PREPOSITIONAL CLAUSES ARE NO RELATION TO SANTA CLAUSES

"Learn to Listen and Listen to Learn"

About, above, across, after, against, among, around, as, at, before, behind, below, beside, between, beyond, but, by, down, during, except, for, from, in, into, near, of, off, on, over, through, to, towards, under, up, with.

          If your chest just tightened because you recognize those words are prepositions, then there’s a good chance you had Sister Lawrence in the fifth grade at Holy Trinity School in the Coytesville section of Fort Lee. And if you had Sr. Lawrence, you will not only be able to diagram every sentence in this entire column, but you will also have been through, or are in desperate need of, deep psychoanalysis or rehab. The emotional scars she inflicted for your inability to retain and repeat the memorization of said prepositions as she paced up and down the standing line of your class in an exercise of terror makes the stories of  Guantanamo Bay seem to pale in comparison.  

          For me, as well as the many others whose older siblings brought home the horror of experiencing the fifth grade, entering Sister Lawrence’s class was a ritual akin to moving from the general population to death row. The actual physical move from the fourth grade classroom to the fifth grade classroom required that you relocate to a new corridor and enter a world known as the “upper grades” with the eighth grade standing at the very end like a winning spot on a game board.  

Sister Lawrence’s philosophy was to strip you down forgetting about the building up side, which many of us found through alcohol or drugs in the ‘80’s. The result of her reign of terror was that you became bonded to your classmates in a way that only those who are in a hostage situation understand. There was no “cool,” “jock,” “weird.” We were all equally capable of incurring her wrath.  

The only thing that gave anyone joy was the wall of windows that looked out across the front yard of a rogue house that came before the building of the school and onto the curve of road that leads cars from 9W to Linwood. I used to spend entire mornings staring out those windows imagining a life without fear. My best friend Rosie used to stare out the windows dreaming of becoming a truck driver as she envied the18-wheelers as they tipped around the bend of road.  

That year was also the year that my mother became the school secretary. This tidbit of vital information came directly from a disliked classmate who took great glee in informing me of this during the summer before entering fifth grade. I nearly started a fist fight with her for telling such a lie, but when my mother confirmed it to be true, but had not yet told me, I knew it was a portentous beginning to an already discouraging year.

          As luck would have it, my mother became very good friends with Sister Lawrence, much to my horror. I not only had to suffer through the school day with her, but off-hour visits to the convent and more-than-the-once-in-a-while-occasional drop-ins at my house. The first time my mother dragged me to the convent and I saw Sister Lawrence out of her habit, wearing a snappy housecoat and slippers it was like seeing porn. I couldn’t look, but I also couldn’t look away. There was something so unholy about it, yet oddly fascinating. Add to that her terse conversation informing me she was intentionally harder on me because of her friendship with my mother and didn’t want the appearance of playing favorites. Fantastic!

          So each day in school I had to balance the horror of withstanding her class with the uncertainty of when our social circles would intersect and I had to pretend I didn’t want to run screaming. 

Which brings me back to prepositions. As she stopped in front of me and barked the order to recite, my mind went blank. I could feel the discomfort of my classmates who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me on the line before the window. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, she screamed, “Idioms are a dime a dozen, but idiots appear to be free in this class!”     

           If you’d like to take a trip down prepositional memory lane, Holy Trinity is having reunion for all classes at the school on April 30^th at 8pm following an alumni mass at the church at 7pm that will be celebrated by Father Dominic Lenoci, class of ’78.  If you know of an alumni, please pass it on and contact me for more information.

MAD-LOVES FOR COUPLES WHO'VE BEEN TOGETHER A REALLY LONG TIME

          The other day, while our family was playing Mad Libs, that timeless word game where you fill in the template with specified nouns, verbs, adjectives, places, body parts and other grammatical phrases in order to create a comically absurd story, I realized that Jim and I were engaging in the most effective communication we’ve had in years.

It’s funny how a word game made me think back to the early years of our marriage. As a newlywed I used to write cute little erotic notes and stick them between the bread in Jim’s sandwich. I knew if I put the note into the lunch bag he’d never see it so I stuck it between the bread and cold cuts. I’ll tell you, the notes became an instant hit with the boys in the construction yard. They loved to see him pull the chewed paper remnants from his mouth and try to piece together words that he hadn’t swallowed in an absurd game of Porno Jumble. But then came kids, and no privacy, and the notes began to change; at least the messages did. “Guess what I’m going to do to you tonight!!!!” turned into “Guess what I’m going to do to you tonight if you don’t get that goddamn (fill in the blank) out of my dining room, now!!!!” Yes, the passion of the papyrus fell by the wayside as so much often does when we get distracted. Anyway, if I stuck a note between his sandwich at this point in our marriage, the only thing I’d arouse is his indigestion.

I joked with Jim that maybe Mad Libs was the perfect communication tool for us—we can leave templates around the house and fill them in quickly to spark the spontaneous flames of passion (and humor) that playing the role of responsible adults and parents has dulled.

          So here’s my Mad-Love to Jim. As of printing, he’s still working on his to me.

Dear ­Jim:

Because we have so little ­­­money to spend together, I thought I'd pour my ­bladder out to you since after all these years my body still breaks down every time you come near me. Still, what we lack in the bank we make up for in unpaid bills.  Remember when we first met and you couldn’t keep your seatbelt buckled? And here we are 20 years later and your seatbelt is still unbuckled every time I slink into the driver’s seat.  Since we’ve had children our relationship has only been tested in ways I never thought imaginable. Parenting children together has brought out the gray hairs, bald spots, and frown lines in us. I couldn’t parent without lots and lots of wine and drugs. Nor would I want to.

Every time I look at you all I see is your father staring back at me. It makes me want to wrap my head in a noose and give you a big box of Grecian Formula 44. If I knew 20 years ago that in 20 years I would be married to my father-in-law’s twin I would have still kept in touch with that 20 year old indie drummer from the East Village.  And let me not forget to add that opportunity I passed up with the lesbian lawyer with a summer home on Fire Island.  Sometimes I have to kick myself to make sure this is really our life.

Though children have stripped us of any and all carnal desire and made us into the cranky sexless people we swore we’d never become we must pray to God everyday that their real parents will come and get them soon.  

Remember when we were dating and we’d sit in the back row of the movie theater where I would gently nibble on your popcorn with extra butter and you would unzip my wallet?   Now when we escape to a movie alone you still can’t help but fall asleep and snore and I can’t refrain from sticking my elbow into your rib cage to wake you up every five minutes.

Your talent for not hearing a single word I say continues to amaze me. Remember all those cheap motels with hourly rates we used to go to for fun when it was just the two of us? I never thought then that those would be our vacation destinations and the only places we’d be able to afford 20 years later.  But, if I had to do it all over again I would still be connected to that East Village indie drummer because after all these years real estate in the East Village is worth a mint. After all, if I never met you I would be absolutely and completely drinking margaritas at happy hour on South Beach with my gay hairdresser and his buff bff’s without you.       

Love, Ann          

DAMN DEMOGRAPHICS GOT ME AGAIN

Hola kids! Since your mom's wearing diapers, isn't it time you got out of yours?

Lately, my ten year old daughter has become obsessed with watching cable news. Her favorite stations are NY1 and News 12 New Jersey. Considering what kids can become obsessed with today, the news seems harmless. And at least with NY1 and News 12 New Jersey she’s not being exposed to the more salacious stories that the network news stations and less censored cable stations are promoting. 

          At least that’s how I was feeling until she became more obsessed with the commercials than the news stories. And here, again, we get into demographics. The demographics of the viewers of these news programs must be seniors since most of the commercials advertise senior products, at least during the times that my daughter is watching.

          Last week, after I stubbed my toe on the end table and I limped my way upstairs, she suggested I look into the Acorn Chair Lift that she saw advertised on T.V. “This way, you can just ride up the stairs instead of limp up them.” After noticing the gray that has begun to populate her father’s hair she announced that he is a senior citizen since all the men who appear on the commercials for NY1 have gray hair and introduce themselves as a senior citizen. The look on Jim’s face was priceless, and laughing, I asked her what that makes me. She replied straight-faced, “A pre-senior citizen, of course.”

          Jim started to laugh, but frankly I could not find the humor in it. A pre-senior citizen? I have 20 years before I can be classified as a senior citizen and they’re an important 20 years! I mean, think about it. 20 years comprises a whole infancy, adolescence and adulthood. It’s an entire generation. In other words, it’s a long, long, long time. And I still need to have my mid-life crisis and act like a teenager all over again, only this time not get grounded. (Although with Jim, I’m not so sure. I think he’d love to tell me I’m grounded. Then again, like my parents when they grounded me as a teenager, he’d be stuck under house arrest with a very petulant me.) However, Katie insists that I am a pre-senior and even produced Jim’s AARP card that had my name listed as “Spouse” to prove to me that if I want to reap the benefits of pre-senior status I have to own up to that status. She even asked if there was a status on Facebook for pre-senior.   

          I’ve always joked that Jim is deaf because he’s always asking, “What?” after I say something. Well, maybe I’m not joking, but now Katie insists he buy the hearing aid she saw on a commercial between news segments. She even left a note on his pillow that showed a picture of a Jim wearing a hearing aid and exclaiming in a bubble over his head, “I can hear you now!”

          But wait! There’s more. She asked if we could buy one of those motorized scooters she saw on T.V. for Jim so that he didn’t always have to take the car when he went to the firehouse. “Look,” she pointed out, “It even comes with an attachable orange flag so that cars can see him.” I had visions of Jim riding up Fort Lee Road with a blue fire light blaring on the handlebar of his sporty red senior scooter with attachable orange flag on his way to the firehouse.

          I guess I shouldn’t complain because last month she was fixated on the fact that I had bald spots. When she first commented that I have bald spots I brushed it off, but then I became paranoid. Holding a mirror in one hand, I’d stand with my back to the bathroom mirror trying to see if there were any bald spots peeking through the back of my head. Even though I couldn’t see any, she had me convinced that I was losing my hair. It took me two weeks to realize it was because she saw a commercial for women with thinning hair and balding.

          Oh how I miss the days of my youth when television was filled with all those cigarette and booze commercials. I’d rather have my daughter announce to the world, “My Mom lights up a Camel and drinks Budweiser all day long!” rather than “She can’t hear, she’s going bald, and she carries adult diapers in her bag. Wanna see?” 

POISED IN SHIFTING DEMOGRAPHICS

What the hell are you looking at? I'm Wonder Woman, dammit!

We wrestled each other with a fury that came from some reserve of vengeance deep inside; both of us holding on with a death grip refusing to yield; the sinews of our muscles straining to keep from giving in to the will of the other. Finally, she yielded, more likely grew bored, and I was able to pry the mail from Bad Dog’s clenched canine jaws. I ran my fist-pumping victory lap around the porch. YES! I AM ALPHA DOG!

          And so this is our daily ritual. Each day when the mail truck parks in front of our house the dog and I race to the porch and jockey for position in front of the mail slot. This must be done for if I’m not there to collect the mail when it comes pouring through the slot then all my bills will be shred into confetti and eaten by Bad Dog, and although there’s nothing more festive than confetti bills, it’s no picnic watching the dog howling to extract them from her intestines at two in the morning or explaining to Time Warner that the dog ate my bill.

          In today's mail there was a promotional give-away box from CVS. I love getting free samples from CVS. What could it be? Shampoo? Hand sanitizer wipes? New hand lotion? I ripped open the box like a kid on Christmas while Bad Dog gnarled and shredded the PSE&G bill before ingesting it. I reached my hand deep inside the box and pulled a clear plastic package that contained…wait a minute. This can’t possibly be meant for me. I checked the box’s address label and sure enough, it was addressed to me. Then I got furious. In my hands was a sample of an adult diaper! Poise for those moments when your bladder just can’t pause.

          WHAT? How do I go from birth control one birthday to adult diapers the next? I was so furious that I actually looked up the phone number for the main headquarters of CVS which I discovered was in Woonsocket, Rhode Island. After suffering through Dante’s Fifth Circle of Hell also known as the automated answering system, my thumb just kept pressing zero until a human voice answered. After airing my complaint I was switched to about three other people until finally I was transferred to a man whom I’m sure was the janitor put up by the rest of the office staff to act like a customer service manager and handle my complaint so they didn’t have to deal with a freak like me.

          “Mam,” he said trying to placate me, “we are so happy that you enjoy our free samples.”

          “No, no; I don’t enjoy this one. I’m not old enough for adult diapers!”

          “They’re not diapers; they’re liners.”

          “Don’t try to spin it on me. I’ve seen the commercials!”

“If you don’t mind, what is your age?”

Reluctantly, I told him.

          “Oh, that explains it. Since your last birthday your demographics have shifted, and that’s why you may be noticing a difference in product samples that are being sent to you.”

          “My demographics have shifted? What does that mean?” I cried. (True, my body has been undergoing seemingly seismic shifts, but that’s none of his business!)

          “It means that for promotional purposes you’re now contained in a group whose needs are more maintenance than restoration, if you will.”

          What?  I missed my own restoration period?

          “Mam, as I’m sure you found with our past samples, not every product is aimed at you—it’s aimed at your demographics. And that group constitutes over 25 years.”

          He was right. Not every free sample was for me like the K-Y Body Gel Tabasco Sauce or the Legg’s all in one thong panties and pantyhose, but at least they were life-affirming. At least they oozed possibility. At least they screamed "DESIRE!" rather than "Oops I crapped my pants!" I mean, am I wrong to suggest that the implication of adult diapers is, “Don’t worry. I’ll do my business right here on line so we won’t be late for that sunset buffet. Here’s a coupon.”

          I hung up the phone, dissatisfied and feeling old. However, to look on the bright side, I would still be considered a trophy wife if I dated at the top of my demographics. (And at this point, I don’t think Jim would even notice.) Anyway, I took the packaged Poise and threw it…well, truth be told I threw it in my purse because frankly there may come a time when I just can’t pause. And at least I’ll be poised.   

MUSINGS FROM MID-LIFE

I think I’m going through a mid-life crisis. At least I hope that my mid-life point hasn’t already passed me by. I mean, if I only live to be 50 that means that my mid-life crisis occurred at 25. And isn’t the entire decade of our 20’s one big life crisis anyway? At least upon reflection it seems that way. When we’re in our 20’s we’re just trying on one bad choice after another. Some of us married our bad choices, some of us gave birth to them, and some of us spent a lot of time in rehab thanks to them. Compared to our 20’s, our 30’s begin our assent into the age of reason.  

Anyway, among the many things I’ve been musing about, the one thing I can’t stop thinking about are the career choices I’ve made. My employment choices were based on the Sally Fields’ method of finding a job. The key to mastering this method is to accept the very first offer regardless of what that job is because that offer screamed “You like me! You really like me!” Considering taking a job that might be fun and interesting never entered my mind. It’s only now that I realize someone has to be hired for the fun and interesting jobs, right? Of course, considering my bad choices, these are the jobs I would have applied for in my 20’s with my reasons (now) why they scream “bad choice.”  

Cameraman for Lock Up or any other show about prison: My biggest fear in the entire world is prison. So it makes perfect sense that I love to watch the show Lock Up which is about being locked up in various prisons around the world. Whenever I watch the show I care less about the reaction of the inmate who’s being asked if he has any remorse for murdering 15 people and more about the cameraman’s reaction to the inmate’s response. If I’m sitting before a man sentenced to death or serving 20 consecutive life sentences I want more than just a hand-held camera separating us. Let’s put it this way, if I was the cameraman, all you would see on your television screen is a picture of the tiled floor because I’d drop that camera and run the second I saw a man in an orange jumpsuit with face tattoos coming towards me.

Deck Crew or Cameraman for Dangerous Catch: Okay, one of the best shows ever. Who’d think that crab fishing would be so riveting? And I consider myself a seasoned crab fisherman having spent many summer days tossing nets into the Hudson and pulling out pots filled with crabs until my shoulders ached. I can stand the grueling work; however, there’s no way I could ever be one of the deck crew on a ship being tossed around like a bath toy in the Bering Sea. Hauling heavy pots out of a violent ocean that keeps throwing fresh waves of Arctic ice water over you in the middle of winter during a hurricane takes more than a sense of adventure!

I’m always amazed at how steady the camera is while filming during those storms. If I was the cameraman all you’d see would be pieces of my liver floating around the deck because not only would I be constantly sea sick, but the rest of the crew would pull a mutiny on the bounty on me to rid the ship of my miserableness.

Editor for Snapped on the Oxygen Network: This is the show that highlights women who have snapped and usually always involves multiple murders. My fear about editing this show is that I might find myself the star of one of the episodes.

National Geographic Photographer: Travel the world, go to remote places, dance with the wolves, swim with the sharks, and sleep with the lions. The job would be the perfect job for me if it weren’t for the wolves, sharks, and lions. And the fact that sleeping outdoors in remote places of the world is not on my top ten list.

I guess I’ll just stick with being a writer and continue to write from the tamed jungle I call home about the wild adventures of my life. And show me a National Geographic photographer who’s driven away from a carwash with a Mexican in his trunk. Ha! There’s adventure!

BAD DOG HAS GOOD TASTE; OR, THE GOOD LIFE OF BAD DOG

Got Milk?

“Oh my God! We’ve been robbed!” my brain screamed as I entered the kitchen after having come home from work only to find the refrigerator wide open and half-eaten food strewn all over the hardwood floor. I tried to remain calm by taking a few deep breaths.

I didn’t understand. The front door was locked. I checked the back door, basement door—all locked. No one could’ve have gotten in through a window since they’re all painted shut. If a burglar did open a window I will hunt them down just so they can open the rest of them since in ten years my husband hasn’t been able to.

Then I panicked. Where’s the dog? She’s always waiting at the door for me. Was she harmed? I ran around the house shouting her name. Nothing. It wasn’t until I grabbed the phone to call the police that I saw the burglar prostrate, dead to the world, beside the couch. The burglar was none other than Bad Dog, her bad self. I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I’m pretty sure the clues pointed in her direction--strings of spaghetti crusted to her snout; her beard drenched with Sunday gravy. Anger replaced the panic. I nudged the hairy culprit with the toe of my snow boot but nothing. No response.

          I bent down and put my face next to hers to make sure she was breathing. Her pungent breath almost knocked me over. I recognized the sour smell but it took me a few seconds before I…Dear God!  She was drunk. Full-out stinking drunk! No wonder, really, because lying among all the food on the kitchen floor was an empty bottle of 2003 Malbec that had only been open the night before. I had an open bottle of Malbec and cheap Chardonnay in the fridge; she went with the Malbec. Good choice considering the menu of leftovers she chose: artisanal cheese that my friend had sent me from her Seattle dairy farm, four marinating Porterhouse steaks from the butcher at Fairway that I was planning on grilling for dinner, Godiva Chocolate, leftover eggplant parmigiana, spaghetti, and Sunday gravy with Johnny Meatballs meatballs! (She ate all the meatballs, so 2 thumbs up from Bad Dog and the canine crowd for Johnny Meatballs meatballs!)

How did Bad Dog get her bad self into the fridge? Well, my good man Watson, I’m going to conclude that someone to whom I said “I Do” to almost 20 years ago forgot to close the refrigerator as he was returning the gallon of milk that he had just poured for his and Katie’s cereal. Since I had left for work before he and the children left the house, I’m going to further conclude that he did not notice the refrigerator door was ajar when he left the house. Now, I can’t entirely blame him since our house is well over 100 years old and no longer level. (Hell, I’m over 40 years old and no longer level.) The kitchen is so slanted it’s like working in a ship’s galley during a raging storm. Things just toss and roll at will. My kitchen could definitely qualify for Weird New Jersey.   

          After I had cleaned up the mess I sat down on the sofa with a cup of coffee. (Unfortunately, the Malbec was all gone.) I watched as the carcass of Bad Dog began to stir. She pried one, then two hairy eyeballs open and, after a few feeble attempts, was able to lift her head. Talk about the hair of the dog! When her eyes were able to focus she just stared at me. It was a knowing stare that said, “Do you have any idea how many times I had to look at you like this? At least I licked your feet to ease your pain.”

          As she tried to rise on all four paws I could relate to her staggering imbalance, but still I said, “So, you had to eat the marinating Porterhouse? Johnny Meatballs and eggplant weren’t enough for you? Hope you enjoyed the wine!”

          She wobbled unsteadily to the back door reminding me of a drunken sailor’s drunken girlfriend who gets paid by the hour. I mused about taking her to A.A.

“Hi, this is Bad Dog and she’s an alcoholic.”

“Hello Bad Dog!”

As I watched her repeatedly fall sideways into the snow I thought that as bad as Bad Dog is, and she is bad, at least she has good taste. Artisanal cheeses, Johnny Meatballs, Porterhouse steaks tartare, and Malbec. Not a bad life for a bad dog. 

CHINESE FOOD FOR MARTIN LUTHER KING DAY

“Mom,” my eight-year old son said as he came sliding across the hardwood kitchen floor Tom Cruise style, “Let’s celebrate Martin Luther King Day by ordering Chinese food.”

          For the uninitiated, let me fill you in. From the time Jack was in preschool he thought we were an African-American family. In fact, Martin Luther King Day 2006 he declared his ever-lasting devotion to Martin Luther King.

          “That’s fantastic Jack,” I said at the time. “Tell me what you know about him.”

          “Well, if it weren’t for him, we Piccirillo’s would still be riding the back of the bus,” he replied matter-of-factly as he handed me the crayon drawing he did in school of our family. He gave Jim a 1970’s Soul Train Don Cornelius afro and raw umber skin. He gave me brick red everything, no neck, and one eye. He made my daughter an odd combination of me and Jim which is to say that he gave her three eyes and plaid skin. Jim was thrilled that Jack gave him hair. In fact, he was thrilled that Jack made him look cool. And let’s face it, you can’t get much cooler than Don Cornelius.

          I still have that drawing and all the others that came after. So precious are the memories of those years, and the purity of his belief in the goodness of mankind, that I dreaded there might come a day when his world would no longer be color blind. So when he announced this year that he wanted to celebrate Martin Luther King Day with Chinese food my heart soared with delight. Chinese food! Yes!

          “Why Chinese food?” I curiously queried.

          “Well, my friends who don’t celebrate Christmas eat Chinese food on Christmas Day so I thought that since you don’t give gifts for Martin Luther King Day, or eat turkey, or watch the ball drop at midnight in the middle of New York City, let’s celebrate like my friends who don’t celebrate Christmas do—let’s eat Chinese!”

          As he slid back out of the kitchen the same Tom Cruise way he slid in, I wondered where this little boy came from and wished, as I never wished before, that I could stop time. As a mother we all get swept up in the moments that don’t matter but are powerful enough to continually consume us—getting the kids’ dressed for school, out the door, into school on time, laundry, dinner, scheduling playdates, hosting playdates, avoiding playdates, food shopping, cleaning, supervising homework, bath time, bedtime, oh…and working—that when the moments that matter come along, like this one, they hit us in the heart like a ton of bricks.

          When I was 8 months pregnant with Jack I was shopping at Burlington Coat Factory on Route 17 in Paramus. While browsing the claustrophobic baby section an older woman who worked there approached me. I heard her before I saw her. She was about 4’10”and impeccably dressed. Around her neck were strings of silver chains with circular beads that sounded like wind chimes when they brushed against each other. My immediate thought was that her face looked like an ancient gypsy from a Grimm fairytale.

She took the liberty of rubbing my belly and said, “You’re having a boy,” her slight eastern-European accent confirmed her gypsy status in my mind.

          “Really?” I replied. “I think it’s a girl.”

          “No. I tell you it’s a boy. I know this because a terrible war is coming. This war will last many generations and there will be a need for many men. Your son will be called for this war. Your friends’ sons will be called for this war. I tell you truth.”

          I dropped everything in my hands and ran from the store. A month later when I delivered my baby and the doctor said, “It’s a boy!” my initial thrill was replaced with the haunting words of this woman.

          And now, as I watch my sweet, sweet boy slide out of my kitchen I know, the way only a mother can, that this time with him on earth is brief. I don’t know what will take him from me, but eventually someone or something will. And so I savor this moment.

          “So mom,” he yelled from the living room. “Chinese food for Martin Luther King Day?”

          “Yes, absolutely yes. Chinese food for Martin Luther King Day.”