Archive for the ‘madness mom & me’ Category

The Amazing Edible Legible Pancakes

Monday, February 22nd, 2010

 ”The laziest man I ever met put popcorn in his pancakes so they would turn over by themselves.” ~ W.C. Fields

Nan's Pancakes

(Italian Lesson:  Pancake = frittella)

So, I just got off the phone with my Aunt Patti (yes, the one with the everyday f*ckin’ “colorful” conversation (as noted in the post “Aunt Patti’s Hair Nest and the Twitty Birds”) and she told me that my beloved and utterly sweet ninety two year old grandmother - whom I call “Nan” –  was noshing on pancakes yesterday morning for breakfast (OK, normal so far, right?) but, as she was enjoying her pancakes - and in her day, my Nan could whip up some amazing pancakes - Nan was tearing off little buttery bits and shoving them into a nearby book. 

When asked why the pancake pages were all-the-rage that particular day, Nan stated simply “so I have something to snack on later, of course”.  Alright Nan, but wouldn’t a little plate or Tupperware container do the trick ? Awwww, the things we may do at ninety two… I don’t think she was planning to read that book anyway -  I just hope she doesn’t try to cook it!

(You can read more about Nan’s quirky habits lovingly noted in this post: “Joe Pesci is my third cousin, you gotta F*%#!n’ problem with that?” http://madnessmomandme.com/2009/07/joe-pesce/).

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Sadistic priest burns little girl with cigar!

Thursday, February 18th, 2010
 
“The first time I sang in the church choir, two hundred people changed their religion.” ~  Fred Allen  
 
Ash Wednesday is not for sissies!
 
“Come on Elizabeth, be a good Catholic girl and get in line for your ashes,” Mom and Dad would chant in church every year when Ash Wednesday rolled around.  The first time up, my thoughts turned to complete and utter terror  “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” I yelled, “I don’t want that horrid priest to burn my forehead with a lit cigar, Ma!” 

(Italian Lesson: cigar smoker = fumatore di sigari)

I was only about seven or eight I suppose, so I had no idea exactly what was really going on in the front of St. Mary’s Church – except for the fact that I sure didn’t want my little forehead used as a friggin’ ashtray by Father Boyle! I can just HEAR the sizzling and smell my young burning flesh melting away – I’ll be scarred for life – NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!  Even worse, this is what you’d call a “special occasion” mass,  meaning it didn’t even ”count” for the week – ugh.  So now we have to head back to the pews to do it again for another hour on Sunday — damn! This church stuff was totally cramping my style! 
 
And all that talk about ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  Like I really want to hear that I’ll be cremated one day and turned to a grey powder – I have my whole life ahead of me for crying out loud! I guess I figured that the burning hot cigar was just the priest’s subtle, yet sadistic reminder, and I just wanted to take a pass — thanks anyway!
Line up, it's Ash time!
        

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Abbondanza, Meatballs and Dad’s Ambulance Ride

Friday, February 5th, 2010

“Spaghetti can be eaten most successfully if you inhale it like a vacuum cleaner.” ~ Sophia Loren

Yes, over the years my dad had to put up with a whole lot of crazy thanks to mom’s spirited “antics”, but he was not without his own classic gems.  Dad loved his Italian meals, and often got himself on mom’s “sh!t list”  for filling his plate with a mountainous heep of second helpings, especially if mom’s garlicy pasta sauce was on the menu.  ABBONDANZA!  as we say in Italian.

(Italian Lesson: ABBONDANZA! = abundance)

A few years ago, mom made one of her famously delicious spaghetti and meatball dinners, and just before she set the food on the kitchen table, my dad started to complain of severe chest pains.  His pain was not going anywhere, so mom called the ambulance to get him to the nearest emergency room.   Dad knew he should get to the hospital asap,  but that scent filling the house – the temptation of mom’s homemade sauce, those scrumptious little meatballs and fresh Italian bread were calling out his name,  “D-o-m-i-n-i-c, D-o-m-i-n-i-c”  – what was this sauce-lovin’ Sicilian to do?

Mom's spaghetti & meatballs

Well, Dominic knew!  When the ambulance arrived, he did what any other appreciative Italian husband would do – he asked mom to make him a “doggie bag” meal to bring along for the ride (and, hey, add some bread for dipping!) - this way he could enjoy his dinner while he waited to see the doc.  Needless to say, dad arrived home from the E.R. pretty hungry that night.

Have doggie bag will travel

Have doggie bag will travel

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The Very Wretched Sister Urselena

Saturday, January 30th, 2010
“The sixties were when hallucinogenic drugs were really, really big. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we had the type of shows we had then, like The Flying Nun.” ~ Ellen DeGeneres

 

St. Margaret's Madness

St. Margaret's Madness

St. Margaret’s Catholic School, Morristown, NJ – Second grade:  my foray into the Catholic school system.  Jesus, how I hated those wretched uniforms  – come on, who can look halfway decent in those ridiculous plaid accordion-pleated skirts and dowdy white buttoned-up blouses? And that stupid little crisscross tie thing in front of your neck – what the hell was that about?   Where was my favorite little black velvet dress now???

A St. Margaret’s education was OK I guess, but the little me did not leave that school without a couple  “incidents” which got me in a bit of trouble — expelled for a day actually, but more about that in a bit.  This post is all about the mean and utterly terrifying Sister Urselena.  YIKES — even typing out her name makes me tremble to this day!

(Italian Lesson: meschino = mean)

Sister Urselena was one of those nuns who would hit kids acting up in class, and God forbid if you were chewing

Sister Urselena wishes she looked this good

Sister Urselena wishes she looked this good

gum, because you’d end up wearing it on your nose and stand in front of the class for an hour with your chewed up gum on the end of your nose.  Yup, this was one frightening nun!  A nun who wouldn’t know a smile if one crawled up her habit and bit her on her ass.  Urselena never smiled at all — maybe it was because she had a mouth like a puppet —a real wooden puppet.  You know, one of those with the deep lines next to her lips, in fact, her mouth opened and closed like a Charlie McCarthy doll.

After seeing Urselena hit a fellow student with a ruler one day, I told my mom about it.  Mom advised me to leave the school if they ever tried to touch me.  So, the next day, I walked to school with my head held high, went straight up to Ursulena and told her that if she, or any nun ever touches me, my mother gave me permission to bolt outta there immediately.  Urselena promptly called my mother to verify this, and mom basically told her “damn straight, sister”! Unfortunately, this was not the last time Sister Ursulena called my mother at home — stay tuned “pencil incident” post.

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Cinnabon Trump

Sunday, January 17th, 2010

“And the drummer boy go pa-rum pa-pum pum – Give ya some some some of this Cinnabon” - Missy “Misdemeanor” Elliott

Just a follow up to my last “Yo Trump!” post.

This is how I see the ‘do  – need I say more?

(Italian Lesson: cappelli = hair)

See the similarities?
See the similarities?

The infamous Donald 'do

 

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A quick post – one of Mom’s gems

Thursday, January 7th, 2010

I just told Mom it’s good for your health to get fresh air daily.  She said “I get fresh air a few times a day – every time I go outside for a cigarette!”  Nice one, ma!

Yum, smoking is healthy!

Yum, smoking is healthy!

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Aunt Patti’s Hair Nest & the Twitty Birds

Saturday, December 19th, 2009

“Many a man’s profanity has saved him from a nervous breakdown. ” ~ Henry S. Haskins

My Aunt Patti was always talking about Loretta Lynn, Johnny Cash and Conway Twitty and his little Twitty-birds.  She always had a cigarette in her hand, and one of her teased-up Loretta Lynn wigs on her head – the kind which resembled some sort of nest-like bird habitat.  Aunt Patti’s hair was pretty much a mystery to me, I never knew what the heck was under there.  I guess Aunt Patti just didn’t want to bother with styling her real hair, since I know now that she really does grow her own.

A Hot County Mess

A Hot Country Mess

Back in the 70’s my Aunt Patti’s true love  was country and western music — and swearing.  Aunt Patti would swear in everyday conversation;  it just seemed to work for her.  If she saw a cop, she called him a friggin’ flat-footed bastard.  If the car in front of her didn’t step on the gas immediately at a green light, she’d say  “the f*cking light’s not gonna get any greener, ya friggin’ @sshole” and so on. 

(Italian Lesson: to swear like a trooper = bestemmiare come uno scaricatore di porto)

If we were at a restaurant with Aunt Patti, before she could say “pass the mother f*ckin’ mashed”, she would always ask the waitress to being a spoonful of their sauce before ordering any saucy dish.  She’d turn to us and say, “I need taste their f*cking sauce before I order their friggin’ food; I’m not getting screwed with sh!tty friggin’ sauce here”.  Aunt Patti’s colorful raunchiness with the English language always held a high entertainment value, and provided us with something to laugh about the next day.

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Mom’s Must: Italian Last Name/Ends with a Vowel

Monday, November 23rd, 2009

“Always get married early in the morning. That way, if it doesn’t work out, you haven’t wasted a whole day.”  ~ Mickey Rooney

In the summer of ‘58 Mom turned eighteen, and Nan was wondering when her pretty daughter would marry and start a family.  Nan was concerned that her eldest might end up a old, shriveled-up unhappy spinster (back then, you were deemed a spinster if you weren’t hitched by the ripe old age of twenty — and that was even pushing it.  Ridiculous, huh?)

 In May of 1959, my Aunt Lo introduced her unattached Italian friend, Dominic, to my mom. Mom was a head turner, with her perfect hourglass figure, which was just right for wearing those fashionable Jackie Kennedy-esque dresses and those little vogue hats with her red tresses twirling out from under.  Needless to say, he was smitten.  

Retro Mom

Second generation Dominic stood about 5’10’ had thick wavy black locks, styled into a little pompadour in the front (very stylish at the time).   Dom, “Sonny” as some of his friends and his sister Rosie called him, had a fresh  anisette aroma about him and always a warm twinkle in his dark brown eyes .

Life in his household revolved around cooking and eating, cooking and eating, and cooking and eating.  Mamma Romano cooked day and night – I don’t know if she ever left the kitchen.  She was always there, donning her spaghetti sauce stained, smelly worn-out apron.  If she wasn’t preparing breakfast, lunch or dinner, she was making anisette cookies, picking fresh figs from their tree or squeezing ripe tomatoes into sauce.  Dad’s parents were straight off the boat from the motherland:  Lucia from Sicily, and Joseph from Naples. 

Is it sauce yet?

Dom had a decent job, a stylish car and a bit of that Italian mystique.  Almost thirty with a car and a job, he was quite the eligible bachelor — a total catch.  A young Margaret accepted his request for a date,  and when he arrived at her house looking so chic in his chinos and leather and wool sweater, he blurted out upon meeting my grandparents “I’m going to marry your daughter”.  Wow, a man with confidence!

(Italian Lesson: what’s your name? = come ti chiami?)

Dominic and Margaret were married December of that same year.  My Dad’s mother wasn’t too thrilled with the idea of this half-Italian bride.  She had planned to ship over a Sicilian village girl to marry her youngest little Sonny, not some Americanized redhead.  Much more to tell about this later on.

The best is that Mom tells me she said yes to dad’s proposal of marriage – get this – mainly because he had a good Italian last name, and she just HAD to have an Italian name ending with a vowel.  Good pick, ma — because I really enjoyed my Italian last name all of these years, too!

Young Dad Romano

 

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Ding-a-Lings at the Dover Library

Saturday, November 21st, 2009
 
“I put my heart and my soul into my work, and have lost my mind in the process.” ~ Vincent Van Gogh
 
"It's just Dad and his ding-a-ling mom!"

"It's just dad and his ding-a-ling, mom!"

On good days (luckily for me, there were plenty of those) Mom and I spent a lot of time shopping “downtown”. Downtown as in Dover, a cool old town known for its variety of diners, pizzerias, record shops and retail stores like J.C. Penney, Woolworth’s, JJ Newberry and Sears (actual stand-alone department stores, as these were the days long before malls took over the shopping scene).   A frequent spot Mom and I would visit was the historical Dover Public Library, a place I always found so intimidating (this old brick building seemed so large to me –  it housed dark wooden staircases, creaky banisters and always had a slightly musty mixture of sour and stale smells.  Plus, those never smiling oh-so-serious women who worked there, who always wanted us kids to be quiet – geesh!) 

Our library had 45 minutes set aside each week for the moms to browse books on the “mystery” floor, and the children would have story and coloring time downstairs in the “kiddie” area.  I remember I couldn’t wait to be grown up, so I could go upstairs and browse all of those alluring adult novels.  So there I was with the other kiddies sketching away — a pretty simple concept, until it came time for me to show my inner Degas I just unleased. 

(Italian Lesson:  Library = biblioteca)

You see, a day or two earlier, I happened to see my Dad in his birthday suit, when I just happened to be strolling by their bedroom while dad was getting dressed for work that morning — oops! I asked my mom what that “thing” was that Dad had kind-of hanging there, and she promptly told me “oh, that’s his ‘ding-a-ling’”.  Aha- that Chuck Berry song! Now I know what Chuck was singing about!

Well, you can imagine what our storytime librarian did when a proud little me handed in my drawing of a naked man with his dangling ding-a-ling.  My mother was immediately found and pulled aside by the staff to see what was going on in our family.  All was explained, and mom told me it may be best to keep my new ding-a-ling findings to myself.

Dover Library c1911

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Meeting Patti Ann

Monday, October 12th, 2009

“If you have one true friend, you have more than your share.” ~ Thomas Fuller

The coolest little outfit, too!

Patti Ann had long, shiny strawberry-blond hair.  It was such a rare shade, which was bestowed upon only a select few, and its hue had powers to mesmerize you.  Being Italian,  many heads of hair in our family were sporting the typical Italian color palette of locks.  Shades of medium chestnut to a deep espresso brown-black  (except for my mom, of course, who enjoyed showing off  her gorgeous thick mane of true red).

Patti Ann’s her younger John had a vibrant head of reddish hair, but this pair represented only two of the four Sullivan children (the other two boys had dark brown hair).  Looking back, I often wonder if the postman, or perhaps a handsome neighbor had red hair.  The Sullivan house was adjacent to our back yard, so we could just cut across the tiny little maze of bushes and, VIOLA! we’d be in their backyard.  Life always seemed a bit more fun at PattiAnn’s yard, because they had a three foot above ground pool, a sandbox, a stand-alone playhouse in the backyard and these funny-looking pet rabbits – the kind with snow white fur and those “conjunctivitis-looking” neon pink eyes.   Patti Ann was allergic to most animals, so I guess an outdoor rabbit in a wooden  hutch was about it as far as furry creatures were concerned.  I remember seeing her after one of her routine visits to the allergist, and she’d come home with all these red dots drawn all over her body – it was  such a foreign concept to me, mysterious and utterly fascinating (what did this madman doctor do to her, stick her with needles everywhere?)

(Italian Lesson: my best friend = mia migliore amica)

Patti Ann was just a mere year older than me, and we had many of the same interests, so we used to hang out a lot together playing records and board games like Operation, Candy Land and our personal favorite, Mystery Date (The Dating Game version for girls).  The best version was our own Dating Game which was played on Patti Ann’s kitchen chalkboard. We would sit on the floor next to her basement steps, taking turns drawing three “bachelors” each with very different looks.  Usually one was a clean cut cute guy, one was a total long-haired hippe flower-child and one a total geeky nerd. These bachelors would answer questions from the girl making the selection and whomever was playing the part of the guys, would make different voices for each character and answer typical Dating Game questions, like “what is your idea of a great first date?” “what do you look for in a girl?” and “what hobbies do you have?” – it was pretty funny.  Ahhhh, so innocent we were.

A but more on the quirky side were my ideas of pretend games and made-up scenerios.  My two favs were Orphanage and Sunday Mass.  Orphanage goes like this:  we’d hang out in my huge playroom on Lehigh Street and just play with toys, games, cars, etc. pretending we were orphans.  When mom brought us lunch, we’d pretend it was our porridge or rations and sometimes, when a few of us were in the playroom, one of us would play the parent coming in to look and select their orphan.  Where the heck did I come up with that?

Sunday Mass was fun as well.  I received a pretty white leather book for my communion which had the entire Catholic Mass written in it, so my cousin Tracy and I would “play” Mass  once in awhile.  I was the priest of course, and Tracy was my congregation.  I would even make my own communion wafers, by making quarter-size disks from the middle of a slice of Wonder Bread (plain store brand white bread if money was tight).  I would seriously dispense communion and read the priest’s part from my little book and my congregation (of one) would reply when asked.  

Follow me! Single File!

Follow me! Single File!

The four of us, me, PattiAnn, Tracy and John would usually be playing together and we’d look forward to our Sunday strolls to a little soda and burger shop named Lobb’s, which was a walk up the “big” Baker Street hill to the next town called Wharton.  This great little family soda shop had it all!  Bottle Cap candy, Kung Fu and Wacky Pack cards, Bazooka Joe gum, lemon-flavored sugar in a straw,and all the Cheez-Its we could spend our nickels on.  Getting there was another matter of business.  Patti Ann (who I will now start referring to as Pat) loves to tell  – and cherry cokes to wash it down!  Pat still tells me to this day that I reminded her of the Lucy character from the Charlie Brown’s Peanuts gang, because I was a bit bossy and made the crew follow me up Baker Hill, single file.   Perhaps I was a Lucy Van Pelt-ish drill sergeant, but I kept our walks neat and orderly.  We always managed to have fun on our little adventures to Wharton.

Once, on one of our walks we found a middle-aged scruffy looking bearded man sitting in the driver’s side of his old puke-green Chevy Malibu with his ding-a-ling hanging there, just perched in his lap as if it stuck its head out for a little air!  We told our parents who probably called the police about it.  On future walks I’d be on the lookout for the perv’s pukemobile, but I never spotted the dirty ol’ dude  ”hanging” out on any future Sunday walk.

Not a care in the world!

Not a care in the world!

 

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