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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Another Year Older and Deeper in Debt...

We forgot my mother's birthday exactly once. And really, that's all it takes. Once and you will never forget it again. I mean completely forgot - no cake, no presents; not even a hastily crayoned piece of construction paper reading "Happy Birthday". The day after, in a pathetic attempt to make it up, my father brought home a cake; my mother laughed - a humorless, bitter sound if ever there was; a sound to make you want to wrap yourself in woolen blankets and move out of the house. We would not be celebrating a day late, we blew our one and only shot. Any other day but the actual day was going to be too late and we hung our heads in shame for an entire year. I mean, honestly, this is the only person in the world who will never forget your birthday, considering she was one of the main characters in the event of your receiving the gift of life. While we never forgot again, we often screwed up her birthday gifts - ugly ill-fitting robes with zippers (giving the wearer, regardless of size, the appearance of a poorly packed sausage), perfume purchased at the Woolworth counter (next to the lip balm and bubbalicious), handkerchiefs (again Woolworths) and I barely have the nerve to mention the slippers that appeared to be boots, which would work I suppose if your mother was Robin Hood. Gifts clearly purchased in haste, or worse, not taking the honoree into account at all. Gifts that screamed 'You are an after thought' at best and 'I hate your f*@*ing guts' at worst. It's amazing that she didn't throw these paltry items at us, or discontinue feeding us. We would have done better to throw greasy coins in an envelope, or to give her her own wallet. As we got older, we did a better job by actually asking her what she wanted; exactly what she wanted or needed. My father improved his practices as well opting for jewelry most of the time, although I was always sent around the corner at the last minute to purchase a card.

Alternately, our mother never once forgot our birthdays or provided shitty, useless, downright embarrassing gifts. Our birthdays she always got just right, except for one little, barely noticeable piece. If we didn't have a party (roller rinks, bowling alleys, McDonalds, or some other outside venue - mom was not a fan of having large numbers of children running around the house with a donkey tail and moving her dining chairs around) we got to have the meal of our choice. Sometimes it was pizza, sometimes chinese food; more often than not it was something homemade that required some large amount of time be spent by her in the kitchen. We still request the same meals: my brother gets stuffed peppers and I get loin of pork with sauerkraut and mashed potatoes and my husband has been known to get a veal cutlet request fulfilled. Our gifts were always something we mentioned we wanted or needed, or something we didn't know we wanted but realized that we did when they were presented - video games, the right boots, real perfume, hockey tickets. We asked and we received.

The only problem came when it was time for cake. As children, we didn't realize this was a problem and could have gone our whole lives without noticing, if our mother did not make such a drastic turnaround with the birthday dessert in recent years. Sara Lee or Pepperidge Farm frozen desserts were served without fail on our birthdays. You know those frozen cakes (iced) that cost like two for five dollars (well actually they're two for seven now, no doubt due to inflation). Chocolate iced, vanilla iced, coconut (you know it - iced) and I believe there was a strawberry shortcake type of offering as well. If defrosted in time, these cakes are quite tasty and provide a refreshing perspective on the idea of cake. I actually looked forward to my frozen, uniformly square cake each year and knew we were having a larger group than usual if she purchased two. My favorite remains a devils food treat with chocolate icing, but I won't say no to the coconut one either (coconut flakes included).

Somehow, along the way, my mother has picked up the knack for baking, so no more frozen delicacies for us. She now makes candy, toffee, brownies (with candy bars and powdered sugar that will make you need to change your underwear) and you guessed it - cake. These things are made from scratch (which I understand is hard to come by) and will blow your hair back, or at least make you re-think your love of Sara Lee. With my birthday coming up, my mother offered to make something that contained cherries and involved the word ganache. I'm certain that I looked confused and then requested Duncan Hines. Baby steps my friends.

This weeks tip: What with all the baking and confections being made in my mother's kitchen, it behooves her to figure out how to do these things with a little less fat than ordinary recipes call for. I like me some cake, but I like to fit in my jeans as well. For yellow cakes you can use applesauce or non-fat plain yogurt to replace the oil (equal measure) and for chocolate cake you can also use pureed prunes to replace the oil portion. While I haven't actually tried the prunes trick, I can attest to the applesauce tip. Really yummy, moist cake. Complete aside, I have used non-fat plain yogurt instead of mayo in chicken salad and it was fantastic.

Hair it Loud

My cousin Terri cut her hair with a hole punch when we were kids. She hid under a coffee table crying and refusing to come out, so afraid was she of what my aunt would say or do upon discovering the ridiculousness that was her hair. I don't remember if there was any punishment (other than looking kind of foolish) for her; mostly I remember that we laughed. Terri was maybe four or five, definitely no more than six when she made this bold gesture that one can only can blame on the folly of the young; it grew out eventually and she remained the cherubic little cutie she always was. I, on the other hand, spent nearly my entire childhood with hair that made others scratch their heads and remark "aww, look at that nice, little slow girl".

Now my mother could braid (double french braids being a specialty), and do pony and pig tails like nobody's business. Beyond that, it was as if I had committed a grave crime that my mother was hell bent on revenging with continuous hairtastrophes. She offers her left-handedness as an explanation for the sadistic acts performed, repeatedly, on my unsuspecting head, but honestly no one who makes such errors in hair styling would continue to do so unless there was a genuine dislike for the victim.

The first such horror found me at the age of three or four nearly shorn bald due to my mother hacking away so much. One of my aunts had to intervene, at my father's insistence, and I feel certain that people asked my mother if was recently returned from some sort of work camp or on the mend from a horrible illness. Like I mentioned previously, one would think that my mother would stop there; no dice. She claims she kept it so short at a young age on purpose, so that it would grow in thicker when I was older; downright suspect if you ask me.

The haircuts continued through my childhood, and while not quite as drastic as that first one they were absurd in their own right. My mother is left handed, however she did not own a pair of scissors made for left handed people, nor did she even own scissors meant for cutting hair. What she did have was a cutting implement left over from my grandmother's house that in size and rustyness resembled civil war era pruning shears(we could have carbon dated that mess). This was the tool with which my mother performed her magic. She might have better served her purposes with a plastic butter knife.

Other than the time in the second grade when my mother sent me to get a Dorothy Hamill cut - you know if Dorothy Hamill was a lesbian living in the Eastern block - my mother kept my hair style simple: long and straight with bangs. I'll grant you that long and straight is not difficult to maintain even for the seriously inept at cutting hair. Even if cut sloppily (as mine always was), it is not that noticeable and can be 'covered' up with the creative use of barrettes and bobby pins. Bangs are another story altogether as they sit at the top of your face. My mother never learned to cut them straight and in an attempt to straighten them out, she would go shorter and shorter. The cutting only stopped when I bore a striking resemblance to someone who was just released from an insane asylum. The little bit of bang left was an uneven tuft of hair, approximately six inches from my eyebrows, giving me a look of perpetual surprise. I want to say that this was the worst of it, but I do not like to lie. It was far from okay, not by damn sight. The antiquity of the cutting implement coupled with my mother's left-handedness added a succession of dents in the skin on my forehead. Affectionately called 'poke holes' by my mother, my forehead would remain battered and remarkably red for days following a haircut.

Unfortunately, for me, the cutting of my hair was not nearly enough for mom. My mother was a fan of using curlers and hot rollers on my head as well. Picture days at school, holidays, family parties - all of these events found me the night before with hard plastic gnawing at my tender skull. Here's a headful of plastic and metal, now go to sleep. That's right I (and every other girl who grew up in the seventies) had to sleep at a sixty degree angle giving one a crick in the neck and a headache at best. If it wasn't the innocuous looking pink curler with a styrofoam like material wrapped around my hair and clipped in, then it was very large yellow rollers (looking like wiffle balls that were made into cylinders) held in place with metal pins and clips. Whoever is responsible for the creation of these beautifying implements was a sick, sick puppy. Probably the same bastard who came up with the eyelash curler.

Thankfully, my mother put down her scissors (or they gave up the ghost) when I entered the sixth grade. She took me to a real haircutting salon and allowed me to pick my own haircut. I chose the mullet.

This weeks’ tip: For someone who was so abusive to hair, my mother believed it should be soft and shiny. When she was a kid she says she used beer for shine and mayonnaise for silkiness, and there was some mention of eggs. Above all these home remedies, however, she recommends a product made by Alberto V05, which has apparently been in use since the 1960s. It is called conditioning hairdressing and comes in a tube. It has the consistency of vaseline and a little tiny dab will do ya - shiny, soft hair achieved for under five bucks. The tube lasts forever too (the tube I have currently has been in my possession since the 90s), and it has different sets of directions on it depending on the outcome you're looking for.

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.