My Mama Said A Bad Word

A while ago, I was very upset over something so I called my mom to talk it out. I started talking and my anger over the issue I was dealing with quickly gave way to what I was really feeling: sadness and heartbreak. I started to cry and just talked for about 20 minutes straight, letting it all out. She was quiet, letting me struggle to find the words to express myself through the sobs. Luckily, I don’t have to be very articulate when I talk to my mama. She gets me. After I got the story out, she started advising me in her patient, quiet way. My mom is incredibly kind and soft-spoken. She gives other people the benefit of the doubt and can always talk me down on those rare occasions when my emotions get the better of me. But this time, after hearing what I was going through, and starting out in her usual “let’s try to rationally and compassionately figure it out” way, she started to talk increasingly faster and more passionately, clearly getting more and more agitated as she worked her way through it, realizing that someone had unnecessarily hurt her baby.

And then my mother said the F word. Deliberately, forcefully and unapologetically. I’ve heard her say it before, but usually when she’s really, really pissed and never in a conversation with me. I even forgot what we were talking about for a second, because I was temporarily in shock that I just heard my mother say that word in a conversation with me. I kinda feel like a got a glimpse of the real her. The uninhibited, honest her that she probably is with her girlfriends after a couple margaritas. She said what to you? Oh, please. Fuck her.

Dude, my mom totally says the F word. And she said it with me. Screw moving out of the house, getting a college degree or paying taxes. After this, I am officially a grown-up. But oh my gosh, I could never say that word in front of her. No way, I’d rather die.

Christina Really Likes Manhattan, In Case You Didn't Know

The title is an inside joke that will make my friend Sara giggle. I'm sorry to leave out the rest of you, you know all 8 of you who read this blog. Call me and I'll let you in on it.

Anyway, this weekend was Holly's bridal shower. My first friend to get married. Yay! Next weekend? Bachelorette party! I can't go into details because Holly is not to know what we have planned. But I will tell you it involves gays, nudity, the Hudson River and quesadillas. Look out, Manhattan.

We also celebrated my friend Kel's birthday on Saturday. It went like this: restaurant for burger and fries; bar for a drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; diner for 2:30 am ice cream. A perfect evening by anyone's standards.

On Sunday, Sara and I went out to eat and then went for a lovely walk on the Hudson waterfront.


It was quite sunny and quite, quite warm. We spied these two and decided that this is inevitably our future:



Although, I might spring for my own parasol when the time comes.

All in all, a wonderful weekend which only serves to remind me that I kinda, sorta, maybe a little, really miss Manhattan.

At Least I Have a Plan

“As I sat alone on my couch on another Friday night, wearing my sweatpants and eating frozen corn out of the bag with a chocolate milk chaser, I suddenly got the urge to stand up, put the corn down, put on some decent clothes and change my life.”

I’ve decided that’s going to be the opening line of my memoir: “I am Awesome: The Art of Humility.” You know, just as soon as I do actually put down the corn.

This Was A Test

Me: Joey, will you go buy me some pads?

Joe: No.

Me: But I thought you had decided you were okay with it now. You had evolved. Because Reggie does it for Kim!

Joe: Reggie and Kim broke up. You're shit out of luck.

Me: Crap. You think that's why they broke up? Because Kim made him go get tampons?

[Pause]

Joe: Yes. Yes, I do.

Someone is an opportunist.

Lies My Parents Told Me

When I was little, I remember my mom treating a scrape on my knee by applying hydrogen peroxide on a cotton ball. After she was done, she told me to put away the hydrogen peroxide bottle. I didn't. I forgot. I was a very busy child and there was probably something very important going on in my dollhouse which needed my immediate attention. Little tiny plastic babies are not going to feed themselves, Mother!

My mom later found the bottle still on the counter with the cap off and I remember very distinctly her telling me that I must replace the cap to the bottle otherwise it would evaporate. She made such a point of this that I began to believe that hydrogen peroxide, if left exposed, would immediately evaporate. I believed that some chemical element or combination of substances making up hydrogen peroxide caused it to evaporate faster than other liquids and for the rest of my life I was very vigilant about replacing the cap every single time I used hydrogen peroxide in my teenage and adult life.

Until one day when I was a grown person living on my own and I decided to leave the cap off and just see what would happen. I know. REBEL. That's how I roll. So that's what I did. I left the cap off for days, fully expecting to find an empty bottle when I finally checked on it because hydrogen peroxide evaporates, that's what my mom told me. Days later, I checked and as far as I could tell, the bottle was still perfectly full. The hydrogen peroxide did not evaporate. Or if some of it did, certainly it did so no faster than every other liquid on the planet. I felt a bit betrayed. My entire life I had been extremely proactive about making sure hydrogen peroxide caps were screwed on tight because my mother had led me to believe this was important. I was misled. Possibly even lied to outright. I will never forget that day. The day I found out hydrogen peroxide will not rapidly evaporate if the cap is left off. The day I found out not everythinig my mother says is necessarily entirely true.

This also reminds me of the time I was a young teenager and my dad told me "Hey, kid, don't sweat the small stuff. And remember, it's all small stuff." I thought that was brilliant. How clever. My dad is so smart. Until the day I was in a bookstore and saw a book entitled, "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff...And It's All Small Stuff" by Richard Carlson. And then I had to come to terms with the fact that my dad isn't so much clever as he is a thief and possibly in violation of a copyright.

So, in conclusion, parents, be careful what you tell your kids. They remember. And one day, they will find you out. And they will resent it. And it will have a direct impact on the quality of home you are eventually confined to. Actually, perhaps, this is a post better saved for after Mom and Dad are done paying for my education. Never mind, you two, we're cool, okay? Love you!

A Little Anecdote Regarding My 60 Year Old Aunt and Joe's Balls

My Aunt Deb asked to see Joe's balls last night. Yep, that happened. And if you knew Aunt Deb, this would not surprise you. When he refused, she said, "Joe, I'm 60 years old, you think I haven't seen your balls before?" Aunt Deb knows no shame and is impossible to embarass. She is one of my favorite people in the whole world. I actually think it was quite rude of Joe to refuse to drop his drawers at her request. Over the years, he's practically become a member of the family and what's a little pants dropping among family? Poorly played, Randazzo, poorly played.

Finally, Someone Complaining About Real Problems

When I was around 14 years old, my formerly pristine and milky complexion erupted into a splattering of ugly red bumps. It kind of looked like a globe owned by a frequent world-traveler who had marked everywhere he had been with a red pushpin. My face looked like a well-traveled, red pushpin covered globe. It was unfortunate, but luckily I went to an all-girls high school so the impact on my social life was minimal. My dad finally decided to take pity and bought me some Proactiv. I diligently began to use it and my face cleared up considerably. My complexion never quite regained its former purity, but things were much improved.

I kept using the Proactiv without fail until my senior year of college. My reasons for quitting were threefold: 1) It's expensive. It cost about $45 every 6-7 weeks. 2) I started using it when I was 14 and I was 22 now. I was a grown up. Surely all my hormonal, pubescent skin problems were behind me. 3) Proactiv can't be the only thing out there that works. There has to be something else on the market that is cheaper and just as effective. I determined to go off the Proactiv and experiment with other products.

Within weeks, my face had a wicked case of chicken pox. The symptoms were similar to Traveling Globe Syndrome (TGS). It was unfortunate, but luckily I had a steady boyfriend so the impact on my social life was minimal. I was still determined to find something else that worked. Nothing did. It all sucked. And as a result, I look like I have chicken pox in all my college graduation pictures. I went back on Proactiv shortly thereafter. The moral of this story? Don't try new things.

So now I have a new problem. The Proactiv which has not failed me for the last 11 years is now drying out my skin so badly that it is flaking off my skull, reminiscent of leprosy. I am in the uncomfortable and unenviable position of choosing between chicken pox or leprosy. As diseases go, chicken pox is probably more desireable. It's temporary and there's less of a stigma whereas I think leprosy is permanent and you have to live in a colony. I hate moving. But along with the flakiness, comes skin so dry and tight that sometimes when I wake up it hurts to even blink. I can't decide which difiguring disease to err towards embodying. Thus far, my solution has been to only use the Proactiv once a day, before I go to bed. In the mornings, I use something a little gentler. As a result, I'm breaking out slightly more but I can blink comfortably. Oy, choices.

So, in closing, Dear Proactiv, I have been a loyal customer for 11 years. I, and I imagine many of your initial customers, are aging rapidly. Our skin is changing and just straight acne fighting ingredients will no longer cut it. I need a product suitable for my changing, aging, more sensitive skin. Get on this ASAP, because I prefer to not be a walking poster child for diseases I do not have. Thank you for your time. Signed, Chicken Leper.

Happy Birthday, Tony!

My love for you is well documented, Mr. Bennett. Today you turn 83 and I was born in 1983. That has to count for something. This is our year. We should meet and discuss. My cell phone will be on indefinitely.

Here's to 83 more years, or at the very least, 83 more songs that make me feel all swoon-y.

Fin

Click for parts one, two and three.

The parsley has fallen. Felled by its own ambition and arrogance. It has collapsed under its own weight. Like the Roman Empire and Napoleon, the parsley insisted on ignoring the lessons of parsley past, namely that no parsley should be that large, and eventually succumbed to the inevitable. Oh, Parsley, if only you had listened to the echoing whispers of the past, listened to what history has to teach us. But no, you had to continue to grow, way past the point of reason, and now the shame of failure, and ultimately, the lesson of humility. Romans, Napoleon, Parsley.


But, as is the way of things, another stalk is there to take the place of power. Growing tall, seemingly oblivious to the fallen parsley below and all it represents. Will this stalk learn from the parsley that went before? Or will it too collapse under its own weight, felled by its own ambition? Is my parsley a perfect symbolic representation of America? Only time, and the annals of history, will tell.