The Damned Dog

My husband is a quiet man, but when he talks—look out. For instance, two years ago while I was making dinner, and the kids were driving me crazy, I asked him if he could entertain them while I cooked. In a deep baritone voice he announced, “Hey kids, Daddy’s getting you a dog!” I dropped an entire box of salt into the pot of boiling sauce.

          I looked at him like he was crazy and replied, “Por Qua, Poppy?” which is French for “Are you out of your ******* mind!” He nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders. Now, one shrugs their shoulders when Shop Rite’s out of sale items; when the principal asks if there’s any family history of mental illness; NOT when they unilaterally announce that a shedding four-legged, needs to be walked three-times-a-day, non-stop eating machine is moving in! We talked for 8 years before we decided to have children for godsakes! But a dog? Fingersnap, and “Come on in fleabag—daddy found you a mommy!”

          It just so happened that the North Shore Animal League was bussing in runaways and strays the next day to Gilda’s Club in Hackensack, so off we went. The bus had a windowed wall so that you could look at all the choices. Pedigree puppies excitedly jumped up, down and around their glass enclosed cages; kittens of all colors climbed on top of each other. And then there she was. The fat old lady of the litter at 7 months and 45 pounds, her back scornfully pressed against the window, curled up into herself for a comfortable mid-morning nap. I knocked on the window, causing her to stir and look at me with an expression that said, “What the **** do you want, Jersey Girl?” I knew then that this cranky canine was the dog for us.

          As predicted, everyone soon lost interest in her. So guess who became ward of the dog? Well, I now love this dog. She follows me everywhere, she climbs into bed with me, and barks whenever my husband attempts to come near me. How great is this dog??? I swear, when she dies I’m having her stuffed!       

          One day when she was looking a little Rastafarian, I decided to groom her with an old electric hair razor that I found in the basement. Why not? Afterall, it costs me more to have her hair cut than mine, so...what could be the harm? I have to admit, the dog actually sat still for me as I plugged in the ancient Sears shears, although she did howl and cry. I was amazed by the first few cuts. Her ragged hair fell off in knotted clumps and I momentarily thought that I had found a new career. Forget writing! I'll charge $20 to groom dogs and make a nice living.

I switched off the razor to stop and admire my work. As my dog sat there obediently allowing me to observe her, I was instantly horrified. If there's a doggy version of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" she'd get the lead. One side of her jaw was bald while uneven clumps of shag hung from the other side. Her tail looked like a topiary, her legs were shaved hairless, her knees were knobby (Wow! Dogs have knees????) and her paws looked like they belonged to a wooly mammoth. Apparently, I got carried away and shaved off her left eyebrow. Frankly, I never knew that dogs even HAD eyebrows until I shaved one off! Looking at me with contempt, she skulked off.

However, it wasn't until she refused to step out of the house to go for a walk that I realized she was thoroughly embarrassed! I literally had to lift and carry her out of the house and even then she ran to hide behind every unoccupied tree! So, I did the only thing that a responsible dog owner, and mother, could do--I made an appointment with a real dog grooming shop to have her evened out. And when they asked who did this to the dog--I blamed it on the kids. 

One Wedding and a Felony

As if kidnapping a Mexican wasn’t bad enough, how about adding a felony to my resume? Let me ‘splain. My husband was best man at a brother fireman’s wedding. That morning, he assured me that he’d stop at the bank to take out money for the gift.  

Fast forward. I walk into the venue at 11:20am and there’s my Mr. Wonderful, suave in his tux, leaning on the bar imbibing what must have been one in a series of drinks because his eyes were mirthfully beginning to cross. A tsunami of scotch splashed from his glass because he couldn’t hold it level. No doubt: I am anointed designated driver when I desperately need to drink. (Breathe…you can do this sober…so what the kids’ had a waffle fight before I left and Log Cabin has afro-sheened my hair? So what the dog was constipated and needed my rubber-gloved intervention? So what my son bumped into me causing me to hairspray my eyes and now every third eyelash is stuck together making me look like Munch’s Scream?)

As soon as we crossed the threshold from ceremony to cocktail hour I grabbed a plate, but my tuxedoed Romeo pulled me from the tortellini line to inform me that he forgot to go to the bank. His eyes being now completely crossed, I took his bank card and drove to a nearby branch of our bank.  

          I decided to take the cash that the ATM spit out and change it into larger bills. There was only one teller; an acne-prone 18-year-old whom I’ll call “Kenneth,” with a falsetto voice cracking from belated puberty.

“Hello, welcome to xxxx Bank. How may I help you?”

“Hello, Kenneth, I’d like this converted into larger bills.”

“Sure, do you have an account with us?”

“I sure do, Kenneth.”

“Can I see your I.D.?”

“Sure Kenneth.” I handed him my ATM card. Except it wasn’t MY ATM card. It was my husband’s.

Kenneth: “This card says James Piccirillo.”

Me: “That’s my husband.”

Man in line behind me: “Oh, here we go!”

Kenneth: “Why do you have James Piccirillo’s card?”

Me: “Because he’s my husband.”

Kenneth: “Do you have I.D.?”

Me: “Yes, in my purse; in my car.”

Kenneth: “SECURITY!”

Man in line behind me: “I knew it!”

Me: (Turning) “Shut the **** up!”

Security: “Mam, can you come with me?”

Me: “Are you kidding me? I’m dressed for a wedding! Do I LOOK like a bank robber?” (Note: very poor choice of words.)

Fast forward. Me, Security, Assistant Manager and Kenneth waiting in conference room for Manager to return from break. Manager returns from break with predictable latte in hand, and allows Security and Kenneth to escort me to minivan to retrieve I.D. to prove I am Mrs. Piccirillo at a time when I no longer have any desire to be Mrs. Piccirillo.

          After much contemplation and whispered discussion I am released. Kenneth says, “Have a nice day! Thank you for banking with ****.”

To which I shout over my shoulder, “Go **** yourself, Kenneth!”

          Return to reception one hour fifteen minutes later—dinner in progress—a lukewarm dish of chicken breathlessly delivered to me by unenthused server. Cross-eyed husband comes over; look on my face is my secret super-power that momentarily uncrosses his eyes; terrified, he retreats to bar. While on my way to refill my club soda, the maid-of-honor has burning need to inform me that her husband was nervous because he thought he knew me, in the biblical sense, but she “checked me out” and I’m not the person he thought I was. She snorted and told me that I looked just like a whore he knew; then laughed, “You look just like a whore…” (Long laugh.) Not amused, I watched her limp tongue swat the whipped cream goatee left behind by a sexually-named shot she had just devoured. Stone sober, I am rendered absolutely speechless.   

          Moral of the story: Escape with the Mexican when you have the chance. You’d have clean windows, he wouldn’t call you names, and for an extra 20 bucks he’d probably mow your lawn.

A Father's Story

Imagine you’re watching the Mets game with your eleven-year old Yankee fan son. It’s a moment. Just an ordinary moment.

Now imagine a year later he’s gone. That’s exactly what happened to Mark Wrightington. One minute he was enjoying a baseball game with his first-born son Harold; a few hours later his entire world was upended.

Harold went to bed early that evening claiming, “The Mets stink; this game is boring.” Later, he woke his father and mother, Sandra, because he didn’t feel well. He had a headache; he became nauseous. An ordinary midnight moment for every parent. Then, Harold’s speech became garbled, and seizures began to overtake him. Nothing like this had ever happened to Harold before, so Mark and Sandra rushed him to Hackensack Hospital. Tests were performed, but the doctors could not determine the cause of his seizures. They prescribed medicine and ordered monthly MRI’s. 


The MRI’s came back ordinary until the day after Thanksgiving, Black Friday; that’s when they found a tumor. Not just any tumor—the rarest of all tumors for a child—glioblastoma multi-form—the same tumor that Teddy Kennedy had. Doctors know little about the tumor except for one thing--it is ALWAYS fatal.


I could talk about the details of Harold’s illness; I could talk about the fact that Harold’s chemotherapy consisted of 45 pills that cost $40,000, and for those whose insurance won’t cover it, or the uninsured, the pharmaceutical company provides financing, but only after a credit check; any mar on your credit and your child goes without chemotherapy.


However, I want to talk about the people who rallied around Harold to make his fundraisers a success—Ed Young, the owner of The Outback in Edgewater; the wrestlers who organized a tournament for Harold; the Lindbergh School in Palisades Park who supported a family in their time of need. I want to talk about Bobby Mercer who called Harold’s family in the midst of his own struggle with cancer because he heard that Harold was a huge Yankee fan. I want to talk about the spirit of a community, who when a child is afflicted with a horrible disease puts aside all differences to gather together and collectively support the family. Harold had many champions, but Harold was the hero.


Harold underwent brain surgery; he championed chemotherapy; the tumor returned. Enter the Make-a-Wish foundation. Within 24 hours of receiving a call from Sandra they arranged for Harold and his family to visit Disney World. Make-a-Wish gave Harold one last chance to be a kid—no hospitals, no chemo. Just a chance to be ordinary. 


Harold died on July 4, 2008. No ordinary day. Then again, he was no ordinary boy. 


During the course of our conversation it became clear to me that there is no such thing as an ordinary moment. Every moment is filled with meaning, but we realize it not so much when the moment has passed away, but when the person has passed away. Mark told me that when Harold was an infant he would lay him on his chest and watch football because it was comforting. When Harold was lying in his hospital bed Mark would lay with him and Harold would place his head on Mark’s chest, once again giving comfort to his father.


Listening to Harold’s parents I knew that Harold’s lasting wish would be to bring comfort; to have no other child, parent, brother or sister endure what he and his family endured. That’s why last year Mark and Sandra formed the team “Harold’s Heroes” for the annual north Jersey Make-a-Wish Foundation walk-a-thon; “Harold’s Heroes” raised $34,000.


“Harold’s Heroes” will be in the Make-a-Wish walk-a-thon on October 18^th at Liberty State Park. If you’d like to walk with “Harold’s Heroes” or if you’d like to donate to Make-a-Wish Foundation through them, log onto Mark Wrightington’s Facebook page where you’ll find information on how to participate and/or make a donation. Mark, Sandra and all of “Harold’s Heroes” are walking not only to keep Harold’s memory alive, they’re walking for tomorrow’s children. Because tomorrow’s children diagnosed with cancer, can so easily be mine or yours.    

To make a donation, please click on the link below:

http://walkforwishesnj.kintera.org/faf/search/searchTeamPart.asp?ievent=305614&lis=0&kntae305614=6BF2A845E46941C692FB902F7B7F9324&team=3372043

Take Out Mexican

You know me well enough by now to know that there’s no way I could make this story up…welcome to my life!

Not too long ago I found myself running ahead of schedule by 15 minutes, so I decided to take my mini-van to a car wash in Englewood where they wash, vacuum and Windex your car in under 10 minutes while you wait outside. As I handed the man my keys I asked if he could pay special attention to collage of 4-Piece Chicken Nugget Happy Meal fingerprints that graffitied the interior windows.

As my van slid off the track of the car wash I noted that I had 9 minutes to pick up the kids from school. No Problem. Five men descended upon my white Dodge Caravan with their dollar-store "Sham-Wow's" and went to work making my van sparkle. The man sitting in the driver's seat jumped out, and gave my window one last swipe. I tipped him, jumped into my car, and sped off to get the kids.

As I drove down the street I heard a strange noise coming from the rear of the van. I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw a man climbing out of my mini-van trunk and coming towards me with a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels in his hands. I screamed bloody murder; he screamed louder. I stopped short, causing him to fall and come sliding towards me through the space between the roomy bucket seats. At that exact moment an Englewood cop was driving past me and heard my scream. He put his car in reverse, rolled up to my open window and asked, "Lady, are you all right?"

Now, I'm pretty sure that the man in my car was Mexican, but I wasn't sure if he was documented so I leaned down and whispered to him, "Don't say anything! Just keep quiet and stay down!" which only served to terrify him, but I didn't want the cop to see him and check him for his working papers. I assured the cop I was fine and that a bee was in the car. Satisfied, he drove off.

As I calmed down it occurred to me that this poor man awoke this morning intending only to put in a full day of work; he never expected to be kidnapped (intentionally or not) by some rabid stressed-out mother desperately in need of Xanax. However, my sympathy quickly turned to annoyance when I saw that I had only five minutes to get to the school before the kids were sent to the Main Office to wait. If I took the Mexican with me, I could still make it. What's the proper protocol for unintended kidnapping? Would he like a break in his day? (Don't judge me--crazy thoughts enter the crazed mom trying to beat the clock and fit everything she needs to do into her day!) This poor man, having limited English, was near tears saying, "Lady, Lady, No Lady..." To put this poor man at ease, I employed my best Dora and Diego Spanish skills and essentially sung to him, "Come vamanos, everybody let's go…" His look of terror became mixed with panic as his breathing became labored and rivulets of sweat poured from his forehead. Frankly, I don't blame him. So I decided to return my pequito Mexican amigo to his trabajo.

I drove around the block and delivered him safely back to the car wash where his friends stood with arms crossed, clearly worried. I parked the car, opened the automatic side door, and out he jumped to the cheers of his friends, "Juan! Como esta??" I profusely apologized to all of them, most especially to Juan, and gave him $5 dollars for his trouble. He kindly placed the $5 back into my hand and whispered, "Vamanos."

The moral of the story--when you get your car washed, check your trunk for Mexicans before you drive away, and know that it's okay if your kids have to wait in the Main Office for you to pick them up.



Next Week: A Father’s Story

Favorite Places to Shop

In this economy, who doesn’t like a bargain? Here are my FAVORITE places and all of them are really cheap! Which is great when you’re outfitting your children, or yourself, for just a growth spurt or a season?

West New York, NJ: I’m sure that many of you who grew up in southern Bergen County spent many Saturdays shopping with your mother in West New York. Why? Block for block West New York had the most (to put it into the South Bergen vernacular of the 1970’s) junk stores—meaning they carried a little bit of everything. And if you’re looking for those front-snap house-dresses—the ones my Auntie Anna always wore—West New York is probably the only place you can still find them. All these stores are located on Bergenline Avenue between 55th and 60th Street.

ABC Superstore: Here’s one of my family’s favorite “junk” stores. ABC carries everything from pots to underwear to curtains to tan and navy blue school uniforms (all under $10) to sweats. Kids pajamas are $3.99 and a large selection of Auntie Anna’s front-snap house dresses are priced at $3.99. They also have some children’s clothes that have Wal-Mart tags for $2.99.

$5 Shoe Warehouse: Okay, you know my sick obsession with shoes. I’ve been lost since Valley Fair closed, but this store is my new shoe Mecca. $5 shoes, really? Really. No, they’re not Nordstrom quality, but they’re season-worthy and have great designer knock-off’s for $5. If you like trendy, but don’t want to pay a fortune, this is the place. I bought a pair of pink satin heels with a rhinestone ankle wrap and a knock-off pair of Nine West platforms for $5. The shoes I get the most compliments on come from this store. Also, for the most trendy summer sandals—this place is fantastic. The store is floor to ceiling shoes and gets REALLY crowded on Saturdays, but it’s so worth the trip.

Easy Pickins: I can hear my friends now, “They’re still around?” Yes, they are, and they’re still one of the best designer knock-off stores around. The clothes are really geared for the twenty-something set and younger, unless you’re going on a “Cougar Cruise”—in which case Go Wild, Ladies! They have trendy sequined tops and dresses, jeans, halter tops, club wear, and SHOES. Next to the $5 Warehouse, this is my favorite place for shoes—heels, platforms, sandals, boots, open-toe shoe boots, sneakers. Most of their items are priced under $20.

Kid City: This is THE place to shop for kids clothes, from infants to size 14. They have the most adorable selection of baby clothes priced under $10—great place for baby gifts. And the quality is very, very good. They also carry good quality tan and navy blue uniforms—slacks, jumpers, skirts, shirts—all under $8.99. Winter coats are priced under $20 and most clothes under $10. For those hard to please ‘tweens who are just getting trendy they have a good-sized selection of clothes that are both trendy and appropriate.

I have a favorite store in Ridgewood:

Fox’s, 230 E. Ridgewood Avenue, Ridgewood: This small two-floor store is one of kind. Top quality discounted designer clothes! You’ll think you died and went to boutique heaven. In Ridgewood? Yes. Visit once and you’ll never go to a mall again. They have casual clothes, dresses, jeans, and great costume jewelry on the first floor. The basement has more formal dresses and designer shoes for a fraction of retail cost. They have annual parties for customers on their mailing list. Check out their website: http://foxs.com/.

Before you buy anything, check on eBay. I almost always buy items that are "new with tags" and for what I paid I think they must have fallen off a truck:

eBay: I saw a great pair of Guess shoes in Nordstrom for $100. I bought the same exact pair NEW in box on eBay for $19.99. My son was in a wedding and needed a tuxedo. I went on eBay and bought a brand new black fully lined tux (jacket, shirt, bow tie and slacks) for $19.99. I saw a beautiful communion dress for my daughter in Macy’s for over $100. I found the exact brand-name dress new on eBay for $14.99. All bought with the “Buy Now” function.

GETTING PERSONAL

For a long time I've been considering getting back into shape because while my children have lost all their baby-fat, I haven’t lost mine. Let me be real--I just didn't feel like expending all that energy when there's so much good, bad food to be had! However, I have lost all ability to "suck-it-in" so I was at the "considering" stage of joining a gym. Imagine my surprise as I surfed "Craigslist" for freelance writing gigs when I came upon this listing: Looking for writer to do PR/fitness articles in exchange for personal training 3x's a week. "Wow!" I thought as I took another white-trash sip of beer from my long-neck bottle of Bud and shoved a handful of Lays potato chips into my mouth, "That's just what I'm looking for!" (BELCH!) So I responded.

The next morning as I over-buttered my ginormous "flagel" and poured waves of half & half into my soup-bowl-sized coffee mug, I checked my email and there it was—www.getfit-bootcamps.com. It essentially read, "You’re the one." Then it occurred to me. Of course I was “the one.” In fact, I was probably the only writer to respond because most of the writers I know are notoriously lazy and quite content to sit in front of a computer all day eating whatever the candy machine has to offer. However, I decided to give it a shot.

I used to be incredibly active. I ran competitively throughout high school and college; ran road races anywhere I could find one. Then came kids. And their tasty little salty snacks. I think it was the "Goldfish" Crackers that pushed me over the edge. Those smiling orange fish are notoriously deceiving -- they look tiny and harmless, but they're really sharks and I hold them responsible for at least 10 pounds! (God they’re great with chilled white wine!)

I didn't know what to wear to my first class. I searched the trunk in the attic that held my old workout and maternity clothes. I pulled out enough spandex pieces to start my own '80's rock band! And then came the question--does anyone wear spandex shorts anymore? Even if they have a Nike swoop on them? I didn't have much of a choice--it was either that or a maternity dress. So I stuffed my torso into the black tubular hell that was now strangulating my small intestines and made the best of it.

At the gym I was greeted by Tony, an extremely fit and muscular boy. (I can't help it; it's really hard to refer to someone who could be your son -- if you drank one too many Jell-O shots in college -- as a man.) Needless to say, he kicked my black spandex butt. I did more things with a yoga ball than any human should have to do; we ran; we kick-boxed; we squatted; we weight-lifted; I think I even hauled a Chevy pick-up, but that might have been what it felt like right before I became delirious.
Seriously, when the burn of a "good workout" turns to cold flashes, 9-1-1 should be called. When I felt as if I could take no more Tony shouted, "Keep pushing, I can already see some definition in your abs." Now, when a sculpted boy-man tells a gelatinous baby-mama that he can see definition in her abs, Baby-mama wills herself not to faint! I hated to tell him that the "definition in my abs" was actually the Big Mac I ate for lunch making its anticipated ascent up my esophagus. When he declared our session over I took my bottle of water and, like a bizarro-world scene from the movie Flashdance, poured the water over my head before collapsing to the floor.

But you know something? When I felt like the need for a defibrillator was lessening, I actually felt great. Really Great! Even though I can’t walk without wincing. Or drive sitting down. Oh, and my 7 year old has to tie my shoelaces because I can’t bend down.

REFLECTIONS OF A YEAR GONE BY

Happy Anniversary!!! This week’s column marks “Mom to Mom’s” one year anniversary. Wow, 52 weeks of my musings, stories, recommendations, and you’ve stuck with me.

I wish I could tell you that when Jill Cohen gave me the unbelievable opportunity to write a weekly column I had a clear plan in mind, but I didn’t. The only thought in my head as I left her office on the second floor of The Bergen News Building was, “Oh **** now I have to think of something to write!” But she did give me a wonderful bottle of white wine as a thoughtful welcoming gesture. It offered me my first sip of inspiration -- 750ml of glorious pale, dry inspiration, but having spent her life around writers, I suppose Jill knew precisely what she was doing.

My family responded to my wonderful news by giving me the collective, yet traditional, hairy eyeball. I was summarily warned to vault the family secrets. I assured them they had nothing to worry about -- I’m saving all that dysfunction for my book.

Shortly after I broke the news to my husband, he awoke in the middle of the night with an attack of cold sweats begging me to never mention his name in print. I assured Jim Piccirillo I never would. However, I think my son purposely provokes me knowing I might get some good material out of it. For example, as he was stomping up to his bedroom after having been punished he said, “Sure, I get punished and you get a great column!”

The only thing I wanted from this column was readers. I initially envisioned myself riding my 35-year old forest-green ten-speed Schwinn bicycle (weaseled from my brother in 1979 for 20 bucks when he was desperate for gas money) hurtling papers onto everyone’s front lawns from Edgewater to Alpine screaming from beneath my fuchsia crash helmet, “Read Mom to Mom!”

I’m always amazed when someone recognizes me from my picture—mostly because my hair is usually piled on top of my head and stationed to my scalp with the biggest, most obnoxious, banana clip that the dollar store sells. But one day while shopping at Shop Rite in Palisades Park an older gentleman introduced himself to me and started to laugh recounting one of my columns. He laughed so hard his upper dentures fell out and landed on top of my package of boneless chicken breast. As he re-positioned his teeth back onto his naked baby gums he told me that I could use what just happened in a column. I am.

Then there was the text message I recently received that read, “Enough with the texting! Do you know how much this costs?”
“Well, who the **** is monitoring my texting?” I fumed! So I dialed the number from whence the text came and yelled into the phone “Who the **** is this?” and began spewing venom until, too late, I realized it was my very lovely next door neighbor. Completely unaware of what she had done, and utterly mortified, she explained that the text was intended for her teen-aged daughter, but in the midst of matricidal rage she accidentally sent the text to my phone. She nervously laughed about me writing the incident into my column. I hope she’s still laughing.

In all seriousness, it’s really hard to know how each column will be received. I hesitated writing the Father’s Day column about my dad who passed away over 20 years ago thinking, “Who really cares?” To date, that column has received the most responses.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you. Thank you for allowing me to share with you my penny observations and stories from my life. Thank you for continuing to turn the pages of this paper every week and taking the time to read my column. I hope I can continue to make you laugh, make you reflect upon the memories of your own life, and keep connecting. After all, that’s what life is all about—connecting with each other one story at a time.