affinity for jumping out of their second story windows after a duck who lived in a neighboring yard; remarkably, I've known of a number of people in New York City who kept ducks in their backyards. What became of Sniffles is quite unknown to me, but it occurs to me that his absence in my childhood could be seen as a harbinger of doomed pets to come. As a small child, I was kept from my rendevous with furred animals due to allergies including but not limited to milk and animals. I suppose this I why I never had a pet cow.
Around the age of four or five, I was allowed to have a beta fish (also known as a Japanese fighting fish) and I named him Harry. He sure was swell. He did what most fish are known to do, swim endlessly, but he'd mix it up every now and again by puffing out his fins when shown a mirror. Warrior fish. Harry's only trial on this green Earth was the bearing up of my uncles' inability to walk past his fishbowl without throwing in some beer or salted nuts. Harry handled this harassment with grace and good will, although I suspect that this treatment led to his desire to jump out of the bowl every few months. Not even a dime store fish would like to be seen as a side show. On one such occasion, Harry spent a number of hours behind the breakfront in the dining room coated in dust (the best of housekeepers my mother was not). Assumed dead, he was placed in the toilet for his watery interment. Right before being flushed, he came back to life and swam his little heart out right there in the can. Harry held on as a member of my family for much longer than I think most pets who only cost a dollar would, and I still think of him fondly. He was the only pet I had until my dear brother decided we needed a hamster.
Hamsters are fun, especially ones named Popcorn - which incidentally makes a great porn name for my brother. You know the one where you take your first pet's name and the street you lived on? My brother is Popcorn 69 when you play this game and this tickles me to no end. Popcorn seemed to be a happy little creature running crazily on a wheel that went nowhere. The wheel was composed of cheap metal and squeaked like mad. While this was no deterrent to Popcorn, the noise drove my mother crazy. She decided to remedy the situation by oiling the wheel. Since she didn't have any WD-40, she figured vegetable oil would work just as well. And, it did. What it also did was make Popcorn's fur quite greasy, which then disturbed my mother because with his slick hair, the hamster reminded my mother of a rat (and maybe one or two Italian guys she knew). It was this realization that led her to bathe the hamster, something which I feel certain no hamster had willingly undergone before or since. After his bath, the hamster seemed cold, so my mother decided to blow dry his fur. The poor guy was never the same again. He died in the dead of winter, frozen solid in his little metal home. After an attempt at burial in the schoolyard down the street (frozen dirt), we threw him in a shoebox and promptly into the trash.
After Popcorn, we were determined to make a real go of this pet thing. There were a string of pets in and out of our house. The dog named Liquor who incessantly jumped on my brother and scared the crap out of him. I believe, wholeheartedly, that he went to live with some real nice people who had a farm. There was the turtle named Askhim who was put into hibernation and forgotten in the garage. The miniature frog who committed suicide by starvation, the vegetarian lizard named Frank, and another turtle named Hank who was accidentally microwaved. None in this long line of disasters made us think that we were not pet owners at heart.
When I was a junior or senior in highschool, my parents brought home a sad little dog named Tequila. She was the runt of a litter and born with a backwards paw and no pads on the bottom of her wayward foot. It is with Tequila that my family showed its true colors in terms of pet ownership. We treated this dog like the baby of the family. She had surgery to repair her bad leg and was shuttled, weekly, back and forth to a specialist for her ailing leg. Frankly, my mother treated this dog better than my brother or me. She carried, rocked, and hand-fed the poor creature. Maybe it was empty nest syndrome, or maybe it was to make up for all past pet misdeeds that occurred in our house. Whatever the reason, poor Tequila was only to last two years (longest up until that point) in our house. She died in my mothers arms one summery day of kidney failure.
No quitters, our family continues to welcome pets into our homes - with a modicum of success. Shabba, our dearest golden retriever remained with us until she was over a decade old. Currently my mother has a 'dog' named Luna. Luna's doghood remains questionable as she appears to be a cross between a cat and a fox, but she and my mother are great friends. My husband and I have been successful owners of two dogs now well into adulthood (no need to go into our own small rodent years). Whatever the outcome I feel certain we will take the leap again and again into pet ownership.
This weeks tip: You can remove pet stains from your carpeting with products you already have at home. You'll need warm water, liquid detergent, a white towel (cloth diapers work well too) and vinegar. Initially you will want to remove whatever mess your dog/cat has left behind and rub the area with a white towel that has detergent on it. Rub it enough to remove stain and blot the area. Mix 1/3 cup of vinegar with a 2/3 cups of warm water and drizzle onto stained area. Place another clean towel on top of stain and walk over the area to soak up excess moisture. Place a heavy object on top of the towels and let sit for about four hours. Remove the towel and use a bristle brush to bring back nap of carpet.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
You May be Jésus to Your Mama, but you're Jesus to me
It probably could have been easily predicted that I was destined for trouble when my parents colluded to lie to a Catholic priest in order to have me baptized. Christening under false pretenses is, no doubt, a venial sin at the very least. Because my parents had not been married in the Catholic Church, and because my grandfather called my mother, and then subsequently me, a heathen, they decided they better christen me. This was not such an easy matter for them. When I was six months old they finally were able to get me baptized at St. Stanislaus, the only church in the borough of Queens who was willing to christen the child born of two people who were not even considered married in the eyes of the Church. And while they could have chosen to depart completely from Catholicism (and I truly believe my father would have been all over that), my parents chose to raise my brother and I as Catholics because, truth told, what else did they know?
Because I went to public school, my parents sent me to catechism classes beginning in the first grade. Clearly, one needs an early start to get properly indoctrinated. Once a week, me and all the other Catholic kids left our own school right after lunch in order to attend the nearest Catholic school for lessons, while all the kids who regularly attended the parochial schools had a half day every Wednesday and could be seen at the pizza place and park while we sat in their abandoned classrooms. This weekly schedule of half days lasted all the way through fifth grade and beginning in the sixth grade we attended catechism classes on Monday nights after dinner. This particular situation worked out well for me for two reasons: one - I didn't have to witness all the parochial school kids having fun while we sat in class all afternoon, and two - my cousin Joann and I could sneak cigarettes on the walk from her house to the Catholic school under a cloak of darkness.
In all those years I learned all the things I was supposed to learn in order to become a fully functioning member of the Catholic Church. I memorized prayers, beatitudes and commandments. I made sacraments, attended masses, received ashes, and figured out when to kneel/sit/stand without the aid of clicking dog training tools. I also learned the importance of confession, and the joy that accompanies having unloaded all your misdeeds on a weekly basis and starting all over again. Ah, sweet absolution. Although much information had been passed along to me, nothing that I learned could have quite prepared me for the nuggets of wisdom that my own children would pass on to me from their Catholic preschool experiences.
My son's first Christmas season in Catholic school found him eagerly anticipating the upcoming holiday. School days included all sorts of seasonal art projects and countdowns to gift exchanging (and possibly Advent?). My son returned home from school on one of these December days to inform us that there was a new guy in his class. My husband and I heard somewhere that good parents listen and ask questions of their children, and so after our son telling us for a few days about this new guy, my husband broke down and asked all about him. Enthusiastically, our son told his father that the new guy was a baby. A baby? Yes, a baby who had a birthday coming up. The baby's name was Jesus and his birthday happened to be on Christmas. Pretty cool, huh?
Deciphering pre-school talk is a pretty daunting task, and if you've never been around a four year old, think of an overly talkative, occasionally annoying, drunk friend. When we entered the Easter season, our son was again fairly keyed up. He talked endlessly of guys sleeping behind rocks and rabbits bringing eggs. It was at this time that we were told that our son had solved the mystery of why we celebrate Easter. As it turns out, this guy Jesus (not recognized by him as the same baby who had been in his class in December) had some friends who nailed him to a tree. Then they put him a cave and let him out after a few days. When he came out, there was a party with colored eggs, ham and chocolate. Pretty cool, huh?
Our daughter now attends the same school as her older brother did. This past Christmas season she returned home from school one day wearing a Dora birthday party hat. When asked where she got the hat, she informed us that their was a birthday party at school that day. Whose birthday was it?, we asked her. Jesus. As it turns out, Jesus enjoys a Dora themed birthday party as much as the next guy. Pretty cool, huh? I'm looking forward to her Easter revelations.
My son now attends the local public school and his sister will follow his lead. The indoctrination process in our home ends at the age of five. I highly recommend not correcting the half truths and misunderstandings that come out of the mouths of babes. If nothing else, they will have an interesting worldview and you will be provided with a lot of laughter.
This weeks tip: You need not buy egg dyeing kits in order to do your Easter up right this year. You can use produce that you probably have around your home in order to dye your hardboiled treats, such as: red cabbage juice (for blue), boiled yellow delicious apple peels (for greenish yellow) and red wine for violet.
Because I went to public school, my parents sent me to catechism classes beginning in the first grade. Clearly, one needs an early start to get properly indoctrinated. Once a week, me and all the other Catholic kids left our own school right after lunch in order to attend the nearest Catholic school for lessons, while all the kids who regularly attended the parochial schools had a half day every Wednesday and could be seen at the pizza place and park while we sat in their abandoned classrooms. This weekly schedule of half days lasted all the way through fifth grade and beginning in the sixth grade we attended catechism classes on Monday nights after dinner. This particular situation worked out well for me for two reasons: one - I didn't have to witness all the parochial school kids having fun while we sat in class all afternoon, and two - my cousin Joann and I could sneak cigarettes on the walk from her house to the Catholic school under a cloak of darkness.
In all those years I learned all the things I was supposed to learn in order to become a fully functioning member of the Catholic Church. I memorized prayers, beatitudes and commandments. I made sacraments, attended masses, received ashes, and figured out when to kneel/sit/stand without the aid of clicking dog training tools. I also learned the importance of confession, and the joy that accompanies having unloaded all your misdeeds on a weekly basis and starting all over again. Ah, sweet absolution. Although much information had been passed along to me, nothing that I learned could have quite prepared me for the nuggets of wisdom that my own children would pass on to me from their Catholic preschool experiences.
My son's first Christmas season in Catholic school found him eagerly anticipating the upcoming holiday. School days included all sorts of seasonal art projects and countdowns to gift exchanging (and possibly Advent?). My son returned home from school on one of these December days to inform us that there was a new guy in his class. My husband and I heard somewhere that good parents listen and ask questions of their children, and so after our son telling us for a few days about this new guy, my husband broke down and asked all about him. Enthusiastically, our son told his father that the new guy was a baby. A baby? Yes, a baby who had a birthday coming up. The baby's name was Jesus and his birthday happened to be on Christmas. Pretty cool, huh?
Deciphering pre-school talk is a pretty daunting task, and if you've never been around a four year old, think of an overly talkative, occasionally annoying, drunk friend. When we entered the Easter season, our son was again fairly keyed up. He talked endlessly of guys sleeping behind rocks and rabbits bringing eggs. It was at this time that we were told that our son had solved the mystery of why we celebrate Easter. As it turns out, this guy Jesus (not recognized by him as the same baby who had been in his class in December) had some friends who nailed him to a tree. Then they put him a cave and let him out after a few days. When he came out, there was a party with colored eggs, ham and chocolate. Pretty cool, huh?
Our daughter now attends the same school as her older brother did. This past Christmas season she returned home from school one day wearing a Dora birthday party hat. When asked where she got the hat, she informed us that their was a birthday party at school that day. Whose birthday was it?, we asked her. Jesus. As it turns out, Jesus enjoys a Dora themed birthday party as much as the next guy. Pretty cool, huh? I'm looking forward to her Easter revelations.
My son now attends the local public school and his sister will follow his lead. The indoctrination process in our home ends at the age of five. I highly recommend not correcting the half truths and misunderstandings that come out of the mouths of babes. If nothing else, they will have an interesting worldview and you will be provided with a lot of laughter.
This weeks tip: You need not buy egg dyeing kits in order to do your Easter up right this year. You can use produce that you probably have around your home in order to dye your hardboiled treats, such as: red cabbage juice (for blue), boiled yellow delicious apple peels (for greenish yellow) and red wine for violet.
Monday, March 7, 2011
dank u wel
So, it has been brought to my attention that I get lots of comments on facebook with new posts, but never on the actual blog - not a complaint, just an observation. Additionally, I had another blogsite that also had a bunch of comments. I copied some of the posts from that site (mostly because I'm lazy, and not terribly creative) but the comments were left behind. I decided that it would be a good idea (mostly because I like to pat myself on the back) to put all of these comments in one spot. What this means for readers is that you will see comments that have been posted by me, but are actually words written by my few misguided readers. Anyway, thanks for reading and further thanks for taking a minute to tell me you enjoy (or not, if that's where you're at). It means a lot to me that you take the time to read what I've written.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Life in the Provinces
At the tender age of twenty three I made the bold decision to leave the great state of New York (and my family and friends) and leap into the unknown world of living in the West. Prior to a three month tour of the country, in a big daddy Caddy, I had considered Pennsylvania to be the west. As it turns out there's a whole shitload of country between Pennsylvania and the Pacific Ocean. Not only is there lots of land, but there are cities, people and running water to boot.
Armed with a duffle bag filled with jeans, short shirts and sandals, eighty bucks and a one way ticket to Oakland, off I went. If you've never been to California, I would heartily suggest that you don't make Oakland your starting point. My family was confounded. Why would I want to leave New York to go live out there with a bunch of fruits and nuts? This is not an uncommon lament for East Coast folks. I once spoke to a gal who works for a large credit card company and she told me that people on the East Coast are more likely to get their credit applications approved as they are very easy to find because they don't leave. If you can't find them, you can find someone in their family; across generations, East Coasters generally tend to stick around.
After living on a teacher's salary, for a number of years, in the glorious city of San Francisco I realized that I didn't always want to have three jobs and moved to Denver. I have been living here for the past twelve years and have come to terms with being an outsider. I have learned a great many things about living out west and have made adjustments accordingly. My Ohio bred husband often makes fun of my disbelief (and outrage in some cases) when it comes to my expectations and begs me to pardon everyone living outside of New York; apparently those residing in the provinces know not what they do. My grievances and personal adjustments made accordingly fall into three major categories: food, apparel and transportation.
Armed with a duffle bag filled with jeans, short shirts and sandals, eighty bucks and a one way ticket to Oakland, off I went. If you've never been to California, I would heartily suggest that you don't make Oakland your starting point. My family was confounded. Why would I want to leave New York to go live out there with a bunch of fruits and nuts? This is not an uncommon lament for East Coast folks. I once spoke to a gal who works for a large credit card company and she told me that people on the East Coast are more likely to get their credit applications approved as they are very easy to find because they don't leave. If you can't find them, you can find someone in their family; across generations, East Coasters generally tend to stick around.
After living on a teacher's salary, for a number of years, in the glorious city of San Francisco I realized that I didn't always want to have three jobs and moved to Denver. I have been living here for the past twelve years and have come to terms with being an outsider. I have learned a great many things about living out west and have made adjustments accordingly. My Ohio bred husband often makes fun of my disbelief (and outrage in some cases) when it comes to my expectations and begs me to pardon everyone living outside of New York; apparently those residing in the provinces know not what they do. My grievances and personal adjustments made accordingly fall into three major categories: food, apparel and transportation.
FOOD
- GOOD bagels are hard to come by. Offerings of round, chewy pieces of bread with fruit infused flavorings (cranberry pumpkin???) are not bagels, they are some weird amalgamation of cake and possibly muffin. While I would like to applaud people for their efforts and creativity, I can only shake my head and laugh. If you are among the lucky and do happen upon a decent bagel shop, you will fork over nearly three dollars to get your onion bagel with butter fantasies fulfilled. I don't even want to talk about getting a hard roll or a bialy.
- Cold cuts (also known as lunch meat) are sliced as if you are going to use only one piece of meat and cheese to make an entire sandwich. If you dare request that they are thinly sliced, you will be looked at like the suspect in a major homicide and will run the distinct possibility of having your lunch for the week being tainted by someone else's saliva.
- Pizza hut, Domino's, Little Cesars and all those other 'pizza' chains are not only actually considered pizza, but are actually preferred by many who have had the luxury of eating REAL pizza. I have been fortunate enough to find a few (actually two) really good pizzerias (owned by actual New Yorkers), and realized the important lesson I had passed on when my son refused Domino's at a sleepover.
- Chopped meat is called one of three things: ground beef, hamburger - as if this is the only thing you make with it, and hamburg (for those who just can't bear to pronounce that last syllable). I learned this the hard way when requesting one pound of chopped meat at a butcher. They had no idea what I was talking about & quite frankly I didn't know another way to say it. I wound up pointing to the meat in the case and pantomiming eating a hamburger.
- Soda, I mean pop, I mean Coke. Um, actually I mean soda, you know that stuff made from soda water with sugar and all kinds of crap you can't pronounce? If I ask for a pop, assume either that I would like you to punch me in the face or I am asking after your grandfather. And if I ask for a Coke, please do not ask me what kind. Coke is brown soda and should not be confused with anything else unless we are hanging out with Charlie Sheen.
Apparel
- Even if you have never been within ten feet of a tennis court and/or tennis racket, sneakers are called tennis shoes and more annoyingly tennies. The sheer lack of logic here goes unheeded and even in Spanish they are referred to as such. I suppose I could handle them being called gym shoes, because most people have at least stepped foot into a gym, but despite my protests (and obvious superior knowledge of important matters like this), people insist on the name they know.
- Sandals with socks are allowed all over the place. This hot mess of a combination is, remarkably, not reserved strictly for Eastern Europeans with gold teeth. Anyone with a Birkenstock or a Teva finds it completely acceptable to throw on some bunchy socks and slip into these sandals, critics be damned. This sock/sandal wearing phenomenon is not relegated to just one sex either - both male and females equally enjoy this fashion don't.
Transportation
- People really, and I mean really love their cars. So much so that I have met an impressive number of people who have never even ridden public transportation. When I first started working in schools in Denver, I took the bus to work and after getting off the bus, I walked the few blocks to school. I once commented that I couldn't get over how poor a job people did with shoveling in front of their homes. I was told that my problem was that I walked. I have to admit, this was the first time I'd ever heard of walking as a problem and a possible detriment to my well being.
- Public transportation outside of New York actually runs on schedules. Schedules that are kept. And there are phone numbers that you can call to complain about a bus or train like conveyance that missed it's schedule or didn't show up. What crazy, novel ideas. Other than the fabric covered seating - I try my very best not to think about the thousands of filthy people that may have sat on them before me - public transportation outside of New York City was an adjustment that wasn't too hard to make.
This weeks tip:
Before consideration of moving out of your hometown, wherever that may be, do your homework. I'm not talking about contacting the Chamber of Commerce for maps, or looking up housing or cost of living comparisons. I am talking about finding a person who may have blazed that trail already. Find out the names for things, where to get a decent meal, how much a beer costs and the time difference so you know exactly what time to call your mother crying about homesickness.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Just JaCk
My brother has long been a source of joy and confusion for me. He came into my world after a long, lonely seven years as an only child; the excitement of having a sibling was almost more than I could bear and I greeted his arrival with a spring in my step and a stuffed puppy in hand. My enthusiasm bordered on hysteria and after a year pretending that he was mine and bossing my mother around about what she should be doing, I settled into a world where I was either laughing or shaking my head - sometimes both simultaneously. I suppose I could have guessed that after throwing up on the puppy he would give me a lifetime of scratching my head and blinking profusely when in his presence, but honestly there are few prepared for a life with Jack.
When Jack learned mobility, and subsequently speech, things got pretty dicey in our household. Jack has a unique way of using words to his benefit and his logic and perspective defy most socially acceptable modes of communication. He claimed for years that everyone else's time concepts were faulty compared to his. Church bells, clocks and watches held no meaning for him. Also, there is little use in arguing with a guy who wears florescent orange county jail pants when boarding an airplane in post 9-11 America. As he so aptly puts it "you take my freedom, I take your pants". I suppose he could have been a lawyer, if they held law school classes exclusively in the middle of the day and didn't require so much homework.
His antics as a small child caused my mother no inconsiderable amount of agida and bewilderment. Eating house plants and the dirt they were planted in, drinking food dye and flushing entire bottles of perfume (glass included) down the toilet were among his early accomplishments. My mother often found herself calling my father, disbelief heavy in her voice, to report the latest antic. My father always laughed and assured my mother that his behavior was that of a 'typical boy'. My poor unsuspecting mother would take this at face value as she had only been exposed to girls up until this point. While my father's affirmation was mostly true, Jack has never been a typical boy. We eventually got used to a lot of the ridiculous things he did and laughed them off by saying 'oh that's just Jack', but he still managed to truly surprise us a number of times a year.
When he was in middle school, my brother travelled to school by bus. He went to a school that offered special programming for smart kids and he had to be at the bus stop really early every morning. As we were mostly left to our own devices in terms of morning readiness, my brother figured out that if he wore his clothes to bed, he would have less to do in the morning and therefore get to sleep in a few minutes more each day. Brilliance on his part and a habit that has served him well for most of his life. Being wrinkled will never bother a guy who is so relaxed as to be nearly comatose. What he didn't figure out was that defacement of public school property will get you, at the very least a phone call home, and befuddle your entire family.
My father received a phone call from Jack's school counselor informing him that my brother would be serving detention for writing graffiti on the school bus and that my father was going to have to fork over some amount of money to pay for damages. My father took this all in stride but immediately asked how they knew it was my brother - could their claims be proven? At this point in his life, Jack had been known for stupidity, but certainly not property damage. The counselor informed my father that the claims could indeed by proven as my genius brother wrote HIS NAME on the school bus seat in permanent marker. First, middle, last. I was witness to this exchange (on my father's end) and after asking the counselor "are you shitting me?", I watched as my father took a few moments to put his head on the kitchen table and shake it back and forth while mumbling my brother's name. After composing himself, my father asked this unsuspecting school official if he could have the seat. As one might imagine, the counselor asked my father to repeat what he had just said. My dad reasoned that if he was going to pay for the replacement of a seat that my brother defaced, he should own the old one. This was an interesting conversation to bear witness to. The counselor had no answer to this question because no one had ever asked it of him before. He quickly got off the phone with my father with promises to call him back. The return phone call proved no less fruitful as my father was informed that the removal of the seat was no easy matter and that ownership could not be transferred. When my father suggested that the school bus be pulled into our driveway so he could attempt clean up himself, or remove the seat, the counselor gave up on seeking damages and I believe may have offered to revoke detention as well. Surely the man did not get paid nearly enough to enter into a circular argument with my father and no doubt would rue the day that he ever heard my brother's name.
I offer the above antecdote to suggest that perhaps my brother came by his bewildering ways honestly, and maybe my father's ideas of 'typical' were a little skewed. Whatever the case, my brother in his thirty years on this Earth has proven to be a gentle and kind soul with a sense of humor that could literally make you wet your pants. On the eve of his thirtieth birthday I can't help but reflect that while I have been confused and bewildered for much of our lives together, I have never been lonely.
This weeks tip:
Removing ink from leather is a tricky bitch. Rubbing alcohol on a washcloth (white recommended) and blotting it on the stain has been known to work. You should leave the alcohol sitting on the stain for about thirty minutes, blot the stain with a clean washcloth. To keep from drying out the leather, rinse the area with a mixture of one quart cool water and a quarter cup of vinegar. This may not work on the first try, but the alcohol can be applied again if stain wasn't removed fully the first go around.
When Jack learned mobility, and subsequently speech, things got pretty dicey in our household. Jack has a unique way of using words to his benefit and his logic and perspective defy most socially acceptable modes of communication. He claimed for years that everyone else's time concepts were faulty compared to his. Church bells, clocks and watches held no meaning for him. Also, there is little use in arguing with a guy who wears florescent orange county jail pants when boarding an airplane in post 9-11 America. As he so aptly puts it "you take my freedom, I take your pants". I suppose he could have been a lawyer, if they held law school classes exclusively in the middle of the day and didn't require so much homework.
His antics as a small child caused my mother no inconsiderable amount of agida and bewilderment. Eating house plants and the dirt they were planted in, drinking food dye and flushing entire bottles of perfume (glass included) down the toilet were among his early accomplishments. My mother often found herself calling my father, disbelief heavy in her voice, to report the latest antic. My father always laughed and assured my mother that his behavior was that of a 'typical boy'. My poor unsuspecting mother would take this at face value as she had only been exposed to girls up until this point. While my father's affirmation was mostly true, Jack has never been a typical boy. We eventually got used to a lot of the ridiculous things he did and laughed them off by saying 'oh that's just Jack', but he still managed to truly surprise us a number of times a year.
When he was in middle school, my brother travelled to school by bus. He went to a school that offered special programming for smart kids and he had to be at the bus stop really early every morning. As we were mostly left to our own devices in terms of morning readiness, my brother figured out that if he wore his clothes to bed, he would have less to do in the morning and therefore get to sleep in a few minutes more each day. Brilliance on his part and a habit that has served him well for most of his life. Being wrinkled will never bother a guy who is so relaxed as to be nearly comatose. What he didn't figure out was that defacement of public school property will get you, at the very least a phone call home, and befuddle your entire family.
My father received a phone call from Jack's school counselor informing him that my brother would be serving detention for writing graffiti on the school bus and that my father was going to have to fork over some amount of money to pay for damages. My father took this all in stride but immediately asked how they knew it was my brother - could their claims be proven? At this point in his life, Jack had been known for stupidity, but certainly not property damage. The counselor informed my father that the claims could indeed by proven as my genius brother wrote HIS NAME on the school bus seat in permanent marker. First, middle, last. I was witness to this exchange (on my father's end) and after asking the counselor "are you shitting me?", I watched as my father took a few moments to put his head on the kitchen table and shake it back and forth while mumbling my brother's name. After composing himself, my father asked this unsuspecting school official if he could have the seat. As one might imagine, the counselor asked my father to repeat what he had just said. My dad reasoned that if he was going to pay for the replacement of a seat that my brother defaced, he should own the old one. This was an interesting conversation to bear witness to. The counselor had no answer to this question because no one had ever asked it of him before. He quickly got off the phone with my father with promises to call him back. The return phone call proved no less fruitful as my father was informed that the removal of the seat was no easy matter and that ownership could not be transferred. When my father suggested that the school bus be pulled into our driveway so he could attempt clean up himself, or remove the seat, the counselor gave up on seeking damages and I believe may have offered to revoke detention as well. Surely the man did not get paid nearly enough to enter into a circular argument with my father and no doubt would rue the day that he ever heard my brother's name.
I offer the above antecdote to suggest that perhaps my brother came by his bewildering ways honestly, and maybe my father's ideas of 'typical' were a little skewed. Whatever the case, my brother in his thirty years on this Earth has proven to be a gentle and kind soul with a sense of humor that could literally make you wet your pants. On the eve of his thirtieth birthday I can't help but reflect that while I have been confused and bewildered for much of our lives together, I have never been lonely.
This weeks tip:
Removing ink from leather is a tricky bitch. Rubbing alcohol on a washcloth (white recommended) and blotting it on the stain has been known to work. You should leave the alcohol sitting on the stain for about thirty minutes, blot the stain with a clean washcloth. To keep from drying out the leather, rinse the area with a mixture of one quart cool water and a quarter cup of vinegar. This may not work on the first try, but the alcohol can be applied again if stain wasn't removed fully the first go around.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
To do or Die(t)
I just finished reading the news (one should note that my news sources are Star Magazine, Yahoo News and Alice morning radio show) to learn that Oprah Winfrey admits to eating thirty pounds of macaroni and cheese when in a downward spiral over a bad showing at the movies. Thirty. Pounds. That's like eating my baby and half of my friends baby all at once; which I hope no one would do because it's disgusting on so many levels, even if you cover them with cheese sauce. I wonder if Ms. Winfrey's admission aims to serve as the impetus for change in our eating habits, or dietary plans for the year ahead. If nothing else, her admission can help us all feel a little bit better about our own lives. I mean you can tell yourself in the midst of whatever filthy habit you indulge in "At least I've never consumed thirty pounds of buttery, cheesy pasta, that's just fucked up, " and feel pretty damn good about yourself for at least ten minutes.
So mid-January and here we all are either deep into the throes of our resolutions or deep into the denial of ever having made resolutions. Whether you admit it or not, you're making some kind of resolution or promise to yourself as one year closes and another begins, so quit being sanctimonious and acting like you're too good for a resolution. Of course, the most popular resolution for many people each year is to lose some weight, get into shape - which is a funny saying if you think about it because maybe you're committed to looking more like a cube, when everyone else assumes you mean to get slimmer and more toned. My friend Teresa's mother used to resolve to go on a diet every Monday, and good for her for at least trying to get back on that horse every week. I suspect her resolve weakened somewhere between baked ziti and ice cream, but I can't confirm this for sure. My own mother was no stranger to attempting weight loss here and there, although I don't recall that the new year, per se, was ever a big moment in her dietary decision making.
Over the years my mother tried out a few different diets with varying levels of success. My least favorite diet of my mother's was the cabbage soup diet. I'm not sure that this is still around, but let me say for the record that its pretty frigging gross. First you get some tomato juice and then you cook some cabbage in it. Done. This not only defies soup definitions, but makes your kitchen unbearably smelly. The nice thing about this 'soup' is that you get to eat as much of it as you want throughout a day. You are to do this for seven days and lose ten pounds. If you, and the people you live with, can stand to actually complete the seven days, then you'll have survived long enough to move on to some other equally inhibiting and horrific self-induced penance. One of the diets that I actually enjoyed my mother partaking in included a recipe for homemade dessert calzones. The word calzone is used loosely here, but it included ricotta cheese and cinnamon stuffed into a pita pocket. A tasty little treat, especially in a house where dessert was rarely served outside of holidays and birthdays. The nice thing about my mother's dieting is that she did not subject anyone else in the house to whatever shenanigans she was up to. Which is pretty darn generous if you ask me and must've been particularly difficult and cruel for her. Imagine sucking down that cabbage/tomato concoction while your family enjoys meatloaf or spaghetti and sausage?
Once my father was discovered to have heart trouble, however, the kindness ended and everyone was in on the diet deal. We were all subjected to nightly assaults of the broiled persuasion. Broiled chicken, or broiled fish coupled with baked potatoes and salad with vinegar. Day after day. No salt, no butter, no flavor, repeat, and repeat. My brother and I took to buying our own jars of Cheez-Whiz to pour over whatever was being served. Here I am admitting that, like Oprah Winfrey, I too appreciate cheese poured over food when the going gets rough.
This weeks tip:
When I had my first child I was at a complete loss as what to do for excess gas and stomach upset that an infant who is hell bent on eating nonstop will experience. My mother and her sister both insisted that I serve my child fennel tea. I was instructed to purchase fennel seeds and pour hot water over them to make a tea. Once cooled, you put the tea in a bottle with the tiniest bit of Karo syrup (for sweetness) and give it to your baby to drink. IT WORKED!! So well, in fact, that I have given it to all three of my cherubs as infants and always keep fennel seeds on hand until they have made it through their first year and their digestive systems seem to mature enough to not require outside assistance. Fennel seeds can be bought at health food stores or supermarkets such as Whole Foods. You only need to purchase a small amount of them, because a little bit goes a long way. Adult people have been known to consume fennel seeds with extremely gassy foods such as cabbage soup.
So mid-January and here we all are either deep into the throes of our resolutions or deep into the denial of ever having made resolutions. Whether you admit it or not, you're making some kind of resolution or promise to yourself as one year closes and another begins, so quit being sanctimonious and acting like you're too good for a resolution. Of course, the most popular resolution for many people each year is to lose some weight, get into shape - which is a funny saying if you think about it because maybe you're committed to looking more like a cube, when everyone else assumes you mean to get slimmer and more toned. My friend Teresa's mother used to resolve to go on a diet every Monday, and good for her for at least trying to get back on that horse every week. I suspect her resolve weakened somewhere between baked ziti and ice cream, but I can't confirm this for sure. My own mother was no stranger to attempting weight loss here and there, although I don't recall that the new year, per se, was ever a big moment in her dietary decision making.
Over the years my mother tried out a few different diets with varying levels of success. My least favorite diet of my mother's was the cabbage soup diet. I'm not sure that this is still around, but let me say for the record that its pretty frigging gross. First you get some tomato juice and then you cook some cabbage in it. Done. This not only defies soup definitions, but makes your kitchen unbearably smelly. The nice thing about this 'soup' is that you get to eat as much of it as you want throughout a day. You are to do this for seven days and lose ten pounds. If you, and the people you live with, can stand to actually complete the seven days, then you'll have survived long enough to move on to some other equally inhibiting and horrific self-induced penance. One of the diets that I actually enjoyed my mother partaking in included a recipe for homemade dessert calzones. The word calzone is used loosely here, but it included ricotta cheese and cinnamon stuffed into a pita pocket. A tasty little treat, especially in a house where dessert was rarely served outside of holidays and birthdays. The nice thing about my mother's dieting is that she did not subject anyone else in the house to whatever shenanigans she was up to. Which is pretty darn generous if you ask me and must've been particularly difficult and cruel for her. Imagine sucking down that cabbage/tomato concoction while your family enjoys meatloaf or spaghetti and sausage?
Once my father was discovered to have heart trouble, however, the kindness ended and everyone was in on the diet deal. We were all subjected to nightly assaults of the broiled persuasion. Broiled chicken, or broiled fish coupled with baked potatoes and salad with vinegar. Day after day. No salt, no butter, no flavor, repeat, and repeat. My brother and I took to buying our own jars of Cheez-Whiz to pour over whatever was being served. Here I am admitting that, like Oprah Winfrey, I too appreciate cheese poured over food when the going gets rough.
This weeks tip:
When I had my first child I was at a complete loss as what to do for excess gas and stomach upset that an infant who is hell bent on eating nonstop will experience. My mother and her sister both insisted that I serve my child fennel tea. I was instructed to purchase fennel seeds and pour hot water over them to make a tea. Once cooled, you put the tea in a bottle with the tiniest bit of Karo syrup (for sweetness) and give it to your baby to drink. IT WORKED!! So well, in fact, that I have given it to all three of my cherubs as infants and always keep fennel seeds on hand until they have made it through their first year and their digestive systems seem to mature enough to not require outside assistance. Fennel seeds can be bought at health food stores or supermarkets such as Whole Foods. You only need to purchase a small amount of them, because a little bit goes a long way. Adult people have been known to consume fennel seeds with extremely gassy foods such as cabbage soup.
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