Dr. A/B Trant

When I was in college I was a biology major but had a double minor: theology and philosophy. I was an over-thinker from birth---so when got to college and chose to think about thinking as a course of study, it amplified the effect.

One of my favorite philosophy professors was Dr. Ed Trant. His students called him A/B Trant because even with the minimum of work it wasn’t difficult to get a B, and if you put a reasonable amount of extra effort in, he would give you an A. I took several of his courses-- not because of his grading policies, but because he was a great teacher, and he opened up my mind to new and thought-provoking ideas. And like Father Borzaga, he too was irreverent. I love irreverence.  I think irreverence is the consequence of extreme overthinking---irreverence is the endpoint of successive thought. It’s the point when reason is so exhausted it becomes absurd.

A very very conservative Catholic boy sat in the front of one of Dr. Trant’s classes, and this student was offended by virtually every word that came from Dr. Trant’s mouth. And this student, whose name I can no longer recall, but whose face I can still see in my mind’s eye, was also humorless. And he felt the need at every point in any discussion to contradict everything anyone would say—even if it was a list of facts. And Dr. Trant was patient with the student—even though the student was beyond annoying to him and all of my classmates. This was the kid who the boys from the back of the room would “pretend sneeze” while uttering the word “douche.” He was the kid who was always barely on time to class and would wave a hello greeting just before he sat down at his desk as if anyone was happy to see that he remembered to show up.

One day, the class discussion meandered to the topic of abortion. So you can only imagine how large the soapbox was that this kid was about to get on when he saw the direction of the discussion. This kid was getting ready to take his single man march, banners of dead babies and all, down the aisle of the classroom. And that’s when Dr. Trant snapped just a little tiny bit. And Dr. Trant turned to him in all seriousness and said—You know , I believe it’s never too late for an abortion—even post birth.  I thought was going to die. And it was funnier still because this student was clueless as to what he meant-- he remained silent—and puzzled. But I understood precisely what the professor meant—and Dr. Trant knew that I knew—and so he turned to me and asked Miss Manello, do you agree?   And not that I felt any pressure to agree with him simply because he was my teacher—I  too was not fond of this kid—and I too wished that his mother had gotten an abortion during her pregnancy with him either prior to or post birth. So with vigor I simply said Absolutely Dr. Trant.

I’d like to say that after that remark the kid ceased annoying the professor and the class but that did not happen. This kid never did curb his commentary.  He was oblivious to everything but his own thoughts. And when the kid would pull out his soapbox, Dr. Trant would gaze over at me and wink---he knew I knew what he was thinking. And knowing that Dr. Trant knew that I knew what he was thinking made my classmates's litanies more bearable.

And it probably didn’t matter that I did all the extra work necessary to get an A in Dr. Trant’s class—he probably would have given it to me anyway.  Yet I always wondered what grade that kid got—teachers hold all the power and can spin any essay test grade into an A or a D at whim—it’s the beauty of the essay---it’s qualitative. I would like to think Dr. Trant gave him a C—defying his A/B reputation---because bad behavior should never be rewarded . But I will never that know for sure---and it is better that way anyway---in Karenland, if I think he got a C, then he did—kinda like that Schrödinger cat box theory my children were so fond of in high school

Seeking Advisement from a Prickly Principal

I am proud of the fact that when my girls were little, they thought there were only 2 channels on television: 13 and 21---both are PBS stations. And they were allowed to keep those channels on all day long if they wished. Consequently, they watched lots of Sesame Street, Mister Rodger’s Neighborhood, Thomas the Train Engine, Reading Rainbow, Wishbone, and Ghostwriter. And all that public television paid off because when Briana was four years old, her nursery school teacher made a discovery: Briana could read. Briana could pick up any level one book and read the words.

So I decided prior to her entry into Kindergarten that I should consult with the principal, Dr. Marie Braccia regarding Briana’s reading skills. Dr. Braccia was a prickly character. She did not hide her disdain for parents and the jury is out as to whether she always had the student’s best interests at heart. But as my educational resources at that time were limited, I decided that seeking advisement on the best Kindergarten placement for Briana with her principal was a solid option.

So I made an appointment and I went in to see Dr. Braccia. Dr. Braccia said So Karen, (and by the way that always bothered me—she called me Karen but I still had to call her Dr. Braccia) what brings you here today—what are your concerns? And I told her that Briana was already reading and that I wanted to make sure she was placed with a teacher who would nurture her skills. And Dr. Braccia’s response was this: Well why did you teach her to read? In this district we do not teach reading until the first grade.

Now, I should have been put off by that statement. I remember thinking:  Are you kidding me? Are you suggesting as an educator that the fact that my child can read is a bad thing? But Marie Braccia was a very intimidating person, and despite the fact that we were both grown women and we should have been able to have had an adult conversation,  she made me feel like I was a seven year old guilty child and I overcompensated and told her in a hurried manner: Well I didn’t’ teach her to read. I have 2 other children and so I don’t really have time for that—Briana picked it up on her own—it was her nursery school teacher who discovered her ability to read. I had nothing to do with it. To which Dr. Braccia then said Reaaally? (in a disbelieving tone) She taught herself? I have never heard of that before. Are you sure she hasn’t just memorized the words in her books? Children do that. And I said no—she can pick up any book that she has never seen before and read it. And so Dr. Braccia, clearly annoyed, rolled her eyes up into her head, made a bored sigh, and said I will do my best to place her.

When Briana’s teacher assignment came in the mail in August I was pleased. Briana’s teacher was Mrs. Millot—the former reading specialist who was reassigned back into the classroom. I thought hmm Marie Braccia had listened to me after all.

But when I went to Briana’s first parent-teacher conference, Mrs. Millot sat down, wrapped her arms around her crossed legs, and in a gleeful tone said So what do you want to talk about? Now, Briana was not my first child—I had had parent-teacher conference experience—and I knew that typically the teacher would present a file of some sort with samples of work, and some sort of grade book, and test scores.  But no. She had prepared nothing . She just sat there smiling and waiting for me to tell her something about my child’s academic experience. So, despite my rising anger, I decided to go with the flow and I ask her a generic question: So how is Briana doing? And she thought for a second or two and said You know Briana spends too much time in the reading area with books. And I said Oh? Is that a problem? and then she said Well, all the other little girls like to play in the kitchen area. And I said Well you know that Briana can read right? And she said Really? I didn’t know that-- and anyway she is not supposed to be reading until next year—she might make the other kids feel badly if they know she can read.

And there you have it. The former reading specialist turned Kindergarten teacher a) couldn’t figure out my child could read b) thought my child spent too much time with books c) shouldn’t let the other kids know she could read because it might make them feel bad and d) should spend more time in the kitchen area with the other little girls playing house.

So the year was wasted. But at least Briana continued reading and watching PBS. And when June came around I went to see Dr. Braccia (again). This time I had a better plan. I used the fact that my father had been recently diagnosed with a terminal illness to strongly request that Briana be placed in Mrs Smith’s class for first grade. I explained (in a nice way) to Dr. Braccia the less than academic experience Briana had had with the former reading specialist turned kindergarten teacher. I assured her that I knew  that she (Dr Braccia) had the best of intentions when she placed Briana with Mrs Millot but the experience had gone array. Marie Braccia didn’t agree with me, but the fact that she didn’t defend her teacher either led me to believe that she acknowledged that I was indeed correct.

And so, that’s how Briana came to be in Mrs. Smith’s first grade class. And Ana Lee Smith was wonderful (as she was with Samantha and later with Kara). And Mrs. Smith enriched Briana’s brain and allowed her to enjoy being who she was. And Mrs. Smith embraced Briana’s desire to learn. And every day Briana came home with work. And every week she came home with reading backpacks. And Briana flourished.

I had quite a few more run-ins with Dr. Braccia over the next few years. And eventually I learned how to handle her prickliness in the best possible way--wearing gloves and applying cortisone.

Bedding Bucknell Buddies

This past weekend I hosted 7 of my daughter’s college friends—5 girls and 2 boys-- in celebration of her twenty-second birthday. They are all very nice kids from nice families and they could not have been more respectful or delightful.

And I can’t tell you how much pleasure I got from seeing seven 22 year olds frolicking for hours on Saturday afternoon in my 12’ round 24” deep blow up pool and playing slip and slide in my backyard. Seven well-educated, chronologically mature adults were behaving and enjoying themselves like a bunch of 7 year olds (but for the Bud lights and the explicit music).  It was a mini-frat party. But what puzzled me, at their age, with all their education, was not their youthful behavior, but their sleeping arrangements.

This past weekend, during a heat wave, my second central air conditioning zone went on the fritz again. So we popped 3 window units we had purchased a few weeks ago when the central A/C previously went out into the windows on the second floor. And then we bought one more unit for one of the bedrooms on the third floor—formerly my daughter Samantha’s room—the bedroom with the double bed. The secondbedroom on the third floor—the one with the twin bed was a hot house—we chose not to buy a new a/c for that room. But not to worry because I set up a full size aero bed in my husband’s office in the basement where it is cool and quiet and dark. And I also borrowed 2 more twin aero beds from my friend Elaine to have on hand if a few stragglers came home with the pack after Saturday night’s sojourn to Manhattan.     

There was plenty of bedding—and there was plenty of bedding such that everyone could be cool and comfortable. And there was enough variation in the bedding to allow for privacy between males and females.

So at 5am Sunday morning when they all rolled in, I heard thumping up steps, and water running, and a few whispers. But by 5:30 am the house was once again quiet. When I got up around 8-ish, my dog Cosmo pushed his nose on Kara’s bedroom door and I noticed that there was only one female sleeping in the double bed. Hmm I thought. I guess instead of gaining some stragglers maybe we lost a few?  

When everyone came downstairs for breakfast I inquired where everyone had slept. The distribution was as follows: Kathleen and Brett (male) slept on the third floor in Samantha’s bedroom, Emily slept in the twin bed in the air condition-less sauna-like bedroom also on the third floor. Kat slept by herself in the full sized bed in Kara’s room on the second floor, and Briana, Kelly and Evan (2 girls and a guy) all slept together in Briana’s double bed. No one slept in the basement on either the full or 2 twin aero beds.

So my first thought was this—well I know why Kat will be attending a top 30 law school—she was the smartest of the bunch since she slept in the biggest bedroom on a full size bed all alone. Except that Kat was angry that she didn’t have a sleep partner. She felt slighted that she was all alone. She was unhappy. She was jealous of the others. So I then asked Emily why she slept in the sauna-like third floor bedroom when there were lots of other cooler places to sleep---and she said well I wanted to be close to Kathleen and Brett. So I asked Kathleen and Brett why they had slept together and not with a friend of the same sex? And they said because we like sleeping together—we are used to it from school (it was 100% platonic). So then I asked the final 3 bananas why did the 3 of you sleep in the same bed when Kat was sleeping by herself in the room next door? And they said we didn’t really think about it—we always sleep this way. And my final question was—why didn’t anyone sleep in the basement on the aerobeds? And the resounding answer to that was because the basement was scary. Twenty-two year olds apparently are still afraid of ghosts.

Huh? Did I just take crazy pills? What kind of decision making was that? And I cannot blame it on the alcohol—by the time they got home they were all sober (more or less). Why would they all sleep uncomfortably when they had the option to sleep comfortably? Was the math that hard? These kids were all the cream of the crop from a tier one university—how could they not have figured out a better plan?

So I gave them breakfast, packed them sandwiches for their trips home, kissed them good bye and stripped the sheets. And on the way out they thanked me and told me that they were so grateful for the hospitality—and I told them if they wanted to thank me then they should subscribe to my blog so I could see my “pageviews” rise---and they laughed and then asked excitedly will you write about us? (they enjoy good “press”---this is the Facebook generation—everything they do must be fully documented, photographed and put out into the universe)---and I said maybe….if you promise to come back and stay again….

A deal is a deal. So I suppose, who’s getting company again? And I am only too happy to have them.

Jasper and Cosmo

On a Sunday morning in January 2010 my husband and I awoke to find our 14 year old Wheaton terrier named Jasper, a bit under the weather. He just wasn’t acting like himself. And upon investigation by my husband, we determined the cause. Jasper at some point during the night or early morning had consumed a 5 pound 10 x 10 x 10 inch raisin filled imported Italian pannetone (cake)—aluminum wrapper and all.

Now I immediately knew we had to get Jasper help right away—aside from the fact that Jasper had not trained in Nathan hot-dog eating contests and therefore did not have the stomach capacity required to physically hold 5 lbs of Italian cake (and the aluminum wrapper), I knew that raisins were highly toxic to dogs—particularly 14 year old dogs like Jasper with chronic degenerative liver disease.

So since it was Sunday, and my vet’s office was closed, we drove to Westbury to one of those really high priced veterinary hospitals that have flatscreen TV’s playing Animal Planet and 4 inch memory foam mattresses on the floor of the walk-in cage/rooms for its canine patients. Jasper’s condition was rather grave—they needed to pump his stomach, and then flush his system for 48 hours with IV’s and still hope with his already precarious liver condition that he would not die of liver failure. And not to appear callous, but this little episode, no matter what the outcome, was going to cost a big cha-chung—assuming he recovered-- $1000/day minimum in the critical care unit and the clock was already running.

So I hugged Jasper and sobbed the entire way home. And my husband could barely drive through his own tears. And when I returned home it was so quiet I thought I would lose my sanity. And that was when I knew for sure, I was never going to stand being without a dog. And I knew that Jasper’s death would be so traumatic that I would have to go out the next day and get a new dog. And I also knew that getting a new dog when you are emotionally confused was a bad idea. And that is when I started researching what my next dog would be.

The best breed of dogs in my mind is the golden retriever, They are gentle and smart and so soft. But I am also allergic to them. And I am also not a big fan of dog hair all over my clothes and carpeting, nor do I want a dog I cannot lift. So a golden was out of the question.

So I decided to consult an expert: my vet. I asked Dr. Devito what breed of dog she thought would suit my personality—and she said based on what she knew of me and her exposure to every breed of dog, , without question I should own a standard poodle (I wondered if it had anything to do with my big Italian hair). Now I happen to like standard poodles—especially Sabrina and Max--but standard poodles are big animals, and although they are docile and mentally sharp, let’s face it, standard poodles still look like— well--to put it bluntly-- they look like poodles.

So I started investigating pure bred and designer dogs on the internet.   And after lots of googling and many days and hours later I discovered Amy Lane of Fox Creek Farm. I found my perfect “breed”: a mini goldendoodle.  Amy Lane was a founding breeder of GANA—the Goldendoodle Association of North America--and she was well known in the dog world for her therapy dogs. And that was what I was looking for—a puppy who was well bred—not from a puppy mill—a puppy from an untarnished responsible breeder---a puppy who was easily trained and over-the-moon lovable.  And so I wrote Amy a letter and mailed a deposit. And I told her exactly what I was looking for in a puppy: a calm, submissive, obedient, pleasant dog.

You see, Jasper was never a calm submissive dog. First off he was a terrier, so he was high strung. Secondly he was bred to be an Irish herding dog , so aside from being incredibly agile and athletic, Jasper was cautious about allowing people into the pack, and equally cautious about allowing them back out. So for Jasper’s entire life I had to worry about him nipping people when they came in the door, and then nipping them on the way out. But the most important factor I think that made Jasper take his job as deputy lieutenant in charge of home security to an extreme is that Jasper was a rescue dog. We adopted Jasper days away from being euthanized. Jasper had been on his own surviving without human intervention for a very long while. And the shelter that housed him knew Jasper had been on his own for a while because his coat was so overgrown and matted and because he was so possessive of his food.

Now you are probably thinking poor Jasper—and that would be true. But equally important was poor us: living with a not calm, not all that submissive, very smart, faithful only to his owners, exceptionally handsome, rescue dog. Had I not been as strong an Alpha pack leader as I was (still am), Jasper would have been gone a long time ago. Jasper was a ton of work to control.

So I thought if Jasper was going to die soon, and I had the opportunity to really examine the best breed to replace him, I was going to make it easy this time on myself. I was going to buy the dog of my dreams—and that dog was Cosmo: ¼ standard poodle, ¼ golden retriever, and 1/2   miniature poodle. Cosmo is all things golden retriever thrust into a poodle-ish body— 30 lbs of canine perfection.

Jasper did not die that January in 2010 from eating a 5 lb pannetone with raisins. Nor did he die from the anal cancer removed from his behind that May, nor did he die from the melanoma removed from his lip in June , nor the Brillo pad he ate in July , nor from his degenerative liver disease, nor his sluggish thyroid condition.

Jasper flips his paw at the Grim Reaper every day. Jasper is a survivor. Jasper is every bit of 15 years old and still has an excellent quality of life. He is a bit deaf and partially blind but he still takes his job very seriously. Sometimes I think he is my Grandpa Vespo reincarnated (in fact if you put glasses on him he would look exactly like Grandpa Vespo). And here’s the best part, Cosmo has rejuvenated Jasper: Jasper’s brain is sharper; and the increased physical activity from having a puppy around has made his arthritis less bothersome. My vet believes that Cosmo saved Jasper. And having a calm submissive puppy around has made Jasper sweeter—as if he needed a good-natured dog in his den to teach him how to be nice to humans.

Every morning when I wake up I hug and kiss Jasper and thank him for being with us one more day. Because let’s face it, Jasper is living well past his expiration date. And every morning I thank the good fairy Amy Lane who on January 29, 2010 sprinkled her magic fairy dust over her favorite stuffed toy to create Cosmo—the perfect puppy.

Jasper at age 15 looking like Grandpa Vespo without glasses

                                          cosmo after a bad poodle haircut

                                    cosmo looking like a stuffed toy

                                          Jasper looking the Grim Reaper in the eye

The Perils of 3 am Internal Overheating

Now that I am of a certain age there are times at night—specifically 3 am—the time paranormal analysts call the devil’s hour or dead time--when I become overheated. Compared to some other women, the physical symptoms are not that bad. My body awakens prior to the internal inferno so the advanced warning enables me to remove the bed covers so when the hormones spike I am already cool enough to deal with the onslaught. The rise in internal body temperature doesn’t really bother me—what bothers me is what the temperature spike does to my normally rational brain.

What I cannot stand is how my brain scrambles like a beaten egg at 3 am. And the thoughts that seem rational and sound at 3 pm no longer seem so rational and sound 12 hours later. And the worst part of it is that the intellectual part of my brain understands whatever I am thinking at 3 am is insane, but is unable to harness the psychosis. Because when you are of a certain age and the hormones spike at the devil’s hour, psychosis runs amuck. And the demons laugh in its wake.

So for example when your most trustworthy child tells you at 3 pm her proposed plans to fly to Chicago, stay in her friend’s townhouse on the lake shore, and then take the bus to Grant Park for Lollapalooza you think Wow that sounds like fun. What a great opportunity. Isn’t it fabulous to have such an adventurous child who is unafraid to travel and experience new things?  At 3am—not so much.

At 3 am you think What if terrorists target Chicago? What if her friend’s house gets robbed and they don’t have time to get into the panic room (because at 3 am you think people have panic rooms)? What if she gets hurt and loses her ID and the hospital can’t call me (because in the 3 am scenario she not only gets hurt but she is alone and unable to speak)? What if she gets a tattoo or a nose ring (because at 3 am it doesn’t occur to you that she doesn’t need to go all the way to Chicago to get a tattoo or a nose ring)? What if one of the band members sees her in the crowd and makes her a groupee ( I have seen the movie Almost Famous and at 3 am this seems like a reasonable possibilty)? What if she gets roofied (again, because that can only happen in Chicago and not anywhere else) And it gets more and more ridiculous until I cannot even breathe. What if? What if? What if?

But by 4 am the hormones stabilize. The breathing becomes unremarkable. And the synapses in my brain resume normal activity. Reason and sensibility regain mental rule. The devil’s hour has passed. But I am exhausted. This little trip into the what-ifs has sucked the life out of me. And in a few short hours I will be expected to function like a human.

Folklore says that at 3 am the demons, witches, and supernatural beings are at their most powerful—it is the devil’s hour—the opposite time of when time Christ died (3 pm)—dead time. Black magic is at its peak of effectiveness. It’s the time when the sleep hag assaults you. Ask any woman of a certain age if this is true—and they will tell you—3 am hormonal spikes at are akin to being mauled by the occult—in fact Lucifer himself may be the facilitator of the hormonal surge—it sure feels like a living hell.

Training Dogs and Children

It is now a very common thing to do but almost 15 years ago, if you told someone you had hired a personal trainer for your dog, people would have thought you had a few screws loose. But I like to be thorough in all things—I like doing research and analyzing things to death—it aids my decision making—I derive comfort from the fact that I have explored all my options and if things do not proceed as planned, it wasn’t my fault—I had anticipated every scenario. I like feeling well-prepared. And since (according to Briana) you can’t put a price on convenience, I employed Tony the high priced dog trainer.

Tony was an essential hire because Jasper (my Wheaton terrier) was a rescue dog and he was a bit damaged (my “free” shelter dog cost me 2K in dog therapy). And Tony turned out to be an excellent teacher for Jasper, me and the entire family. I, in particular soaked up every ounce of knowledge I could. And here’s the funny thing, once a human get trained as an alpha, and once you understand strategies of canine obedience, it naturally carries over into your human relationships.

I developed this habit when my kids were little that made them insane. I would clap my hands to get their attention and then I would use hand signals to command them to come, sit and stay. I couldn’t help it. Canine training had become part of my being. I even used the signals on my mother. And I learned that being quiet and staring down your opponent caused unease and ultimately submission. And the curious thing was although my kids and my mother resented being disciplined like a dog—it worked like a charm.      

Jasper was a bit possessive and when he had his bone, he would sneer and make a low growl—it was  canine-speak for F-off, vacate my space. And we got Jasper out of the habit by playing a game—if you drop it and give me the bone when I ask, you will receive a treat (which by the way, because Jasper was and still is a smart dog, turned into this game: Jasper would randomly throw his bone at you as if to say I am giving you my bone bitch, now give me my cookie.) So learned both spectrums-- how to dominate from both the human and canine perspective.

My husband I were out to dinner a few years back and the male child sitting behind us kept getting out of his seat, running around, and basically annoying the crap out of us. And the parents would say to the child honey come over here and sit down, you are annoying the people—as if by acknowledging their total lack of discipline the patrons would just forgive them for their ineptitude. And the child would say No! and continue his bad behavior. And, as you might imagine, this lack of control the family had over their child escaladed with time as he saw that there were no consequences for his bad behavior.

So at some point, I had reached my saturation. So when the little demon came close to my table, and I determined that what I was about to do was out of the view of the parents, I did something I am not too proud of: I stared the little bastard down, hunched up my shoulders, raised my lip on the left side in an animal-like sneer, and uttered a low guttural growl. And I continued to glare and sneer and growl with my shoulders hunched up until the kid got so fearful that he quietly sat down in his seat. And he did not get up again.

 My husband looked at me and said I can’t believe you just did that. I can’t believe you just growled at a little kid. And I said so are you unhappy with the results? And he said no—but what possessed you do such a thing? And I told him. Clearly that kid was an animal and not a human being and so the only way to control him was to treat him as such. In the animal kingdom, instinctively all animals understand territory and boundaries and they communicate it through body language. And that is all I did—I spoke to the little beast in a language that he could understand. It was actually pretty simple. And Tony the trainer would have been quite proud—I totally grasped animal behavior.

Understanding Brooklyn-ese

I remember when I was little that both sets of my grandparents would compare Italian words and phrases. My maternal and paternal grandparents spoke 2 different dialects—so even though the 4 of them spoke the Italian language, sometimes they did not understand each other. Some words had different meanings, and the colloquialisms lent themselves to confusion sometimes. And that does not just happen in a foreign language. That can happen in English as well—and the geographic distance need not be that great for language confusion and phrase differences. I know. I grew up in Westchester and my husband grew up in Brooklyn. And sometimes that fact led to Abbott and Costello Who’s on First-like comedy routines.

I had a wonderful mother-in-law. We never shared harsh words. I know that in her heart of hearts she would have preferred that her son had lived in Brooklyn and married a Brooklyn girl, but she never voiced that opinion. She was always kind to me. And even when she may have disapproved, she said nothing (or at least nothing to me—maybe my sister-in-law got an earful).

Anyway the fact that I grew up in suburbia and knew only suburban things and she lived in Brooklyn and knew only city things, led to differences in reference points and language nuances. So when I called my mother-in-law to excitedly tell her that we (Arthur and I) had bought our first house, the conversation didn’t go all that well.

 I called Anna, my mother-in-law, and said Mom we bought a house! And she said Where is it? And I said Garden City. And then she said Oh that’s nice, what kind of neighborhood is it? And I said Oh it’s a nice neighborhood. To which she said No—what kind of neighborhood is it? And I was confused. I just told her it was a nice neighborhood-- what else did she want me to say? So I answered again: Oh it’s very nice—there is a park nearby and the school is around the corner. And now she seemed a little annoyed—not that she said anything—it was something I sensed. And she said No--what kind of neighborhood is it? And I thought I knew what she meant so I was forced to say oh-- it’s white. And she said of course I know that-- I mean what kind of people are in the neighborhood? And I said oh I am sure they are very nice people (and I am sure she was thinking enough with the nice already what’s wrong with this girl). So she sighed and said Is the neighborhood Italian? And I said Oh I don’t know. I haven’t met anyone yet. So she said well didn’t the realtor know? Didn’t Arthur ask? And I said well how would the realtor know? And Anna said –well that’s the realtor’s job-- I don’t understand you people--how could you not know the kind of people you will be living with? And I thought but did not say well if you haven’t met your neighbors how would you know what their ethnic background was? There isn’t a sign on their door indicating as such . So I  wasn’t getting it, and I am sure neither was she, so we just abandoned this line of questioning and moved on.

But then Anna asked How many sides is the house attached on? Okay—confused again--and scared that she was going to think I was being fresh if I asked for clarification so I thought long and hard. Hmm aren’t all houses attached on all sides? If the sides of the house weren’t attached, wouldn’t the house fall down? So I said the house is attached on all sides. And now she sounded really confused. And she said how could it be attached on all sides? I never heard of such a thing. And I said—because I was trying really hard not to make her angry and her tone was getting a bit prickly and I was trying not to be fresh-- I just was not achieving the desired level of communication necessary for comprehension—so I said all four sides of the house are all attached together. To which with exhaustion she said—No--I mean what kind of house is it? is it like mine? And I said Oh—no--it’s not brick. Again, more frustration—because that still wasn’t what she meant. So she said No I mean is it attached like my house in Brooklyn? And then I understood—she meant was the house at the end or the middle of a row house—was it semi or fully detached--oh now I get it—so I said oh no it is not attached on any sides. It’s a single family 100% detached home. Wheew: conversation complete.

When Briana was in first grade she took a cognitive test. And because not all first graders could read, the exam was pictorial. And one of the questions involved 4 pictures of a party—and the students were expected to put the pictures in their proper time sequence. Briana got the question wrong. Briana chose as the first picture in the time sequence to put the picture of the Mom vacuuming first and not last in the time sequence. In her world, the first thing she knew to do in preparation of a party was to clean the house before company came. Technically she got the exam question correct. Her frame of reference was just different than the cognitive test company.

And that’s what Anna and I had to overcome—our reference points. Like my Nonny and Grandpas we needed to discern dialect and colloquialisms. Our words were sometimes the same but the meanings were very different. My suburban-ness and her urban-ness often caused confusion and often consternation. But it didn’t mean we didn’t love each other, it just meant we needed to be patient with one another. And I miss her—especially her laugh—especially her laugh when we realized that we weren’t talking about the same thing----like when said she said “gravy” and I thought she meant the brown stuff you serve with roast beef when what she really meant is what I called “Sunday sauce.”

My Sunday Sermon

I was watching Oprah: Behind the Scenes and the episode was about Oprah’s James Fey interview. In case you do not remember, James Frey wrote a book called it A Million Little Pieces. A few years back Oprah had selected it for her book group and had James Frey on the show. The book examined addiction and recovery and was advertised as an autobiography when it in fact was later discovered to be both fact mixed in with fiction. When Oprah discovered that the book was not truly an autobiography, she re-interviewed him, and unlike her usual compassionate self, allowed her voice to be consumed from the perspective of “how dare you do that to me”.

It was not one of Oprah’s finest television moments. But before the Oprah show ended this year for good, Oprah and James Frey met again and this time clearer heads prevailed. Oprah put aside her ego and allowed contrition and absolution to direct the interview. And the viewers understood that people are not perfect, ego is a poor governess of reason, and compassion filters grace. And grace is what it is all about.

My cousin’s daughter died an untimely death at age 21. Her death was the result of bad circumstance and an undiscovered medical condition. And the church was filled with a lot of “why did this happen to a girl so young?” “She didn’t deserve it” “Why would God do this to her/us/them?” In times of tragedy, the ego loves to step in and rule. And the ego cultivates self-pity which impedes healing and forgiveness.      

The priest simply said this: life is not a contract you sign with God. There is no “if I do this then God will do that”or “if I fulfill the required X, Y, and Z my reward will be D, E, and F.” The priest said there is no “why me-s? or I didn’t deserve that-s” with God. That egocentric line of thought is unproductive.  If you are faithful, you accept that God has reason that humans cannot understand (Pascal) -- and as the faithful, our job is to believe that God knows what he is doing. We don’t have to agree with God’s decisions; we just have to go with it—humans need to agree to disagree with God. Our job is to figure out how events fit into our destiny—every event, good or bad is a life lesson. Since God doesn’t sign contracts, the only thing we may expect is the unexpected. God is not bound by man’s rules.

And when the priest was finished speaking, everyone felt better. Everyone was still sad, and the wounds were still raw, but we all had new possibility. This priest had really nailed it.

I loved the book A Million Little Pieces. It allowed me to understand addiction in a way that I had not previously understood. And while the fictional parts may not have been true for James Frey, I have no doubt that for someone out there, the fiction was true for them. The book didn’t need to be James Frey’s autobiography for me to understand the carnage of addiction, and the path to redemption. And I did not have to be Oprah interviewing James Frey to learn that ego directs you down a slippery slope---I could learn that lesson from the other side of the television screen. The second you think How dare you do this or I didn’t deserve that, you eliminate the possibility of grace, and you believe God has broken his contract. And like that priest said: God does not make contracts.

Karen, Mark and Richard

When I was little I had 2 sets of grandparents, 3 Aunts, 3 Uncles and 7 cousins. They (except for my paternal grandparents) were all on the mother’s side. My mother and her 3 sisters were all close and all the brother in-laws genuinely liked each other so we were all together a lot. We celebrated every holiday, birthday and anniversary together. We also had a lot of “pop-ins” (a pop-in was exactly was it sounded like: a spontaneous get together for no particular reason.) So between all the scheduled events and pop- ins, we saw each other at least 3-4 times per month.

As in most families, there was natural age delineation: the adults and the kids. But because of birth order--the kids—the cousins—were further separated. The cousins in our family were simply divided this way: Karen, Mark, and Richard-- and everybody else. Me, my brother Mark, and my cousin Richard were the excluded little cousins. We sat at the kid’s table. We were the pests that were tolerated by the older ones. Occasionally my cousin Ann Marie would join us—she was a floater: somewhere between us and the older ones. But virtually all the time we would be together, Karen Mark and Richard were a trine.

My brother was 4 years older and my cousin Richard was 3 years older than I. Mark and Richard were less than a year apart. Mark and Richard were like Oscar Madison and Felix Unger. And just like Oscar and Felix their appearance and personalities were polar opposites. My brother was all-boy—stocky, antsy and not terribly interested in pensive things. Richard was lean, sedate, and liked to read. Mark was always sloppy—his shirt tails were perpetually hanging out and he always managed to get dirty and spotted. Richard was neat—always tailored, freshly pressed and spotless. My cousin Richard wore white denim jeans to go out and play (he did—I swear). So Mark and Richard’s relationship was both concordant and antagonistic---depending on the circumstances—just like Oscar and Felix.

What I remember vividly even after all these years was that both Mark and Richard would wrestle in the basement of our house in Yonkers. It was always prompted by my cousin Richard’s suggestion ( I realize now, but not back then, that my cousin was being manipulative). And so they would roll around on the floor and bang into things until the ruckus reached a roaring crescendo. And it was at this point that my mother would yell down the steps in her cacophonous, irritating,  fingernails scratching across the chalkboard, AFLAX-duck-like voice: Are you boys getting rambunctious down there?!!— Get up here! Karen--you too!!

So with heads hung low we climbed the asbestos tiled metal edged steps my brother tripped me on everyday of my life and met my mother in the kitchen. My mother would be pissed. My brother would be out of breath and dripping with sweat and my mother would grab the first available absorbent piece of cloth—often a used dishcloth (a mopeen) or a washcloth with Comet residue--and she would rub his head and face like she was buffing a bowling ball. The entire time she would be yelling at him for being perspired—as if he could help it—as if one could voluntarily control involuntary responses--and perspired is the precise word she would use while she was buffing his head—she would cackle at him and say Mark you are all perspired!! My mother hated sweat.

The thing was, my cousin Richard never got in trouble—even though he was always the instigator. And I think it is because even after rolling around the basement floor wrestling my brother, my cousin Richard never got out of breath, his shirttails remained intact, and he wasn’t sweaty. He didn’t appear guilty. And he enjoyed every minute of not getting into trouble. And I never ratted Richard out—even when my mother would ask me how it started. It was my revenge for my brother always tripping me up the steps when I walked and Mark taking his Motorific car and running it through my perfectly set-up dollhouse.  My cousin Richard made his childhood career by saying: Mark did it—and I was the accessory to the crime. I bore false witness. And bearing false witness is number nine on the 10 commandments do not do list.

The good news is my cousin Richard did not grow up to be master maniputor like Charles Manson. He is a well-respected CFO. And my brother graduated from law school and specializes in wrongful unemployment/compensation cases. Maybe there is a connection there. They are both successful and happy and have children and wives who love them. And they forgave each other for their escapades as children long ago—just like Felix and Oscar did every week on the Odd Couple.  And I am proud of them both.

Climbing the Country Club Sports Ladder

Some women participate in country club sports because they think it will improve their social status. For them, the syllogism is this:

Athletes are cool.

I am an athlete.

I am cool.

Not for me. Social status is something I have never really aspired to. Even in high school, I was always comfortable in my own skin and never felt the need to be a part of one particular clique—I was a floater: I floated in and out of a variety of social circles quite comfortably—I was transient. I was the permanent sub. And I liked it that way—still do. So elevating my social status was not the covert reason why I played country club sports. And while I genuinely enjoyed running after bouncing yellow balls, playing with my friends,  wearing sports attire and using new  equipment, the secret motivator for me to excel athletically was to avenge the fact that I had always been chosen nearly last for every schoolyard and gym game in elementary school. For me, rising up the country club team ladder in tennis and platform tennis and golf was a kind of revenge of the nerds.

There was nothing I grew to enjoy more than winning  matches and tournaments—and it had less to do with adding a “W” on an excel sheet and everything to do with the puzzled look that the real athletes and the self-appointed athletes gave me upon learning of my victories. The high I got from the “press” of winning was better than a narcotic. In fact it was a narcotic-- and I was addicted.

Here’s the thing: when you are an underestimated athlete, you are pressure free. And the mental freeness (combined with a lot of lessons ) empowers you. And that freeness is what enabled me and my friend Amy to nab the Long Island Platform Tennis Fight IV President’s Cup in March of 1999. It was my first trophy and tournament win.

The story is simple. In 1998-1999 I was the captain with my friend Elaine of the Flight IV Cherry Valley Platform tennis team. At the end of the season, as captains, we were obligated to send our 2 best players to the final tournament of the year. And I no longer know how or why it happened, but my friend Amy and I, not touted by any means as the best players, somehow ended up representing our club.

The tournament was set up as an 8 game pro set round robin. Eight teams (including ours) participated. Our first match was against 2 women who had destroyed us on the courts the week before. But they had made a fatal error after that match—they told us what our strengths and weaknesses were, so when we faced them in the first round of the tournament the following week, we managed to beat them. And then we managed to beat the next six teams. And before we knew it we were in our final match against two women from Huntington Country Club. And we were exhausted. We needed to win 7 of the 8 games in that final pro set to win the tournament. But the problem was that my partner Amy had been the student of one of the women we were playing against.  And In the first game of that last match, that fact was mentally doing her in.

And that’s when I had what I call my Moonstruck-Cher-slapping-Nickolas Cage-across the face-“Snap-out-of-it!” moment. It had taken me 39 years to avenge my former athletic shortcomings. Victory was at my (our) fingertips (literally—we had racquets in our hands) and I was not going to lose because of some retired school teacher.  I remember using my peri-menopausal Darth Vader voice and simply, but scarily advised Amy: Stop talking to her. She is not your teacher anymore. Let’s get this thing done already. Let’s go.

And it worked. And we won. And it was sweet. And we got trophies. And we got our name in the platform tennis newsletter. And my head was so swollen with conceit I had trouble walking through doorways. This nerd had gotten her revenge. And it was wonderful.

But it gets more wonderful-er than that. For days and weeks after the tournament, the real athletes and the self-appointed athletes would congratulate me and Amy on our win—some of the congratulations were genuine and many of them were not. But it didn’t matter. I (we) had a trophy and they did not. And the fact that I had been chosen nearly last on every schoolyard and gym game in elementary school was completely avenged. I wasn’t a non-athlete after all—I just had a very very slow learning curve: 39 years to be exact.  I indeed had prowess—I was an athlete. And after all that time, I had the accolades and engraved sterling silver to prove it.

Escaping "Catechismic" Disaster

On April 19, 1969 I received confirmation.  I was 8 years old. I wore a white polyester robe with a red collar. And on my head I wore a red beanie cap that looked suspiciously like a yarmulke with a pom-pom. Under my robe I wore my communion dress since it still fit me and my mother had spent way too much money on it at B. Altmans and Co. to only get one wearing out of it.

For Catholics, confirmation (like bar and bats mitzahs for Jews) symbolizes entry into adulthood from childhood. You, upon the Holy Spirit’s bestowing of 7 gifts (wisdom, knowledge, understanding, council, fortitude, piety and fear of the Lord), become a soldier of Christ. And I was to become this warrior of Christianity despite the fact I wasn’t yet allowed to cross Bolmer Avenue. Somehow, in the infinite wisdom of the Catholic Church (or more likely scheduling difficulties with the attending  bishop) I was mature enough to become a Christian soldier.

In preparation for the sacrament, I went to catechism classes. Every Wednesday at 1:00 pm, me  and all the other Catholic kids at Emerson Elementary school had “release time.” We took buses lined up in the front circle of the public school and were driven to Christ the King grammar school to learn all things Catholic.

Sister Mary Ann was my teacher. Sister Mary Ann called us public school animals. Sister Mary Ann wasn’t a beacon of Christianity. Sister Mary Ann’s didactic style was intimidation. Sister Mary Ann handed us a mimeographed  8  page single spaced question and answer spiritual  guide on the sacrament of confirmation which she expected us to memorize. Sister Mary Ann told us that at any point during the rite of confirmation, the bishop could ask us questions from that guide and if we did not know the answer verbatim the bishop would refuse us the sacrament. Sister Mary Ann further told us that the shame of the bishop’s refusal would bring un-restorable dishonor to our families and we, as individuals, would become a household pariah. 

Oh my—this was serious business.

I was only 8 years old. The questions and answers in the guide were so abstruse that even if we children could manage to memorize the script she gave us,we would have been clueless as to the meaning of its content. I had had trouble enough memorizing the Act of Contrition prayer which I admit despite rote recital, remained enigmatic to me until I was about 16.

And as the date of confirmation drew near, Sister Mary Ann would turn the screw more and more. She would  ask the class who had memorized all 8 pages. And kids raised their hands—including me.

But I lied. 

I didn’t want Sister Mary Ann to suspect my unpreparedness nor did I want to memorize those 8 pages.  I really didn’t care about becoming a soldier of Christ  I just wanted the confirmation money and the catered party. I just wanted my cousin Betty to become my sponsor and give me a gold bangle bracelet with my name engraved on it just like the one she had. I was an 8 year old kid with 8 year old aspiration and none of them included being a draftee in Christ’s army. So I took my chances and did not memorize one word of the confirmation Q and A guide. And for that, I suffered mental anguish.

At confirmation practice I noticed that I was seated in the middle of the pew and I guessed that the kids most in danger of the pop quiz from the bishop were seated at the end. But I still was very concerned. I also wondered if my lying had made my soul unclean and if and when the bishop bestowed those 7 gifts of the holy spirit on me they would  even stick—as if my lying  had coated me in anti-venial full-on mortal-sin Teflon.

But Confirmation day arrived as scheduled. And I was an emotional wreck. My cousin Betty sensed my concern, but simply thought I was excited and nervous about the sacramental bestowment. That wasn’t it at all.  I was concerned about being out-ed. I was a Catholic poser. I knew nothing about this soldier of Christ nonsense and I feared soon everyone would know it.

 My fate was to become a household pariah.

And the bishop, in his tall pointed bishop’s hat and his ornate bishop-ly garb processed down the aisle--but did not conduct a Q and A session as threatened by Sister Mary Ann. And when that chrism hit my forehead and the bishop gave me his blessing gifted from the Holy Spirit, I felt nothing but relief. It was the same relief I felt at age 17 when I got my driver’s license but knew I was a terrible driver. Those 7 gifts were bestowed upon me with the same ease that the DMV man issued me my driver’s license.  I had gambled my family’s honor and I had won the bet.

The bishop blew in, did his bishop anointing thing, and blew right back out again. But before exiting he did offer a photo op to the faithful—and people lined up and had their picture taken genuflecting while kissing the bishop’s ring.

 It seems surreal as I think about it now.

And despite becoming a soldier of Christ it took me another year before my mother allowed me to cross Bolmer Avenue. And my ¾ bell sleeved smocked linen dress from B. Altman and Co. was worn 3 more times—not by me, but by my 3 daughters. And my cousin Betty gave me my gold monogramed bangle bracelet that matched hers. I still have it. And my catered party was awesome—as was the confirmation money.      

My Mother's Dog Samson

So let me open today by saying this: my mother is not going to like this blog very much. There will be a high price paid by me for having written it. And my mother pre-warned me that if I chose this topic, she would be angry. But the comic material is just too good to ignore and I have decided that my mother’s annoyance is worth the humor.

My mother has a 8 pound Yorkshire terrier. She originally intended on calling him Sam, after my father; but the pet store man, simply said Why not call him Samson? And it stuck. And Samson is a more appropriate name anyway—Samson is powerful---even after a haircut. He rules my mother with a furry iron fist. Samson is the alpha. My mother sits, stays, and comes at Samson’s whim.

My mother believes Samson is her child—so much so that she will say to me Gee you haven’t seen your brother in a while—and she doesn’t mean Mark, my human brother—she means Samson, my canine brother.

Now if you know me, you know that I love dogs—all dogs. I have loved dogs my whole life despite the fact that I am allergic to dog hair. When I was little I would play with my friend’s dachshund named Dondi, and would sneeze uncontrollably and would be covered with hives and welts all over my body after loving and petting him. And my mother would say: Were you playing with the dog? And I would lie and say no despite the fact that you didn’t need a forensic investigation to determine I was lying.

But back to Samson. Yes, I love all dogs but I love Samson  a whole lot less than any other animal I have known—and that includes George, my Grandmother Manello’s fox terrier who got his butt wiped everytime he came in from his walk (I swear it’s true). George, like Samson, had a confused pack leader who relinquished all control to their canine.

My mother says Samson “has issues”—my mother says Samson’s terrorist behavior stems from the fact that for 10 days when he was a puppy he was sick with a respiratory infection. No, that is not it at all.  Samson’s behavioral problems stem from my mother’s refusal to treat him like a dog--despite paying $1500 to a personal dog  trainer who advised her that treating a canine as if he was human is never in the best interest of either the dog or the owner.

And Samson, as many Yorkies do, has allergies—lots of them. Samson is allergic to human dander. Samson is allergic to my mother. He is also allergic to eggs, wheat, beef and ragweed—just to name a few. Consequently every 21 days, Samson receives allergy shots. At the beginning I was giving him his injections—that’s when he needed them every day—but Samson was not a very good patient and thought trying to bite me with his sharp, nasty, little incisors would deter the shot administration—and he was correct. And that’s when we (because my mother can’t drive to the vet herself) starting bringing him every 21 days for his shots. Yep. Every 21 days for 3 years now I have been in West Hempstead Animal Hospital with the little beast getting him his shots. My mother thanks me every time we bring Samson and says “you’re a good sister.” No I am not. I am a good daughter.

Not too long ago it occurred to me that based on a Yorkie’s life expectancy and my mother’s age, that Samson is likely to outlive my mother. So I told her that because she loves Samson so much, I would lay Samson at the foot of her coffin and together they could go to their eternal resting place. To which my mother asked But wouldn’t that mean that you would have to kill him first? And I shrugged and said I guess that would be true. And my mother got very upset. You see, I am not taking the furry little beast if she dies. Samson tries to bite Cosmo, my sweet, submissive, mini Golden-doodle. And Cosmo is my pride and joy. And I am done with terriers—they truly are the terrorists of the canine world.

And so my mother told me soon after this little discussion that if she died, and Samson was still living, Blanca, our cleaning woman would take care of him. But here is one thing I know for sure about my pragmatic El Salvadorian cleaning woman: there is no way she will bring Samson to the vet every 21 days. Nor will she ever spend the money on allergy serum and injections. Nor will she spend the money on his high priced wheat-free, egg-free, chicken and brown rice holistic dog food or the omega-3 oils for his skin--and the Benadryl tablets. Nor will she cook fresh chicken thighs every day to top the dog’s food because he is a fussy eater. Nope. If I don’t have the dog put down for his eternal rest with my mother, Samson is going to scratch himself to death if he lives with Blanca. So I told my mother that if she wanted to bequeath Samson to Blanca, she needed to amend her will, and figure out how much it would cost for Samson’s drug and food habit, and leave the funds to the dog or else he was going in the coffin as planned with my mother.

The thing is this: I understand that my mother loves her dog, I just don’t understand why she loves Samson so much. Maybe it’s because Samson is really good looking. He is an excellent accessory—like a Gucci bag. And when she walks him down Seventh Street she gets lots of compliments.  Or maybe it's because Samson is a good watch dog –he alerts her when Otto, the superintendent of her building, is in her hallway. But probably the reason why my mother loves Samson so much is just because all mothers love their children—even when they are badly behaved. My mother loves Samson just like Mrs. Estevez loves her son, Charlie Sheen. And trust me—Samson is as badly behaved as Charlie Sheen---and just like Charlie Sheen, Samson is “WINNING.”

Just curious: can you be arrested for fratricide if your brother is a canine?

Nonny's Cooking

My daughter Sam has 2 roommates. They are all sorority sisters—alpha chi omega. Lauren is a CPA like Sam, and Steph, after getting her degree at Lehigh, went to culinary school and became a chef. Steph works at Maiolino, an upscale, award winning Italian restaurant in the Gramercy Park hotel in Manhattan. The restaurant specializes in Italian delicacies like braised rabbit, tripe, suckling pig and other organ meats. It takes months to get a dinner reservation (if you are lucky) at Maiolino and diners must dig deeply into their pockets to cover the cost of the bill.

My mother’s mother—my grandmother—we called her Nonny—lived with my grandfather at 655 East 233 Street in the Wakefield section of the Bronx. They lived in a 4 room apartment, on the third floor of a 1920’s style  walk-up building. My grandparents were both Sicilian.

Nonny only stood 4’11” tall, but she packed a whole lot of wonderfulness in that little Italian grandmother body. My grandmother was a phenomenal cook---and everything was meticulously prepared. The ingredients were always fresh and the flavors were unrivaled. I never remember visiting her for lunch and not having frittata, freshly fried veal cutlets, roasted peppers, escarole and tomato salad. And ever-present were the things she purchased at the salumeria: soppressata, mozzarella, peppernata cheese and black oil cured olives. And she would often make specialties: braised rabbit caponata style, snails in tomato sauce, calamari salad, and stuffed artichokes. Everything was made from scratch. Everything was perfectly seasoned. Everything was made with love.

Every Thursday my mother and her sisters would travel to the Bronx from the suburbs (except for my Aunt Jackie—who lived in the apartment building next to my grandparents) to visit their parents and each other for lunch. And if the grandchildren were off from school, they would visit too. And because of the age division between me and my cousins--my brother Mark, and my cousin Richard and I(we were the youngest) were the trine of grandchildren that I would find myself dining with most often on those Thursday afternoons.

One particular Thursday, when my brother and I and my cousin Richard were off from school, we went with our mothers to Nonny and Grandpa’s apartment. Nonny had prepared veal cutlets. The veal cutlets that day were exceptional--the best ones we had ever tasted. They were petite in size,  sweet and so tender. They melted in your mouth. They were so good that the 3 of us asked permission for some more, and of course my grandmother, so pleased how much we enjoyed them, was happy to give the 3 of us another helping. So we all ate a second round and enjoyed those veal cutlets the second time around just as much as we did the first round.

At some point during the food fest, some one of us ( I think my cousin Richard) said Gee Nonny these are the best veal cutlets we have ever eaten. And Nonny laughed and said good!—mangia--- but those are not veal cutlets, they are fried brains. And we thought she was kidding so we laughed ha ha ha brains!! Ha ha Nonny you are so funny ha ha Nonny made us brains!!! And then she said No they are really fried brains, not veal cutlets. And then I remembered that we were a family who ate pickled pig’s feet on Thankgiving--and regularly served brasciole made from pork skin, and ate sautéed pork liver wrapped in fascia and bay leaf. And suddenly, as delicious as those “veal cutlets” were before we knew what we were eating, all of a sudden they no longer tasted as good. We had eaten lamb brains. We didn’t ask for thirds.

When I speak with Steph and she tells me of the delicacies prepared at Maiolino I think of Nonny. And I secretly wish Steph could have spent one day in Nonny’s kitchen to see how authentic Italian cooking is really prepared--- and taste what it is like to eat pure love—because that’s what Nonny’s cooking was—when the freshness of the flavors caressed your palate you tasted how much she loved you—and that is the ingredient that Steph’s upscale, high priced award winning Manhattan restaurant will never be able to duplicate-- and pure love is a course they cannot teach in culinary school.

655 East 233 Street: Nonny and Grandpa's apartment in the Bronx.

Maintaining Climate Control

In know people in town who belong to multiple country clubs and own one, or even two multimillion dollar properties. There are multiple high priced cars in their heated multiple car garages and they make it their business to be seen at high profile philanthropic functions. Yet, with all that wealth, their homes have no air conditioning—and I do not just mean central air conditioning—I mean they are unwilling to even invest in a $200 room air conditioner from P.C. Richards for their bedroom at night. It always baffled me.

And these same people of great wealth and education will say things like Summer is so short, it’s just not worth the investment. And I think but do not say out loud: Hmm I thought all the seasons were of equal duration. Last time I looked , winter was just as long as summer (exactly 3 months),  and with all that global warming Al Gore keeps talking about, if anything, summerlike weather is extended—Not to mention we live in New York-- and not Alaska where the summer has only 3 warm days.

Here’s the thing; if you have no compunction to pay for heat in the winter, why wouldn’t you pay for air conditioning in the summer? How is it different? Everyone has heat—in fact I think the law requires it in rental properties. Why not air conditioning? I don’t get it. In the winter, if you are cold and you have no heat, all you have to do is put on a lot of fleece and wear down-filled jackets to get comfortable. In summer, if it is hot, once you get naked, its over—there is nothing more you can do. And here is a statistic to prove my point: heat is the number one weather related killer in the United States—not the cold.

Fortunately for me, my husband and I agreed when we got married that air conditioning was a nonnegotiable mandatory acquisition. He needed no convincing on my part to appreciate its value. So when we bought our house on Poplar Street and we had to make a decision as to whether to spend $8000 on central air conditioning or $8000 on dining room furniture, the choice was a no-brainer. Climate control easily trumped seating capacity at holiday time. I was pretty sure my guests would rather have sat on a folding chair and felt cool, than to have sat on a Henredon side chair and sweated to death.

Two Saturdays ago around 4 pm when I went upstairs to my second floor, I was accosted by a plume of hot air. Our second air conditioning zone unit—the one that controls the 3 bedrooms on the second floor and the 2 bedrooms on third floor was out. I called the repair man immediately even though I knew the office was closed.  I left a message with the answering service. They would not be back in the office until Monday-- we were looking at a Monday afternoon/Tuesday morning repair at the earliest.

Now different people would have handled this situation differently. Different people would have sucked up the fact that they had no air conditioning and endured the discomfort until it was fixed. After all, I still had air conditioning on my first floor and we (my husband, Briana, the 2 dogs and I) could have slept in the basement or first floor on air mattresses. But no, I am not that person. You also must know that I do have one room air conditioner that Samantha brought home from her senior year of college when she lived off campus.  We (my husband, Briana, the 2 dogs, and I) could have all slept in my bedroom with an air mattress on the floor for Briana with the 2 dogs next to her after having put that one room air conditioner in my bedroom window. But that sounded way too much like camping for me—and I don’t camp—even if it is in my own house. The closest thing to camping I have agreed to was when our car broke down one time and we were forced to stay at the Nanuet Comfort Inn—and my kids wanted to know why the Fruit Loops at breakfast were housed in glass canisters with a scoop next to disposable plastic bowls instead of individual mini boxes next to fine china like at the buffet breakfast at The Breakers in Palm Beach.

So, just like I bought individual room heaters when my heat went out, I, with very little convincing, went with my husband to buy 2 more room air conditioners for the second floor (the one that was Samantha’s had already been placed in my bedroom window). You just can’t put a pricetag on comfort even if it is for a short while. And my husband and I went all the way to Lowes in Rosedale Queens (15 miles away)with Saturday night Southern State beach traffic because they were the only local-ish store with stock and the best price for the BTU size necessary to cool the entire second floor. And I risked my personal safety to go to Rosedale—Judith Ripka wearing, Lexus driving, white people from Garden City do not blend in unnoticed with the natives of Rosedale, Queens.

But by 9 pm on Saturday night 2/3 of my house was once again climate controlled. (PS I would have bought air conditioners for the third floor bedrooms too but no one currently lives on the third floor.) I endured 5 whole hours (including shopping and travel time and going out to dinner at a lovely restaurant in town) of slight discomfort. It was total hell I tell you.

We (my husband, Briana, the 2 dogs and I) slept very well that night. And the Elm Air Conditioning repairman came on Tuesday afternoon  (day 2 of the heat wave) to work his magic. Two pounds of Freon later,and the central air was up and running again. My Aunt Jackie says if a problem can be solved with money, then it isn’t a real problem. I totally concur. And fortunately for me, my husband does too.