"You know better but I know him ... "

Things are back to a relative normal.

Yep, he was here. There was proof of that everywhere.

But now he's gone. And so are the breadcrumbs he habitually left on the kitchen counter. The ruckus of semi-pro boxing that blared from the television at deafening decibels. The awkwardness of my laundering giant, oddly-stained tightie whiteys.

He was teary-eyed as I loaded him onto the minibus headed for JFK International. He thanked me profusely, apologizing. It was sad. I have to admit, I will miss the guy. He is, after all, family. He means well.  And there's a lot to be learned from cohabiting with anyone for any period of time. Living with him was no picnic, to be sure. But for him, living with us was no bowl of cherries, either.

Arrivederci, Nonno. Ti vogliamo bene.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7BgzrfUA8lo

This takes the cake ...

Allow me to set up the scene ... leftover strawberry shortcake sits on a plate, covered in plastic wrap, on a shelf in my fridge. Cake is coated with an inch-thick layer of whipped cream and giant red, ripe strawberries.

In shuffles Nonno, as it is close to lunch time. I see him open the fridge, reach in and begin to hear the familiar sound of lip-smacking, which to me is like nails on a chalkboard. I leave the house in disgust.

Later, I go to open the fridge. My hand feels something crusty on the handle. There is red, sticky, dried strawberry glaze and whipped cream covering it. Inside, a pastry case crime scene. The plastic wrap has been torn away from the cake and left open, revealing a huge gaping void in the center of the layer cake. Pieces of vanilla pound are scattered everywhere, crumbs of cake matter lying lifeless atop soda cans. The trail of terror continues as I discover crumbs leading to the sink, where the entire faucet head and handles are also smeared with berry glaze and whipped cream, now dry and beginning to yellow. More morsels of the cake killer's victim clog the drain.

I stare at the carnage in disbelief. Grabbing a fistful of cake is something I didn't think anyone would ever do, unless they were 1) a neanderthal or 2) really stoned. I guess I can add "eighty three years old and clueless" to the list.

Make-a Shake-a Hands

In a basic Italian conversation, I can hold my own. My kids are not bilingual, but over the years have learned a fairly decent collection of Italian words and phrases, mostly vulgar. We do not encourage they practice those.

One of the first words they learned was Nonno, the word for "grandfather", which is coincidentally what my gut reaction is on hearing the news of his arrival. Although my version sounds like NoooooooNooooooo!

He brought cheese. Again. And who doesn't love an abundance of unmarked, hand-packaged, smuggled-in-luggage-for-15-hours cheese?

The cheese. This time, it spawned hard candy.

He has settled into his routine. Morning begins with a breakfast of coffee-soaked chunks of thick Italian bread. I don't know which is more disgusting, the sight of the mushy bread floating in over-microwaved, burnt cappuccino or the lip-smacking and slurping sounds he makes as he spoons it into his mouth. The GoDaddy Super Bowl ad's smooch fest audio pales in comparison.

Our dog is the sweetest pup you'd ever want to meet, and submits lovingly, belly-up, to everyone. Except Nonno. She growls and barks at him constantly. She won't even take the bacon he offers. Maybe the way he yells "Make-a shake-a hands!" at her has something to do with it. MAKE-A SHAKE-A HANDS! Then, when she runs away, VA FA NAPOLI! Which means, in essence, go to hell! As if it's HER fault.

"Make-a Shake-a hands? Not on your life."

After breakfast, he takes the keys to the only available vehicle, one of our company vans, and sets out for a day of come what may. It's only been a week, and we've had to disconnect the "How is my driving?" telephone number listed on the back, due to "unusually high call volume" and a few death threats. Even the Asians were calling.

At this point, I'd rather be in Napoli.

The Big Cheese.

He hasn't even arrived, and yet the confusion begins.

He specifically told my husband, numerous times, he is arriving in Newark, NJ.  When asked, are you SURE it is NEWARK and not NEW YORK, he replied yes, yes, yes New-Ark in New-va Jersey.

Good thing my husband checked online flight status moments before he planned on stepping out the door with our kids to go to Newark. Turns out, there is no arriving flight at Newark today from Rome or anywhere else in Italy. Turns out, Nonno is landing in NEW YORK at JFK.

WTF will be the tagline for my next 30 days.

Lost In Translation Chapter 11 ... entitled "He needs a lot more than juice."

FIL: Eh ... I no understand ... my-a phone no ring. I need a juice?

Me: Juice?

FIL: I need a juice? My phone?

Me: You want some juice? We have orange juice in the fridge. (I have NO IDEA what this has to do with his phone...)

FIL: No! No! My a-phone no ring. It stay quit. (frustration builds ... volume rises)
IT STAY QUIT!!  (btw, he means "quiet") I need a juice? I NEED A JUICE!?!?

Me: (lightbulb moment) OH ... you need to ADJUST the phone??? 

FIL: Yea, yea I need a juice my-a phone. It no ring. Stay quit.

(Moments later, after I've adjusted the ringer volume ...)

FIL: Eh ... I no understand. My-a phone ring, what I do? I open and say Hello?  Or I push-a "send"?

Me: You open it, say hello, then press send. To send your voice. 

FIL: I push-a send? 

Me: Yea, just keep pushing send ... keep pushing send ...

Live And Let Learn

My FIL is back. Along with him came more cheese, of course. And olives.

He went to a cookout over the weekend. A large pitcher of iced tea sat atop a picnic table.
Close by, sat a jug o' bubbles.

After filling a red Solo with ice, he proceeded to pour himself a thirst-quenching cup of chilled bubbly. It was fortunate that someone stopped him before his first gulp. Or was it?

It's gonna be a long eight weeks.

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.