IF IT'S SATURDAY, IT MUST BE SINATRA!

(My weekly column, Bronx newspaper)

Back in my old neighborhood, Little Italy of the Bronx, circa 1950s, we kids were all little indentured servants, which meant we had to help with the Saturday household cleaning or risk getting wooden spoons, or anything in our mother's hands flung at us. My cousin Evelyn Grosso (whose mother once threw a bloody chicken at her during an argument!) lived two blocks from me, once said something I never forgot: "Every Saturday morning, on every block, that's all you'd hear ~ Frank Sinatra singing through the open windows."

Why? Because not only was he Italian, and one of our own, he was also at the very top of his game and his music made the mundane chore of cleaning fun. Hell, his music made life fun. And bearable.

This morning, the first Saturday of a summer so many years since then, I pulled out my Sinatra CDs and was transformed to another time, a happy time, when life was still ahead of us and our dreams were yet to be fulfilled.

As I listened to "Come fly with me, come fly, let's fly away..." I instantly recalled every detail of whatever was happening at that time of my life. Still a young girl, I was intrigued by the exotic thought of just flying off with someone ~ no plans, preparation or permission...and he ended the song with "And pack a small bag!" which embarrassed me no end! (I was, and still am, very shy.)

"Hey there, cutes, put on your Basie boots and come dance with me, what an evening for some Terpsichore!" And that is how I learned what the word 'Terpsichore' meant.

What better way to learn the word 'ennui' than by hearing "My story is much too sad to be told, but practically everything leaves me totally cold. The only exception I know is the case, when I'm out on a quiet spree, fighting vainly the old ennui, and I suddenly turn and see your fabulous face!" That, of course, from the fabulous Cole Porter's 'I Get A Kick Out of You.'

I knew Sinatra's music so well that the instant I heard the first note of one of his songs, I'd start singing along. My father once said, "How do you do that??"

Sinatra wasn't perfect. He was a self-confessed "18-carat manic-depressive" but that's what happens if you get too close to stardust...it falls away, and a real, live, complicated, impossibly talented human being takes its place.

I had the intense pleasure of meeting Frank Sinatra at his compound in Palm Springs in February 1981. Dinner, a movie, and hanging around the bar until 3:30 in the morning still seems like an impossible dream. But, thanks to Jilly Rizzo and the serendipitous music industry for which I worked, it did happen. And Frank Sinatra was, indeed, a gracious and warm host, and very kind to me. He had just turned 65 and joked that he was "looking forward to his first Social Security check."

The stardust remained intact that evening, as I kissed him good-night and he said, "I like you ~ come back for another visit!"

I just did that this morning, Mr. Sinatra. Your music will forever allow us to 'come back for another visit' and for that I am eternally grateful.

PAULA DEEN'S NEW CHEF HAT!

Appropriate, no? In light of recent revelations about and from the Queen of Greasy Southern Cooking, I do believe a new hat is in order.

Miss Deen's very own Pandora's Box has opened, and po' Miss Paula has been under some hot and heavy criticism for not only her use of the unspeakable word (begins with N and ends with R, say it to me and you won't get far) but also her planned-but-canned "Plantation Party" which would have had all the trappings of a genuine Old South traditional gathering, including the use of 'make-believe slaves' to serve her and her esteemed guests.

Wait...what??

We are in the 21st Century, right? And the Civil War (or 'Waoh of No'thern Aggression' as they refer to it in the 'Murr'kn South) ended in 1865, correct? So how is it possible that this kind of thinking is still so prevalent, not only in the south, but ALL over this evermore insane country?

Paula Deen's facebook page quickly filled up with encouraging and consoling notes (the negative comments are instantly deleted, so her camp is on HIGH alert) completely disregarding the real issue here, which is racism at its 'finest.' Not a word about her use of the ugliest word ever to exist, nor her brilliant idea to re-create the antebellum south for her Plantation Party...WTF?? I'll bet she found every single Confederate flag decoration in the world for that little shindig. Maybe she planned to give out bumper stickers as party favors: I'D RATHER BE SHOOTING YANKEES. 

How a person who's achieved fame, fortune and evah so many devoted fans can create such a shit-storm for herself through sheer stupidity is beyond my ken. Those 'devoted fans' obviously could not care less if their heroine rides with the Ku Klux Klan at night, which leaves only one conclusion. They agree with her 100%. Many of those fans used the pathetic excuse that it's a generational thing, i.e., growing up in the 1950s-60s automatically made them prejudiced idiots. Is that so? Well, according to my calculations, that was a century after the Civil War. How long does it take before they get the message??

Now, Miss Paula did say that she once used the 'n-word' when she claims she was attacked by a black man. And if she were attacked by a serial killer, 99.9% of whom are 'white,' what would she call him??

I do declare that Miss Paula Deen may soon be joining another misguided mental case in the near future.

May she and Anita Bryant enjoy their breakfast of fresh orange juice and southern-friend crow with artery-clogging gravy every single day!

THE NOTE FAMILY

What exactly is a "note family," you ask? Well, it happens when people are on different schedules and have to leave notes to communicate a message, be it school projects, food shopping, etc.

My father worked for the NYC Transit Authority as a motorman (modern-day term, engineer, sorry!) and often had odd hours, arriving home when we were all asleep.

He always took an interest in my homework, so I left my 4th grade, whatever-lesson it was ~ a construction paper, 3-dimensional square, triangle and cone, carefully held together by Scotch tape ~ on the table, with a note: "Dad, I made these for my school project tomorrow!"

Upon awakening, we found just the cone pulled to the center of the table, on top of a note from him: "ONE OF YOU SHOULD WEAR THIS AS A DUNCE CAP TODAY. THE DOOR WAS UNLOCKED." (To his credit, he was a safety nut about everything.)

At which point, my mother put a large plastic bag on the same table, with her own note: "FOR BEST RESULTS, WEAR OVER HEAD FOR 24 HOURS."

And so it went, back and forth, for as long as I can remember.

One classic is when Jell-o introduced a new, exotic flavor in the 1950s ~ LIME! We clamored for it, and my father, always one for bargains, decided to buy TWELVE boxes of lime Jell-o when it was on sale. My mother prepared a huge bowl of the slime-colored dessert...one taste, and we hated it! However, instead of using our brains and getting rid of it a little at a time when he wasn't home, we just let it sit there in the refrigerator, uneaten.

I will never forget the day I got home from school and found notes EVERYWHERE, all saying the same thing:

On the kitchen table: JELLO.

On the stereo turntable (boy, did he know my priorities!) JELLO.

Open the bathroom cabinet: JELLO.

Pinned to my clothing: JELLO.

JELLO SIGNS EVERYWHERE!

That is when my brain cells kicked in and I thought to myself: TOILET BOWL! And I have never eaten lime Jell-o since.

THE MANY JOYS OF APARTMENT (EGG CRATE) LIVING...

The illustration at left represents my little egg crate (top) and the egg crate directly beneath me, which has recently been vacated...meaning, the co-op service people descend in hordes to do the hard (and hellishly noisy) work of "restoring" the apartment.

Except, now the powers-that-be have decided to "restore" apartments by first demolishing 50-year old kitchen cabinets, closets, bathroom fixtures, you name it, it's OUTTA HERE.

However, it would be nice if the co-op notified the surrounding apartments prior to Demolition Derby beginning at 8:00am suddenly one morning! There I was, reading the newspaper, having a cup of coffee when WHAM! I almost hit my head on the ceiling. I seriously wondered if it was Armageddon Day, the noise was that loud and terrifying. CRASH BOOM BANG!!! 

I ran downstairs like a maniac, hands covering my ears, and the service guys said "Sorry Paula, it'll just be a while longer."

Yeah, a good while longer...because after Demolition Derby comes the hammering, drilling, and whatever the hell else it takes to install all new cabinets, closets, light fixtures, etc. Once again, after weeks of DRILLING and tap-tap-tapping hammering, I ran down and asked if it would be much longer. I was politely told "All that's left now are the floors" and I foolishly thought, good, I can handle that.

Well, this morning the final coat of toxic polyurethane was apparently put down, because the smell came wafting up through my floor, causing me to open every window to avoid brain damage, if not certain death for me and my cat Quincy. OMG, whatever happened to good old Butcher's Wax to restore a wooden floor?? Never mind...that required too much work, far easier to just sand the floors and throw a few coats of liquid poison to dry.

In all fairness, the egg crate in which I reside is confined within a fire-proof building, which means that you are surrounded by cement and steel. So, if someone decides to hammer one nail into a wall on the first floor, the sound travels throughout the entire building, right up to the roof. And any drilling that continues for mere minutes? The equivalent of aural waterboarding to these uber-sensitive ears.

I cannot wait for the day when my own apartment will be demolished...because that will mean I won't be here any longer to hear the infernal, ear-shattering noise!

ARRIVERDERCI, BIG WORMY NOISY EXPENSIVE ROTTEN APPLE! 

"I DON'T KNOW WHY YOU SAY GOODBYE, I SAY HELLO..."

...NOT when you think you're the cat version of Philippe Petit and do something that leaves me with the inability to breathe and/or walk due to rubbery legs. Then it's no more "hello," it's GOODBYE. Only.

Not long ago, I wrote "Me+Quincy+Lindsay=3?" Lindsay being the cat "Linda" I hesitantly adopted from my kind-hearted vet, with the provision that if things did not work out, the vet would welcome her back with open arms. Which he did. And which she deserves, because she really is a sweet and loving cat but she needs to see a psychiatrist because the cat was definitely mental in her short time here with me and poor Quincy, my sweet (and sane) little calico girl.

I am not one to "return" an animal as though it were a blouse I didn't like. When I adopt, it is a lifetime commitment for me. But something about this cat, whom I'd only met twice at the vet's office, seemed a little off. However, my foolish-stupid heart once again kicked in and I decided to give her a chance...and provide Quincy with some company too.

Her absolutely worst act of insanity was following her cat instincts, and finding the tiniest opening in my tree-branch-and-fishing-net covered terrace to JUMP on to the 2" railing, OUTSIDE those 'protective' branches and fishing net. The first time was bad enough. Breathlessly, I grabbed her with no problem, and added more screening, and more obstructive tree branches, etc. However, the second time I found her out there, I had to wait for her to
s-l-o-w-l-y walk the 15 feet or so until she passed all the obstructions and I could safely stick my hand through an opening to grab her by the scruff of her neck and drag her inside to safety, my insides turned to tapioca pudding.

Now, I am not a person who's crazy about heights. I couldn't even look at those pictures of Philippe Petit walking a tightrope between the World Trade Center buildings without getting nauseous, then AND now. And since I live on a rather high level, I was not about to spend all my time monitoring the insatiable curiosity of a crazy cat, since I constantly caught her eye-balling new ways of getting through the increasing obstructions. When I blocked her access to the terrace from inside, she began tearing at the window screens to get out there.

"I don't know why you say goodbye..." Oh no? How about this?

In addition to her Flying Wallenda tendencies, she also had a voracious appetite and, after devouring her own full bowl, took off to find whatever new 'hiding place' I could find for Quincy's meals. When it came to food, this cat had some kind of genetic defect...if I put down TEN 5-oz. cans of food, she would have eaten every one of them. She was not starved, she was fed regularly by the vet, so chalk another neurosis up for the mystery cat. And she would not allow me to brush her (tumbleweeds galore) nor hold her without getting all squirmy and meowy-annoyed.

The vet kept his word, and accepted her return this morning. As I opened her little carrier cage, she BOUNDED out, happy to see all her other little cat friends being fostered there. My worst fear, coming home to find a depressed and lonely Quincy, was completely and totally unfounded.

Quincy is a happy little cat again, content to have just ONE roommate again.

And so am I!

MISSING YOU...

An unbreakable bond, 1951, 1971

...Dad ~ so very, very much.

I know we had an extremely complex relationship, but we were both extremely complex people, weren't we? And even though you were angry and disappointed that I was not the son you hoped for, you did eventually come to embrace and love me in my childhood years, a bond of love that I never could forget, even through all the insanity that followed.

When I began to grow up, everything changed. I lost you for a very long time, and I mourned that loss every day of my life until, in your final illness, you once again allowed me to be your friend. But how much time we wasted in those middle years...

You hated defiance. And I, being your child, hated being told what I could, or could not, do. You had a volatile temper and your children paid a very heavy price for that. In the end, I forgave you, but I cannot blame your firstborn daughter for hating you as much as she still does. Your mistreatment of her was beyond the pale, beyond anything anyone can imagine. I also know that you suffered the very same 'chemical imbalance' that I do, and untreated manic-depression coupled with intense frustration with your marriage, your life, can easily explain some of your actions.

It also could not have been easy for you to witness your youngest daughter rebel and forge her own way, choosing not marriage and "settling down" but rather independence in the midst of the 'hippie revolution' and the disappearance of all that was familiar and safe to you.

But holding on to anger and hatred is not the way to go, not for me anyway. Those kinds of feelings are poisonous to one's own well-being. I cried my way through life, releasing the anger, the pain, the terrible sense of loss as I went along, until I literally had no tears left to cry.

Now, all that's left are the early memories...of your kindness, your love of animals, your eccentric sense of humor, your generosity. Memories of us walking hand-in-hand through the Bronx Zoo every Sunday because I loved animals as much as you did, helping me with my homework and special school projects, teaching me how to tell time when Mommy asked "What time is it?" and I answered "The big hand is on 2..." You immediately said "Kid! You don't know how to tell time yet? Well, let's fix that right now" and in one easy lesson, suddenly I knew all there was to know about time...except how to stop it from passing so quickly.

This October will be 25 years that you've been gone, Dad...25 years. How can that be, when it seems like only yesterday that we said good-bye?

How I wish you were here now to once again teach me the time...but this time, I only want to know how to set the clock back to an earlier, happier time and hold it there, for all eternity.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

With all my love,

Your 'kid'