While reading the real estate section, my wife Jen called out to me. “Hey, Eric, check this out. You know that community we love? One of the houses is available, has everything we want plus a big yard and a pool. And get this – they’re asking only $275,000! That’s well within our budget!”
“Seriously? Those houses usually go for twice as much! Wonder why it’s so low.”
“The agent’s number is right here” replied Jen. “Let’s call.”
After a brief phone conversation, we agreed to meet at the house at noon. When we arrived, the real estate agent explained to us that the previous owners had moved back to England for work purposes and were anxious for a quick sale – even at a loss.
The community was lovely and families were outside enjoying the great weather. The house we had our eye on was even more beautiful than we imagined – not a thing wrong. We asked the agent to make arrangements for an inspector to check everything out and a few days later he reported the house to be in excellent condition. Any doubts were removed from our minds.
“Well, babe”, I said, giving Jen a hug, “looks like we just found our dream house!”
Two weeks later we moved in and everyone was extremely welcoming. In fact, the guy next door came over the first night we were in the house to invite us to a barbecue that weekend. We knew we were going to love this place.
The barbecue was fun and gave us a chance to meet all our new neighbors. Later that night at home we talked about how nice everyone was; in particular, Jen was surprised by how helpful the men were – “Except for that one awkward scene when Barb got annoyed with Gil because his potato salad had too much mayo!” she laughed.
As time went by, we couldn’t help noticing that all the men were house-husbands while all the women went to work. How odd!One night Gil called to invite me to the weekly Friday night poker game at his house and Jen to a ladies book club night at Susan’s.
The card game was going well and I was on a winning streak when out of the blue Gil asked “So, Eric, when are you gonna get your balls snipped?”
Totally thrown off base, I gagged on my drink. “Excuse me??” I sputtered.
“You know. Snipped! We’re all snipped” Gil answered, making little scissor cutting gestures with his fingers. “Dr. Susan does it, smooth and easy. Our wives convinced us life would be much calmer that way and it is. Here’s her number.”
Mumbling hasty excuses, I hurriedly left the game and dashed home, colliding with Jen running home from the other direction.
“Do you know what they do here?!?” she asked, horrified.
I nodded frantically. “And the only things getting cut are our losses! C’mon! We’re outta here!”
You know how it is when you see a person or hear a name and it sort of rings a bell but it’s not in its usual context so you don’t make the connection?
Yeah, that’s what happened to me when I discovered Carlton’s Candy Coop – my favorite place for all my sweet-tooth cravings.
Chocolates, nougats, peanuts, caramels … all those mouth-watering, sugar-rushing, delectable tummy treats that stick to your teeth but you don’t care because they’re just too damn yummy!
Then it hit me. Carlton. Carlton? Carlton! But of course! Carl Carlton was my dentist!
“Jesus Christ, Marco! I’m a nervous wreck!” wailed Tina. “Meeting your mother for the first time is freaking me out! Do I look ok? What if she doesn’t like me?”
“Are you kidding me, babe? You look great! She’s gonna love you! Besides … my mother thinks we’re just friends; she won’t be judging you!” replied Marco with a huge grin and a bit too much enthusiasm as he selected his mother’s favorite Dean Martin record.
“But honey, you’ve told me how your mother scrutinizes everything with an eagle eye and doesn’t miss a trick. I’m scared of her and we haven’t even met yet! The pressure is killing me! What if she figures out we haven’t been honest with her?” Tina was getting frantic.
Marco reached out and pulled her close, giving her a comforting hug. His mother never liked any of his gitlfriends, saying no one was good enough for him. Just this once Marco wanted her to likr being with Tina for who she was, without any preconceived notions – even if it meant keeping the truth from her for a while.
“Babe, try to relax. Ma’s bark is worse than her bite. I promise, there’s nothing to worry about. You’re getting yourself all worked up for no reason. When my mother finally hears the truth, it won’t matter that we didn’t tell her right away; she’ll already be crazy about you! I’m not a little boy and I don’t need my mother’s permission for anything. As long as Dean Martin is playing in the background, she’ll be fine.” It sounded to Tina like Marco was trying to convince himself as well as her.
The ring of the doorbell was expected but it still startled Marco and Tina. Carrying a box of Italian pastries, Marco’s mother Francesca arrived promptly at 6:00 – ready and quite curious to meet this woman sharing her son’s new house. Introductions were made, niceties exchanged and then Tina excused herself to check on dinner. “She certainly knows her way around the kitchen well enough; maybe her cooking won’t be so bad” Francesca thought hopefully while keeping a close eye on her son’s “house mate”.
While Tina put the finishing touches on dinner, Marco brought out some appetizers. “Ah, bruschetta!” exclaimed Francesca but when she bit into the small thin slice of toasted Italian bread, she discovered the topping was raw meat. “It’s steak tartare, Ma” explained Marco. Francesca made a horrified face and hastily deposited her half-chewed mouthful into a paper napkin. “O Dio mio!Raw meat will give you food poisoning!” Francesca exclaimed. “I hope the rest of the meal is cooked”, she thought.
In an attempt to calm his mother down and get her mind off the failed appetizers, Marco decided to give her a tour of the house he shared with Tina.
“Look, Ma. Isn’t this nice? A large airy kitchen with an island and plenty of room for a table and chairs. Here’s the dining room with a buffet and hutch filled with glasses and dishes that belonged to Tina’s great-grandmother. Isn’t the furniture beautiful? We got at a Roma’s in Brooklyn, imported from Italy. We even have a fenced-in backyard and patio with a barbecue grill. But the best part is two big bedrooms, each with a separate bathroom so there’s no fighting over who gets to shower first.”
Marco realized he was saying too much and talking way too fast; he laughed self-consciously, feeling like he was 10 years old again and his mother’s laser eyes were burning right through his skull after catching him in a lie. He squirmed uncomfortably and quickly closed the bathroom door when he noticed the towels that were on the rack were embroidered with the words “HIS” and “HERS”.
Francesca just nodded her head and mumbled “That’s nice” every so often; she may have seemed indifferent but that was far from true. If Francesca saw the bathroom towels, she gave no indication. Now Marco was nervous about that … a careless mistake on his part.
“Come in the kitchen, Ma. Let’s have a nice glass of wine to celebrate your first visit to our house” Marco suggested.
“Our house” thought Francesca.
Francesca sipped her wine and silently simmered on a low boil, her thoughts working overtime while Marco and Tina puttered around the kitchen. “Well, Tina certainly made herself right at home, bringing over all her great-grandmother’s dishes and glasses! I don’t get it. Unmarried men and women sharing a house?” Francesca asked herself. “Maybe in a big house with five or six other people and a lot of bedrooms, but an intimate space with two people of the opposite sex? I don’t like it! And how come the bedrooms have such big beds? Something fishy’s going on here!” Francesca tapped her foot impatiently, her eyes taking everything in.
Finally dinner was ready; throughout the meal, Francesca couldn’t help noticing how attentive Tina was to Marco. By now she was very suspicious about their relationship; she was sure there was more than just friendship between the two of them and their little interactions further convinced her there was something brewing between her son and his “house mate”.
Recognizing the look on his mother’s face, Marco said “I know what you’re thinking, Ma, but I told you before – Tina and I are just friends. House mates. Don’t go making a big deal out of nothing.” Francesca smiled thinly and replied “Whatever you say, Marco”. But in her head she was thinking “House mates, my ass!”
About a week later Tina said to Marco “I know this is gonna sound crazy but I can’t find the napkin rings I used the night your mother was here. I’ve looked everywhere for them. You don’t think your mother took them, do you?”
“Well, I can’t imagine why she’d do that”, Marco replied, “but there’s only one way to find out. I’ll send her an email.”
Dear Ma – Crazy question! Tina’s napkin rings are missing. Now, I’m not saying you TOOK the napkin rings and I’m not saying you DIDN’Ttake them but they have been missing since you were here the other night and you were the only other person to see them. Love, Marco
A reply came through one minute later:
Dear Marco – Funny you should ask! Now, I’m not saying that you DO sleep with Tina and I’m not saying that you DON’T sleep with her but if she was sleeping alone in her OWN bed she would have found the napkin rings by now – under her pillow. Love, Ma
Today’s burning question from Cyranny is: “What’s one odd thing about yourself that you would never want to change?”
Perhaps it’s not so terribly odd but for me it is a no-brainer: Promptness, as in I am never late … never; there’s no good excuse or acceptable justification to make anyone wait for me because in the scheme of things, I am just not that important.
I have a family member who is consistently late and by consistently I mean late for everything, even her daughter’s recent wedding (how is something like that even possible?); we like to joke around that she’s going to be late for her own funeral but all the joking in the world doesn’t erase how irritating it is to have to wait for her every single time and it’s gotten to the point that we have to fib a little and give her a 20 minute earlier meeting time knowing she’ll be 20 minutes late but will actually show up on time … lol … see how that works?
Sure, shit happens, like being unable to control the weather or traffic; maybe we can’t control it but we can anticipate it by checking our weather apps and bringing along a freaking umbrella or listening to the traffic report and leaving the house 15 to 20 minutes earlier than the other guy … the guy who doesn’t care if he shows up late and makes people wait.
I’d rather be half an hour early for my doctor appointment than arrive 5 minutes late; at least I can get myself a cup of coffee, listen to the radio and relax in my car until it’s time to go in, even though chances are excellent the doctor will be running late!
In that case I am faced with the one thing I dislike more than being late and that, my friends, is called “The HurryUp And Wait Syndrome”; man oh man, does that ever burn my biscuits – like an old Sunbeam Toaster Oven stuck at 475º!
“Eavesdropper, eh? Terrific odds. He’s a mudder and on this muddy track today, I’m taking that as a good sign. Just look at his lineage! Yep, Millie, I predict Eavesdropper’s the winner of Race 9” Harry Goldman boasted to his wife.
She brushed him off with a wave of her hand. “Whatever, Harry Houdini. Not one of your so-called magical predictions has paid off yet.”
“All right, Millie. I admit you got lucky today. What’s your secret? Been communicating with a horse whisperer?” Harry asked, annoyed at his wife’s winning streak.
“Oh, zip it, Harry! If it wasn’t for me, we’d be in the poor house. You haven’t won all day! Now be quiet and let me concentrate on my choice for this race.” Millie buried her nose in the racing form.
Harry heaved his portly body out of his seat. “Pardon moi, madame. I’m gonna place my bet on Eavesdropper. Then we’ll see who’s got horse sense!”
“Haha!! Horse sense! That’s a good one, Harry! You’ve been sittin’ on yours so long you’re now a horse’s ass!” Millie cackled. “Go on up. I’ll be along in a minute. I’m thinking here.” Snapping her Bazooka like a bubblegum queen, Millie studied the lineup for the next race, then clickety-clacked her way to the betting windows, her leopard print heels pinging off the metal steps like a kid’s cap gun.
Bets placed, Harry and Millie settled in for the race. “I got a good feeling about this one, Millie!” Harry said excitedly, rubbing his hands together.
The starting gun shot out and the announcer shouted “And they’re off!”
Eavesdropper took the lead immediately and didn’t let go. Anxious, Harry sprang to his feet, urging his horse on. Suddenly, the horse in fourth place started picking up steam. Faster and faster he galloped, flying past the other horses, and at the last second crossed the finish line just before Eavesdropper.
The announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “I can’t believe my eyes! What a shocker! The winner by a nose …. Muddy Waters!”
Harry slumped into his seat, defeated. “I don’t freaking believe it! Of all the rotten luck! Eavesdropper was a shoe-in.”
Millie, however, was happy as a clam. “Well, I won again, Harry! Good old Muddy Waters brought it home for mama. I just knew it!”
Harry stared at his wife, amazement mingled with contempt dripped from his creased brow. “Now wait just a damn minute! You won again?? Millie, I’m begging you! How’d you do it?”
“Harry, calm yourself before you have a coronary! It’s really a no-brainer. Remember how you said the track was muddy today? When I saw the name ‘Muddy Waters’, I knew I had to go with him. I was inspired.”
“Ok, I’ll give you that one, Millie. But how’d you pick all the other winners?”
Millie chewed her bottom lip, not sure if she wanted to reveal her secret. Finally she blurted out “It’s the colors! If I like what the jockey’s wearing, I’ll pick that horse.”
Flabbergasted, Harry spewed out his beer and howled with laughter. “That’s your strategy? COLORS?!? Ok, Mrs. Crayola. Who you picking for the last race?”
Millie looked around surreptitiously. Tapping the racing form with her fire engine red fingernail, she pointed to a name on the card.
Harry was nonplussed by Millie’s revelation.
“HIM?? Rabelais? His color is ‘Eiffel Tower Brown’ – like a friggin’ turd! Are you sure that’s how you wanna go, Millie?” Harry was almost giddy, anticipating Millie’s long-awaited loss.
“Shh! Not so loud, Harry! People are listening! He’s from France and you know how I love my Frenchies! You could sayI-FELL for them!” Millie elbowed Harry and laughed gleefully at her pun.
“Hardy-har-har!! Aren’t you the clever one?” Harry groaned. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but I give up, Millie. Go with your cockamamie hunch and bet it all on Rabelais!”
Millie was already at the window, her chubby fist clutching her money, before Harry was even finished talking.
My parents fought just about all the time; from breakfast until Dad left for work they would argue about something, then they’d start in again after dinner.
I’d hear them arguing while I did my homework; at night while trying to get to sleep I would hear other noises coming from my parent’s bedroom which were pretty loud but they definitely weren’t fighting and the next morning they were all smiles – go figure.
Then one day my friend’s older sister told us we had to have a talk; she was 12 years old and already wearing a bra with a C cup so we paid attention. That was the infamous day we learned about S-E-X and boy, was that an eye-opener!
I was a pretty curious and precocious child so after that talk I figured out darn quick what those noises were from Mom and Dad’s bedroom at night and why they were always so happy the next morning after one of their big arguments.
Right then and there I promised myself when I got married I would fight with my husband as often as I could; I mean, if Mom and Dad were that happy every morning, there had to be something to this S-E-X thing after all.
“Justice of the Peace? You wanna elope, Gina? Our parents haven’t even met to discuss the wedding!”
“Exactly, Taylor, and it’s gonna stay that way!” said Gina Mezzacappa in her irresistible Marisa Tomei voice. “You know why that is, Taylor? Because my parents have had my wedding all figured out since I was a baby. You saw the Godfather so you know that I know what I’m talking about! There are two things you gotta face right off the bat: number one, our parents are about as different as you can get and number two, left in my family’s hands, our wedding will rival a motion picture extravaganza under the direction of Francis Ford Coppola. Let me ask you a question, Taylor. Have you ever been to an Italian wedding? No? That’s what I thought. Remember my cousin Rosellla’s engagement party? Well, picture that only ten times worse. There will be no elegant ceremony in your parent’s country club like your sister had, with one maid of honor, one best man and a string quartet. There will be no dainty hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne served by an attentive, white-gloved waitstaff followed by dinner of Beef Wellington, fingerling potatoes and haricots verts. The delicate wedding cake with gold leaf flowers? Ain’t gonna happen. Our romantic wedding night in the country club honeymoon suite overlooking the lake? Fugetaboutit! My parents are old school, Taylor, and only want a real Italian wedding. My father would rather swim through the shark-infested Straits of Messina than go against tradition. Now picture this: the ceremony will be held at Our Lady of Perpetual Hope Church with my mother’s cousin, Monsignor DelFino, officiating. There will be at least ten bridesmaids and groomsmen, four junior bridesmaids, a couple of flower girls and a ring bearer in addition to the maid of honor and best man. The reception will be held at The Villa Barone catering hall where my brother-in-law Carlo, the newly-elected fire chief, had a sweet sixteen birthday party for his daughter, my niece Anna Marie. The cocktail hour will consist of a cash bar and a buffet of hot and cold antipasti, sausage and peppers, potato croquettes, stuffed artichokes, prosciutto with melon and garlic knots. The reception dinner will be Italian wedding soup, manicotti, salad, lemon intermezzo followed by a choice of chicken marsala with penne, prime rib or filet of sole with string beans almondine and mashed potatoes. There will be fennel, mixed nuts and assorted fruit on each table along with bottles of wine. The cake will be five, maybe six tiers and for the kids a chocolate fondu fountain with Twinkies, brownie bites, cheesecake cubes and marshmallows. There will be a live band with traditional Sicilian folk dancers and my cousin Vinny will play the tarantella on his accordion. Finally, the pièce de résistance – the floating Viennese Dessert Hour and flaming cherries jubilee served with spumoni, gelato, espresso and anisette. Our wedding night will be spent sitting around my parent’s kitchen table with you, me and my mother counting the money we got as wedding gifts while my father records everything in an accounting ledger like Matthew the Tax Collector. OR ….. we go to City Hall, just you and me, get hitched and spend two glorious weeks alone in sunny Aruba. Your call.”
My son David is a librarian by vocation. Then there are the times he moonlights as lead tenor with the Taconic Opera Company and as a church singer for special holy days. He has a God-given talent and is quite brilliant. I like to think he inherited some of my musical skills as well. His brother Bill was there that night some 20+ years ago when David blew the roof off a karaoke bar singing an Iron Maiden song; at that point in time no one in the family knew David could sing. He also plays the bass trombone. Did I mention he has perfect pitch?
David’s wife Jessica is a doctor specializing in making chemo for cancer patients – an intense and demanding job. Somehow she also manages to be a super mom – part Wonder Woman, part Energizer Bunny. She is a beautiful woman, a stunning mezzo soprano with a wondrous soul and a remarkable mind. She has performed alongside David and is also a church singer often called on for weddings and funerals. Jessica plays the piano and cello and was chosen for All County Choir and All County Orchestra while in school. I’m not sure if she has perfect pitch; if not, then damn close.
(I’d like to take a second to mention a bit of serendipity: When Jessica was with the All County Orchestra, David was, too, though they did not know each other at that time. They did not officially meet until 15 years later. Funny how that works. Now, back to the story.)
David and Jessica have a 3 ½ year old daughter named Colette – my granddaughter whom I mention frequently when writing personal posts. She’s a joy, an absolutely glorious child. Colette loves music and is taking ballet lessons. She can also dig her heels in like nobody’s business. Colette is a spitfire who obviously inherited equal amounts of her parent’s Sicilian-Irish-Italian genes. Add a splash of a Mt Etna temper when pushed beyond the breaking point, courtesy of yours truly, and you have the total package. A real “testa dura” or as we say in slang “gabadost”.
As you can see, this little family of mine is extremely musical. David and Jessica sing around the house and now Colette has begun singing along … and she’s not shy about it. Recently, while singing “Puff the Magic Dragon”, David and Jessica exchanged looks, bit their lips and tried not to laugh. With eyes rolling heavenward, they wondered “Is there any chance on God’s green earth that we created a child who can’t sing in tune?”
Every day I make my way north on the Cross Island Parkway heading for the Throggs Necks Bridge and home to Westchester County. And every day I see this same fellow slowly pedaling his tired old bicycle. We are riding parallel to one another. He is on my right; further right and out of view is the Little Neck Bay. When the bay is in view, it is stunning.
His shock of silver hair is startling and, together with his tissue-white skin, it is obvious this fellow doesn’t get much sun. I had him pegged for an elitist-type, a retired executive who drinks very dry martinis and lathers himself in SPF 80.
This one particularly splendid day I found myself stuck in traffic; all arteries clogged with nothing getting through. I turned off the engine and relaxed.
At that very moment along came my pale horseman and as I glanced over, he waved and rang the bicycle’s bell. CHING!! I waved and he half-rode, half-walked his bike to my car. I rolled down the window and a very unlikely friendship blossomed.
This fellow was not at all what I imagined. He was a transplant from – of all places – Scotland by way of France! Said his name was Brian Duff-something (strong but utterly enchanting accent).
Did you know there’s one place in all of Scotland where palm trees grow? It’s true! My friend Brian Duff-something told me.
Now every day we wave “Bonjour” and I pray for another traffic jam.
Fandango asks us: DO YOU EVER USE A MEAL DELIVERY SERVICE SUCH AS DOORDASH (OR WHATEVER LOCAL EQUIVALENTS ARE AVAILABLE IN YOUR PART OF THE WORLD)? IF SO, HOW OFTEN WOULD YOU SAY YOU HAVE MEALS DELIVERED TO YOUR DOORSTEP?
“Mom! I’m starvin’! What’s for dinner!”
“Me too, Mom! I’m so hungry! I didn’t eat all day!”
“Well, I’m hugrier than both of you! I’m so hungry I could eat a horse!”
“So what! I could eat a hippo!”
“Big deal! I could eat an elephant!”
“Kids! Please! I’ve been busy cleaning the house and doing laundry all day. I forgot to take something out of the freezer for dinner. We’ll have to get something delivered.”
“Yeah! I want Smashburger. Let’s call DoorDash or GrubHub or Uber Eats!”
“No, Jimmy! We had Smashburger last night. I wanna get Panera Bread!”
“Well, too bad, Betty. Nobody wants Panera Bread except you, right Bobby?”
“Well, I don’t want Smashburger OR Panera Bread. I want Domino’s!”
“SMASHBURGER!”
“PANERA BREAD!”
“DOMINO’S!”
“SMASHBURGER! PANERA BREAD! DOMINO’S”
“SMASHBURGER! PANERA BREAD! DOMINO’S”
“Kids! Stop shouting! I’ve got an awful headache and I’m going upstairs to rest.”
“SMASHBURGER! PANERA BREAD! DOMINO’S!”
“SMASHBURGER! PANERA BREAD! DOMINO’S!”
“DADDY’S HOME! DADDY’S HOME!”
“Hey, guys! What’s all the shouting about? I can hear you all the way out in my car. What’s going on?”
“Mommy forgot to take something out of the freezer for dinner…”
“So we’re getting DoorDash or GrubHub or Uber Eats…”
“I want Smashburger, Betty wants Panera Bread and Bobby wants Domino’s.”
“All right! Calm down! Where’s your mom, anyway?”
“She’s got a headache.”
“Again!”
“And she’s upstairs resting.”
“OK, listen guys. I’m going upstairs to check on mom. Watch a movie and be quiet!“
“I wanna watch Spiderman!”
“You’re stupid! I wanna watch Mulan!”
“I hate you! I wanna watch Super Mario Bros!”
“MOM! DAD! MOM! DAD! MOM! DAD!”
“STOP SHOUTING THIS MINUTE!! MOM AND I HAVE DECIDED. WE’RE ORDERING FROM THE DINER SO EVERYONE CAN GET WHATEVER THEY WANT FROM ONE PLACE. SIT THERE WHILE I GET THE MENU.”
What the hell are you looking at? Never seen a raccoon before? And what’s with the fence? A “NO TRESPASSING” sign would have sufficed. Whatever happened to “Mi casa es su casa”? You wanna play a little game of “Climb This Fence”? OK, you’re on! I can climb this fence before you can say: “Rocky Raccoon runs rings around reclining redheads”. Psst! Turn around, Carrot Top! I’m on the other side. Haha! Look, in my defense, I got a wife and six kids waiting for me back at the dumpster and we gotta eat. A baby’s full dirty diaper feeds a family of eight quite nicely. Hey, don’t look at me like that! One man’s poop is another’s Pâté de Poulet. Next time, leave some tabasco sauce; my wife likes it hot! Ha-cha-cha-cha!
“So, what brings you here today, Lou?” asked Dr. Patterson.
“I can’t sleep,Doc!” replied Lou in despair. “I’m so tired! I haven’t slept a wink!”
“If I had a dollar for every time I heard that!” laughed the doctor. “Look, Lou. Of all the ailments people discuss with me, the greatest number of complaints isn’t about body aches, irritable bowels, erectile dysfunction or psoriasis: the most talked-about topic is lack of sleep. Falling asleep at bedtime and getting a good night’s rest is a problem that plagues millions so you’re not alone in this. I’m going to ask you some questions; let’s see if we can come up with a solution.”
Lou yawned and nodded in agreement. His wife Marie chimed in. “Maybe you should start by telling the doctor how much coffee you drink every day.”
“Ok, that’s an excellent suggestion. How much coffee do you drink, Lou?” asked Dr. Patterson, his fingers hovering over the keys of his computer.
“Oh, I guess about eight cups a day and an espresso after dinner. We have one of those – whatchamacallits – Nespresso machines. Fantastic things! Just pop in a little plastic capsule and brew yourself fresh coffee in no time”
“Whoa! That’s a lot of caffeine!” The doctor was clearly surprised.” You need to cut back. If you drink that much coffee, at least half of it should be decaf. I’d like to eventually get you down to just one cup of regular coffee in the morning. How about alcohol?”
“Go ahead, Lou. Answer the doctor” Marie said, giving her husband a nudge with her elbow.
“I’ll have a couple of glasses of my cousin Carlo’s homemade vino while Marie’s preparing dinner. And another glass or two with dinner. Oh yeah, I like a nice sambucca while I’m watching “The Tonight Show” with that Jimmy Fallon. He’s a funny guy!”
The doctor stared at Lou allowing his words to sink in. “That’s five alcoholic drinks per day!” Dr. Patterson was flabbergasted.
“Give or take. Yeah, that sounds about right” was Lou’s reply as the doctor shook his head in amazement.
“What form of exercise do you engage in?” the doctor asked.
“Exercise!?” squawked Marie. “The strongest parts of his body are hisfingers … from pushing himself away from the dining room table, surfing the interweb and using the remote control.He gets his exercise by watching Stallone running up and down those steps in that Rocky movie … as if that’s gonna work, you stupid jackass!”
Lou’s eyes shot daggers at his wife. She shrugged. “What? It’s the truth, Lou, and you know it.”
“What about your diet, Lou?” asked Dr. Patterson while eyeing Lou’s sizable belly.
“Diet? I ain’t on no diet, doc! My Marie is a fabulous cook!” Lou exclaimed, making her blush. “She makeseverything from scratch, including her pizza, pasta, braciola, arancini – you name it, she can make it. And her ricotta cheesecake? Fuggedaboutit!”
“Well, it’s wonderful that Marie’s such a great cook but it sounds like you’re eating a lot of rich, fattening foods” the doctor replied with concern.
“What’s wrong with pizza?” Lou asked incredulously. “It’s the perfect food – something from all the food groups. You got your carbohydrates, your protein and your dairy, right?”
“Well, technically, yes but I wouldn’t call it ‘the perfect food’. Dr. Patterson entered all Lou’s information into his computer. “Let me get this straight, Lou. Your caffeine and alcohol intake is off the charts, you eat rich foods and desserts, you spend a lot of time in front of some type of device, you stay up late and you don’t exercise. Is that about right?”
“Yeah, I guess” Lou admitted begrudgingly.
“Do you realize that everything you’re doing is adversely affecting your quality of sleep? And what about you, Marie! How well do you sleep?”
“Who, me? Why, I sleep like a rock” Marie answered proudly.
“You’re not kidding! You should hear her snore, doc!” Lou guffawed. “What a racket! It sounds like bocce balls rolling around the court! Hey! That’s probably why I can’t sleep!”
Marie huffed indignantly.
“You snore, Marie? Sounds to me like you could have sleep apnea – a serious disorder. Considering everything we’ve discussed I’m referring you, Lou, to a life management specialist. And Marie, I’m scheduling a sleep disorder study for you.”
Lou and Marie stared at the doctor in shock.
“Can’t you just give me some sleeping pills?” pleaded Lou.
“And maybe all I need are some of those nose strips” Marie suggested hopefully.
“I’m afraid not. You need to make some serious life changes” replied the doctor showing Marie and Lou to the door. “Just stop by the desk on your way out and Victoria will have all the paperwork ready for you.”
“Thanks a lot, Marie, making me tell the doctor everything! Now I gotta see a specialist!” Lou griped. “This is all your fault!”
“Oh, shut up, Lou! Thanks to you, I gotta go for a sleep study! Well, you can get your own damn dinner tonight. I’m on strike!”
Reposting this from 2021. Initially I thought it would be a good companion piece for today’s “Moon River” post on At The Movies in The Rhythm Section. Then I saw Fandango’s comment when this was originally published (see bottom) and I got all verklempt. A giant ‘thank you’, Fan; it really is a fine little story, isn’t it? ❤︎
For as long as I can remember my Uncle Bobby was my idol – the self-proclaimed “Poster Boy for Home Depot”. In fact, I can’t recall a time when he wasn’t fixing this or repairing that. He was the neighborhood handyman, the guy everyone called to replace a broken window or unclog their toilet. He could paint a room like nobody’s business, his cutting-in seams done to perfection without the use of that “sissy painter’s tape”. Yep, he was like a magician, my Uncle Bobby was, and I loved following him around on his odd jobs, delighting at his request for me to hand him a Phillips head screwdriver or a roll of duct tape.
Uncle Bobby was a no-frills kind of guy; what you saw was what you got with him. He was my dad’s brother, living with us in the spare room of our old rambling Victorian house. He must have replaced just about every board of the huge porch that wrapped itself around the house. My mom would complain that the decking looked like a patchwork quilt with no two pieces of wood being exactly the same. Uncle Bobby would always say the same thing: “Don’t worry ‘bout nothing, Margie. They’ll all weather with age and you’ll never be able to tell ‘em apart.” But they never did and the porch truly looked like a jigsaw puzzle.
The biggest problem with Uncle Bobby was the fact that he couldn’t really fix anything that required true skill, like a washing machine or a radio or a power lawnmower. Whenever he attempted such jobs, he’d inevitably have a couple of pieces left over even after he finished putting the whole thing back together! He’d toss all the unused parts into a ten-gallon drum in our basement (which was also his workshop). Funny thing was everything he was asked to repair would work fine for a while, then breakdown after several days anyway. Uncle Bobby would explain that he “fixed the dang thing but it was just its time to go”. I think I was the only one who knew about his stash of leftover essential pieces which doubled in size on a weekly basis.
Truth was Uncle Bobby had more crap in our basement than Carter had liver pills and he was slowly but surely inching his way over to the cramped corner where my mom had her washing machine. She finally put her foot down one day and demanded he either clean up his crap or build a wall around her laundry area so she wouldn’t have to look at all his crap. Rather than clean up the place, Uncle Bobby built mom a wall. Even she had to admit it was the best looking wall she’d ever seen, with a door and everything!
Believe it or not, Uncle Bobby was a genuine ladies’ man and he “cleaned up real nice” as old Mrs. Jenkins liked to say. He’d wash up in the basement using Lava Soap, shave with menthol Barbasol and splash on the Aqua Velva then head out to Kelly’s Place for ribs and a few beers. All the girls liked Uncle Bobby but his favorites were the Andrews twins, Patty and Paula. They didn’t seem to mind the perpetual ring of dirt under Uncle Bobby’s fingernails; no matter how many times he washed his hands that grime stayed put. He said it was “the mark of a hard-working man”.
Uncle Bobby loved watching those old black and white tv shows like Flash Gordon, Superman and The Twilight Zone. He had a real fascination with outer space and anything that could fly. That’s probably why he loved “The Honeymooners” – that classic Jackie Gleason comedy show; he’d laugh his head off every time Ralph Kramden roared his trademark tagline “To the moon, Alice!”
I’ll never forget that one Christmas when I got a remote control airplane; I think Uncle Bobby spent more time playing with that damn thing than I did. He was happy as a pig in slop the day he found a used one at the church tag sale. He’d tinker with that thing every chance he could, making it fly higher and faster. He’d inevitably forget to include a piece or two which he’d just toss into that catch-all drum of his.
So one day out of nowhere right in the middle of dinner Uncle Bobby announced he had his mind set on building a rocket ship. Well, I think everyone thought it was an asinine idea except me and they all laughed it off as him just joking around as usual. But I knew Uncle Bobby better than anyone and he was dead serious. He told me he was gonna use all the bits and pieces and spare parts he’d collected over the years. And what he didn’t have, he’d scavenge for in dumpsters, rubbish piles outside people’s houses or the garbage bins behind Home Depot. Those places were like a magical treasure trove for Uncle Bobby and he always came home with something. “You never know when this might come in handy” he’d declare, proudly showing me a discarded catalytic converter or a manual typewriter.
Well, true to his word Uncle Bobby started construction on his rocket ship the morning of April 1st and the neighbors howled that it was the perfect April Fool’s Day joke ever. But it wasn’t no joke to Uncle Bobby and he worked on that craft every day. He pitched a tent in the backyard, rolled out that giant ten-gallon drum and went at it like a man possessed. And I was his helper; my special assignment was to find him a really good helmet and a cooler which I filled with Hawaiian Punch, bologna sandwiches and Twinkies.
By July 4th Uncle Bobby’s rocket ship was finished. To be honest it looked like a pile of junk but he thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever made. He painted it red, white and blue and named it “Independence Day”. By now word had gotten out and the whole neighborhood was there to watch Uncle Bobby attempt to take off into the wild blue yonder. Sporting his best overalls and the cool viking helmet I found for him, he climbed in, waved goodbye and slammed the door shut.
Well, the damn thing sputtered and smoked and made all kinds of weird noises but it suddenly started shaking and actually took off. It was kinda wobbly at first but it just kept on going higher and higher until it disappeared into the clouds. We all stood there with our jaws hanging open, expecting to see the ship come crashing down any second – but it didn’t. We stayed out there for a long time, then gave up and went inside thinking Uncle Bobby would probably just waltz back in when he was good and ready with some great adventure tales to tell.
Damn thing was, we never did see the rocket ship or Uncle Bobby again. Boy, I sure do miss him!
Here’s to you, Rocket Man! Hope you had a great journey, wherever you are. 🚀
“’Settlers or Sellers’, that antiques show is coming on. Wanna watch, Doug?”
Just then the phone rang. It’s our daughter Chrissy talking about how tomorrow’s going to be a gorgeous day and our five grandkids really want us to go to the beach with them.
“Ok, honey. Sounds wonderful. We’ll see you in the morning. Yes, we’re looking forward to it.”
Doug, who had been happily watching “Seinfeld”, was now sitting imperially on the edge of the couch scowling at me.
“What was that remark ‘’we’ll see you in the morning’’? I don’t know about you, Helen, but the only people I’ll be seeing in the morning are my golf buddies. We’re going to rent a couple of carts, play 18 holes, drink martinis with lunch, talk sports and smoke cigars. I’m begging you, Helen. Don’t take my day away!”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic! You can play golf any day. When do we get to go to the beach with the kids.”
“As infrequently as possible!” Doug groused. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Oh, come on! Summer’s almost over and the kids are so looking forward to a day with us.”
“And I’m looking forward to seeing my buddies! We’ve had this outing planned for two weeks. Helen, must I remind you what hell it is going to the beach with the kids?”
“Doug, you’re making it sound horrible.”
“Helen, my love, it is horrible! We’ve been to the beach with the kids exactly three times. Do you know why? Because it’s HELL!”
“But Doug, I hate to disappoint them.”
“And that, my dear, is your Achilles Heel. We start off excited for a great beach day and within an hour it turns into hell. Chrissy brings so much stuff we’re like the Israelites crossing the desert. Who complains the sand is too hot? Who needs a diaper change? Who drops their lunch in the sand? Who fights over the sand toys? Before you know it, everyone’s crying, they want to go home and our wonderful day at the beach is kaput.”
“And you’re the one crying the loudest, Doug” I laughed.
“Damn right I am, woman. It’s a nightmare and you know it! Listen, why don’t I call the guys and suggest our lovely wives join us tomorrow? You haven’t played in months. How about it?”
The idea was very appealing. “Doug, do they still serve those delicious Celtic Guey Cocktails and Waldorf salads?”
“You bet they do! I know they’re you’re favorites. What do you say? Are we on?”
“Yes! We certainly are on! You call the guys and I’ll call Chrissy. I hope the kids aren’t too disappointed.”
Doug kissed the top of my head. “Honey, it may not seem like it now but you’re doing us all a favor. The kids will be just fine – and so will we. Now call Chrissy.”
Feeling just a wee bit guilty, I dialed Chrissy’s number.
“Chrissy, sweetheart. About tomorrow. So sorry to disappoint but your dad just reminded me ……”
That was my mother talking … or perhaps I should say “yelling”. And she had every right to yell because I had once again done something stupid. Yes, it was an accident but if I had listened to my mother in the first place this never would have happened.
It all started when I asked my mother if I could borrow her red nail polish to paint my nails for the pool party at my friend Tina’s house. Mom was ok with me borrowing her polish but gave me strict orders to apply it in the bathroom or the kitchen. If I spilled the polish, cleanup would be easy. I was absolutely forbidden to do my nails in my bedroom or the living room; both rooms had wall-to-wall carpeting and any spills or even a drip could spell catastrophe.
So what did I do?
Well, I had to call Tina with a very important question about the pool party and the only phone in the house was in the living room so I sat on the floor and began to polish my toenails while talking on the phone. Have you ever tried to balance a phone receiver with a 3 foot cord attached between your shoulder and ear while trying to do something else with your hands? Take my word for it; it’s not easy.
Now, I’m not exactly sure how it happened but the cord yanked the phone receiver off my shoulder and, in my attempt to catch it, I knocked over the bottle of my mother’s red nail polish … right on the plush white living room carpet.
I watched in slow-motion horror as the bright red polish oozed out of the bottle and was immediately soaked up by the carpet like a sponge. When I came to my senses, I grabbed the bottle and ran into the bathroom, all the while crying “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” I seized the nail polish remover and a rag and ran back to the scene of the crime. I applied the polish remover to the rag and began dabbing at the spill. While I was able to remove some of the polish, it wasn’t enough and I sat there helplessly staring at a 2” diameter patch of drying redish-pink carpet.The topic of getting dried nail polish out of carpeting was never discussed and back then we didn’t have the web to look things up.
The one good thing about this incident was my parents were not home at the time. I ran into the laundry room and gathered an arsenal of cleaning supplies: a scrub brush, detergent, spray cleaner, bleach, scouring powder, rags and a bucket of water. The combination of products and the use of the scrub brush only made matters worse. The 2” spot was now much bigger and pieces of the thick pile had come out. That area of mother’s expensive wall-to-wall carpeting now resembled a man’s balding head. It was a mess and I was up the creek.
So I did the only logical thing. I moved the coffee table about 8” to “hide” the damage. There! From where I stood the problem was solved and no one would be the wiser.
Or so I thought.
I was about to exit via the back door for Tina’s pool party when my parents came home. I heard my mother before I saw her. In fact, I think the entire neighborhood heard her:
“Nancy Ann Schembre! Get in here this second! What part of ‘do not use nail polish in the living room’ did you not understand? You deliberately ignored what I said, just like you always do, and now my carpet is ruined! Do you think I talk just to hear the sound of my own voice? No pool party for you, young lady. You’re grounded for the rest of the summer!”
I stood there unable to move, staring at my mother in disbelief. Grounded again … and this time for the rest of the summer! My life was over!
With head hung low I sniffled an apology and skulked back to my room but I had a plan. Instead of going to my room, I tiptoed down the stairs to the basement and headed for the back door to make my escape. My hand was on the doorknob when I heard a voice from upstairs.
“Where do you think you’re going? I said you were grounded!”
“Oh, man! You’re upstairs! You can’t even see me! How’d you know?”
“Because I know YOU!”
Then came the linethat gave me the creeps every time I heard it:
A repost of a little vignette written exactly two years ago today which many of my newer readers have never seen. This has always been a favorite of mine; I hope you enjoy it, too.
“Cloak and Dagger and a dozen oysters on ice” was the order placed by a hauntingly familiar voice in the corner.
Her interest piqued, Judy Lowe leaned in a bit to get a better look. Where had she heard that voice before? Finding it a little too dim to see, she decided to go over and check out the situation. Taking her Bloody Mary with her, Judy casually strolled to the end of the bar and wriggled her curvaceous bottom onto the stool.
“Pardonne-moi” Judy cooed. “The name of your drink is tres intriguing.” The man was older than Judy expected but extremely handsome with silver hair and a rich tan. “Has anyone ever mentioned you look like Cary Grant?” she asked smiling flirtatiously.
“Never” he replied in a clipped Bristol accent as he gazed appreciatively at Judy’s decolletage. “Ah, yes. The Cloak and Dagger: the perfect blend of Blackwoods Gin from the Shetland Islands, fresh lime juice, simple syrup, green chartreuse and Extra Brut sparkling wine. It’s the quintessential pairing with oysters.
“Oh my. That sounds luscious! I’m Judy Lowe, a model from Los Angeles. And you are?”
“Enchanté, Judy. My friends call me Archie” and he gently kissed the palm of her hand.
Judy gasped; no man had ever kissed the delicate flesh of her palm. It was so European and sensual.
“Archie, would you mind terribly if I had a little sip of your Cloak and Dagger?” Judy asked. ‘A friend of the male persuasion once told me the perfect drink with oysters is a Bloody Mary and I’d like to see who’s right.”
“Oh Judy, Judy, Judy! Whoever told you that was obviously terribly misinformed or an uneducated boor” Archie teased. “No, you may not have a sip of my drink; you shall have your very own. Barkeep! Please prepare a perfect Cloak and Dagger for the lovely Judy Lowe, a model from Los Angeles.”
When the bartender set the drink before Judy, she clapped her hands in glee like a little girl and reached for the glass but Archie stopped her.
“Oh, no, my dear. This must be done right! It’s a process. First slide the oyster into your mouth and savor the taste. Delight in the pleasure; it should never be rushed. Now, follow with a sip of the Cloak and Dagger and let the juices mingle. That’s a good girl. Now swallow.”
Judy was in ecstasy. Never had she experienced anything so erotic. “Oh my God, Archie! That was beyond heavenly.”
“Let’s raise our glasses, lovely Judy, to the noble oyster and the Cloak and Dagger. May they be forever immortalized as the true nectar of the gods!”
Archie stood and kissed Judy’s palm. “And now, my dear, I must bid you adieu.” He flipped his hat onto his head, tapped the brim and left.
When Judy came back down to earth she discovered a folded piece of paper in her hand. Gently she peeled back the corners to find it was a cocktail napkin on which was scribbled: “Dearest Judy: The world is your oyster. Always, Cary.”
In 1930 at the age of 15 my dad emigrated to the U.S. from Sicily. He spoke no English, had very little money and knew a bit about barbering. He settled in Brooklyn, moving in with friends from his hometown in Sicily, but Dad couldn’t live off the kindness of his friends forever; he needed to find work. Fortunately his friend knew of a barber who was looking for help so Dad applied for the job and started work the next day.
Every morning Dad would show up at the barber shop with a copy of the Italian newspaper, Il Progresso, under his arm. This went on for a week or so until one day his boss said to him in Italian “Hey, Vito. If you want to learn how to speak English, do yourself a favor and stop buying that newspaper. Instead, buy theNew York Times and read it every day.” My dad took that advice to heart and began reading the paper from front to back; sounding out the words he read and dealing with some English-speaking customers is how be became fluent in English. It wasn’t easy but he stuck with it. He was a self-taught man and after a few years he had just a trace of an accent. I give my dad a lot of credit for that.
My parents were introduced by mutual friends and married in 1939; their first baby, a son named Frank, developed nephritis and tragically passed away in 1943 at the age of two. As soon as the death certificate was filed, Dad was drafted. He served his entire tour of duty overseas, something he never liked to talk about. The one thing I do know about Dad’s army days was that he fought in the Battle of the Bulge.
After Dad returned from the war, my sister and I were born and we moved into a new house in The Bronx with my maternal grandparents. During the first few years living there, we had fresh Italian products delivered, including olive oil imported from Sicily. Dad was jealous of the handsome salesman and demanded my mom stop all deliveries. Mom was a beautiful woman and men were naturally attracted to her but she never gave them the time of day. She wasn’t a flirt and the thought of cheating on my dad never crossed her mind; killing him, yes, but cheating on him? Never!
Our family was very musical; we all sang, my sister and I played the piano and Dad played the mandolin. He shocked us by auditioning for our church’s production of The Mikado – and he landed the role! What a riot seeing this mustachioed Sicilian gent made up to look Japanese wearing an authentic kimono and singing Gilbert and Sullivan patter songs. He was the hit of the show!
In 1965 we went to Sicily to visit family. One day my parents went out shopping while my sister and I stayed behind with our cousins. When they returned, my dad had a gift for me – my first Italian rock & roll record, a hit called “Ho Rimasto”(“I Stayed”). Dad hated rock and roll so in my eyes this was just about the coolest thing he ever did!
Years later, when my sister and I had kids, they started calling my dad “Papa”. Dad was always coming up with corny jokes or comments which soon became known as “Papa-Logic”. We’d roll our eyes when he would intentionally order an “Al Pacino” instead of a cappuccino. Dad loved being controversial, too, and took great pride in getting his point across. I remember one day he saw a sign in a pizzeria window which read “WE HAVE THE BEST PIZZA IN TOWN!” Nothing wrong with that, right? Well, Dad felt differently and made no bones about it. He started a heated discussion with the pizzeria owner, demanding that the sign be changed to read “WE THINKWE HAVE THE BEST PIZZA IN TOWN!” Dad wouldn’t back down and the sign remained unchanged. And to make matters worse, he was banned from the pizzeria!
Times were rough in the early days; my parents struggled just like all young couples and faced more than their share of sorrow. They worked hard and saved their money, always putting the needs of family first. We weren’t rich but we had everything we needed.
My dad was a good guy; even though he could get on our nerves big time, he had a heart of gold. He adored his family and loved everything about being Sicilian. Still, one of his proudest accomplishments in life was the day he did the New York Times crossword puzzle – in ink!
We celebrated Dad’s birthday the other day; these are just a few of my memories.
We were at our yearly reunion in Montauk – me and three friends from college on a break from our husbands and kids.
My friends wanted to take the ferry from Montauk to Block Island and return the next day. I’d been there before and it was exactly like Montauk. I suggested we do something different like rent a sailboat or go hang gliding but I was vetoed.
After I got used to the idea of being alone, I thought “This is great!” I was relishing the idea of being able to do something by myself. I decided to take our inflatable raft down to the water – spend some time working on my tan, then check out that new restaurant by the harbor. The raft was no frills – a nylon ladder, a paddle and a 15 foot docking rope.
As I paddled out of the harbor, people waved to me from nearby waterfront restaurants and fishing boats. Clearing the jetty, I stopped paddling and let the ocean swells carry me out to sea. I stretched out as the sun danced off the water and the waves lulled me to sleep.
When I awoke I had no idea where I was. The sea was choppier than before my nap, too. Judging by my sunburn and parched throat, I slept longer than I intended. I retrieved my water bottle from my backpack and downed the contents – probably not a wise move considering I wasn’t quite sure where I was or how long it would take me to get back. There were no buoys or markers anywhere in sight.
Just then I became aware of something unsettling. I heard it before I saw it – a surging rush of water quickly approaching me. I grabbed the inner ropes of the raft and held on tightly. Then it was upon me – a huge wave heaving me forward and pulling me back again. I have no idea how long the surges continued – hours, perhaps only minutes of being tossed about like a rag doll – but I managed to keep my grip and stay afloat in the raft.
The large waves had apparently carried my little raft further than I realized. I could see a large rock formation in the water I had not seen before my nap. If I could paddle around the rock, I might be able to determine where I was, possibly even spot a beach. I began paddling, careful not to get too close to the rock in case the waves picked up again. As I feared, I could feel the swell of the ocean and the surging waves beginning once again. This time the waves were even stronger than before and I was starting to get scared. Then, almost as quickly as the waves began, they stopped.
Just as the waters calmed I became aware of something butting the side of the raft. There it was again! Whatever was attacking my little craft was trying to get in – or flip it over! It was long and slimy; “Could it be an eel?” I thought. I instinctively reached for the paddle which was secured in place. I swung at whatever this creature was until I finally made contact. Somehow it made its way into the raft and was whipping around like a whirling dervish. I pounded it repeatedly until I was certain it was dead. I scampered as far away as I could and curled myself into a ball.
All was quiet. I opened my eyes and squinted in the sunlight at the lifeless blob in the middle of my raft. As I inched closer I realized it was an octopus and I had a momentary pang of guilt for having killed this amazing sea creature. But then on closer inspection I saw something that stopped me dead in my tracks. Sticking out of the side of the octopus was a bright red inflation valve. The sea creature I had done battle with not more then 10 minutes earlier was nothing but a child’s inflatable water toy! I was fighting with an incredibly life-like blow-up rubber octopus! Thank goodness no one was around to witness that ridiculous spectacle.
I kicked the offending inflatable toy across the raft and grabbed my paddle, determined to find my way back to shore. As I turned around I came face to face with a large group of people on a chartered fishing boat drifting casually in the water. Obviously the waves I experienced earlier were caused by the boat’s engine as the captain drove around searching for a good place to drop anchor.
All eyes were on me and I’m sure my embarrassment showed through my sunburn. I feebly waved to the people on board; they waved back, then everyone started laughing. My struggle with the “vicious sea creature” was likely the funniest thing they’d seen all day! If anyone recorded me and posts it online, I’ll never be able to live it down. How humiliating!
“Ahoy!” rang out the captain’s voice. “Do you need help?”
“Yes.” I replied somewhat sheepishly “Can you give me a tow to the nearest dock?”
“Well, I could but it would be a hell of a lot easier for you to paddle over to that beach” he replied, pointing to my left. “By the way, sure looks like you showed that ferocious octopus who’s boss!”
Breaking out a fun old one for Fandango’s One Word Challenge! #FOWC – Ounce
🎤 🎼 🎤 🎵 🎤 🎶 🎤
Weighed myself on the bathroom scale today. I gained fifteen pounds. No goddamn way! Eatin’ Dunkin Donuts – now what you gonna do? With an ass that big no man will look at you.
Planned a two-week vacation in the land of Eritrea. Lookin’ like a tub of lard they just might mistake ya For an elephant, a rhino, or a hippo or a pig. Why’d I ever let myself get so freakin’ big!
An ounce here, an ounce there. OMG! I’m pulling out my hair! An ounce here, an ounce there. Listen when I tell ya it just ain’t fair!
Suppose I could put myself on a damn diet. I really don’t wanna cos I know I won’t like it. Maybe I should get a pass to my local gym; Hop on the treadmill and get myself slim.
Lots of them gym rats look mighty hunky; Maybe one or two will like a girl who’s chunky. But working out will have me sweating like crazy. Fact of the matter is I’m just too goddamn lazy!
An ounce here, an ounce there. OMG! I’m pulling out my hair! An ounce here, an ounce there. Listen when I tell ya it just ain’t fair!
Got me a pair of some violet spandex pants But I didn’t look like JLO when she does a sexy dance. I looked like a balloon in the Christmas Day parade Or a big fat-ass clown in the penny arcade.
At the gym was some guy called Aristophanes, All greased up, looking pretty as you please. This guy was hotter than melting candle wax. I wanna take him home, give his ass a few smacks.
An ounce here, an ounce there. OMG! I’m pulling out my hair! An ounce here, an ounce there. Listen when I tell ya it just ain’t fair!
I started warmin’ up and I know I caught his eye Cos he walked right up to me saying “My, oh my! You are one fine mama in those pants so tight. Let’s blow this joint and have some fun tonight!”
I said “Oh yeah, baby. You lookin’ mighty hot. Come back to my place and show me what you got.” But when we got home he couldn’t get my pants off He was a-huffin’ and a-puffin’ like Sir Peter Ustinov.
An ounce here, an ounce there. OMG! I’m pulling out my hair! An ounce here, an ounce there. Listen when I tell ya it just ain’t fair!
My ass got so big it filled up my recliner And here I was thinkin’ I looked even finer Than Kim Kardashian and her big ass sister too But I was plenty wrong! Oh, what’s a girl to do?
Now wait just a minute – there still may be some hope. That guy called Aristophanes thought I looked dope. I’ll go back to the gym in my spandex all a-glitter And this time they will have a nice long zipper!
An ounce here, an ounce there. Let’s cut out all this drama! An ounce here, an ounce there. I’m a phat ass mama! An ounce here, an ounce there. Let’s cut out all this drama! An ounce here, an ounce there. Just call me when you wanna!
We were driving down iconic Route 66 in our convertible Volkswagen Jetta on our way from Chicago to Santa Monica, California, everything we owned being towed in a small rented U-Haul. In the backseat on the floor behind us, sleeping in his carrying case, was our bulldog puppy, Ringo.
We’d been on the same stretch of road without seeing another soul for what seemed like an eternity – nothing but miles of tall corn and wheat fields swaying in the breeze. We talked about everything, especially opening our new veterinary practice – a huge step in our professional lives but one we were ready for. Our real estate agent sent us photos of our new office with the name boldly printed in black lettering on a light grey awning: Peterson’s Planned PetHood. 🐈⬛
Rummaging through the glove box looking for a snack bar, I came across The Beatles White Album. “Hey, look what I found” I said, showing the CD to my husband, Doc.
“Excellent! Put it on, Babe.”
Opening the case, I discovered a long-forgotten joint, crushed but still viable. “Whoa! Check it out. This CD comes with a bonus track!”
We lit up, the stale weed snapping and popping as it burned. Even the smallest of tokes resulted in fits of coughing but we still got a decent buzz on. The CD was an incredible find; with each mile down the road we got a little bit higher and a little bit louder singing along to the tunes.
And then there it was – the unmistakable intro of funky get-down guitar slaps and drum beats leading into ‘Why Don’t We Do It In The Road?’. We were grooving in our seats, thumping on the car doors, digging the hell out of that song.
Doc pulled the car over onto the shoulder. Lowering his sunglasses down his nose, he looked at me seductively and started singing “No one will be watching us, why don’t we do it in the road?”
“Have you lost your mind? What are you … some horny teenager?”
“Well, you’re half right, I’ll give ya that. Here we sit … a hot banging Beatles song playing, my incredibly sexy wife in a miniskirt and plenty of road. Listen. Paul’s practically begging us to get out of this car and do it IN THE ROAD!”
“Your know, we can get plenty cozy right here IN the car” I suggested, slowly stretching my legs on the dashboard.
Doc laughed and leaned over to kiss me, whispering “We’ve done it IN the car … a lot. C’mon, Becca! Let’s get down [*kiss*] and dirty [*kiss*] and do it in the road [*long hot kiss*].
It didn’t take much for me and doc to turn each other on. Pushing the ‘REPEAT’ button on the CD player, he grabbed a blanket from the back seat and we ran to the rear of the car. Laughing, I wriggled out of my panties and wrapped my legs around Doc’s waist as we eased ourselves to the ground.
Just as Paul let loose with the high note, we heard an “Ahem” and froze. Glancing sideways, we saw the shiniest pair of black boots standing two feet from our car. A man’s voice said ”Pardon me, folks. Trooper Matthew Blake, Oklahoma Highway Patrol. Just as soon as you’re finished checking that tow hitch, I suggest you best be on your way.” And he walked back to his patrol car humming “Why Don’t We Do It In The Road?”.
As he drove by our car, Trooper Blake gave us two short beeps of his horn. We sheepishly got back into our car and continued our journey to Santa Monica. What a lovely little rest stop that had been!
After a few months living in our new digs, doing some online research and making a few calls, I finally discovered the address for the Oklahoma Highway Patrol location of Trooper Matthew Blake. I prepared a small mailing box with a shiny new pair of Ray-Bans and a mini photo of our infant son. A small card read:
“One For the Road” Gratefully ~ Doc, Becca and Matthew Blake Peterson 🕶️
I smiled imagining what that trooper’s reaction would be when he read our son’s name.
Mr. & Mrs. Potato Head! Such a lovely couple although the mister’s bow tie is a bit starchy.
I remember them as a kid. Do you? Back then they were the real deal – or perhaps I should say “the raw deal”.
Our moms always scolded us about playing with our food and then Hasbro messed with our heads by telling us to do just that. No wonder so many Baby Boomers are now in therapy!
Oh, the irony!
These days The Pot Heads are made entirely of plastic. I admit they’re much less messy but where’s the charm, the appeal, the joie de vie?
Such sweet memories but troubling ones, as well. Whenever we played with the real Potato Heads, there was always a side of mash with dinner that night. When I finally made the awful connection that I was eating my playmates, it was too late.
Oh, the humanity!
RIP, Mr. & Mrs. Potato Head. You gave your all for a tasty cause! 🥔
Rob and I decided early in our marriage not to have children. We were late bloomers; he was 42 and I had just turned 38. We were happy being a couple without the responsibility of kids or pets.
That all changed when my widowed great-aunt Madeline passed away. Aunt Maddy was my late mother’s aunt; the last time I saw her was 11 years ago at Mom’s funeral.
Last month Aunt Maddy fell while out for her daily walk. She hit her head on a stone wall and suffered a concussion. She lapsed into a coma. When she awoke, she was in a very weakened state and unable to leave her bed. She spent her final days in the house she loved with her caregivers around her. I found out about my great-aunt’s passing when her lawyer contacted me.
Being Aunt Madeline’s only relative, I was named the sole beneficiary in her will. I was in shock when I learned that she left me her Victorian estate in Rhinebeck, New York and the staggering amount of $2,000,000 with the stipulation that I agreed to the terms stated in her will: to immediately take occupancy of the estate and make it my permanent residence, maintain it in the same meticulous manner as she and to take on the responsibility of providing a nurturing home for Frankie and Johnny – Aunt Maddy’s beloved scarlet macaws.
Rob and I lived in a small brownstone in Brooklyn; we didn’t know anything about caring for birds. However, for the incredible amount of money and the gorgeous home I inherited, we would learn. How difficult could it possibly be?
It had always been our dream to manage an art gallery; the closest we came was our photography studio in Battery Park. Now we would be able to pursue our dream in Rhinebeck. In recent years, the once quiet historical town in upstate New York had become a cultural mecca boasting museums, performing arts centers, galleries, etc. We packed our bags and headed north to meet the birds and make Aunt Madeline’s home our home. It was all quite intoxicating and a little bit terrifying.
On the drive upstate, Rob searched for info on scarlet macaws. “Hey, hon. Listen to this” and he read from his phone:
“Scarlet macaws are stunning birds and popular pets. They are excellent mimics with an average repertoire of 20 to 30 words. *Hm … that’s kinda cool.* They use their incredibly loud squawks and screeches to communicate. These calls are intended to carry over a distance of several miles. *Miles? Whoa, these are some loud birds!* Scarlet macaws prefer humid evergreen forests and their diet consists of nuts, leaves,berriesand seeds and weigh about 2 to 3 pounds. *Good, they don’t eat rodents and they’re lightweights.* They are the largest parrots in the world with a wingspan of 44 to 47 inchesand are 32 to 36 inches long. The average lifespan of a scarlet macaw in captivity is 75 years. *Wait. What?*”
As Rob read those last couple of lines, his voice got louder until he was shouting.
“Holy crap, Lucy! Did you hear what I said? That last part can’t be right!”
“Yes, Rob. I heard. I think everyone in a five mile radius heard what you said.”
“For Christ’s sake, Luce! These birds have a wingspan of 4 feet. Four feet!”
“It’s not like they’re going to be flying around the house, honey. Besides, Aunt Madeline had them for a long time; they’re probably not going to be around much longer.
“Babe, it says here they can live for 75 years. Let that sink in.”
“You make an excellent point. Well, we’ll just have to be positive about this. Let’s try to relax for the rest of the ride.”
“Oh, I’m positive alright” Rob replied. “I’m positive I’m not gonna like these birds very much.”
And we drove the rest of the way silently obsessing about our new-found knowledge.
As we turned onto the long gravel drive leading to my aunt’s estate, all thoughts of scarlet macaws and 47 inch wing spans vanished. Our new house appeared before us and it was beautiful beyond our dreams. We had seen a lot of Victorian painted ladies in Brooklyn but none were as spectacular as this. We decided to walk around the exterior of the house before going inside; everywhere we looked were weeping willow trees, evergreens and fields of wildflowers. At the rear of the house we came upon a glass-enclosed room – obviously a solarium. The beveled glass was a pale shade of green and there appeared to be large potted palms inside. We inched closer and our jaws dropped; this was the enclosure for the scarlet macaws.
Rob and I stood transfixed; we were looking into our very own Jurassic Park and the two intimidating inhabitants were staring back at us. They were a living Jackson Pollock painting, a startling shock of magnificent colors. They were huge, intimidating and majestic. They didn’t move a muscle and their cold black eyes were locked on us.
“I see you’ve found the birds!”
A voice called out from behind us and we screamed like two little frightened kids. We whirled around to see a tall silver-haired man in an incongruous safari outfit.
“Jeez, man! Don’t ever do that again! You scared the daylights out of us!” Rob shouted.
The man laughed and apologized. “I’m sorry, folks. I thought you heard my Jeep pull up.” He extended his hand and introduced himself as Douglas Farrell, a friend of my late aunt and the manager of the nature center in Kingston. “I wanted to be here when you saw the birds for the first time. Impressive, aren’t they? I figured some explaining would be helpful. Shall we go inside?” and he reached for the large sliding glass door of the aviary.
I noticed the glass panes were hinged and would fold like an accordion when opened. “Hold on a second. Won’t the macaws fly out when you open up the room?”
“I assure you they will not. Please, follow me … and there’s nothing to fear. These scarlet macaws are harmless.”
Douglas slid open the panes and strode inside; the birds were undeterred. Still, with great care Rob and I followed closely behind. When we were within arm’s reach, I whispered in awe “So, this is Frankie and Johnny.”
“Actually, no. It’s not” replied Douglas as calmly as you please. “You see, shortly after your aunt’s accident, there was a delivery of new plants and trees for the aviary. The people from the nursery inadvertently left the glass doors open when they were done. Frankie and Johnny, doing what comes naturally, flew out the large opening, took off into the wild blue yonder and haven’t been seen since. Surprisingly, it’s rather amazing a macaw sighting was never reported; they are not common around here. It was agreed upon by me and everyone who works at the house that, given your aunt’s failing health, it would serve no purpose telling her about her beloved birds. Instead we replaced Frankie and Johnny with life-size versions of the stuffed variety and no one was the wiser.”
Rob and I were dumbfounded and we blinked at Douglas in disbelief, allowing what he just told us to sink in.
“See, I told you an explanation would be helpful. Well, enjoy your new house.” Slapping Rob hard on the back, Douglas climbed into his Jeep and took off, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.
“Well” Rob offered weekly. “One problem solved.”
“From now on this room stays closedjust in case Frankie and Johnny decide to make a return visit” I declared.
“You don’t really believe they’re anywhere around here, do you” Rob asked.
“No, of course not” I laughed trying to sound convincing.
We retreated into the house while scouring the skies overhead and closed the doors behind us. With feigned nonchalance, Rob took the key and stuck it in the dirt of one of the potted palms. Rubbing his hands together, he said “And that is the end of that!”
But sometimes at night when it’s very still and quiet, I can almost hear the sound of flapping of giant wings.
Reprising a littlefantasy I wrote for my granddaughter in 2019.
“When I tap my hat with this magic wand and say the secret words you will instantly turn into a Blackbird!” declared my brother, Jude. “Are you ready, Lucy?”
“Sure, Captain Marvel” I replied with about as much enthusiasm as a piece of Norwegian Wood.
“Ok, here goes. Ob-La-Da!” ZAP!And nothing happened. “Hey, what’s going on? Don’t Let Me Down, hat” wailed Jude, truly stumped.
“Hey Jude! Here’s a wild guess: maybe you got the words wrong,” I suggested. “Take a look at this”, and I produced my cherished copy of the White Album. “See, you got it wrong.”
“Oh yeah! Ok, let’s try again. Ready?” Jude ceremoniously whirled his wand and said “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da!” ZAP!
And the next thing I knew I was Flying through the sky, gliding Across the Universe. I gazed in amazement Here,There and Everywhereat all the clouds, the water, the tree tops, Abbey Road, Penny Lane andStrawberry Fields. I spotted a row of houses below and swooped down, perching on a windowsill. Hopping inside I landed right on top of a bathtub.
“Well, hello little Girl! What have we here? A tiny housebreaker?” exclaimed a voice behind me.
“No, silly! I’m ablackbird. I Came In Through the Bathroom Window” I said and turned around to see the one and only George Harrison!
“Welcome, blackbird!” George said, not at all surprised to find a tiny talking bird sitting on his bathtub. “You remind me of a little ditty John and Paul wrote. Would you like to come with me to visit the lads?”
“You mean John, Paul and Ringo?” I warbled with excitement.
“Well, actually just Paul and John. Ringo had a bit of an accident and he’s in the hospital. But do try to Act Naturally.Ringo doesn’t always have the most confidence and at the moment is moaning ‘I’m A Loser‘! Poor fellow!”
“Oh no! Now I’m Down! What happened to Ringo?” I asked in Misery.
George whispered “Do You Want To Know a Secret? Ringo was following the Fool On the Hill and he couldn’t Slow Down. He fell head first, he did, crashing right into a pen with a bunch of Piggies who started nipping poor Ringo all over!”
“Oh, my goodness! Wasn’t there anyone to Help?” I asked tearfully.
“Just the Two Of Us!” exclaimed triumphant voices in unison. George and I turned to see Paul and John had joined us. “We arrived just in time to drag Ringo out from the pigpen but he had sustained quite a few little bites” continued John.
“You’ll be happy to knowwe got Ringo to Doctor Robert straight away and he’ll be right as Rain very soon. He had a Hard Day’s Night but he’s Getting Better All the Time”added Paul.
“So tell us, Little Child. Do you have a name?” asked John.
Paul spoke before I could answer. “Somethingtells me, Johnny, her name is Mother Superior. Can’t you see this little Baby’s In Black, just like a nun’sbeautiful habit? Oh! Darling, am I right about you?” inquired Paul.
“No, my name is nothing quite as impressive as that Because I’m just plain Lucy”.
“Just plain Lucy!? Rubbish! Let’s see – I’m sure your name is much more modern than Eleanor Rigby, definitely easier to pronounce than Semolina Pilchard but every bit as pretty as Dear Prudence!” exclaimed John.
George reached into his pocket and took out a teeny pair of pink glasses. He delicately balanced them on my little beak. “Perfect! The Girl With Kaleidoscope Eyes! Let’s go introduce you to Ringoand we can’t forget to bring the Honey Pie! Ringo loves it so!”
And off we went to catch the One After 909, singing Lucy In the Sky With Diamonds.And A Splendid Time Is Guaranteed For All!”
Suddenly I was in my bed and I wasn’t a blackbird at all. The Lads weren’t here either. Yesterday was over and it had all been a wonderful dream. I knew I had to carry on and Let It Be.
But when I looked over at my nightstand I couldn’t believe my eyes; there sat a teeny pair of pink glasses.Imagine that!
One of the best things about being empty nesters is not having to cook full meals every night.
Bill’s easy, always has been; he’s not the meat and potatoes kind of guy. We’re happy with soup, BLTs, burgers on the grill, my sensational ham and cheddar omelets … you get the picture.
There are some days when I feel the urge to cook and will prepare a lovely risotto or perhaps seared sea scallops over a lentil ragù. Rare but it does happen. I’m very content taking it easy these days.
But I have to draw the line at one thing: Chef Boyardee ravioli in a can. Six words that never should be put together. It’s a travesty; it’s also one of Bill’s favorites.
I was raised on pure, natural homemade Italian food. “Pasta” in a can is not food. Correction – it’s food: bad food, eye-averting food, gag-inducing food. It’s a treat for Bill to eat this staple from his childhood. He gets practically giddy buttering his bread and dipping it in the (dare I say) sauce in anticipation of that first mouthful. That, my friends, is a scene that once seen cannot be unseen.
“Course One: Escarole Soup. Course Two: Manicotti and Salad. Gina, what is this – Sunday dinner or a reception for the Pope?”
My girlfriend Gina showed me a copy of the menu her mother had planned for dinner. It was a seven course feast! “Do you eat like this every Sunday?”
“No, silly – only when we have company. This week it’s my dad’s side of the family. There’s a lot a people and mom always says it’s better to have too much food than not enough.”
“Wait a second. There’s going to be other people besides your parents? Like how many?”
Gina started counting on her fingers. “About 18, maybe 20.”
“The first time I meet your parents I’m also going to meet 20 strangers and you didn’t think to warn me??”
“Oh, don’t worry. They’re gonna love you.”
“No. They’ll be employing Sicilian interrogations tactics. They’ll chew me up and spit me out. I’m Irish with blonde hair and pale skin. I don’t stand a chance!”
Gina laughed. “Oh stop exaggerating. We’re not The Mob, ya know. Just a mob!”
And she was right. I couldn’t believe the number of people that descended on her house. They were loud, funny, loving and very welcoming.
Gina’s mom set the table extravagantly, using her best dishes, utensils and glasses. And the food was incredible. Besides the soup, pasta and salad there was fresh baked bread, an antipasto, a huge platter of meatballs and sausages, two roasts, a bunch of vegetables, fennel, fruit, nuts, a slew of desserts I couldn’t pronounce and coffee. Gina’s uncles and male cousins ate like there was no tomorrow and no one stopped talking the entire time – except for Gina’s grandmother who didn’t utter a sound and stared at me with beady eyes the whole day. Honestly, that tiny woman dressed in black from head to toe scared me to death.
As the woman cleared away all traces of dinner, Gina’s dad got up, went to the cupboard and returned with a beautiful box made of highly polished wood with the finest Italian marble inlay. Placing the box on the table, he opened it to reveal an assortment of expensive imported cigars. The men lit up and a bottle of anisette appeared out of nowhere.
Gina’s Uncle Vito produced a deck of cards from his vest pocket. “Ya know how to play Red Dog, Phil?” he asked me.
“Um … it’s Bill, sir. And no, I’m not familiar with the game.”
“Hey, no problem, Irish. We’re gonna teach ya. And don’t look so nervous. We may rob ya but we ain’t gonna kill ya. For some reason our Gina likes ya and if she likes ya, we all likes ya.”
While we played cards, Gina’s cousins Louie and Frankie played their accordions and the women danced; it was the most surreal and unforgettable experience of my life.
I watched as Gina’s grandmother rose from her chair. Slowly she walked over to me and looked me square in the eyes. She grinned and pinched my cheek till it was beet red. And la famiglia howled.
I swear – 53 years later her stamp of approval is still on my face.
The Elephant's Trunk 