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.

Of Urchins and Friends

My mother used the term 'street urchin' to describe and define a broad category of children running around the streets of New York City in the seventies and eighties. Generally, she used the term to talk about kids whose parents didn't know where they were or what they were doing at any given time of day, although you could also be called a street urchin if your fingernails weren't trimmed or had dirt underneath them; like I said, broad term. My mother didn't usually want me spending a lot of time with street urchins, and usually she was right - they were tougher kids who seemed to derive joy from breaking toys or fist fighting. Kids who weren't going to be nice enough to me, or who would use me were not the kind of friends my mother preferred I had. Like most other things, my mother had clear cut opinions on whom I should spend my time with.

As I got older, I got better at choosing my friends, but like most kids, I wasn't fantastic at it. My mother's opinions remained, but she was less vocal as I think she realized she had less control over who I spent my time with & truthfully you can't stop a kid from making mistakes ALL the time. In about the fifth grade, I realized that girls were mean. Spiteful, gossipy, superficial, bitches. This was the time of my life where it wasn't uncommon for me to be best friends with someone one week and arch enemies with them the following. After an entire school year of this, my mother sat me down and explained that the friends I had then weren't necessarily the friends I would have later in life. I was going to grow up and out of the friendships, and that a girl only needed one good friend as opposed to say five or six . It was her way of telling me not to sweat it, things would all work out for me and I shouldn't spend my time bemoaning such trivialities. I listened respectfully and then rolled my eyes when she left the room; because really what the hell did she know?

The thing is she was right. I had already met my one true friend, but didn't know it yet. Thirty years later, she sits across the room from me having driven across the country to be my son's godmother. The past two years have been rough on her, but she's well now and we're together; not just friends, but family. Below is something I wrote when she first got sick:

She is one of my oldest memories. My grandmother's house, three doors down. The little girl whom I call for at her window. I stand on the concrete steps talking to her at her window. Our conversation is silliness, not memorable, but it is. To me.

" Want to come out and play? My grandmother lives just there. We played the other time I was here" I nod my head down the street, where my cousin Scott sits in front my grandmother's house playing Pink Floyd on his boom box. Scott is older, does bad things and doesn't have any interest in the likes of me. We don't need no education.

"I'll ask my mother, I can probably sit on the stoop." she says. I don't know her name. We go to the same dancing school, but I don't know this then, not until later when we compare.

I remember this clearly even though I was only possibly five when I visited my grandmother on 67th street, before her second marriage and the move two blocks away where she remains until she dies.

We don't meet again until I am twelve. I am in love (really? no) with the boy whose father owns the old lady hair salon on Myrtle Avenue. My grandmother goes there for her perms. Strange connections to my grandmother. Now I live in the neighborhood and am new here and flat chested. I like to play softball with the boys in the schoolyard. I like the tall, skinny german boy whom she likes too. He sees me first, but it is no matter, because she is beautiful. Not like a twelve year old, not like me. I'll be thirteen at the end of the year, but I will not have her breasts, or her smile. She is now my nemesis, but only for a little while.

I decide to hate her, just as she has decided that she will conquer me in this love game with the german boy. He cannot help it. I am no doubt fun to make out with, and play ball with, but with her, the possibilities are endless. I can tell. My friends side with me. They tell me things about her. She goes to Catholic school, she goes to parties where they play spin the bottle. She dances; in competitions. I do none of these. I am new.

I am ashamed that I will lose my first boyfriend, so I will fight her. I will ride my bicycle right up to her outside the schoolyard fence where she has taken to walking past frequently. I call her out. She does not respond, because this is not her way. It is my way for a long time, but never her way. I claim victory in this small challenge, because it is all I have. She really will win. Not just the boyfriend, but my friendship as well. I get over it, and we are friends she and I.

The boyfriend lasts for her far longer than he did for me. He will cheat on her, with me and others until he is nothing to her anymore. It takes us until junior year in highschool to get to this point. Another girl, another friend we know. His name called out at her sweet sixteen candle cermeony at Pellegrini's. We go to different highschools, she and I, but the cheating girl is in my class. My highschool friends side with her when the boy cheats with the other girl. There are big discussions, and endless gossip. This silly german boy did not come between us, nothing much ever does. My entire teenage and adult life is based on the comfort of our friendship.

We meet other boys. Involve ourselves in other dramas. Broken hearts, sentimental claptrap, Lisa Lisa songs sung walking arm in arm after too many Bartles and James. I will return her to her parents house dead drunk when she is with the boy that is forbidden. She will say I have spent the night at her house, even if I haven't. Take turns holding one anothers hair when vomitting. We will see each other off on prom night, whisper about what we've done. We will have sleepovers, share clothing, secrets, dreams. We are very good at this friendship.

We have other friends, some that we share, some that we don't. It does not matter. We are a unit, a fact. I will tell her everything, she me. We fight some, but it is forgiven within a short time. She is more forgiving than me, easier than me to be around I think. We laugh. We learn to drive in her fathers station wagon. It is blue and older than anyone we know. It is okay, because the learning takes place in Pennslyvania where no one can see us. Her father is very patient, but cannot help but remove himself fromt the vehicle to show us where the stop sign really is. We will go to each others functions, family parties, see each other off to other countries. Friends indeed.

In college, she will go to my math class for me. We were going to go away, be lawyers together. Schools down south. Baron's books full of school names, and highlighters to choose just the right place for us. It does not occur to us to go west, or north. We do go not away, especially not down south where we do not belong. College does not suit her, but she will sit in my math class instead of her classes and take the tests for me. I find it odd, but am glad someone is willing to participate in the requirements. We are often late when she drives, she has sneezing fits and migraine headaches. This irritates the rest of us, but it doesn't really matter. We will miss her when she doesn't come back next semester.

When my boyfriend dies, she is the only one. We are grown up, but no so much. She more than me because she has been working, I have been screwing around at school. She has a boyfriend too. One I don't particularly care for, which is often the case. I never think they are good enough for her, and mostly they aren't. Mostly I miss her and get jealous. Her boyfriend does not die, but she takes care of me. Brings me movies, buys me Gossamer. Does not make me dwell on the awful things people are saying and doing around me. She lets me be myself, tells me the truths I need to know and lets me know I am good enough. When my father gets sick, she has me over to dinner at her house a lot. Her mother makes divine things like macaroni and cheese and tarts. At my house there is broiled chicken and fish. I eat elsewhere often.

We decide to go to California. Finally going west occurs to us. This is an almost obscene idea to our families. New Yorkers are so firmly planted, but we reckon that we have our own tv's and bedspreads, so we can spread our wings and fly the nest. We will bring the right sandals, my light up phone, we are ready. I go first because I need to leave. She comes a month later. We are roommates. We are new together.

Life takes us apart. Always a man. When I leave and wind up subsequently heartbroken, she mends me with a visit. Discussions, tears, drinking. All of the things one needs to get over the latest, the last. When my father dies, she holds me in her arms. We will visit less and less as we get caught up in our things. We will marry and not attend each others weddings. I am cruel, unnecessarily so as I can be when I think I'm right. We are still friends, but distant ones. E-mail friends, Christmas card friends. Friends it takes a long time to catch up with, so we leave the big parts out.

Over the past few years, we have become close again. No animosity, she has forgiven me before I even apologize for cruelties and things unsaid. She is so much better than I. My one true friend. We take the time now to catch up. "Did I tell you?..." She is reference point for me, "remember so and so...?" I am confident in us, our ability to weather any storm.

Now she is sick. Cancer. I cannot wrap my brain around this. We are young, vital. She is sick and in pain. She is suffering and I feel compelled to hold her hand. Lay on a couch with her. Laugh and cry. Be the friend she lets me think I can be. She is one of my oldest memories.

Ears to Ya

I got to leave school early exactly two times in my academic life. The first time I was about six and my father picked me up to bring me to the Barnum and Bailey Circus at Madison Square Garden (a day I recall fondly). The second time, I had the audacity to ask the school nurse to call my mother to say I wasn't feeling well. This required her coming up to school (a staggering two blocks away) and signing me out early. Although I did feel a little off - perhaps I didn't eat my lunch and was lightheaded? - I was definitely not sick enough to meet my mothers standards. I think I wanted to be like other kids whose mothers I had witnessed picking them up for illness during the day whom I imagined spent the day on the couch being spoon fed chicken noodle soup and watching cartoons under a cozy blanket. What really happened was I wound up stuck in my room (no TV even) for lying. After this anti-climatic experience I didn't even dare to try to go home early - sick or no.

In my mother's mind, one was not really sick unless they were running a high fever, bleeding profusely (and honestly, how many times in a grade schoolers life is one bleeding profusely? and furthermore if you're bleeding profusely school attendance has got to be low on your list of priorities, no?), or vomiting. Under these circumstances, and these circumstances only, could one stay home from school. As a matter of fact, in the fourth grade I suffered from a case of hives and the chicken pox both. While I was allowed to stay home for the chicken pox (because of both school and health department mandates), I did get sent to school with hives. I'm not talking about a slight rash here, I'm talking huge red welts whose appearance was not unlike a relief map of the United States and what was then considered the Soviet Union. In addition, my lips were so swollen it seemed as if I had just returned from visiting an African tribe who placed bones through lips for aesthetic purposes (obviously I had access to National Geographic). The accompanying speech impediment was just icing on the cake. My feet were also swollen making walking difficult but sure as shit they still fit in my ugly ass, blue uniform school shoes. My mother reasoned that not being able to walk and talk properly would keep me out of trouble; armed with a bottle of caladryl lotion, off to school I went.

This is not to say that my mother was unsympathetic and uncaring when we were sick; quite the opposite. Aside from the hives situation, she hardly ever laughed out loud at all when we fell ill. She employed all the tricks in her bag to make us feel better: St. Joseph's chewable aspirin, Vicks Vapo Rub, alcohol rubs, ginger ale, dry toast and unsweetened hot tea. When these remedies did not heal us up and get us off to school, my mother called in the big guns.

My brother and I were both prone to frequent ear aches as children. Ear infections and burst ear drums have the annoying habit of being accompanied by a fever that will not go away on its own. It was during these times that my mother called upon her friend, the sadist. Somehow, my mother had in her employ an Italian-American man whose arcane medical knowledge allowed him to perform his voodoo in our very own bedrooms. While some may have called him a doctor, I have my misgivings. In broken English he would mutter what I think he believed were soothing tones. Accompanied by a black bag the size of my six year old self, this small, balding, bow-legged octogenarian inspired nothing but fear. And this was before he went to work on my ears. I recall one time screaming "my ear, my ear" while he confidently assured me that he was not touching my hair.

He went to work on my ears with what, in hindsight, I believe to have been dental picks and miniature axes. Digging deeply into my ear canal (and once, I think, penetrating my medula oblongata) amidst screaming and crying he would determine what was already known: ear infection. His methods were less than desirable and while the memory of his remedies are fuzzy, they clearly allowed me to survive another day and get back to school post haste.

This weeks tip: I mentioned my mother's use of Vicks Vapo Rub above, but she was a pure genius in the use of the unguent when it came to ear aches. Applying a small amount to a cotton ball, she would place this in the cup of my ailing ear. She would then have me lie on the affected ear which created what felt like a an individual heating pad, without the need for electricity and minus the risk of burning. The relief was nearly immediate. Coupled with ibuprofen, or your pain reliever of choice, the sufferer can get much needed rest. This works so well that I have used this remedy, as an adult, on myself and my own children. For added comfort, I also rub Vicks behind the ear and down the eustachian tubes (the tubes that connect the ears to the throat). By the way, the store brand of mentholated rub works equally well as the Vicks brand.

On the Line

One of my all time favorite smells is clean laundry and, as far as I'm concerned, nothing can beat the smell, or feel of laundry that has dried on the line in the summer sun. The sheets and towels flapping in the breeze, running through a yard with them still damp and catching you on your sun warmed face. The unbelievable softness of undergarments blown dry by the wind; ah, the joy of it all. Whole marketing plans have been based on this very thing. And I got to live it. My whole growing up life my mother had a washing machine, but no dryer. I never knew from dryer sheets; my mother used fabric softener and hung the wash out on a clothesline that went from a hook outside the bedroom window to a hook on the utility pole out back. You might think she (and by she, I mean me) only did this in the spring and summer time, when the weather was warm, but you would be wrong. My mother never let a little thing like mother nature's timetable dictate what to do with her clean laundry (or anything else for that matter).

This wasn't too terrible in the fall when the sun could still really pack a wallop. It was slightly irritating to hang out or pull in during the fall months; sun or no, there was still a chill in the air and my bony (read: pansy ass) hands always got cold fast, and perhaps a little cramped (all right, truth be told I hated hanging out and pulling in the wash regardless of season). Irritating perhaps, but definitely doable.

Winter was a whole different story, nay a different genre. Hanging out the window, practically being blown away by fierce northeastern winds - and no it doesn't matter that we lived on the first floor and about twenty minutes west of the beach- let me assure you that wind is wind people. Frost covered clothespins, their little metal levers barely able to be pried open. The cold, red and wet hands trying futilely to open these little wooden demons. Having to use your teeth to force them open, the inevitable lip splinter, the cursing and the crying; you cannot imagine the physical horrors involved here. Woe was me.

The battle with the clothespins and elements aside, the back breaking work of actually wearing clothing that has been frozen almost made the whole hanging out/pulling in process enjoyable. You have not lived until you have placed a still cold pair of crackling blue jeans on your quivering legs. I can assure you there is no other physical sensation quite like it, and rightly so.

Now don't think that my mother hung laundry in the snow or driving rain, because even she realized these were not weather scenarios to be trifled with. For these particularly bad days she utilized a clothes rack and the radiators scattered around the apartment. The radiator, while actually drying and warming clothes left you with tell tale bumps and humps all over your crispy blue jeans, giving you the appearance of humpbacked legs or goiters if you were a fan of the turtleneck (I learned not to be). It really wasn't so bad, I mean the cold only lasted from November until March; really no time at all. Thinking on it now, I believe my mother may have been the forerunner in character education.

This weeks tip: My mother is the best stain remover I know (yeah, she's got that going for her). When I was really young, I remember her scrubbing stains with brown soap and this worked well most of the time. However, when I got older, my mother discovered Lestoil and there was no turning back. If you can get past the smell, Lestoil will remove any stain you can think of. Mom advises applying a capful to the stain as soon as possible and rub it in a little. Let it sit and then wash the item of clothing in the hottest water it can stand. Additionally, make sure the stain is completely gone before putting your clothes in a dryer as the heat from the dryer can set a stain permanently if it is not gone. Recently one of my family members left chocolate kisses in their pants pocket. I didn't discover this until I washed and then dried an entire load of laundry. The result was a whole bunch of clothes that looked like someone used them as toilet paper. Lestoil was applied and all stains are gone!!

Cats Outta the Bag

My mother taught me two very important things about cats. One, they do indeed land on their feet and two, she hated them. At the tender age of six, I watched in horror as my mother opened the window and threw a stray cat out of it. Doesn't sound too terrible? It was a second story window. I was at that stage of my life where I thought I was going to be a veterinarian and rescue all kinds of animals. Up until this point, I had 'rescued' bugs, and birds (including pigeons, which I had yet to realize are filthy rats with wings); the cat was to be my crowning glory. Before I could work my magic and transform this ragged beast from stray to pet, my mother grabbed it out of my arms and tossed it right out the window. Due to the trauma of this event, my memory of it is nearly photographic (operative word here is nearly). I remember practically humming with excitement as I ran in the door to show my mom my latest treasure; cat and I both a little sweaty and grimy. The cat hissing and attempting to jump out of my chubby armed hug (he didn't know the glorious future I had in mind for him), the look of disdain (could have been interpreted as utter hatred) on my mother's face that I dared bring such a creature into her apartment. The snatching, and brisk walk (I'd never seen her move so fast) to the porch at the front of the apartment. The brief struggle with the window and screen and then finally, the tossing. I'd never seen her exhibit such strength either, what with the window opening and all. My mother turning to me and declaring "Never liked cats, sneaky damn things." That was the sum total of her excuse for tossing an animal out the window: sneaky. Even though I was in shock, it did occur to me that I too was occasionally sneaky and quite possibly this was her warning for my future if I kept up my nonsense? I can imagine the look on my face that must have prompted my mother to further tell me to quit my worrying, because everyone knew that cats land on their feet. As far as she was concerned that was that. End of conversation. Later on in my childhood my mother did allow me to have a fish named Harry as a pet. He wasn't rescued and the only form of abuse he suffered was the occasional peanut that my uncles threw into his bowl after a night of playing cards. My mother only went near the thing to clean his bowl.

In a bizarre twist of fate, both my brother and I are allergic to cats. This, of course, was learned at other peoples houses as a cat never darkened our doorstep again. Word probably got out around cat circles. Perhaps my mother already knew this and was attempting to keep us from undo suffering; or perhaps our allergy stems from an attachment disorder or post traumatic stress. Who could tell? What I can tell you with absolute certainty: cats are sneaky goddamn creatures that land on their feet.

This weeks tip: If you too are allergic to cats, my mother has just the remedy. The itchy, red and sometimes puffy eyes that accompany an allergy attack can be remedied with baby shampoo. That's right. Take a cool wash cloth and squirt some baby shampoo on it (baby wash will do too). Gently rub around eyelids and puffy redness disappears. Mom also says that you can gently wash your eyes with cool water and baby shampoo, like when you wash your face at the sink.

Introductions - Sh** My Mom Knows

My mom knows everything, and as much as it pains me to admit it, it's an irrefutable fact. I don't mean she's a quantum physicist (she's not) or has a photographic memory (she doesn't) but she does know the lyrics to any song you can think up from 1950 on, can do a mean crossword, can hook up all kinds of electronics and can answer just about any question I can think up (within reason, mostly because I'm not terribly imaginative). More and more I find she can solve whatever day- to- day conundrum I can think up, especially so since I've had children. I find myself calling her and getting the solution within a matter of moments. What's more, if she doesn't have the solution, she reaches into her bottomless bag of resources - including but not limited to: phone book (yup she still uses), newspaper (still gets it delivered, mainly for comics and crossword), or friend of a friend among her favorites. My mother is the queen of the friend of a friend who knows so and so or has had such and such happen to them or their mail carrier's cousin.

As a kid, I was hesitant to ask my mother questions. Her responses ran the gamut: how the hell do I know, I failed Spanish and just call the Brooklyn Public Library were among her most frequent responses. Maybe taking care of two kids, a husband and a household left little time for her to really show her true abilities for problem solving. It didn't strike me as odd at the time as my grandmothers didn't seem to offer much in the world of advice. One cooked exclusively in plastic bags and the other suggested either that you either "put butter on it" or "sit on the pot" as the answers to most questions.

I am nearly thirty-seven years old and recently had an epiphany, a come to mother if you will. My mother beats Google hands down. Her correct response stats are pretty phenomenal and I don't have to sift through endless information or wonder if the information is correct (thinking wikipedia here). My first thought when I encounter an issue that my useless brain cannot compute is to call or email my mother. She doesn't fail. With this in mind, my next thought was 'who am I to keep this all to myself'. When you find out something good, you gotta share, right? And, here we are.

This weeks tip: Cellphones plus water equals bad, another irrefutable fact. My husband discovered this recently when he jumped in the pool, wearing all of his clothes, with his cellphone in his pocket (another story, another day). The car keys were in there too, but the alarm button didn't seem the least bit affected. Anyway, later that night, as we were bemoaning having to get a new phone (and of course we don't have cell phone insurance), my mom suggested rice. Yup, take battery out, put the phone in a ziploc baggie with rice and leave overnight. "Try it, whaddya got to lose?" she implored. Well, sure as shit, it worked. We didn't have white rice, but as it turns out long grain and wild rice from Rice-A-Roni works too (minus spice packets). Less rice, but same phone! When I asked her how she knew to do that, she told me "I saw it on All My Children". Huh.