Living Proof

As you probably already know, I grew up in an Italian household. Mom had three girls, and then seven years later, she had an “oops”... me . I didn’t mind. It was like having four mothers and one large man who always protected us. I remember I was about three years old lying in my parents’ bed and Dad was busting my chops and teasing me, so I looked over at my mom and said, “Why did you give birth to him?” I just thought Mom was like some “god” who produced all these different people who were living with us. Even back as a kid, I remember Dad being so hard of hearing, or perhaps he just had selective hearing. We’d ask a question and he would botch it up like autocorrect on an iPhone. Me: “Dad, where’s the fly swatter?” Dad: “What? Ya want a glass of ice water?” Me: “Hey Dad! I brought home some quesadillas for you!” Dad: “What? A case of beer?” It always seemed like a challenge trying to get something across, especially if you were in the other room, which was maddening. He was a...

Over the years I’ve written about my parents, mostly about my dad and his botched up Brooklynite accent and slang, but mom is a whole different can-o-beans. And despite her claims of being honest and how she never lies, I’d like to take this time out to dedicate this lovely post to my dear, sweet mama. Her mission: to take care of everyone she loves, even if it may be an unconventional route. She means well. She lies for the ‘good’ and never intentionally tries to deceive anyone. She’ll even convince you that all the “bad things” in life are supposed to be good for you. And sadly, she wins out and you just have to go by her set of rules of what’s best for you. So here’s a little post about my mom... It’s a cold winter day and my sister and I rush over to our parents’ house to warm up by the fire and have some of her famous pasta fagioli soup. I notice that the soup is thicker than normal, but still delicious. Normally, whenever I see mom make the soup, she gives me the first cup, usual...

All I hear lately is gloom & doom from my parents. They go on and on about, “When we die” , along with, “We’re not gonna be around forever you know.” I totally get the ‘inevitable’, but what gets me is, they used it to their sick little warped advantage. So I twist it around and say, “You know, if I get hit by a truck tomorrow or stabbed by some burglar”- ---and automatically they gasp with horror and scream, “STOP THAT NOW!!!” I mean, if I’m traumatizing them, wouldn’t they stop to think for a minute that they’re doing the same thing to me? My dad insists that when he dies,  that I keep him in the huge freezer so we can still collect his social security checks. Beautiful concept. “Hey ma, can you grab me the frozen chicken next to dad’s left arm?” I mean....really? What if the power goes out? With all this “death talk”, oddly enough nobody in our family talks about the ‘what ifs’ and ‘what to do’ plans when our parents decide to jump out of the first floor window. I love...

As most of my readers know, I live a little too close to comfort to the parental units. I live in the apartment upstairs from them. It’s interesting and sometimes it can be the same scenario as “Everybody Loves Raymond”. I’m the baby of the family; therefore, I’m treated as such. Fun. Sometimes I still feel as though I’m thirteen years old when I leave my parents’ house to go somewhere else. “Where ya goin’ Deb?” My mom calls out, as I’ve already said goodbye to her for the fifth time. “Oh just out with some friends.” Not elaborating too much on my whereabouts. It’s not like I’m out dealing crack or anything or that I live somewhere out in the ghetto. Now, the funniest thing is, my mother says this certain phase that’s so funny when you think about it. As soon as I walk in, I hear, “Ya home?” Sometimes I bust on her and just tell her it’s all in her head, but I go along with it and say ‘yes’, because it’s what I’ve been hearing all my life ever since I was a kid. I also hear the famo...