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)








 

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.

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/

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!

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.

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.

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.