Who knows?

There is something that I can never seem to figure out, no matter how many different ways I think about it. And that is, why what certain people think about me is so important to me. It's not everyone. It's far from everyone. But when it is one of those chosen few, and I feel like I've fallen short ... it cuts like a knife.

The Cheese

I don't know about other nationalities, but I know for a fact that Italians love smuggling cheese. Maybe it is ingrained in their string of DNA. Maybe it stems from being descendants of a country occupied hundreds of times over, an unrecognized hidden fear of being displaced and needing rations. The thrill of fooling customs, maybe? All I know is, every one of them pack large amounts of cheese in suitcases and carry-ons as they travel from the homeland. Then The Cheese takes on a personality all its own, and becomes their gift to you, the lucky American, who can BUY IMPORTED ITALIAN AND EVERY OTHER KIND OF CHEESE WE COULD POSSIBLY IMAGINE from our local Whole Foods or Specialty Cheese Shop which happens to be not too far from our homes. Cause, remember, this is America. But I digress.


So The Cheese arrives, along with my father-in-law. Ominous in presence, with what appears to be a slimy coating. (The Cheese, not my father-in-law.) I'm curious as to why the sealed plastic has been broken and there is a chunk missing. Some questions, you just don't bother asking. That I've also learned.

Just to get some perspective on this, in comparison, my Smartphone placed along side of The Cheese would appear to be very small.


Fast forward to yesterday afternoon. We are getting ready to drive to my parent's house for a visit. I invite my father-in-law to accompany us. He happily agrees, and true to form, seconds before we are ready to walk out the door he announces he must bring a gift. He must bring The Cheese. He asks me to chop the chunk in half, and wrap it up for him to bring to my parents. UGH!!!!!!!!

My mom, being very sweet, fawned over the presentation of The Cheese. She thought she should put it out on the table during dinner, as a sign of respect for The Cheese. (Funny, my mom has not a drop of Italian blood in her. But Poland was an occupied country many times over, too ... hmmmm) She asked me to cut The Cheese for the table, which I did, warning her not to eat The Cheese. It was for display purposes only. Why, she asked? I informed her this was The Cheese that sat inside luggage for 10 hours during the transatlantic flight, sat on my kitchen table overnight after being released from the luggage, then was eventually refrigerated by my father-in-law. I think she had the common sense to trash The Cheese, the entire chunk of it, after we left.

The Cheese stands alone? Not in my house.

Day Eight into the most recent chapter of my life ... titled "Crazy Italian father-in-law living in my home for an undisclosed period of time."

It's 6:17 am. Morning preparation of myself and kid's lunches complete, I take a much needed moment to pour a second cup of java. In he shuffles, paper in hand. Always with a piece of mail for me to decipher.  Today, it's his missing rebate check. Of course, it is not missing at all. It is in the pile of mail that has accumulated over the last 6 months he has been away living in Calabria with his girlfriend. But try to explain that to him. He is shoving a tax receipt from the township under my nose and asking "You call-a she? Da town-SHEEP? I no have-a rebot. No rebot check-a."

"No, Pop. You are looking for your REBATE check from the State Department of Revenue. You have that. I saw it."

And this conversation goes on and on. "Wha? I no understand." I try explaining in Italian. Finally he gets it. Fifteen minutes have passed. I need my coffee laced with Maker's Mark now. We're all out.

Later ... rounding up the troops to pile into the car. To school and work we go and as usual we are running late. He needs a ride to his brother's house, which he has let me know 10 seconds before I am about to exit my abode. Ok, let's go then. All in the car, start it, here we go.

"WAIT."

Him: "I need-a my glasses."
Me: "For what?"
Him: "I no see-a good. One min-ette."

Ten minutes later, the front door opens once again and he emerges. He seems to have trouble closing the door behind him. I electronically open the passenger side window and hear loud mumblings of Italian expletives. He is bending down doing something with his shoe.

Me: "Pop, what's the matter?"
Him: "My-a string. My-a string. Oh goddamn. (more Italian expletives)"

Now he begins to remove his shoe. "What the FUCK?" my head is screaming internally.
His shoe is off and he is bent over tugging at something. I am now forced to exit the vehicle to investigate. The light morning drizzle has become a steady downpour.

Turns out, his freaking SHOELACE was trapped underneath the door. I don't have the key to unlock the door. I must go around to the side of the house, punch the code to the garage door, enter the house through the garage, open the front door, and unleash his shoelace.

My father-in-law has hands the size of Kentucky. His fingers are as thick as overcooked hotdogs. And arthritic. So naturally, my next five minutes were spent rethreading the lace back onto the shoe.

Bling. The sound of the low fuel indicator as it lit up on the dashboard.

Oh goddamn is right.