The Fuck Word

Growing up, my parents raised my sister and I with a strict policy: no saying shut up, no using the Lord’s name in vein, and no swearing.  If we lived by those rules, we’d survive.  I learned the hard way.

When I was 6, I said shut up to my mother right before we went to church on a Sunday morning; I must have heard it at school or from my sister, but will never say it again to her, because as the words came out of my little idiot mouth, she spun around and whacked me. I don’t know who was more stunned: my mother who couldn’t believe she just slapped me or me, disbelieving she actually would. Whatever the reaction, the bottom line is that I never said shut up to her ever again.

The summer before I went to college, I was hanging out with a friend at my house when a song we all loved came on. Being the geeks that we were, we’d created a dance to it. In the middle of the song, I messed up one of the moves and said quickly: Fuck! As soon as that one syllable slipped from my mouth, I knew that my mother (who was in the same room reading a book) would be none too pleased. She looked up at me over her glasses, slammed her book shut and stormed off. Yikes. I gave her a few hours, and I went to find her. I held my head low and said I’m sorry for swearing mom, it just came out. Her reply was: I just didn’t think I raised my daughters to say that word. Stunned, I retorted: well have you ever said that word? Oh Christ, I knew I’d gone too far. Deep from some unknown and very very scary place game a deep and low growl that erupted into: THAT’S NOT THE POINT MARGRET!!!! Yeah, I should have let her cool off a bit longer. It took her a few days to get over that one.

Flash forward to a few years later when I was home from college for a long weekend. Saving Private Ryan was playing on television; my father and I were watching it when I suddenly realized that they were swearing without bleeping any of the words. (It must have been around Veteran's Day) Shocked, I turned to my father, and said: they can say that? As I was asking this, my mother walked into the room, heard the question and asked: they can say what?

To which my father so graciously replied: they said the fuck word.

39

Today marks my parents’ 39^th anniversary. They have been together for nearly forty years. As in a life time. I can’t fathom being with anyone that long; (yeah yeah, I haven’t found the right dude etc…which is all valid and true). What makes people be able to not just love, but tolerate the other person?

About 2 or 3 weeks after my father officially retired a few years back, he and my mother went to the grocery store together. I remember seeing them come back from Stop & Shop and I thought they were going to get a divorce.  Apparently, my father likes to do the self check out.  Each time he was weighing produce or something, he squinted at the screen, looked back down on the scale at the produce he was weighing, then remembered that his glasses are in his shirt pocket, and puts them on to do the whole thing over again, but clearly. I think that put my mother over the edge, so she said she’d wait in the car. I probably would have done the same thing also; but I was really scared their marriage was donzo.  Nope, they kept on truckin’, and the best part about it is that they laugh about it now, and don’t go food shopping together any more.  

They also are very do-it-yourselfers. They needed the trim of the house painted, so instead of hiring a company to do it, they did it together. They don’t have landscapers come over their house every 6 weeks, they weed, garden and mow the lawn together.  Today, it seems that there is a specialist for every minute thing in and around the house; interior decorator, light specialist, house cleaner, personal assistant. My parents are all of those things, and take pride in the fact that they manage their life and home on their own. Please do not misunderstand me; I am not judging those that have any of the above mentioned specialists; I just am thankful I have had two role models instill in me a very simple yet strong message: I am capable enough to do anything.

My mother gave me great advice about love when I was about 14. It was midwinter, snow was on the ground, and if you had the choice to stay inside, you would. It was around 8pm at night, dinner was over, and I was watching tv in the den which opens up to the kitchen. My mom opened the garbage door, and cooed: aww, Col took out the trash. She said it in a way that sounded like awww, my husband gave me a dozen red roses, how romantic.  Me being the snarky daughter that I am, snickered under my breath, unaware she had heard me. She stood straight up, looked me dead in the eye and said: You know Margaret? Love isn’t about who will bring you flowers and there aren’t fireworks in the night sky every night. Love is when the person you’re with knows you don’t want to take the trash out on a cold winter’s night so he does it for you.

I never forgot that.

Amazing. Theirs is a story of compassion, patience and love. 39 years.  Keep it up. (xo)

Tick...tick...tick...scare

Scaring people gives me a thrill.  I genuinely love the reactions of faces when they are scared to death.  Anyone that is truly close to me has been scared to the point of tears, almost peeing or just complete mortification. I once scared Esme so bad she twisted in a circle as she crumbled to the ground as I watched with utter glee and happiness. Or the time when my mom started choking on cous cous –with each breath she drew in, another particle would lodge itself in her throat and begin another coughing attack; I was laughing so hard that she managed to (mid cough/choke) to send me up to my room.

I have a sneaking suspicion my love for frightening people emerged at a young age, when my father would do the same thing to me. Except instead of crying or being upset, I would genuinely love being scared. Sort of a wake up call saying: Hey guess what! You’re still alive! Isn’t that GREAT??

My sister and I were going up stairs together to go to bed one night when we knew the game was on because as we climbed up the stairs, there were no lights on. None in the hall, no bathroom light-nothing. We started nervously giggling and going from room to room to try and find our father, all the while hearing this weird ticking, almost like an old fashioned bomb tick noise. We didn’t dare turn the lights on because we knew some how that this funny experience would be multiplied if enveloped in darkness. As each room turned up empty, we only had one more room to inspect, and that was Hannah’s room. Curiously, the ticking noise got louder as we crept into her room, barely speaking, arm in arm. This was the clock noise straight outta Peter Pan; you know, where the alligator is taunting Captain Hook?  All of the sudden, my father bursts forth from her closet, armed with an old fashioned alarm clock with bells on the top of it and it’s going off like Armageddon is upon us . I can’t even imagine what Hannah and I looked like at that exact moment, because I can only remember screaming at the top of my lungs and collapsing to the floor.  After the fear subsided, I remember looking up at my father who was doubled over laughing like I don’t think I’ve ever seen him laugh before. 

That moment was a game changer for me; anyone I know in my life that I love dearly I try to scare the shit out of, or at least gross them out somehow. I mean how the hell did he get an old fashioned alarm clock? I’ll never know the answer to that, and I don’t think I would want to know. It’s just better that way. 

The Green

Do kids have fun any more?? Seriously. I remember being a nanny in college for a family in Scarsdale. After I passed the initial screening process, she then gave me a four page instruction sheet on what I couldn’t say or how not to act in front of Michael. Never use the word ‘no’. Don’t say anything negative about him going to the bathroom in his diaper; (we don’t want to discourage him from doing something natural). Use positive tones when speaking to him. Keep in mind this little dude was only a mere 10 months old when I was watching him. I’m sorry, but if he poops himself, I’m gonna tell homeboy he stinks.  I can’t imagine how kids use their brains these days; with the onslaught of social media and indoor video games that profess health--do they even know what it’s like to get dirt on their pants?

Growing up, my childhood friends and I would spend hours upon hours at a place called The Green.  We would just shout to whatever parent was closest that that’s where we were headed and off we went. It was heaven.  The Green was a mini sort of forest with a large willow tree that seemed taller than any skyscraper with a large swing attached.  We would grab the swing and walk it up the dirt hill, get a running start downwards and hang on for dear life. If we felt lazy we’d just sit atop the rustic wooden paddle and hang in mid-air. Enveloped by The Green, we were accountable to no one; we would play there for hours, swinging and laughing and imagining the day away. It was as if time held its breath for us, and we were allowed be completely free protected by the emerald foliage.

Esme’s childhood home was right around the corner from our beloved Green, so chances were if we were at her house with nice weather, we'd be there. It was on one of these idyllic spring days we were swinging and laughing, when Ryan decided to run down the hill, grasping the seat of the swing, gung ho. (I should mention that all around the base of the willow tree were pricker bushes, making the notion of our swing that much more dangerous and exciting. ) Just as the swing was at the peak of it’s height above the ground, Ryan just let go of the swing—not on purpose, but it’s as if his hands decided to betray him. Esme stood there wide eyed, disbelieving what just happened. Me, being the Satan child that I was, began rolling around on the dirt hill hysterically laughing. The pricker bushes were moving, and you could hear Ryan pant and yelp as he emerged from the terrorizing shrubs. He finally made it out of his spikey hell, stunned and dazed yet all of his confusion subsided when he saw me in fits of giggles. No longer was he a victim to the razor like thorns, but an angry survivor pissed I was mocking his struggle.  He started screaming at me as if I was the reason he was hurt to begin with. The louder he screamed, the more I couldn’t help but laugh. I still don’t think he’s recovered.

Escaping to lush wonderlands with friends and using nature as our entertainment was what made my childhood perfect. Every kid should be able to experience that, and if they’re really lucky, the swing will be included.

Mahhkit Baskit

For all of you Massachusetts folk, you know that there are several religions in our great Commonwealth. Up there with Christianity and Judaism, there is also another god many worship. That god is Market Basket.

Market Basket provides wicked cheap groceries to the masses. For all us Yankee blooded penny pinching miserly beasts, being thrifty is literally in our DNA, so this grocery store is Mecca.

I know when my dad is in Market Basket; he’ll have a distant far away glazed over response for everything. I called him once, began speaking, and disregarding that his daughter was on the phone, made sure the butcher knew he meant business: No no, I said a pound and a kaw-tah of the had-dick! Sorry Mah-grett; gettin’ fish fo-wah dinnah t’nite fo-wah yah mothah and myself. Had to straighten that out, yah know??Sure dad. Ok.

Another time I called, and he answered all happy like a kid on Christmas morning that just unwrapped a Red Rider bb gun. Mah-grett! I’m at Mah-ket Baskit an’ they got green beans fo-wah 89 cents a pound! Can yah believe it??

After hearing so much of this famed grocer, I decided to try my luck last winter. As luck (or the devil) would have it, I chose to go on a Saturday, to the largest Market Basket in New England. I should have known it was going to be a cluster fuck after it took me 25 solid minutes to find a parking spot in a blizzard.

I entered the mega store and suddenly I realized my chest was becoming tight and I could only see directly in front of me; people were literally swarming this place as if bees in a hive. I walked down one isle dazed and looked to the person behind me who had TWO carts, completely full with such unhealthy SHIT, I only remember seeing orange Fanta. The people in this store weren’t shopping, they were hunting, and trying to best their fellow man at getting the cheapest Styrofoam wrapped beef they could get their hands on.

Seriously: it’s as if the radio, tv and online media outlets all proclaimed: BOSTON: DDAY IS UPON US. ALIENS ARE SET TO INVADE THE ATMOSPHERE IN 60 MINUTES. THERE ARE MASSIVE TORNADOES HEADING TOWARDS THIS GREAT CITY AT ANY MOMENT. MT. FUJI HAS ERRUPTED AND WILL DEVESTATE OUR GREAT LAND all on that one Saturday. Sure sure, I know it’s a great priced market—but there is something to be said about leisurely taking your time up and down aisles pondering what you will be making later that day on the stove. There is something to be said for being mindful of where the produce is coming from, and how the packaging affects us and the earth. (Keep in mind, I have on more than one occasion spit out gum from a moving vehicle, I’m no saint, nor to I claim to be as good to this earth as I should.) But this mayhem was just too much for me and my nerves. I actually made it down one whole aisle before I internally cried mea culpa. I mean, what was I thinking? I can’t even go into Marshalls without being overwhelmed.  

I will never, EVER make the mistake of going to a Market Basket again. I’ll pay extra to keep my sanity and not have fucking panic attacks. Even if the green beans ahh only 89 cents a pound.