Pfunksfoolosophy

Halloween, guys…when I was a kid, Halloween was the ultimate. You got to dress up, act a fool and get FREE CANDY. What is more appealing than free candy? As a kid, your whole life revolves around getting candy. There’s something in your DNA, I think. The week leading up to Halloween was so exciting. What would I be for that special day? When I was younger, I always wanted a store bought costume for some reason, but never, EVER got one. My Mom was a creative sort, so I was a princess, a ballerina, a football player (thanks to my brother and his exploits in the Pop Warner League), a mummy…and then as I got older, the costumes lacked the verve and snap of my earlier costumes…yep, I was a jazz musician–I was playing the trumpet then, so it was easy, a ghost and finally, an undercover cop. My candymania knew no boundaries, my friends. I was blatantly seeking candy. I wanted the goods.
“Ohhh, what are you?” (long pause as I explain my costume) “Well. That’s very inventive. Here’s your candy. Happy Halloween, honey!”

I met a lot of neighbors who fully understood my candylust. They fed it without question–with the exception of my friend Christine’s mom. She just said, ‘Give me a break. ‘ and gave me my three musketeers. The woman knew me only too well.
One of my fondest memories of my dad is when he phoned home to ask my mom if she needed him to bring anything back and when she told him to get extra candy, he came back with bags of sour balls.

My mother was livid. “Are you nuts? The candy isn’t wrapped, a kid could choke on it and we’ve been giving out chocolate. We’re gonna get pranked tonight!”

My dad’s response: “What kid don’t like a sour ball?”
Daddy was from the South. He grew up poor, so a sour ball was a real treat for him. Poor guy was hurt that Mom came down on him. Sour balls were cool as far as he was concerned.

I tell that story often. He was so cute and innocent, looking to me for confirmation.

“Of course, some of the colors aren’t good, but it’s candy, right honey?”
My response was to shrug and say, “Aww, Daddy…you did your best.”

Mom got in the car and drove to Cumberland Farms leaving Daddy and me with the sour balls. To make a joke, Daddy called Mommy a sour puss.

We giggled and sucked on our favorite flavors until she returned. With FULL SIZE candy bars. Daddy flipped out at the cost. Mom told him to hush up and have a sour ball. We had those things in the house until Easter.

Halloween, man. Good times.

Anwar Sadat’s funeral services were held in Cairo. I was in high school. The Pretenders were just becoming a part of my consciousness.

My sister gave birth to my niece.  That one event changed my life forever. My niece became my track team’s mascot for a time. She was the darling of my school. The principal and many of the teachers remembered my sister and I showed my niece Koya off every chance I could get.
My sister thought she had made up the name. It’s actually a mountain in Japan and loosely translated, according to a Japanese friend, ‘Koya’ means ’spiritual place’.  Hmm…

You know, I remember when my sister went into labor with Koya. I was joking around with her. Her pregnancy had been miserable. She couldn’t stand to have her own saliva in her mouth so she was sorta like an old man with a slop jar. She was also…’touchy’, shall we say? I remember one time during her pregnancy when a friend of mine and I were going out to a party and she asked that we bring home some pudding. We forgot. She wept. She screamed at me, telling me how inconsiderate I was. My response? “Who made you the pudding sheriff?” She was not charmed.

Still, I was nervous for her. She was the first one to have a kid among the siblings and since I still in high school it was scary. Pam was in labor for oh, three full days and part of the fourth. My Mom had to remind me of that today. They finally performed an emergency C-section and Koya came out of it with a seizure disorder that she outgrew by the time she was two.
Oh, how I adored that baby. I would wake up in the middle of the night and creep in to watch her sleep. She was so precious to us all. Her clothes were all so tiny and sweet. Polly Flinders hand smocked dresses, Petit Bateau, handmade garments–you would have sworn that a princess had been born, such was the flurry to dress her. My favorite outfit actually made her look like the Cheshire Cat from Disney’s Alice in Wonderland. I still have that picture around here somewhere.
I remember her sleeping with me in my canopy bed and me not getting a wink. We took her absolutely everywhere in her pram. Yep, she had a pram. We were insane.

Now, the kid is gonna be twenty and six. She reminded me that I was getting old as she’s close to thirty. The hell kinda thing is that to say to the woman who raised ya? Ingrate.

Nooo, my kid is my heart. She’s funny and thoughtful…she’s a bitch like her biological mom, she’s devoted to her child, she’s got a great singing voice (NOT inherited from her biological mother, I can tell ya that), she is crafty…I feel blessed to have her in my life.

When she was about 2 or so, I was in the bathroom and I had locked the door. For some reason she had a little Italian accent, or so it seemed. She said, ‘Unlock-a da do, Auntie! Why you no open-a da do?’ I never  let her forget that when she comments about Pooper calling his shovel his ‘bubble’.
She has been a joy in my life and today is her birthday.

May she find her happiness, her silliness and her joy today.

Koya Marie, HAPPY BIRTHDAY! (but at 8:45pm)

I love you more than space.

Yesterday marked my brother’s FORTY-NINTH birthday.  I know that it’s killing him. He’s not someone who looks forward to getting older. He’s a brat like that. When we were younger, he and I were really good friends. He taught me how to play baseball and I even played Little League with him. I was underage and a girl…unofficially the first girl to play Little League baseball. Unofficial because I was underage, so my stats didn’t count. Didn’t matter.
Over the years, we’ve drifted apart. I’ve often wondered how or why, but I suppose it’s just because of choices. His choices have led him down a different path. He’s got a lot of talent, artistically speaking, and was a great pre-K teacher. He chose to retire…I think before his time. The school is still after him to come back. I wish he would. He was happiest when he was working with those little ones. You can’t live someone else’s life, though.

My brother and I call one another ‘Pookie’. He was my ‘Jake’ and I was ‘Elwood’. The Blues Brothers was our flick because I probably would have met him outside the prison gates in a refurbished police cruiser. We would have driven through the mall and said, ‘Wow, this mall has everything’ in the midst of a high speed chase.

We used to be a great comedy team. In the summers on our way to the beach, we would stop off at Cumberland Farms, a convenience store, and have our beach towels tied around our necks, wearing masks and enter the store like superheroes. We’d pick up an odd assortment of food items: Cap’n Crunch, sour cream and onion chips and ginger ale…whaaa? The cashier always delighted in seeing us jumping around the store. Then one day we came in ‘normal’, the cashier was disappointed. Funny stuff, that.

Another time, we were trying to remember all of the addresses for the families on our favorite t.v. shows from our childhood and we drew a blank for Rob and Laura Petrie. WHAT?!? The Dick Van Dyke Show was my absolute fave. I wanted to be a comedy writer because of that show. What did we do? We called information. Do you know that the operator called us back? We thanked her profusely and sent her a thank  you card.
For the record: The Petries lived on Bonnymeadow Road in New Rochelle, NY.

One of my favorite stories is when my brother, my pal Angie (not the blog Angie) and I were talking on the roof of our house one early evening. We looked down on the street below and saw a woman wearing a cape and walking a three legged dog. My brother started singing–’devil with a three legged three legged…devil with a three legged dog!’ to the tune of ‘Devil with a blue dress’…you know the number. Funny stuff? You bet.

My brother does a mean Elvis (circa comeback/Vegas) singing ‘Suspicious Minds’ and ‘Hunk o’ burnin’ love’…He also does a good ‘Teddy Bear’.

Man, he used to be sooo much fun. He’s not so much now.

I remember when Ricky Nelson died that horrible New Year’s Eve.

My brother was in Florida partying with his buds and he called us:

“Awww, Pookie…he’s GONE, man! The red-headed stranger is GONE!”
I had to gently tell him that it wasn’t WILLIE Nelson but Ricky Nelson (also a family favorite due to the Ozzie and Harriet Show). Without missing a beat,my brother whined, ‘OH….the TRAVELIN’ MAN…aww, he made his last stop…awww, man…Hey GUYS! It wasn’t  WILLIE it was RICKY!’  He was drunk. It was cute, though. He was still heartsick that Rick was gone, but he was relieved that it wasn’t Willie. He has a special fondness for his potsmoking brethren, I suppose.

Anyway, that’s my brother…he was cool. There’s a sensitive side to him. I just wish he’d find it.

I think he shares his birthday with Sting. That’s gotta hurt. Groucho Marx and my brother share the same birthday…that’s pretty cool.

So, happy belated birthday brougham.

Today is my former fiance’s birthday. He would have been close to fifty. Yikes, I can’t imagine him as an older adult. He was such a big Labrador Retreiver of a guy. Funny, goofy, warm, intelligent and talented…I miss him every day.

See, we met when we were both attending college. He was my first real love. Here’s how we met:

I was a little sister at a fraternity (the Animal House on campus) and one of the brothers told me to ‘watch out for these two guys’ and he pointed at two very tall, very muscular guys who were in the process of terrorizing a tiny little slip of a girl in tight Jordache jeans(it was the 80s) and too much makeup. She was also wearing the “Feather Marie” (feather adorned roach clip), which made me laugh. When I saw the genuine fear cross her face, I bounded over to them and slapped them both on their rock hard arms and said, ‘Leave her alone or else!’ I had no clear idea what my ‘or else’ was going to be, but I was steamed.

At the time, I was wearing my grandpa’s Tufnut overalls and an Army fatigue hat which was covered with badges, buttons and goodness knows what all. I looked sorta like a combination of a punk rock Minnie Pearl and Grace Jones, I guess. Anyway, my man looked down at me, laughed and said, ‘Really? What’s in your bag of tricks, Felix?’

It was love at first sight. He referenced Felix the cat. I looked into those blue eyes and I swear I could see forever. It was strange. I remember the song that was playing. It was “Take the Money and Run” by Steve Miller. Not particularly significant to either of us, but I remember it anyway. So, I smiled up at him and told him that I knew the Master Cylinder and it was as if we’d known one another forever. The girl ran away like she was on fire. Paul, my man’s best friend told me later that I had shown tremendous courage, since both he and Bob, let’s call him were laying for a fight. It would have been impossible for me to keep them from creating a train wreck. They were both well over six foot and well muscled. What did we talk about that night?
The Who, politics, my hat, hockey, everything but how hard my heart was beating. I didn’t know that he had a girlfriend and he didn’t know that I’d really never had a boyfriend. He invited me back to his place some thirty minutes away. Like a sap, I went. He could have been a nutjob. Fortunately he wasn’t. We sat up listening to music and watching cartoons. I fell asleep with my head in his lap. We were seldom apart. He called me one day to tell me that he didn’t want to be friends anymore.
My heart sank to my ankles. I was speechless. Then he asked me out on a ‘proper’ date.
We went to A&W for hotdogs and rootbeer. Both of us spiked ours with vodka.
Paul was waiting for us at the apartment and again, we stayed up listening to music and talking, talking, talking…and laughing. A LOT.

Even though I’m nearly six feet tall, he made me feel like I was a porcelain doll…he made me feel girly and delicate. That’s no mean feat. He got that I wasn’t fully aware of what was happening and he understood that I wasn’t about to jump into bed with him. (How things have changed in that regard)

Well, we fell in love so easily and so comfortably that it seemed logical that we become engaged a couple of months later. I even showed my ring to his ex. She wasn’t angry. He was that kind of guy. A better standup kinda guy you’d be hardpressed to find.

There’s a line in ‘A Bronx Tale’ when Chazz Palmintieri tells ‘C’  that you only get a couple great ones in your life. He had gotten his early–I feel the same way.

‘Bob’ died of a cerebral aneurysm before we could get married. Yikes, right? That’s life.

It’s for the living.

So, today I’m gonna listen to Van Morrison (one of our songs was ‘Crazy Love’), our band The Who, read some Burns and watch ‘Slap Shot’, our favorite movie.

If you ever watch hockey, say a prayer for the Rangers. He loved ‘em.

Spoke with Marmy briefly today and she sounds groggy, but all right.

She’s had to lock herself in her room because Pooper is still very active and nearly popped her one right in the belly by accident. Additionally, she developed an allergy to the meds and her upper lip is swollen–like you read about. The girl sent me a photo. Her lip looked like…well, it wasn’t attractive. BUT thank you all for your good thoughts and prayers.

Since they intubated her, she sounds like she’s been smoking two packs a day but she’s her normal, crazy self. Can’t wait to get down there to see her.

Hey guys…

Keep a good thought tomorrow. Mom’s going in for her surgery and I can’t make it down there to be with her. It’s not that it’s major surgery, but every time you go under the knife it’s dangerous. Your body has to adjust to the intrusion. She’s a tough old broad and if I had a regular job like most civilians, I’d probably be able to afford to make it down there to goof on her when she’s in recovery.

That’s a family tradition. We can’t help it. We make jokes because that is how we express our love. Our family takes very little seriously because we know just how brief our time is here. So, traditionally we make fun of the person who is just coming out of it. Groggy makes for good comedy.

So, I’m disappointed that I can’t make it down there. If I had a ’straight’ job and was a ‘civilian’ I probably would be down there already. Guess what? You can’t hold what’s not in your hand, so I’m gonna hit my knees and pray for my mom. She’s already fine, I know that. She’s still my Mommy and I love her. What can I say?
I’m a big baby.

Keep the fingers crossed that I have the nerve to get on a Greyhound before too long.

(I hate the bus, but I love my Mommy.)

It’s a fact that I come from a tight knit bunch. My mother is my best friend and she’s a ball of fire, that old broad. She’s also a pain denier…comes from a long  line of folks who just ‘keep on ticking’. My grandpa, her dad, was the type to drive  himself to the hospital when he was having a heart attack. To him it was an annoyance rather than a life threatening illness. Yeah, we just keep moving forward.

So it came as no surprise that Mom called early last week to tell me that she was going in for surgery at the beginning of next month. For a hernia. She’s been living with that pain for about SIX YEARS. I didn’t have the heart to rag at her. She thinks she’s ten feet tall and bullet proof and to tell ya the truth, I have often believed it.

So I’m going down to NC to take care of her. It will be great to see her since I’ve not seen her since October of last year. Can you believe it? That’s a mighty long  time for me…the gal who has the world’s longest umbilical cord.

I’m excited. I’ll get to hang out with Mom, and the  kids, finish my cookbook and blog in peace.

I need the break from the city. While I love NYC, it’s starting to get to me. I’m not  as bouncy and shiny and happy these days. Could be the lack of rest. Could be that I haven’t been in nature for a while…I don’t know.

The important thing is that I’ll be in the company of family. In the bosom of my mommy’s love. Taking a break from craigslist and the penis pictures and married men.

That’s for another post.

Keep reading. It’s not exciting, but it’s different.

Looks like my kid (the laddie boy) is turning a corner. After struggling with his ‘friends’ and their unseemly influence on him, it looks like he’s getting his arse out of his head.

Just spoke with him and he sounds like his old self. Funny, inspired and optimistic. It’s a rollercoaster ride when your kids are a certain age and I don’t envy anyone with toddlers or school age children. Still, once your kids have passed the adolescent craziness, you’ve got young adulthood,which is no walk in the park. Remember when you thought you knew everything? Yeah, the twenties. No one knows more than you. You’re ‘grown’ as they like to tell you. Hell to the NO, Bobby Brown! You don’t know jack doodly squat. You’re still finding out that life does not go your way sometimes, no matter how hard you work and no matter how positive you are…sometimes you’ve got to just slog through with your head held high. This is what I’ve imparted to my kids. We’re all gonna screw up, but it’s how we grow from those challenges.
You can raise your children the same way, with the same values and one of ‘em’s gonna think they know it all and they’re gonna screw it up. It’s their experience to experience.

Being a parent is tough because you’ve got to be mentally and spiritually strong enough to let go. This past month has been a real trial for me due to that fact. I’ve finally let go of the reins. The inclination to pick ‘em back up is powerful, believe me. Very powerful.

With so much happening in my life I can’t stand still. My feet need to keep moving me forward. My soul craves growth, so I can’t deny it. The lad understands that and he’s doing his best to learn to respect himself and others in a different way. He’s growing. I just need to keep adding water.

My grandson, ‘Pooper’ as I call him, is 2 and a half. He’s a genius. I know this because he has charmed every single person with whom he has come in contact. How does he do it? The kid is a crack up. He’s also very kinetic. He’s a bundle of energy, he’s graceful and athletic and he’s smart as hell.

He’s also really, really funny. The other day his mom was speaking with my mom and Pooper held  his hand up as if to say ‘talk to the hand’ and said, ‘Ssssh! I’m talking to Yaya!’ That’s his name for my mom. He then began a discussion about ‘bean beans’ (green beans) and his pal Elmo. (Mehmo) Mom barely concealed her laughter as she retold the story to me on the phone. I could hear him in the background telling her that he NEEDED her to help him with the DVD player. THEN I heard him jump from the couch to the easy chair. He thinks he’s a gymnast. He’s already 39 inches tall. Much taller than any gymnast I know of…aw, that was mean.
Another time, his mom was baking peanut butter blossoms (a family tradition) and she asked him if she should unwrap all of the Hershey’s kisses first or wait and he tapped his little chin with his forefinger and said, ‘I’m thiiinking’  then held up his forefinger and shouted, ‘I GOT IT!’ He began unwrapping the candy merrily and his mom stood there like a doofus. She called me about two minutes later. I could hear him shouting, “I GOT IT MOMMY! LET’S GO!”
The kid is killer, I tell you…he tells knock knock jokes. Okay, so I don’t get ‘em, but he’s only 2 1/2.

Knock knock

Who’s there?

Jeremiah.

Jeremiah who?
THAT’S ME!

He doesn’t really have the subtle nuances of the knock knock format, but he’s thinking…

I think he gets his  height from me. His mom is short as hell.  He’s already just about half her height now.
Pray he’s good at basketball.

After my sister died and I had the job of raising her children, I never considered that one day I would be a grandma.

Grandmas in my mind have always been chubby bundles of G-d-filled light and love. They baked pies and attended prayer meetings. They were married for over 40 years to the same man with whom they had raised their children.

They nurtured and guided with love and tenderness. Grandmas were always kind and gracious.

I am none of these things. While I do bake, love to cook and I suppose I’ve done my share of nurturing, I’m in no way wholesome.

I drink spirits. I swear  like a sailor on liberty.  The one thing that I have in common with my grandmother is that I love my grandchild completely, unconditionally and without limit.

My grandson is the brightest star in the constellation of our family. He is funny, inquisitive, preternaturally intelligent…he is the best child I have ever met.

I say this knowing  full well that there are people out there who say the same thing about their own children and grandchildren. They are wrong, poor dears.

See, when you become a grandparent (technically, I am a great-aunt) you lose all of your tact, you become insane and while you don’t notice this  intitially, you come to embrace  the foolish manner with which you comport yourself.

You tell everyone within earshot about your grandchild’s milestones. No child ever walked before your grandchild. No child ever turned a cute phrase the way yours does. There was no sunshine, I am quite sure of this, before my grandson came into the world.

Yes, I am completely, madly, deeply in love with this wonder of nature. It was love at first sight and I pray that the enchantment is never broken.

He is a blessing to me and he is making  his mother crazy.
THIS is the bonus.

He is in the ‘terrible twos’ stage in his development and has embraced  it with a vigor that I’ve seldom seen. He is naturally curious, he is a daredevil,  and this causes his mother to run after him all day long. This makes me happy.

In recent weeks he has overturned the contents of her powder box, run his mother ragged around the neighborhood, tried to cut his mother’s hair and upon escaping her reach, fallen asleep in his toy box.

He’s too cute. My advice to her is simple. Get in shape, he’s going to be even more active.

Thankfully, he is also good natured and calls his ‘Bubbe’ (me) without his mother’s knowledge or consent. He’s figured out the speed dial on her mobile phone.

See? A genius. Einstein would be proud. I know that I am.