PMS or SMP (something more personal)

My nerves are frazzled. I want complete silence. No sound of running faucets, no clicking of forks against porcelain plates, no muffled voices two decibels too loud. No lights left on, no unattended blue stove top flames, no one walking in on me while I shower behind clear glass doors. No trails of bread crumbs or dried spaghetti strands stuck to stainless steel. Shut the door behind you. It was shut before you opened it. And stop shushing me. Trust me, no one will hear.

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.

There's a reason for the MANtis to pray.

"Mommy, how are babies made?

Those exact words. Just like on a tv sitcom. Are kids hard-wired to phrase that question as she did? Out of nowhere, at the dinner table in between bites of filet and green beans. Shit, how do I not screw this up? I responded rather stoically. Saying this was a good question, but not something we should discuss at the dinner table, being it a mature subject and all, glancing at her little brother. He immediately insisted he was ma-door and anyway, he already KNEW where they came from ... your belly. Eye-roll from big sis. She asked if we could talk about it later and I assured her we would.

Later has not happened yet. I need some time to think. But not a lot. Years ago, I would have rushed to the bookstore or internet to research the probably hundreds of opinions as to how to best handle "the talk". Just as I did when she was a baby, always questioning, wondering, doubting, comparing. It's easier now being older. Mid life brings with it a deepened sense of realism. Not trusting others as much anymore. Relying on your own experiences with yourself and others for direction. The confidence is envigorating.

I know how I'm going to handle this. And I know it will be right. But, I am tempted to go in a completely opposite direction. Being that I am always "out in left field" anyway, why not? Here's what I mean ...

I have an equally wacky very special friend who, ironically, sent me this today. It's a pic of her pet praying mantises photographed just prior to shagging. She was excited to share the news that she will soon be a grandmantis. I'm so happy for her! I thought I may use this pic to help demonstrate and explain how all living things engage in the wonderful gift of getting it on. Not in those words, of course.

My friend also passed along some interesting facts about this species, and they're unusual mating ritual:

"Males usually attempt to flee right after mating to escape becoming dinner. Sometimes the female will try to eat her mate even before the mating process is complete. In fact, the female eating the head can cause the male to ejaculate faster. The male can continue copulating and inseminate the female, even headless."

Headless sex. Nah, I better wait until she's at least in high school.

Captive Aspiration

The less said, the better
When is that true
A restless voice 
like white noise
and no one to tell the story to


What use is there
for words begging to be heard
then silenced 
placed in a sealed crypt
and buried in rocky earth
Words that are felt
through the images left
by the lingering recollection
of an unforgettable dream
The silence of an embrace
that speaks forever


How do you hide
what's screaming inside
Daunting the days
spent as time wore on
wearing you down
Shout, shaking but
don't turn around
Smile then say goodbye


Sweet girl, 
bitter truth
how can we know
the life inside someone's head
Who's strong enough to conquer
what's better not said


(It's bad poetry, I know, but posted not with the intention of making you cringe. It's my feeble way of expressing to a dear friend, who may or may not know how much I love her and how I hurt when she hurts. We get blocked by so many things. I wish it wasn't so difficult to communicate what really matters. As time goes on, with a little luck and a lot of inspiration, we learn how to chisel away at the boulders in the road before it's too late. She did. We all can.)

Nut Lover

Pistachios are addicting. Why? Aside from the flavor, could it be the way the roasted shells have practically opened themselves for you, exposing the delicious and mysteriously green-hued nut meat inside? So eager to be eaten! I always hunt for the ones with the most nut meat showing first. Effortlessly, I apply a minuscule amount of pressure to the gaping crack and WHAM, within a nanosecond that palate tease is inside my mouth.

Is there such a thing as pistachio porn? There should be.

I'm not a huge television viewer, but I must watch something while eating pistachios. The two are synonymous, like those who only smoke cigarettes while drinking beer. I get into a zone. I don't even think about how many I'm popping or the rate at which the pile of discarded shells is becoming a mountain of casings. It's a whole hand-to-mouth fixation thing that puts me in a near trance-like state. Split, pop, crunch. Split, pop, crunch. Split, pop, crunch. Very rhythmic. Very satisfying.

Until I realize I've breezed through the easy (horny) nuts and are left with the clamped shut challengers. I've nearly chipped a few teeth fiercely chomping down on those bad boys. But, as stubborn as they can be, I usually find a way to gnash the hell out of them, even if my reward is a measly few bits of pistachio crumbs.

Trust me, this never works. 

Ultimately, I arrive at the very last pistachio, powdered with an excessive amount of what appears to be dust and salt from being the last of the 3,217 pistachios packed in that burlap sack 'o nuts that I got as a gift from Aunt Helen last Thanksgiving. Poor guy. The remnants of his already devoured cousin nuts are now a pulverized mass of pistachio paste lodged between my gums and inner lips. Unable to speak, I then spend what seems like an eternity giving my tongue a work-out as it dislodges this yummy reserve.

More pistachio porn. Now it's all starting to make sense.

The pistachio-crazed euphoria gently comes to a close. I am no longer lulled by the sound of cracking shells and mashing molars. It's only then that I begin to wonder how on earth my digestive system will be able to process such an alarming amount of foodstuff practically inhaled in a matter of minutes. And later, when the tummy ache subsides and I finally fall asleep, the monkey returns in the form of what can only be described as a seed-eating-frenzy-induced nut-mare. Noooooo!

Pistachio revenge !!

See what happens when you mess around with nuts?