Mr. Fixit

My dad considers himself a handyman. He can split wire, build a birdhouse, unclog a drain...the list is endless, really.

My family used to live in a two-floor Levitt Ranch. He decided to convert the upstairs hallway closet to a second bathroom -- without putting a dormer on. I mention this because, there was very little space in this handyman special to stand up straight. Thus, the shower head was installed a bit low on the wall. The water stream would hit you, oh, about mid-chest. Naturally, very few people took a shower in this "bathroom."

That being said, for a first try -- not too shabby.

The Blue Period

Look, it was the 70s; therefore, taste was questionable. Taste in art -- all the more questionable. I guess that's what possessed my parents to purchase the painting that hung on our living room wall for the better part of 15 years.

Let me describe: The painting used to hang over an equally atrocious brown floral sofa. The subject of the painting was a lone country church, at night, in the snow. And the entire painting was cast over with the most depressing shade of blue. Every time I looked at that painting, I'd shiver. It literally made me cold inside.

My mom would often stand in front of that painting and say:

"Don't you feel like you're there?"

My answer was always a firm no.

As far paintings go, I suppose it wasn't as terrible as the sad hobo clown that hung on the wall in the den (which, incidentally, also hung in Craig Brady's bedroom on The Brady Bunch).

Ahh, the '70s. Good times.

This is the actual painting that "delighted" me for so many years. 

Tonsillectomy

A few months ago, my mom and I were watching one of TLC's many unnecessary medical shows. I happened to notice that one of the surgeons had a hook where his hand had once been. Admittedly unPC, my reaction was one of shock.

"How does a surgeon manage to perform surgeries without the use of both hands?" I remarked.

To which my mom, without hesitation, said:

"That's why you never had your tonsils out."

Remember that scene in Weird Science, when the two main characters walk into the bar and the music comes to a screeching halt? Yeah, that's what my reaction to hearing what she said felt like. Just.Like.That.

Me: Whaaaaaat?
Mom: Well, when you were little, I asked a couple of your friend's mothers to recommend an ENT. So, I took you to visit this doctor and the entire time I could not see one of his hands. I saw what looked like a hook protruding from the arm of his lab coat. So, I didn't feel comfortable having him operate on you. But it turned out he didn't have a hook after all.
Me: Wait, what?
Mom: Well, at first, I didn't want to ask your friends' mothers about it, because I didn't want them to think I was insensitive. But, I was curious and finally asked. So, it must have been that he was holding on to the stethoscope and I mistook it for a hook.
Me: ...and this is why I never had my tonsils out?
Mom: Yeah.

There.Are.No.Words.

Is there a doctor in the house?

True story: My mom once had a doctor by the name of Dr. Dick.

Happy Holidays...

Mom's High Hopes

Mom has always been smitten with Adam Sandler. Not in a "she has a crush on him" way. No, no. In a "she'd love him to be her son-in-law" kind of way.

When she'd see him on TV, she'd say to me:

Mom: Oh, I wish you could marry him.
Me: Right, cause we travel in the same circles.

It never occurred to her how I'd pull that off. And, when she was told he got married, she gave me a look like: "Nice going -- you missed the boat on that one."

Ponderous.

Couple Three

Perhaps it's a generational or regional thing, but my parents have a weird grasp of language.

For instance, when they ask to be given a few things, say eggs or packets of sugar, I'll hear:

"Gimme a couple-a-three packs of sugar."

Now, correct me if I'm wrong here, but isn't a "couple of three" equal to six? Isn't it easier to specify the exact amount you need without leaving room for interpretation? One would think...

Ode to the Great BM

On more than one occasion, Dad has been known to exit the bathroom proclaiming:

Dad: Here I sit, broken-hearted. Thought I shit, but only farted.

Classy.

Where the mice are...

Early 1990s. 

When I started college, I didn't have a car to get me back and forth. So, for a brief time, my mom would drive me to class, do some shopping, and then pick me up. She would meet me on either side of the campus, and had a little shorthand way of remembering where to pick me up.

If she was picking me up on the "old" side of the campus, near the bookstore, she'd say:

"I'll pick you up by the kids."

I know what you're thinking: what are kids doing on a college campus? Well, near the bookstore and in between the English and History buildings, there was a daycare center. Obviously this helped her find her way back to the same spot each time she'd pick me up.

Likewise, if she was picking me up on the "new" side of campus, near the science buildings, she'd say:

"I'll pick you up where the mice are."

I know what you're thinking. What? Apparently, she had seen a few mice scampering about while she was waiting for me one day. Thank God she'd told me this, or I'd have been sure she was losing it.

Fact or Fiction

Unless Dad knows something is true, he's hesitant to believe anything someone says. He simply must corroborate the "fact" with a reliable source. This reliable source is usually an almanac. I used to buy him one every year for Christmas; admittedly not one of my wiser decisions. I have since stopped indulging him.

I cannot tell you how many times I've had to hear:

Dad: No, that doesn't seem right. Let me get the almanac.

It really makes the conversation come to a screeching halt.

Muting the TV

Mom calls me one day at work. I can hardly hear her because the TV is on what must be the manufacturer's  highest volume setting.

Me: Ma, lower the TV. I can't hear you.
Mom: Oh, right... [presumably searching for the remote] OH NO... I just tried to mute the TV with the cordless phone. [beat] DON'T TELL YOUR FRIENDS.

So, I'm telling my friends...

Mom's Got a Soft Spot for a Ricky

There is a Navy recruitment office in a town where my mom and I often go shopping. Driving by this office, it's not uncommon to see Navy personnel dressed in uniform. Without fail, my mom will point and say:

Hey, look -- there's a sailor.

Now, I've been with her when we've seen other military personnel and she never stops to point them out -- leading me to come to a firm conclusion: My mom has a thing for sailors.

Dad's Personal Christmas Tree

Late 1990s.

Mom and I decided that the Christmas tree needed a makeover. The old red and gold decorations were looking tired and blah -- so we bought all new lights in white and trimmings in white and silver, with a little mauve (hey, it was the 90s -- guilty as charged).

Dad just didn't like the new tree. It wasn't traditional enough for his taste. He'd gone out and purchased a $20 artificial tree at RockBottom. While Mom and I were trimming the tree in the living room, Dad was in the den decorating his own tree.When he was done, he called us in to have a look.

To say it was tacky is a gross understatement. It was like Christmas threw up all over that thing, which -- by the way -- leaned awkwardly, threatening to fall over at any moment. That being said, it was hard to laugh -- especially considering that Dad wore an endearing expression of "look what I did all by myself" on his face.

Needless to say -- that was the last Christmas there were two trees in the household.

Oh, Tannenbaum

Late 1980s.

Dad decided to cut down the blue spruce in the backyard and use it for our Christmas tree. Tree trimmed and lit -- no problem. Until it occurred to us, that in the years the tree stood in the yard it may have acquired more than a few inhabitants of the insect variety.

Dad's solution: spray the tree down with bug killer. Except the bug killer reeked to high-heaven and what we ended up with was a Raid/pine-scented mess.

Dad's solution #2: spray the tree with perfume. Naturally, you can see where this is going...

The next day, my brother's friend walks into the house and exclaims:

"Jeez! It smells like a French whore in here!"

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night. 

Watch Out for the "Crazies"

Ever since I can remember, whenever I've left the house, my mom gives me a brief, but unsettling warning:

Mom: Remember to watch out for the crazies.

My retort is usually something along the lines of:

Me: But that means we can never see each other again.

Sangria

Anyone who knows me well knows I'm not a drinker. Liquor makes me paranoid, hot and angry. Never a good combination.

One night, oh about 10 years ago, I went to the fridge and found some Welches' grape juice. I poured myself a tall glass and drank it down pretty quick. It tasted a little on the dry side, but still sweet. So, I poured another glass, took it with me into the living room and sat down to watch some TV. The last thing I remember was emptying the glass of its contents and resting it on the side table. I soon fell into what can only be described as a drooling stupor.

The next day, I caught my dad by the fridge.

Me: Oh, hey, Dad -- never buy that grape juice again. It was awful! So dry. Tasted funny.
Dad: Ohh, hmm. You drank that, huh?
Me: Yeah, why?
Dad: I poured the leftover Sangria into the bottle.
Me: AND YOU DIDN'T LABEL IT?
Dad: No -- well, I didn't think you were gonna drink it.

Landscaping

1980s.

My dad has always had green thumb. He used to maintain a small vegetable patch, which he tended to in a number of unconventional ways. And if mother nature got in his way, he'd adjust accordingly. Case in point:

A house we used to live in had a large bank of windows in the living room that looked out on the backyard. The vegetable patch was off to the side of the house, where a small maple tree had been growing for a some time. I guess it was about 8-feet tall, thereabouts.

Anyway, one day I was sitting in the living room chatting on the phone with a friend and looking out the back window. Here comes Dad... carrying the uprooted tree across the expanse of the yard, then out of my field of vision. I was rendered speechless.

The displaced tree found a new home on the exact opposite end of our property. Later, dad decided he didn't like the new spot and put it right back where it had been in the first place.

That's what happens when you try to play God.

Cell Phone

I don't know what it is about cell phone owners over a certain age; they just don't think they need to keep them on. They tend to feel that they only need to turn it on when they need to use it. Never mind that fact that someone (like me) may be trying to reach them. And, sure, I could leave a voice mail...that's if the cell phone owner actually knew how to retrieve said voice mail. But I digress...

On numerous occasions, I've received phone calls from my dad or mom's cell phone. However, they're unaware they've called me. I'll usually hear some kind of rustling (cluing me in to the fact that the cell phone is located in a jacket pocket or a handbag) or a distant conversation between my parents (usually in a moving car).

One day, at work, I received such a phone call during which I overheard a lot of mumbling.

Me: Hello? Ma!!! Can you hear me??? Dad???

Mom and dad just continued to talk in the background, totally unaware I was on the end of the line. So I just stayed on the line a moment longer and waited, in case they realized the phone was engaged. In the background, the conversation became clearer.

Mom: Harry -- I'll get the door. [car door slams, keys jingle, front door opens.] Oh, no! Harry -- the cat threw up!
Harry: What? Oh no... Is it food?
Mom: No, it looks like cat grass.
Harry: Then it was Dino, not Cosmo.

I realized at this point, they were never going to notice the cell phone was on. So, I hung up and called the house number.

Mom: Hello?
Me: Hey... Everything OK?
Mom: Yeah, why? What's wrong?
Me: I don't know -- I got this weird feeling that Dino threw up or something.
Mom: [gasps] Oh, my God! He did! How did you know that?
Me: Because your cell phone dialed me again and I overheard the whole thing.
Mom: Oh, this is crazy. [aside] Harry -- the cell phone keeps dialing Nicole. [to me] Maybe I should remove your number.
Me: How is that going to solve anything?
Mom: So it won't dial you anymore.

It's hard to argue with that kind of logic. 

Talk About the Weather

Mom thinks it's her responsibility to inform me about the weather. It's like she has her own Doppler Radar.

I used to sit at a desk next to a 12-foot window--no exaggeration. So, if it was raining, sleeting, snowing -- I was very much aware. Even though mom knew this, she still felt (and still feels) it's her responsibility to send me weather reports.

Phone rings. I answer.

Me: Hello.
Mom: Nicole, it's ma. It's raining out. So be very careful when you leave work. The streets will be slippery.
Me: Really? Because I hear that's what happens when it rains. It tends to make things wet.
Mom: Don't get smart.

On Demand

Even though my dad held a very technical job as an electronics inspector for many years, he just doesn't have the patience or time for modern technology. Consider the cable remote: This is something that perplexes dad on a continual basis.  

One day, he was messing around with the remote and somehow managed to purchase Here! On Demand. Now...we share a cable connection -- so when I got the bill, naturally, I was confused.

So, I asked my dad —

Me: "Hey, did you mess around with the remote and accidentally order something?"
Dad: "No. Why? Oh, one time I got some On Demand screens and I said OK to something...."
Me: "You said ok to Here! On Demand."
Dad: "What’s that?"
Me: "It’s gay programming."
Dad: "WHAT?"
Me: "Now I gotta call Cablevision and cancel this. I should make you do it."

I left the room to handle the billing matter. No doubt dad was confused and left questioning his identity.

 

Are ya there? Pick up.

The concept of voice mail hasn't really dawned on mom. The answering machine, however, is something she's well acquainted with.

Mom's known to call my work number, almost daily, and leave messages. Except, in her mind, she's leaving a message on an answering machine. On numerous occasions, I've recieved this very message:

"Nicole, are ya there? It's Ma. Pick up." [silence.] "It's Ma. Are ya there? Pick up. [silence] "OK. Guess you're not there. Call me back."

Just imagine, if voice mail didn't exist and every worker's desk had an old-school answering machine. In my mom's world -- that's what modern office life is like. No matter how much I try to convince her otherwise.

Ben Vereen

1992. 

Mom tends to fall asleep watching TV. It's just a given.

One night, mom is typically out like a light when I walk into the living room, sit down and watch the local evening news with dad. The news anchor reports that song-and-dance man, Ben Vereen was critically injured in a car wreck. My dad exclaims:

"Oh, wow. Ben Vereen. That's terrible."

Sensing something was up, even in her stupor, Mom awakens briefly. "Wha -- What happened?"

Dad: "Ben Vereen got in a car accident."
Mom: [groggily] "Oh, no. Is he OK?"
Dad: "Not sure."

A few minutes later, mom is back in La La Land. The news anchor delivers yet another bombshell: A man was shot in the head with an arrow--and lived!

Me: "What??!!"
Dad: "Shot in the head with an arrow and LIVED???!!!"
Me: "I can't believe that..."

Mom stirs in her sleep and wakes up again, this time even more alarmed than the last.

Mom: "Wha??? What happened? Ben Vereen got shot in the head with an arrow? What???"

Dad and I look at each other and bust out laughing.

Me: "Yeah, Ben Vereen got shot in the head with an arrow. Go back to sleep. We'll tell ya what really happened in the morning."

Ear Worm

You know how when someone is whistling a tune or singing a song, inevitably that song will get stuck and go 'round and 'round inside your head. My dad has an uncanny knack for doing that to people. I'm usually the lucky recipient of his ear worms.

And these are not songs you want in your head, believe me. They're usually circa 1950 B-sides that were maybe played on the radio twice during their heyday. I can't begin to tell you how long it took me to get:

"Blue moon of Kentucky just-a keep on shinin'..."

or


"I don't care if it rains or freezes, long as I got my plastic Jesus..."

...out of my head. I have never heard the actual recording, nor do I care to, of another one of his favorites--Dungaree Doll:

Dungaree doll, dungaree doll, paint your initials on my jeans
So everyone in town will know we go around together, together, together
Dungaree doll, dungaree doll, paste my picture on your sleeve
so everyone can see that you belong to me, forever, forever, forever
I want you to wear my orange sweater
The beat up sweater with the high school letter
Gonna make a chain of paperclips
And chain us together while I kiss your lips
Dungaree doll, dungaree doll promise me you never will fall
For any other guy, tell me you are my
Dungaree, Dungaree, Dungaree, Dungaree, Dungaree, Dungaree, Doll


Dungaree doll, dungaree doll, paste my picture on your sleeve
so everyone can see that you belong to me, forever, forever, forever
I want you to wear my orange sweater
The beat up sweater with the high school letter
Gonna make a chain of paperclips
And chain us together while I kiss your lips
Dungaree doll, dungaree doll promise me you never will fall
For any other guy, tell me you are my
Dungaree, Dungaree, Dungaree, Dungaree, Dungaree, Dungaree, Doll
Dungaree, Dungaree, Dungaree, Dungaree, Dungaree, Dungaree, Doll

You can thank me later...

Meatloaf

Without fail, every single time meatloaf is served my dad will say:

"Mother always told me: 'Son, don't let your meat loaf.'"

Every. Single. Time.

I'm not sure what it means. But I do know this: I don't want to know what it means.
 

Twatter

Never one for new technology, Mom says to me one day:

"What's this Twatter [pronounced "Twah-ter"] people are always talking about? People are Twatting or Tweeting...what is that?"

Had I been drinking something, this would have called for a spit-take.

"Twitter," I said. "Whatever you do -- NEVER -- say 'Twatter' again."

The Chicken

My mom has a thing about chicken. Poultry in general, actually. If it’s slimy or smells funny, she automatically assumes it has salmonella, listeria or some other kind of food-borne bacteria. This is precisely why each poultry-containing meal she has ever prepared has been cooked to within a millimeter of burnt to a crisp. She is absolutely terrified of someone contracting food poisoning from a meal she’s cooked.

One day, I came out of my bedroom and found my parents arguing in the kitchen.

Jo: Harry, that chicken smells. You’re not going to cook that chicken.

Harry: Jo, the chicken is fine. You’re overreacting.

Jo: Harry – I swear, I’m taking that chicken back.

Harry: It’s fine. [continues to wash chicken]

Jo: I’m not allowing that chicken to be served.

Me: What’s going on?

Jo: The chicken smells funny.

Harry: The chicken is fine. [puts 12 or so chicken legs in an oven pan.]

Me: [shrugs, goes back in bedroom]

Jo: Harry – so help me God, you cook that chicken and I’m throwing it out.

Harry: You’re not gonna throw out perfectly good food.

Jo: [moves to grab the pan away from Harry before he can put it in the oven.]

Harry: Jo…

Overcome by her potential food-poisoning sixth sense, Jo grabs the pan away and empties the contents on Harry’s head. She immediately regrets this decision.

Harry: What…the… Jo!

Jo moves to make a quick exit, only to be hit in the back with several wayward chicken legs. She runs to my bedroom and comes in and closes door behind her. Overcome with laughter, she tries to explain what transpired after my exit stage left.

Harry comes in the room. Jo’s got some explaining to do.

Jo: [laughing] All right. All right! I didn’t mean it!

Harry: I’m cooking that chicken! [returns to kitchen.]

Jo: Go ahead – no one’s gonna eat it.

Harry: I’LL EAT IT.

And he did. As did I. It wasn’t bad.

 

The Worst Sick

Every single time – and I mean, EVERY SINGLE TIME – my mom sees or knows about me eating something with gravy, she warns me:

“NEVER eat cold gravy. Make sure you warm that up good. The worst sick I ever got was when I ate cold gravy.”

Every time she tells me, it’s like the first time she’s told me. I could say “Ma, I know. You told me this” a million times and she’d still tell me regardless. And the wording never differs, either. She just has to get it said – so she’s covered.


FYI: As I read this to her, she said: I don’t want you to eat cold gravy. I was very sick. 

Mom's from Boston and Dad's from Brooklyn

Mom is really from Jamaica, Queens and Dad’s really from Bad Bergzabern, Germany – but you’d never know it. (Well, truth be told, when my mom met my dad she thought his accent was Irish. She grew up around tons of Irish people and yet was somehow unable to decipher the difference between “ach du lieber, gott” and “cheers, love” – but I digress.)

As long as I can remember, my mom has consistently said certain words with a strangely Boston-esque accent. Example:

Pop Tarts = Pop Tahts

Carnival = Cahnival

And dad’s not any easier… Even though he was transplanted from Germany to Richmond Hill, Queens, he somehow sounds like he’s from Brooklyn. Example:

Nurse = Noice

There is no way to determine why this is so. I have tried; it’s no use.