ABOUT THAT OFFER WE COULDN'T REFUSE...

...it is now 43 years later, and we still can't refuse. Doesn't matter how many times I've already seen "The Godfather," each and every time it is aired, I'm glued to the story, never tiring of it.

In my opinion, one of the greatest movies ever made (second only to the sequel "The Godfather Part II" and Robert DeNiro's incredible resurrection of the young Vito Corleone) ~ it continues to draw us in with its powerful message of family values tangled up in bloodshed, violence, and that mysterious force understood best by those of Italian descent: respect.

Having grown up where and when I did ~ Little Italy of the Bronx in the Fifties/early Sixties ~ where the characters of the movie were real-life people, that underlying message of respect was the very first thing every kid learned.

Respect! Immediately recognized and understood. We knew enough to not venture near (or look into) the many "social clubs" sprinkled throughout the neighborhood. The unspoken (and unnecessary) message of store windows painted black, doors slightly ajar on summer days, we knew better than to bother them. Whatever went on behind those doors and windows was not our business to know, but we all felt safer having them among us. They kept the neighborhood secure, protected and intact and we were grateful to them for that.

Many of us were on the receiving end of their largess. I never questioned my extensive wardrobe as a young woman, all those beautiful dresses that "fell off the back of a truck," thanks to my uncles who worked in the garment district. And since some of my uncles also worked in the jukebox business, I had the greatest record collection any kid could ever hope for. What, me worry? Not a chance! "The guys" were our very own version of Robin Hood and we loved them for it.

Watching the movie over and over again also brings forth bittersweet memories...of impossibly large family gatherings, a shared and deeply missed camaraderie of food, love, laughter and music. Invited outsiders were more often than not overwhelmed by the sheer volume of it all.

So, the 'offer that I [personally] can't refuse' is the chance to revisit "The Godfather" and to cherish the memories that come with it...minus the guns, but definitely with the cannoli!

CHATTERBOXES

"You talk too much, you worry me to death, you talk too much, you even worry my pet, you just talk-talk-taaalllkkk, talk too much!"

Lyrics borrowed from an old hit song by Joe Jones.

I'm sure we all know at least one person (if not several thousand) whose mouth never stops. Doesn't matter what the subject is, they just go on and on and ON, never stopping to allow you a word in edgewise, and finally frustrating you to the point that you just give up, insert invisible ear plugs and give them the stage.

I don't know why the chatterboxes of the world do this. Could be attention deficit disorder. Or, if they're manic-depressive, maybe they're stuck on manic-manic. Could also be a personality disorder, those voices in their heads telling them to keep on talking because, in the words of Satchel Paige, 'something may be gaining on them.' Or maybe they're just plain rude. Who knows? All I know is that it is excruciating to be in their company, or trapped in a telephone conversation with one of them. BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH. 

I try to pay enough attention to offer the occasional grunt of acknowledgment so they think I'm actually listening to whatever nonsense is spewing from their pie holes. But after a while, I just want to scream "PLEASE! JUST SHUT THE HELL UP!!!"

I especially love when I do attempt to change the subject, or inform them of something new in my own life. They just talk right over-under-and through you.

Maybe I'm just hypersensitive about this because I come from one of those chatterbox families who constantly talked over-under-and through you. For me, every conversation became a battle as to who could say the most before being squashed like a bug.

"Did you hear the news about....?"
"Hey, pass the antipasto, will you?!"
"Ehh, I hit the number last week, five big ones!"
"Aunt Rosie's blood pressure is sky-high!"

Yeah, well I can understand Aunt Rosie's escalating blood pressure...especially if she attended these family gatherings one too many times and tried to speak, uninterrupted.

"You talk about people that you've never seen, you talk about people, you can make me scream..."

Okay, here goes...

Now, can you please SHUT UP??

TEXTING

My thanks to Grumpy Cat for his contribution to my own feelings about the supremely stupid phenomenon known as texting. 

This latest (and intensely annoying) craze has overtaken the world, and now that I have finally, and extremely reluctantly, joined the legion of cell phone idiots, I have also become victim to those who prefer to text over calling.

Along with the ridiculous word abbreviations ~ one example, prolly for probably...seriously? Here's my favorite abbreviation: WTF?? ~ and inane 'messages' about nothing and about which I could not care less, is the wasted time of not only having to read this nonsense, but also having to answer the morons who clog up my phone, and brain, with their insipid life 'bulletins.'

These abbreviations also eliminate commas, quotes, and any thought of recognizable contractions. "He going to leave soon." Say WHAT? What happened to "is"? Too much work to insert a ' between he and [i]s?? Goodbye to proper English! Hello to uninformed morons!

"On my way to...get gas/have breakfast/grocery store..." Who CARES? I don't need or want a minute-by-minute account of anyone's life. And then there's the dreadful "Have to tell you what happened last night!" after which they proceed to TEXT every single detail of "what happened last night." Really? Can we save it for a phone call, not that a telephone conversation could reduce the boredom of having to listen to the mundane bullshit that comprises people's lives these days.

I have come  to dread the ding! and shimmying of my cell phone, signaling yet another text on the way, interrupting reading a book (remember that?) or watching a favorite movie. I stare daggers at it, then carefully pick it up, reminding myself that throwing it against a wall is not going to be felt by the "texter" and will only cost me money to have it repaired or replaced...not that I want it.

So, I have to agree with Grumpy Cat...please do text and drive. Text and walk, text and take a shower, text and eat, text-text-text-text-text away! Perhaps this may reduce, and even eliminate, the army of dimwitted blockheads who have invaded our world, dumbing it down to the point of no return.

Oh, and by the way.....TEXT YOU!

WHEN THE WORLD WAS SANE...

...it was a far more interesting (and entertaining) place to be. And for anyone who reads this blog with any regularity, you already know how much I loathe these 'simplified' but far more complicated times.

From $300 sneakers to all-cameras-all-the-time-everywhere, from party-wedding-baby-funeral planners to a Dick Tracy world where everything you could ever want to know is encapsulated in minuscule computers that are smaller than Mr. Tracy's famous wristwatch, the world has truly gone insane. The entire world in a pill box. Charming.

For safety's sake, we now have laws that dictate the wearing of a ridiculous-looking helmet for the simple joy of riding a bicycle, laws that govern the interior of our cars (seat belts and car seats for kids, head-rests and bucket seats, to name a few) laws for just about anything that, a few short decades ago, was unregulated and a lot more fun, even if somewhat 'dangerous.'

Cash money is just about extinct since the 'smart card' has taken over every transaction we could possibly make (allowing the government and everyone else to track our every move.) Cash registers, and the attendant must-have knowledge of simple arithmetic, have been replaced by computers and stupid UPC bar codes that relegate the user to robot status. DING! INSTANT MATH, PUT IT IN A ENVIRONMENT-WRECKING PLASTIC BAG AND BEGONE! How much fun is that?

The wonderful, beautiful jukeboxes of old have now been replaced by and squished into flat-as-a-pancake discs that may be longer-lasting than vinyl records, but I still prefer the old album covers, artwork and liner notes. (I also miss the fact that a quarter used to buy three songs. I can't even guess what it costs today because, as much as possible, I adamantly refuse to participate in the madness of this era.)

I'm especially peeved that newspapers are also falling victim to these ludicrous times. I for one will never ever have a cup of coffee without a newspaper directly in front of me, not as long as I can help it. Reading anything, including the latest news, on a monitor screen is just not my cup of tea (pardon the pun) and never will be.

The adage that "life was more fun in black and white" rings true to these ears. In the ceaseless quest to improve the world under the guise of "progress," we are losing so much more than we are gaining. In comparison to today, life may have been vastly imperfect in decades gone by, but it sure was a hell of a lot more lively and amusing.

And, Dick Tracy, wherever you may be, a pox on you and your nefarious little wristwatch!

THE OTHER SIDE

When my father was nearing the end of his life, his body ravaged by diabetes, my mother asked him one day, "But Joe, you're not afraid of death?"

His response was simple, to the point, and even hilarious in a way. He simply answered, "Who cares? No more bills, no more aggravation, I couldn't care less."

And now, almost 27 years since those words were spoken, I find myself asking the same question, and answering with the same words. "Who cares? I couldn't care less."

And, very much like Jim Morrison's thoughts on the subject, it is life that hurts, so, to me, death is not a fearful thing, but a peaceful end to earthly suffering.

I've always been quite aware of death. Some would say 'morbidly aware.' Perhaps the deaths of both my paternal and maternal grandparents before I was ten years of age contributed to my consciousness of it. I didn't understand it, but certainly felt the depths of pain it brought with every loss of a loved one. And, with time, the sad ache and lonely acceptance of its finality.

My parents never shielded me from it, either. "Paula, it's as much a part of life as being born, so just get used to it and accept it!" Easy to say, but for a tender, sensitive little soul, not so easy to comprehend or obtain. I always had to get to the very bottom of the pain before I could find my way back up to any level of acceptance. No matter how much it hurt (and it was agony) every single memory had to be dredged up, re-lived and finally put back into place again.

And then, when all the tears were shed, and all the memories gently filed away, I'd look up at the sky with the heaviest of hearts and somehow imagine the loss of someone (or thing) as a tiny little envelope with each of their names on it, tucked into a white cloud in the sky for all eternity.

As we grow old, death does indeed become more of a part of life than birth. As we slowly say goodbye to family, friends, and beloved pets, we are left to wonder when our time will come...when we will have our own tiny white envelope tucked into an eternal white cloud.

So, quoting Jim Morrison again, "At the point of death, the pain is over. Yeah, I guess it is a friend."

Nothing to fear, because "Everything you want is on the other side of fear." ~ Jim Morrison

It's just the brief journey of getting from here to there that's a little scary. But sooner or later, we all make it, and I firmly believe, eventually all meet up on the other side...

DIRT

Once was a time when "if it's Saturday, it must be cleaning day!" The prevailing thought was 'it builds character' along with instilling good habits for our later years.

And kids of just about every household were required to pitch in and help our mothers, each of us given specific chores...clean every inch of woodwork, sweep every corner, dust every stick of furniture, scrub windows, et cetera, ad infinitum...(if you must know the truth, we were more like little indentured servants.)

As much as I loved helping my mother because it made me feel 'grown up,' I grew to hate the exercise in futility that is house cleaning. And I still hate it now. So much time expended on tidying up one's living quarters when, the very moment you're finished, more dust and dirt accumulates. It's a losing battle, just like laundry. Ever notice the very second after the laundry is done, you remove your ratty cleaning clothes and, voila, more laundry is waiting for you? It ain't fair!

I've always been of the opinion that one major cleaning job should last about, oh, I don't know, maybe six months or so? I'd even settle for six weeks. But NO, if you're lucky, you can get away with one week, tops. And then the dreary routine begins all over again, usurping hours upon hours of our lives.

The very thought of engaging outside help was sacrilegious. "Oh no, they never clean like we do!!" Which may (or may not) be true, but WHO CARES?? So three specks of dust are left on the woodwork, the windows may have a streak or two, a few dust tumbleweeds may have escaped to the far corners of the living room, so what?

I've been living on my own for more decades than I care to remember, and have yet to break the old once-a-week cleaning schedule. I guess those early years did instill 'good habits' that allow us to live in relative cleanliness. And a skeevy home just doesn't cut it. After all, as my mother always told me, "cleanliness is next to godliness."

Now there's a thought ~ what if God made an unannounced visit? Does anyone really believe he'd spend his time inspecting woodwork and counting wayward specks of dust?? I think not!

TORN BETWEEN TWO WORLDS

Having just watched an excellent (and poignant) PBS documentary ~ The Italian Americans ~ I am reminded of my own life of growing up Italian in America.

I am second generation Italian. My parents, born in America, were both children of immigrants, and for me, separating those two worlds was not an easy task. On one side, the wonderful, if somewhat confining, traditions of being Italian and all that it represented. On the other, the often confusing messages of heritage, customs and culture of being Italian mixed in with being "American" simultaneously.

I never questioned my Italian heritage, nor did I ever wish to be anything else. Growing up in an extended family of numerous aunts, uncles and cousins was something I cherished and loved. However, the fan took a major hit when I came of age and realized that, among other things, there were two distinctly different roles for Italian-American boys and girls.

My father never let me forget that I was a huge disappointment when I was born. For an Italian man, sons are the golden attainment, daughters a distant second. Combined with the fact that he did not have a high opinion of women in general created an untenable and difficult situation for me.

I remember as a young girl helping "the women" clear off the Christmas table so "the men" could play cards while they enjoyed their roasted chestnuts, black coffee (espresso) and cake. They'd just sit back and wait, with no thought at all given to the lop-sided unfairness of the situation. At the tender age of ten, I questioned my father about it, to which he replied "I know it's unfair, kid, but that's just the way it is" and I snapped back, "Well, it won't be that way in my house when I grow up!"

Little did I know that I would carry that rebellious attitude into my adult life, scandalizing the family and creating a world of turbulence for myself. As proud as I was of my Italian ancestry, I refused to allow such a discriminatory perspective to continue in my own existence.

And so, I was terribly torn between two worlds, a living dichotomy if you will...loving the fact that I was Italian-American, but constantly grappling with the other fact that I would not ~ could not ~ accept any role but the one I chose for myself, as difficult and ill-advised as it may have been.

But, looking back, if I had my druthers, I think I would rather have been one of "the women" clearing off the Christmas table with no question as to roles. Thus, the confusion and bewilderment of being torn between two worlds, and struggling with regrets later in life.

"Regrets, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention..."

Not so. I have a lot more than "a few" regrets. But I never, ever regretted being born Italian-American. I just wish I could have known then what I know now, that's all. It would have made a world of difference...

SCARED TO DEATH

Every single time I completed a piece of artwork or writing and showed it to my mother, she had the maddening habit of declaring "It's so good, it's almost professional!"

Didn't matter how many times I told her that, once an artist/writer is published and/or paid, they automatically ARE professional. I didn't have the proper degrees from institutes of higher learning, therefore, anything I did was almost professional...but not quite.

It also did not matter that, among a host of other creative achievements, I had my own line of greeting cards, designed an anti-littering poster for the NYC Dept of Sanitation (which was also featured as a background prop for three years on a hit 1980s TV show, 'Head of the Class,') wrote a weekly column for a local newspaper, and eventually had a book published ~ in her eyes, I was still almost professional.

Which led to the frustrating reality of constantly asking myself "am I really a writer? Am I really an artist?" when the fact of the matter is I was (and still am) scared to death about every single creative enterprise I may contribute to the world at large. "Are they saying they like it only because they're being nice, is it really good, or am I deluding myself?" 

Unfortunately, the world in which we live demands financial triumph before any artist is considered a success. And that is the one disheartening and frustratingly elusive butterfly that I have not yet been able to capture.

Which brings forth the memory of a time when I was attempting to encourage an extremely creative friend who was terribly frustrated and depressed about his inability to convince the "right" people (read $$$) of his artistic achievements, when he snapped at me, "TELL IT VAN GOGH!!" 

Indeed. Makes me wonder how many people told Vincent "It's so good, it's almost professional!"...?

ENGLISH, O ENGLISH, WHEREFORE ART THOU...?

I miss the English language. Somewhere along the line, it got lost and I will never stop searching for it, no matter how hopeless the quest may become.

Putting aside the most obvious culprit, the internet and its evil spawn 'spell check' and 'texting,' the entire USA seems to have joined Alice at the bottom of the rabbit hole when it comes to the English language. It's quite confusing, and distressing as well. It is to me, anyway.

I do not want to sound like your dowdy old English teacher Miss Crabapple, nor do I mean to be snooty, but really...! I'm embarrassed by, and tired of wincing every time I hear a grammatical mistake, or read a misspelled word. A voracious reader my entire life, books are what instilled in me a love of words that carries on to this day. For what it's worth, I couldn't explain the meaning of a dangling participle or a subjugated verb to save my life, but I sure as hell can construct a sentence or paragraph without misusing either one. Call it osmosis from reading all those written words.

Now for a few cringe-worthy examples:

Your and you're: Perhaps the most common massacre of all, why is it so difficult for people to understand that you're is a contraction of you are and therefore your just doesn't cut it when telling someone, for example, "You're welcome" as opposed to "It's your thing"...?

Its and it's: Again, the latter a contraction of it is. While its is possessive ~ "The public library has digitized its entire catalog" ~ it's a crying shame that the human race doesn't read as much as it used to, if only to improve its command of the English language.

There and their: Oh, for Pete's sake, how difficult is that to figure out?? "There he goes, into the wild blue yonder" vs. "His loved ones held onto to their hats until he safely returned." Anyone out there worth their salt who can answer a simple question?

Me and I: It's amazing how many people think that I is the appropriate way to state the coupling of two people. While "He and I went shopping together" is on the money, please note that "after which, our friends joined Joe and me for lunch" is the correct way to end it.

I can't even touch upon spelling  these forlorn days. The aforementioned "spell check" has just about gutted what was left of the English language since computers usurped human brains. Case in point, "to the manor born"...the brilliant spell check cannot differentiate between manor and manner, leaving us all a little bit dumber, and at the mercy of machines that can 'think' for us.

I thank you for your attention, it's been a blast, there is more to come, but for now, I would just like some quiet time for me, myself and I! Or is that me.....?

2014: YEAR OF THE DUMPSTER

Yup. 2014, now that it's safely behind me, can be officially declared my own personal Year Of The Dumpster.

Without going into gory detail, suffice it to say that 2014 is one year I will never look back on without cringing in horror. All the rose-colored glasses in the universe could not paint a pretty picture of it (note the charming pink background of the pictured dumpster...see? Doesn't make a difference in perception now, does it?)

From shattered friendships to gutted dreams, broken promises to egregious lies, accompanied by the rudest awakenings possible, I floundered my way through 365 days and somehow survived on the other side, intact but bearing scars that will forever remind me of my own supremely stupid decisions...for I, and I alone, must take 'credit' for making a mess of my life and casting common sense to the wind in the process. I traveled to the edge of hell but I made it back.

"But Paula, we all make mistakes" was the refrain I heard most from well-intentioned people. Yeah, I guess so...but when you make them at a tender age, it's a hell of a lot easier to live with the often disastrous consequences. Making mistakes at a somewhat advanced age is entirely another story, and you don't get a whole lot of time to correct them, so you're stuck with the aftermath and the picking up of pieces that are fragile and don't glue back into place so easily.

What, you ask, could you possibly have done that resulted in such a debacle? I'll never tell. And if I do, some day, decide to pour out the toxic details, it will be under the guise of fiction with an assumed name. (More like science fiction with a touch of macabre, if you really want to know.)

But here I am, in a new locale, far from "home" and on the brink of a brand-new year, and to quote Elton John, still standing. And if "every knock is a boost" then I am way up the ladder and ready to take on anything at this point in time. Why, I almost feel invincible.

So, welcome 2015, and don't expect any Casper Milquetoasts in this corner. I survived your bitch of a now-dead sibling, and I will survive you too.

And, unless I drop dead in the interim, I expect to still be standing 364 days from now...battered, bruised, but intact. So bring it on, 2015, and we'll see who wins in the end! Because "I ain't afraid of no ghosts" and I certainly ain't afraid of you.