The Friendly Skies

I’m a nervous flyer.  I don’t pretend it’s a rational fear.  I know airplanes are safer than cars. I know LOST can’t really happen.  I know that me chewing gum during take off has nothing to do with the flight’s success.  I just don’t like being suspended in mid air for hours at a time.  Call me old fashion, but I like being firmly planted on the ground.

Flying, however, is a necessary evil these days.  Whether it is for business or pleasure I typically wind up on a plane two to three times a year.  I have my pre-trip ritual: check in and print my boarding pass before heading to the airport, arrive early to avoid a sprint to the gate, once through security purchase magical gum (to prevent my ears from popping and the plane from dropping), and get some snacks and reading material for the trip.  Once my pre-trip ritual is complete, I make my way to the gate and patiently wait for the flight.  From here on out, if everything goes routinely, I’m typically pretty calm after take off, that said, I can also come dangerously close to a Ben Stiller Focker-esq meltdown if things don’t go my way.

On a recent trip home from vacation, I had smooth sailing through my pre-flight ritual and was all set for a calm ride home.  I boarded the plane and a burly mutton chopped man sitting on the aisle greeted me with a smile. I learned Mutton Chops was a magician and he had been in away for work. I didn’t learn his name.  It was manageable small talk, but I was relieved when the extra tall, probably retired NBA player, sat in between Mutton Chops and myself.  Mutton tried to talk to Mr. NBA, but it proved a futile effort, as Mr. NBA was clearly the strong silent type.  Peace and quiet – just what I like before take off.  I opened a piece of magic safe flight ensuring gum, closed my eyes, and prepared for take off.

My peace and quiet was quickly broken.  Mutton was arguing with the flight attendant who had rudely opened the overhead compartment to aid a fellow passenger in finding space for their carry on.  Mutton leaned out into the aisle, started pointing, and then stood up. Toe to toe the flight attendant was probably six inches shorter than Mutton, but wasn’t backing down. You could cut the tension with a plastic a plastic airline spork. Mutton’s voice escalated every time he found a new hook or perceived the slightest bit of encouragement.

Mutton’s very expensive jacket was in the bin above. The attendant would crush it with the other individual’s bag.  Mutton had paid $50 round trip to check his bag, and only carried on his jacket.  His jacket therefore deserved a first class seat back home.  To quote Mutton, “He just wanted his piece of the pie.”  Mutton was making a scene, just to make a scene.  No one was sympathizing with him, but he was speaking for the people.  All of whom just wanted him to sit down and be quiet.  A seasoned pro, the flight attendant put Mutton in his place and made sure no one’s jacket was crushed.

Mutton sat down and leaned in to our row looking for reinforcements.  He looked at Mr. NBA, “Am I right?” Getting no response from Mr. NBA, Mutton leaned forward and looked to me, “Am I right? Or am I right? I didn’t carry on anything else.”  My eyes involuntarily rolled and as if I wasn’t controlling my own words I looked Mutton in the eyes and exasperatedly said, “I really wish you would just be quiet.”  Mutton was pleased.  He had gotten a rise out of someone, and had a new victim.  I immediately wished I could pull the words back into my mouth.  Mutton stood up to retrieve his precious jacket.  The flight attendant rushed over and asked him to sit down.  “It will only take a second; I want to show my new friend over here how nice my jacket is.”  Mutton never got the chance.  He opened the now infamous overhead compartment, and began searching for the jacket.  Quick on her feet the flight attendant realized what had happened.  She opened a compartment one in front of Mutton’s and asked Mr. Mutton, “Sir, I believe you were mistaken.  Is this your jacket over here?”  Mutton nodded.  Tail between his legs Mutton sat down.

…AWKWARD!

Continued:  The Friendly Skies (Part Deux)

Aren’t my mooooves DANGEROUS!?!

The setting is a nightclub, a trendy spot where everyone gets their dance on. Every club-goer is in a separate world on a floor filled with dance steps, moves and fist pumping.  It usually looks like this: I LIKE TO DANCE.

The time is around midnight when the club is reaching the peak of the night.   Kate, Tyler and I waited in line for 15 minutes with a cluster of night-club aficionados.  Not too bad.  We just wanted to get out for a night of fun after a long, long day of school and studying.  We deserved a night off to just drink, dance and be merry. We were enticed by an article in TIME-OUT MAGAZINE featuring a club named “SOUND,” a MUST for all clubbing fanatics.

We walked into the dark place, decorated with orange couches to the left in front of an orange, white and black tiled bar. The dance floor was huge, and dancers even graced the mini-stage front and center.  It felt like a modernized version of a club from Austin Powers.

“LET’S CHECK OUT THE FLOOR AND DANCE FOR A BIT,” Tyler tried to scream to Kate and me over the loud, heart shattering beats of the synthesized bass.

We swayed side to side, twirled around, and fought our way to the middle.  The middle area was crowded, people were sweaty, and the only dancing you could do was bouncing up and down.  It was completely uncomfortable for anyone with personal space issues, and the alarming smell of body odor turned Kate, Tyler and me around towards the trendy-lit bar across the room and away from the smelly group of people.

“I’ll take a Gin and Tonic,” Kate smiled as she placed her order.

“Make that two!” Tyler added while the bartender was making drinks.

“Hmmmmm…” I thought to myself, “I’m not in a Gin mood. Maybe I’ll try something different.”

Kate and Tyler grabbed their drinks, faced the dance floor and took a few steps forward in order to people watch while I took my time deciding which drink to try.   Right as I was opening my mouth to place my order…

“Well, HELLO!” a guy said with a thick Scottish accent coming from the shadows to the side of the bar.

“Um, hi,” I replied taken off guard by his Scottish dialect.

“Where ya FROM!?” the Scot excitedly asked at about 10 times louder than a normal speaking volume level.

“New York City,” I said trying to be short to give him the idea that I wanted to order a drink.

“I’M FROM SCOTLAND! I wanna DANCE with ya!” the Scot demanded as he cornered me.  He proceeded to back away from me doing a ridiculous jig to show his skills.

He stopped, came right up to my face and yelled, “AREN’T MY MOOOOVVES DANGEROUS!?”

I stood strikingly still, looked around trying to find my friends to save me, but they were no where to be found.  The guy just kept doing his jig, which moved to his hips and upper body as he looked for my approval and wonderment after each ‘move.’

“I know whatcha thinkin’….. that I’M DEAD SEXY!!!”

Oh. My. God.

“I want to MAKE OUT with ya!” The Scot screamed as he shoved his haggis flavored tongue down my throat.  He backed away and returned to his jig, picking up his shirt to show me his hairy chest.

“I want to GO HOME with ya,” as he approached me and went in for seconds.  After he was done, he turned around and returned to his jig with movements being led by his bottom.

I looked around for my friends to save me.  I looked around for ANYONE to save me.  The Scottish guy was stealing everyone’s attention within a 10 foot radius.  His friends pulled him away telling him that it was time to go home, and I spotted my friends crying from hysterical laughter at what they had just witnessed.

Some random guy came up from the dance floor and stopped me with, “Wow.  The entire dance floor stopped just to witness that whole thing.”

…..AWKWARD!!!!

Is it Awkward??

Grandma Duty

Tara pulled the short straw at Sunday dinner for the third straight week.  Family dinner is at 4:30 sharp every Sunday, at the end of the meal it is decided who has Grandma duty the following Sunday.  Normally it rotates, but sometimes schedules don’t allow the rotation to work properly and one person winds up baring the brunt for a while. Tara enjoyed spending time with her Grandmother, but it was tiring.  “Grans” was approaching 83 and had decided that normal social graces and properness no longer applied to her.

Tara had become an old pro at Grandma duty.  She set out her outfit Saturday afternoon.  Carefully choosing a church appropriate spring dress – knee length, light orange, with a hint of a pattern from a distance.  She then set her alarm for 8am the following morning, and was free from Grandma related tasks.  She went for a run and met some friends for a drink.  Sunday, Tara woke up after hitting snooze a half dozen times and regretting having that extra drink the night before.  She primped until she looked just done enough to avoid Grans discerning eye, and picked Grans up at 9:15 on the dot.  Tara was greeted with a curt “Flip flops for Church.  What is the world coming too?”  Tara smiled politely and helped Grandma into the car.

Grandma made it through mass with limited interruptions.  The homily was too short, the kids texting through mass were rude, and the mass as a whole was rushed.  For Grandma, this was a short list of complaints.  The two went grocery shopping where the prices were too high and the store too large.  It was a typical Sunday with Grandma.  As 4 o’clock approached, Tara decided they could arrive at dinner a few minutes early.  Getting Grandma in and out of a store in under 30 minutes was a chore, and it was nice day.  Tara parked the car, and she and Grans took a seat on the bench outside the restaurant.

Grans decided she wanted a cigarette, at 83 she could do anything she wanted.  She pulled a cigarette out of her purse and puffed away.  Grans quietly enjoyed her cigarette while observing the scenery; Tara was happy for a few moments of smokey silence.  Tara then noticed a woman exiting the restaurant wearing the same church appropriate light orange spring dress as her.  The two woman exchanged pleasant “nice dress” smiles.  At that moment, Grans took a long drag of her cigarette, and noticed the same woman Tara had.  Grans exhaled dramatically, toss her cigarette hand to the side, and pointed towards Tara’s dress twin with the other.  Chimming in loud enough for all to hear,  “Isn’t that a lovely dress for a FAT lady.”  Mortified Tara quickly put out Grans’ cigarette, and moved from the outdoor bench into the restaurant waiting area.

…AWKWARD!

A Summons With Your Name On It

There’s nothing more annoying than getting a summons in the City of New York.  It’s surely annoying getting a ticket for a small misjudgment that could have been prevented if the rules were followed.  It certainly feels like an injustice being the only one getting a summons for jaywalking in NYC, when everyone else around is committing the same offense.  But, most of all, it’s annoying getting caught red handed, receiving a ticket in Manhattan from an unyielding cop, and now appearing for a mandatory court appearance with no “pay and forget about it” option. 

Today, Sara (***NOTE:  THE NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED TO PROTECT THE AWKWARD***) had to make an appearance in front of a downtown judge for a summons she received while she was out for a night partying with her friends.  She had set her alarm clock the night before to go off at 8:00 AM for an ample amount of time in order to prepare herself for a 9:00 AM hearing.  She opened her eyes, yawned, and stretched her arms slowly and calmly being up before her alarm buzzed.

She knew she had to look her very best in the eyes of the judge, who would ultimately decide the outcome of her legalistic fate.  Taking her time, she showered with extra shampoo and conditioner, blow-dried her hair to straight perfection and painted her face with makeup so carefully making sure each lash was curled and darkened with mascara.

Her outfit – black dress pants, a button down shirt and fancy cardigan – was hand chosen and eloquently ironed the previous night, while she rehearsed a statement she would use to defend herself if given the chance.

Sara followed the speed limit at 45 mph over the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, endured through traffic on the BQE and conquered the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel carefully, but efficiently.  She did not want to receive another summons for reckless driving and duplicate a day like today.

Pacing herself, she parked the car, walked to the building, and entered the courtroom.  She was the first one in the room filled with pews and a giant podium carved of oak.  To the front of the room, stood a red, white and blue American flag beside a blue and orange New York State flag, making the room look ever so official.

The time was approaching 9:00 AM, and, in the back of the room, a line formed of fellow ticket holders waiting to be called.  Sara was the head of the parallel line, followed by some casual looking folk mixed with street gremlins, who surely have been through this routine before.

“ALL RISE!”

The courtroom fell silent.  The person standing next to Sara was a disheveled man in his 30s dressed in cut up jeans with a t-shirt on inside out, and a cigarette tucked behind his ear.

“Can you believe I had to come here all the way from Harlem for a jaywalking ticket?” He asked in his raspy voice hoping that Sara would respond with her ticket information to ease the nerves within a stressful circumstance.  Sara just smiled slightly to shut him up.  She was not going to share her ticket story.

The woman sitting on the other side of Sara, wearing a t-shirt with paint stains, one red knee high sock and one orange bobby sock jumped right in, “I know! I have to get back to the East Village. I have to go late to work for this moving violation… running a red light… ON A BICYCLE…IN A PARK!!”  Sara smiled slightly to shut her up.

“The following persons please step forward,” the bailiff announced deafeningly as he looked at his clipboard of scheduled hearings.   “John Dreder. Jay Walking.”

John Dreder stepped out of line like a professional ticket holder and stood in the front pew.

“John Dreder, how do you plead?”  The judge asked systematically.

John Dreder made eye contact with the police officer, who gave the ticket, standing right next to him.

“Guilty,” he replied defeated.

“Ok, John, please have a seat until the series of these hearings are finished. Then you can pay the fine and be released.”

“Susan Johnson.  Moving Violation,” the bailiff loudly declared.

Susan Johnson stepped out of line and stood in the front pew next to John, the jaywalker.

“Susan Johnson, how do you plead? The judge repeated.

The same police officer in the plaintiff section stood still to await her answer.

“Guilty,” she said quickly in order to get out of there fast and get to her day job.

“Ok, Susan, please have a seat until the next hearing. Then you can pay the fine and be released.”

“Sara Fitzpatrick,” the bailiff stated and paused for what seemed like longer than the other offenders. He looked at Sara, did a double take, and ear-splitting-ly announced her offense, “PUBLIC URINATION.”

Sara stepped out of line as her stomach dropped, with her head down in shame and stood in the front pew next to Susan and John.  They both look and move in sync away from her towards the left.

“Sara, how do you plead?”

Her mind raced from being caught completely off-guard by the public announcement.  Everything she had recited the night before in order to defend herself had seemed to trickle out of her brain and ego.  She dodged eye contact with the police officer and opened her mouth, where nothing came out.   Everyone looked to her waiting for a reply, and Sara felt every eye in the room piercing right through her.

“Guilty,” Sara silently replied, “when ya gotta go, ya gotta go.”

…..Awkward!

Can I get your numba?

“Can I get your number?” Is there a phrase more direct and cringe worthy?  The answer to that question depends on whose asking, how the phrase is delivered and whether you’re willing to give up your digits.  For example, when I first met my now boyfriend, he ever so smoothly asked, “Can I have your number, so I can wish you a happy fourth of July tomorrow?” It was cute, and had a purpose behind the request.  Most importantly, I wanted him to have my number.  Plus, it gave me a natural flirting tactic when he didn’t use my number until July 6, obeying the unspoken two-day rule, but not following through on wishing me a happy fourth of July.

There are instances when a guy who thinks he laid the ground work properly blurts out the blunt and dreaded, “Can I get yo numba?” No reason why, no cuteness, just a demand, lacking all social grace and courtship.  Por ejemplo:  Can I get yo numba?

Two good friends of mine, Paul and Erin, went out to a local watering hole one Friday night.  Paul ran into a long lost friend, and got lost catching up in old times.  Erin listened intently for awhile, but a girl can only take so many names she doesn’t know and events she hadn’t been to before getting bored.  Looking around Erin found herself quickly being chatted up by Danny.  Searching for a common topic to discuss, Danny decided Erin herself would be the topic.  He ran through “get to know you,” and  “how you doing” questions at rapid fire.  Erin barely had time to answer.  She tried to hint to Danny that she wasn’t interested.  She went to the bathroom, ordered herself a beer, even tried hitting Paul to get his attention, but nothing would shake the over eager Danny from her side.

Just as Paul and his friend came back into the conversation, Danny got up the nerve to ask, “Can I get your number?”  Clearly too dense to read the signals, Erin quickly responded with, “Oh, just Facebook me.”  Danny left shortly after that, and Erin sighed a breath of relief that she had avoid further contact with her unwanted suitor.  She had setup her Facebook privacy settings tighter than Fort Knox, and knew full well Danny would never find her.  Jovially, she explained what had happened to Paul, and was happy to have avoided the moment of saying, “No, you can’t have my number.”

A few days later, Paul logged into his Facebook account and saw that he had a new message from a Daniel S.  At first, Paul thought it was spam from some bar invite since he wasn’t friends with any Daniel S.  He quickly realized it was Erin’s creeper from Friday night.  Paul opened the message to read:

“Yo Boy”

Werd son, your friend Erin has it going on, and I really need your help.  She told me to find her on Facebook, but the girl is like casper.  Can you send me her number so I can get in touch with her.  Your boy needs a new girl.

Paul sat for awhile, considering how he should respond.  It took him some time to realize that “casper” referred to the friendly ghost who could only be seen when he wanted.  Paul considered being mean.  He could play a trick on Danny boy, or he could just tell it as it is.  Paul opted for the later.  He hit reply and fired away, trying to maintain Danny’s sophisticated language.

“Re: Yo Boy”

Listen son.  Your girl Erin, is my GIRLFRIEND Erin… She told you to friend her on Facebook since she isn’t on Facebook.  It was a nice way of blowing you off.  Sorry Bro.

PS – Common courtesy says you should friend someone before asking for their girlfriends number, just saying.

Needless to say, Paul never got a message back from Danny.  Danny did however send Paul a friend request two days later.  Paul still has it sitting in Limbo.

…AWKWARD!

You’re going to be an Aunt! Mazel Tov!

It was a cold February night and news of the first “SNOW-RICANE” in history was in the weather forecast for New York City.

“Where are you right now?” Rob asks with urgency.

“I’m in Manhattan, why? What’s up? Are you stuck in the snow?” I reply with concern.

“Maria is going into labor right now!” Robert says to me, his sister, on the phone.

“Wow!  Are you at the hospital?” I ask.

“Yes, we are about to go into the operating room, but there’s one problem!  I don’t have a camera! Do you have one?”

Like every girl that has been living in young adulthood since 2002, of course I had a camera!   It was in my purse just in case someone did something funny, I met a celebrity, or simply if I needed to document something worth while. And, I think it’s safe to say, that the birth of my niece was definitely worth while.

“I have one in my bag. I will be there in 15 minutes!” I excitedly answer.

“Ok, but just know that we are NOT in the West Wing delivery room.  We are in the REGULAR operating room located in the East Wing!  Remember, Cara….THE EAST WING,” my brother stresses.

I hang up the phone, race to my car and head straight to Mount Sinai Medical Center, a hospital with predominately Jewish patients, located in the heart of Manhattan.  After driving about 3 miles in the snow from downtown Manhattan to midtown, I arrive and find a parking spot in exactly 15 minutes like promised. The only problem – where was the EAST WING!?

I run to the closest entrance on Fifth Avenue, see the security guard and ask with the few breaths I have, “Where is the EAST WING!?  My sister in law and brother are having a baby!!  BUT………… I HAVE THE CAMERA!”

“Oh!  Let’s get you to the West Wing quick! That’s where the delivery room is,” the security guard said as he picked up his walkie talkie.

Wait.  He said West Wing. Oy vey.

“No, it’s the EAST wing.  The EAST wing operating room,” I reiterated.  The security guard nodded his head to shut me up as if I didn’t know what I’m talking about.  In a matter of 30 seconds, a small man in scrubs shuffles into the lobby to take me where I need to go.  After schlepping my bag and the camera to the door leading to the most direct route, we start a steady walk, I look at my watch, we start walking faster, I look at my phone, we start to jog, I look at my watch, we start sprinting.

“I’m gonna be an aunt!”  I exclaim with my victory arms in the air running down the quiet hallways of Mount Sinai.  The few people around looked at me with smiles because now they knew exactly why we were running with such urgency.  Finally, the attendant in scrubs opens the double doors to the bright white light shining through from the reflection off the newly polished floors.  My eyes are immediately drawn to the sparkles in the white marble; they follow up to the snow falling opposite huge panes of glass and finally rest on a huge sign that reads, “WEST WING.”

“What a schmu…..”

My phone starts to ring.  It’s Rob.

“I’m in the hospital, but they brought me to the West Wing!  I told them the East Wing! But they brought me to the West Wing!” I tried to explain but reassured him that I was going to be there, by hook or by crook!

“Get here now! We’re going in right now! I need the camera!” my brother says in a demanding, yet calm way.

That’s it!  If I’m in the West Wing, maybe if I run in the opposite direction, I will get to the East Wing.  Right?  Right. I turn around and start running even faster than before.  A few bumps into talking nurses, a few slips-in-between a cluster of yentas and a few dodges around slow walkers.  I had to use memory re-call of the hospital to my best ability as I run back to the front desk down a seemingly never ending hallway.

All of a sudden, a hand stretches out to grab my arm in mid-run, and abruptly stops me in my tracks. Before I could swat at the 60-something-year-old man to release me or yell some inappropriate language for stopping me, I realize the bearded man was a Jewish Orthodox Rabbi, full dress and all.

“Tell me, Bubala, V-hy are you running?” the Rabbi asks with real concern.

I went into the whole schpiel hoping that maybe he could help me.

“The operating room in the East V-ing!  I v-ill take you!” he announces.

Not letting go of my arm, he leads me down the corridor, and finally to the elevator.  He presses the button.  When the door opens, he looks around, and grabs me into the elevator with him – alone.

To break the quiet I proclaim, “I’m going to be an Aunt!”

“Mazel Tov!” he replies with a smile, “so, are you married?”

“What?  No, I’m not married,” I quickly retort.  Why did he just ask me if I was married?

The Rabbi’s eyes light up and corners me with no escape.  The big, hairy, overweight old man comes towards me with an open mouth, getting his tongue ready for the next move.  The left over spinach knish from dinner stuck in every crevice of his yellow teeth is all that I can see as I try to swat him off with both open palm hands.

And, then, he kissed me.

I push him off, forcefully slap the schmedrick as the elevator doors open to the 3rd floor.  My brother was standing right there, I hand him the camera in shock and complete speechlessness.

I got there just in time, by hook AND by crook.

……………..AWKWARD!

Keeping the CHRIST in Christmas!

It was a long, long day for my brother, Robert and his wife, Maria. It was a long day of Midtown Manhattan Christmas shopping like it is every December day in preparation for the holidays.

The clock strikes six o’clock. Rob and Maria were so busy shopping, they didn’t get a chance to eat lunch.  Needless to say, their tummies are grumbling with hunger. As soon as Maria mutters the words “We’re hungry,” Rob immediately begins the search for a place to grab a bite, because she means herself and the little one on the way.

There’s a diner in walking distance from the Herald Square Macy’s, so Rob and Maria head for the doors that would open into plentiful comfort food.  When they enter, the matradee grabs two menus and leads the way to seat the couple at the only empty table in the room.  After Rob trying to get his pregnant wife through the tiny crevices between tables and knocking over multiple sets of silverware, the couple finally sits, offers sighs of relief and looks at the menu.

“Jesus Tap Dancing Christ!” exclaims Rob, “I’m soooooooo hungry!”

“Yes,” answers Maria, “me too.”  Maria holds her menu over her blushing face when she notices the man sitting at the table 5 inches away looking while they discuss their hunger.

They impatiently wait for the waiter to come over to the table and take their order.

“Can I take your order?”

“Holy Mary, Mother of God!” Rob says, “That bacon cheeseburger sounds like a good choice for a hungry guy!”

He orders the cheeseburger.  Embarrassed by her husband, Maria orders something simple – grilled cheese – to mend her hunger .  They wait.  They talk about what they bought for Christmas, what else is needed for the nursery, and what gifts weren’t purchased yet.  Small talk became the only salvation from their hunger.  They wait some more.  Finally, the waiter comes with their food.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”  exclaims Rob, “This cheeseburger looks AMAZING!”

He takes a giant bite and enjoys every second of the juices that flavor the cheeseburger. “Oh my God! This cheeseburger is like the second coming of CHRIST!”

With every bite of this deliciousness, Rob has nothing more to say.  He finishes his meal, and sits back in his chair waiting for Maria to finish her meal.

“Holy God, that was a great cheeseburger,” he says to Maria as she finishes her meal.

The man sitting in the table 5 inches away has also finished his meal.  He starts to get up to put on his jacket, and Rob finally makes eye contact with the man who was so patiently listening to his hunger exclamations.

“Have a Merry Christmas,” the man said to Rob and Maria.  At that moment, Rob noticed the man who was sitting at the table next to them was a priest in full dress – collar and all.

….AWKWARD!!!

ZAM-BOOO-KA!

http://susanhenschen.files.wordpress.com/2008/12/i-was-an-awkward-kid.jpg

I’ve been awkward my whole life.  During my early years I was sheltered from my own awkwardness under the “ignorance is bliss” theory.  My parents on the other hand, had to face the awkwardness of their first born with finesse.  They taught me my observations were okay, BUT it wasn’t polite to touch the lady’s sweater because it looked soft, or that I shouldn’t ask so loudly why the man’s hair looked like a bad hat of fake hair.  Loudness and volume control became a key component in tempering the awkward moments caused by their precocious and observant little child.  One look from my mother and I knew it was time to stop talking, it was a brilliant skill.

My father on the other hand, somewhat enjoyed the state the obvious side of his four year old daughter.  Knowing full well it could get him into trouble sometimes he enjoyed it nonetheless.  He liked to entertain and be the center of attention.  Having a four year old say silly things was a great way to accomplish both.  My parents sometimes let me stay up past my bedtime at family parties for this very reason.  I would get to sit on my father’s lap and watch the grown-ups have their fun while enjoy various spirits of choice.  Of all the liquor bottles which had passed through my family’s tables, my younger self was enamored with one bottle in particular:  Romana Sambvca.  A favorite after dinner drink of my father’s, Sambuca was a usual at family parties.  The bottle was clear glass with a blue label and shiny silver writing.  To top it off, it was a fun word to say: ZAM-BOOO-KA.  I even got to try a sip once.  I was so excited – until I tasted it.  I spit my sip all over the kitchen table and my grandmother, and I haven’t tried black licorice since.  I still liked saying the word.  I even took to ordering my father’s after dinner drinks, “Daddy drinks ZAM-BOOO-KA.”  The waitress would get a kick out of it; I would smile, and go back to eating my ice cream.  While he found it amusing, my father was also careful who he showed my newly learned word and drink ordering skills too: Family, friends, and the regular waitresses and waiters.

When I was three years old, a local Commerce Association was putting on a Christmas Puppet Show at a local restaurant.  A bunch of parents from my pre-school were bringing their kids.  My parents decided it would be a great way to spend time outside of school events with the other parents.  My brother got sick at the last minute, and so it was just Dad and I out for the night.  We arrived late, the lights had already been dimmed, and getting me up to the kids section near the stage would have been difficult.  My father decided to wait for intermission.  He found two seats open at the bar with a view of the stage.  He pulled my seat closer to his, and pointed me in the direction of the stage.  The lights in the restaurant were then fully dimmed, and the crowd went silent with anticipation of the performance.  It was at that moment I turned around.  I noticed the dimly lit shelves across the bar from me.  I leaned over the bar to get a better, closer look at the lighted shelf with all the fancy liquor bottles, and began tugging eagerly on my father’s shirt sleeve.  Not getting his attention quickly enough, I adjusted the volume of my voice and yelled into the silent parent filled dark:

“LOOK DADDY!  ZAM-BOOO-KA!  JUST LIKE YOU DRINK.”

…AWKWARD!

Staten Island: The Good, The Bad and The Awkward

I’ve always been told: “Write what you know.”  So, when a Staten Islander wrote and directed the movie, “Staten Island,” with a storyline of mobsters and corner delis, I knew this guy was told the same thing as I was in his creative lifetime.

Being a native Staten Islander, there are things that I “know.”  I know, “the saddest thing in life is wasted talent.”  I know when I’m out on a first date and the guy opens the door for me, I should reach over and unlock his door.  All my friends, who are native Staten Islanders, also “know things” too.  They know that our neighbor’s cousin – Frankie, owner of a waste management company, “sleeps with the fishes.”  My friends also know to “take the canolis.”

I work in a construction office.  Notice the word construction is not in quotations because, well, it’s actually a construction office.  These days, a lot of construction companies are no longer mafia fronts, and the old-school mob scene has died down tremendously.  But, some of the rudiments of this scene linger.

My boss walks into the office, flustered, one afternoon from a long day at the accountant’s office.  He is very particular, precise and honest about his finances because getting into any trouble with the IRS that would cost his self-grown business he has worked so hard for 15 years to build would devastate him.  He pays all his bills in full and on time. Let’s face it. He is the most straight-laced business owner a person could be.  Today, his accountant had screwed up his entire financial statement, and my boss was on his last nerve.

Boss: THAT’S IT!  I’ve had it with my accountant!

Uh oh.  A flustered boss means a flustered day.  He sits in the chair in our office, which faces another construction office – VALDUZZI CONSTRUCTION. I offer to get him a cup of coffee, but he declines. My boss flips through his financial statement with a look of frustration and desperation.

Boss: Cara, can you go across the street and ask Gino Valduzzi who his accountant is?  He probably has a good one who has worked with construction companies before. I’m going to head into my office and see if I can salvage this statement.

I’ve been in the VALDUZZI CONSTRUCTION office before, and the people who work there have always been extremely nice and warm to me. They’ve pointed me in the right direction   when I needed to find a notary public to notarize a document.  They’ve suggested a perfect holiday card company to use around the holidays when I was in desperate need to find one. They’ve got to know a good accountant, too.

I put on my jacket and start making my way across the street. As I approach the tinted store front windows and door, I start rehearsing the question in my head making sure that I don’t sound like a non-professional.  I ring the doorbell and get buzzed in.  As I enter, I am greeted by smiles and the usual Staten Island, “How are you?”  I smile back and say,

Cara: My boss wanted me to ask you about Mr. Valduzzi’s accountant.

The smiles disappear as if they’ve never known me at all.

Valduzzi Secretary: Ummmm… who’s asking?

Cara: My boss, ya know, from across the street? He asked me to ask your office if you had a recommendation because he’s very upset with his current accountant for doing a poor job with his financial statement.

Valduzzi Secretary: Well, let me talk to Mr. Valduzzi.  I’ll take a message.

Weird.  Usually they offer me a freshly baked cookie or some coffee.  Maybe they had just as bad of a day as my boss.  I didn’t really think too much about it. There are good days in the office, and there are bad days in the office.  It’s completely understandable.

I told my boss that Gino Valduzzi’s secretary took the message for her boss because he wasn’t around the office today.  It was time for me to go home.  I headed out the door, drove to my house, took in the mail, picked up the folded Staten Island Advance, and took a seat at my kitchen table.  I sorted the mail between junk and bills, and I unfolded the local newspaper.  The headline, written in big bold letters, reads: GINO VALDUZZI INDICTED FOR TAX EVASION.

….AWKWARD!