Have You Got Chili On Your Mouth?

The number of embarrassing stories I could tell about myself knows no bounds. It’s really just a matter of picking one and deciding whether I want to share it publicly, or remain in my cocoon of Irish-Catholic shame, replaying the events over and again at four in the morning (when I really do still wake up each night because of The Night Stalker. I wasn’t kidding about that. Thanks a lot, Richard Ramirez! Sheesh). What I’m saying is, I know from embarrassing. It’s kind of my thing.

No one likes to be wrong and it often takes several slices of humble pie to admit when we are. When I was a kid, I would fight tooth and nail to prove I wasn’t, even going so far as to change the facts of the case in real time to suit my flawed narrative. As I’ve mentioned, we were a big baseball family. If we weren’t at Dodger or Angel Stadium during baseball season, the games were playing on the TV in the family room, with me, my brother, and my mom festooned in the proper fan gear. My dad was never much into sports. He went to the games and tolerated it in the den when it upended his 6 o’clock news, but as far as calling him a fan was a little much. I knew more about the players than he did, and I didn’t know squat.

*Fun fact: Tommy Lasorda, who was a former professional baseball player and then-manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers, opened an Italian restaurant in Lakewood in the 80s called Tommy Lasorda’s Ribs and Pasta. He would often frequent said establishment, and happened to be there in the strip mall one night when my BFF and I had gotten out of the movies and were waiting for her mom to pick us up. We had just seen Immediate Family (Lori will get a kick out of this because I tend to remember the weirdest details of our youth, but frequently forget today’s date), which was a heavy drama, and we needed ‘something light.’ And lo and behold, who do we see walking around the parking lot dressed in a sharp blue blazer and smart khakis surrounded by angelic white light (it was the fluorescents from the strip mall awnings, though how dare you question), but Tommy Lasorda himself!

Back then, we fancied ourselves too cool for school and had had previous run-ins with celebrities (I mean, it was Los Angeles after all) where we left them alone and pretended not to care (do NOT ask Joe Montana about his interaction with us at Disneyland). So, instead of just casually telling him we were huge fans of the team, and him, we started following him, but pretending we weren’t. If he made a turn, we made a turn. If he walked a straight line, we walked a straight line. When he began to shuffle and jog back to the safety of his restaurant, we followed suit. All the while patting ourselves on the back for not “disturbing his privacy.” When Big Nanc arrived to pick us up, we told her about what had happened and she couldn’t have face palmed harder. She wasn’t too impressed by celebrity and told us to march in to his restaurant and ask for an autograph. Which we did. Mr. Lasorda recognized us immediately and began to sweat. There we were, two stalker-like goofy girls with faces full of braces and bangs sprayed to kingdom come manically asking him for an autograph. He kindly obliged and simply wrote, “God Bless You, Tommy Lasorda.”

I’ve never much read about him being a religious man.

Back to where we began, and during a game we were watching as a family, the announcer enthusiastically said, “he tripled and made it to third!” But that’s not what I heard. What I heard was, “He’s crippled and made it to third!” I couldn’t have been prouder of this player! Facing so much scrutiny, difficulty, even physical limitation, he had made it to third! I triumphantly shouted, “Can you believe he’s CRIPPLED and made it to THIRD?” (**Just so you know, my family has always been progressive and sensitive to the language of its time. Saying someone was crippled was, at the time, the appropriate way to address a physical disability. I wholeheartedly understand it is not the language we would use today, which I honor and respect. The 1970s were different times, and none of this interaction was intended to hurt or harm anyone).

My mom immediately corrected me and said, “No, honey. He said he tripled and made it to third.” Well…I wasn’t going to back down on this. Especially when my mom was so smug about me being wrong! So? I doubled down. If it’s news to anyone, I’ve always been a bit theatrical. I came out of the womb singing showtunes, and I’ve never stopped. The theater kid in me will never die, and I will belt that high C during my 16 bars until the end of time (or until my vocal cords give out). And may I just say…you’re welcome (or sorry. Very, very sorry).

Refusing to be wrong, I responded, “No. NO! He said CRIPPLED and made it to third! And I saw it with my OWN EYES! It went just like this!” I then proceeded to ‘run the bases’ in our living room while dragging my left leg behind me.

I’m not proud of myself. But I made a good case!

My mom refused to concede (and really, I learned it from her because she never conceded, even when the proof was staring her in the face. More on that later). Which brings us to Gary Puckett and the Union Gap.

Music that you can dance to, that and that alone, is enough for me

I LOVE music. All kinds of music. It soothes me, it heals me, it makes me whole. I have passed that love on to my kids, and I can confidently say they have the BEST taste in it ever. I introduced so much of it to them, and, to this day, they do the same for me. I am always surprised and impressed by the tunes they present to me, and together as a family, I believe our library can’t be beat. And here’s where my dad shined. No, he wasn’t into sports. Yes, he was very into music and would make us mixed tapes (later mixed CDs) of all the different types of music that moved him. And he had FANTASTIC taste. While dad wasn’t into sports, mom wasn’t into music and never quite understood our love for it. She would try to play along and pretend she was down, but she just wasn’t. It didn’t infiltrate her soul the way it did my dad, brother, and me, and that was okay. But it was also an area of our lives where she just didn’t fit.

I would sing my heart out without a care to the music I loved. When I tell people the first time I got high was at age 8, they never believe me. It’s true. But it wasn’t by choice! My parents took my brother and me to The Hollywood Bowl to see Miles Davis do his thing. I remember not being able to see much through the cloud of smoke, not initially liking jazz, then after a few minutes surrounded by said cloud thinking, “I feel kinda funny. But I also dig jazzzz.” I’d never slept so well as I did that night. My second concert was Liza Minelli.

You guys…I had it good!

If you don’t undersatnd how iconic this is, I can’t help you

One such song I loved to belt was ‘Woman, Woman’ by Gary Puckett and The Union Gap. It felt big. It felt theatrical. It felt RIGHT! There were so many ‘woahs’ and so many big bursts of emotion that it was right up my alley. Gary told a story, and I wanted to be a part of it. So, when he asked mid-song, with the most heartfelt emotion, “Have you got chili on your mou-ou-ou-outh? Oh-on your mouth?” I listened. Because I, too, would want someone to ask me if I had chili on my mouth (especially while we were talking about serious issues, which these people were)! It all made sense to me and I sang it at the top of my lungs with pride. Somehow, this gal was causing all sorts of strife…with CHILI ON HER MOUTH! How embarrassing. I mean…woman. WOMAN!

I tend to believe my parents delighted in my faux pas because they continually let me sing this to my heart’s content. It wasn’t until we were carpooling to rehearsal in La Habra that precious Erica, who was the funniest person I’d ever met to that point, lost her shit laughing as I sang it with full confidence. She said, “you are SO FUNNY! Do you KNOW that?”

I didn’t.

Not wanting to out myself, I asked, “Well…what about it makes you laugh?” As if I’d intended to do so, but wanted to be sure my efforts had landed. She responded, “You changed the words from ‘Have you got cheating on your mind’ to ‘Have you got chili on your mouth?’ AMAZING!”

My people. I did not know the lyrics were about cheating. I did not know this man was in peril in relation to his TOO YOUNG girlfriend, or that she was scoping out the scene in an effort to leave his inappropriate ass. I was unaware he was worried his teenaged girlfriend was making eyes at other ‘men’ and was singing about his heartache over said fact. Gross.

Gross, gross, gross. I prefer my version.

I simply thought this man, who loved a woman, was sitting in a restaurant worried about whether or not she had chili on her mouth! Which, if I’m being honest, I would absolutely want my husband to ask if we were in public and he had suspicions!

When I found out I was wrong, I refused to believe it. Honestly, I still do. Look, as a grown up, I am happy to admit when I’m wrong (and it happens a lot!) But this one just feels so right! If you go back and you listen to this jam, you’re gonna hear it, too.

*I’m just going to add here that my BFF, on our way to our yearly sojourn to the beach, sang, OUT LOUD, “Annie are you walking? Annie, are you walking?” And she sang it confidently.

A smooth criminal, she is not.

What were we talking about again?

TOOT YOUR OWN HORN

My mother was a linguist (some might even say a cunning one at that, wink wink, nudge nudge). Language, and the way it was spoken, mattered to her a LOT, and therefore, the language my brother and I used mattered even more. It was an unspoken rule that we were never to embarrass or make her “look bad,” with her main focus being on me.

She was a natural teacher, and she was really great at it (so good, in fact, she received her doctorate in it; namely in early childhood literacy). When I look back on my childhood, I am so grateful she taught us so well, because I went on to do the same with my own kids. Every eye roll I gave behind her back or “WHAT-ever” I felt when she would distinguish certain words from others, and how they came across in polite conversation was, as an adult, not worth it because she was right! Language DOES matter and I turn into Judgy McJudgerton when I hear particular words that could be replaced by softer ones. Now, don’t get me wrong, my mother also swore like a sailor, and often, whereas my dad only ever did so in traffic, and very rarely. I definitely take after my mother in that respect.

Here’s just a few examples of what I’m talking about (bear with me; they really do relate to what I’m about to admit to):

Growing up, my mother referred to bathroom business as Big Potty. It still makes me laugh, but I taught it to my kids, too (though as a teen, swore I never would if I ever had kids)! I remember being at the park one time, and I must have made a face, because she leaned down and asked, “Do you need to go big potty?” The giggle I gig whenever I replay her saying it is worth it every time. The other kind of potty was tinkle, but I feel like that one is pretty standard. She was not a fan of words she found crass, such as (and I swear, she’s going to know from the grave that I just wrote this word and I’m gonna get in trouble!) “caca,” which she told us only dirty kids say. And not in a perverted way…kids with literal dirt on them.

*I never actually saw any, but much like dudes on street corners pushing free drugs on kids in the 80s, I knew they were out there. Probably doing drugs and saying caca.

While I find ANY word with a “k” sound funny, I am still not able to speak that word without blushing because it really is so gross! I cannot imagine my mother leaning down to me at the park and asking, “do you need to go caca?” Just doesn’t hit the same.

We were also not allowed to say the word fart. She said it was tactless and classless and just because everyone has a bit of gas at times, there were plenty of other words to convey what was meant. I couldn’t agree more. Fart is such an aggressive word, and there is no way to say it politely. So, instead we said toot. As in, “pardon me. I must toot.” Or “Forgiveness please, as I have just tooted.” A good friend of mine from college and I have a running joke about the type of people who say, out loud and without shame, “HHWHO FORTED?” It just feels so icky leaving my mouth and never rolls off the tongue the same way “I tooted” does. Look, who is going to get mad at you when you delicately say you’ve passed some gas as opposed to shouting that someone farted and it might have been you? I dare my husband all the time to fault me for tooting when I have so kindly let him know? (He repays me in the most toxic, dare I say verging-on-the-brink-of-biological-warfare gas of his own. I have a theory that he releases any and every stinky demon through his toots because otherwise in life, he is really lovely and sweet!)

*I’m going to say something about my husband really quick: he spends a lot of time silently smiling at me, and never in a condescending way, whether it be from across the table, couch, bed, or wherever because he knows my stories and I so often repeat them to him, yet he still, somehow, refuses to tire of me! He doesn’t get bored or tell me he’s already heard this one. Instead, he listens like it’s the first time he’s heard it every.single.time. Whatever it was I had to go through in my life to get this lucky was worth it because…this guy.

Stone Cold Stud. This is my favorite picture of my husband ever. My mother-in-law made this amazing suit, little stitched trees and all!

I could go on, but that’s not what this is about. This is about one of the most embarrassing events of my life, which then led me to let every single fella I’ve ever dated (or even just spent 10 minutes with) know that I am a person who toots, and if they have a problem with it, now is the time to run. I never, EVER want to be in a situation ever again where I am surprised by a bodily function and try to perform my way out of it rather than just coming clean. Also, when I was a young woman and performing in Rogers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella at the Depot Theater in California, my beloved David Frederick Fogg, who played the prince to my wicked stepsister, always reminded me how important it was to pass that gas, because no one wants to get butt cancer. May his beautiful soul rest in peace (and no, it wasn’t from butt cancer. Because he tooted!)

Only David Fredrick Fogg would understand this reference, and I love that for us

I actively deal with extreme social anxiety, though no one who knows me would ever believe that statement. Mostly because you’d never know it from my behavior. I can talk to anyone, and I really DO love getting to know people from every walk of life and am truly interested in every single person I know and/or meet. I’m gregarious, I understand social cues, and the majority of people I know would describe me as the life of the party. And I love that! But that doesn’t mean I’m not constantly questioning myself or having to pump myself up for hours before I interact with others, then kicking my own ass after said encounters because “why did I say that?” or “could you have been goofier?” I still have conversations with myself over things I said in third grade that one time, soooo…As I’ve said before, therapy is amazing but I’ve got a whole lot to unpack! The social anxiety thing is so far down the list, I’ll be lucky if we get to it before I turn 100.

My job as a kid was to tap dance within an inch of my life to save the situation or quell any silence (which there wasn’t a lot of until there WAS a lot of). Mom was sad? Time step. Mom was mad? Triple time step. Mom was raging? Shuffle off to Buffalo and hope you make it out alive.

I was well aware of how to entertain. Except this time, when the Glamour Shots guy told me to “make love to the camera.” I was 16.

My dad was a big tech guy. Which always made me laugh, because he was such an outdoorsman. Total pacifist. Major hippie. But he was also a scientist. And he LOVED new tech breakthroughs. We were always the first on our block to have the latest. We had a McIntosh before they even hit the stores. We had a very nice VHS player (he sprung for the good one because he wanted it to be as good as a Beta Max, which it never was and he told us why often). We were literally the first customers at California Video to rent a movie (there was a picture of us on the wall and everything. We rented Close Encounters of the Third Kind). CD player? He spent $900 on one (and then several more for the giant ass speakers that helped amplify the sound of the ONE-DISC player).

Mind you, this was all in the early 1980s. We lived a good life! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it for the rest of time; TV is my very best friend (and again, sorry, Lori. I love you and all, but…TV. It’s not like you don’t already know!) I love it. So, SO much! Movies, sitcoms, dramas, dramedies…I want it ALL! It’s my security blanket and always has been. The only real reason I wanted to buy a generator for when the power goes out is for my treasured TV (and my husband is very well aware of this. He may not say it out loud, and he would never throw me under the bus, but…he knows). Seeing the TVs I have in my house now make me wonder how I ever survived the 80s because they’re…not the same. While I sit and stare at 80 inches of awesome, with the power of the remote in my hand, younger me was ecstatic to have a 35-incher in the den WITH A REMOTE (that you had to plug into the TV…but still!)

And that 35-inch TV in the den is where it all went wrong. We’ve established that the remote for this TV had to be plugged in, yes? So, it wasn’t like you could just change the channel willy nilly from the couch. Sure, if you were sitting in the bentwood rocker or one of the recliners that were set a mere few feet from the tube, you could. But our den was pretty big. It was an addition before my parents bought the house, and I do believe the first ‘man cave’ of its time. It was sunken from the rest of the house (and there were stairs to walk down to get to it! Only three, but I didn’t care because STAIRS!), my parents put a pool table center stage, and off to the side was the TV/stereo/CD player. Back against the wall was the sectional, and while very comfortable, it did still require getting up and walking the route to the TV to change the channel.

This felt more like an accordian than a remote

One night, while my parents were out and my brother was either at Alicia’s or in his room, I had a very cute boy over. He was a grade older than me and I really, REALLY wanted to impress him and this was kind of like…a date? I have always been boy crazy, yet perpetually surprised when said boys liked me back. I never wanted to assume anything, and definitely didn’t want to make this fella feel uncomfortable in any way. Maybe he just wanted to hang out! If that was the case, I was cool with it! But then…he kissed me. And it was GREAT! The chills on my arms didn’t retract until days later. This very cute boy was KISSING ME! We played a little more tonsil hockey, then returned to our regularly scheduled programming of TV and pizza. And then he asked me to change the channel to see what else was on.

Kids. This was before streaming, even before CABLE, when you only had 13 channels to sift through and hope you landed on something worthwhile. And I had to physically walk myself to the TV to change it (because of that remote and all). Personally, I wanted to find nothing and keep making out, but I *also* wanted something better on the screen. I just knew What’s Happening was playing in syndication on some channel, and I was determined to find it! So, I rose from the couch and made my way to the remote. Except when I got to the TV/remote, with my back and butt turned toward him…

I tooted.

Unexpectedly.

Loudly.

Very, VERY loudly.

My bottom acted as the star trumpet player of a symphony I never intended to compose!

WHAT JUST HAPPENED?

Frozen, I had to think quick. This guy was so cute, he was older, and I just blasted ass in his general direction.

So, being the ‘tap dancer’ I was, I came up with a plan. I decided it would be a good idea to turn around, start snapping my fingers, and make raspberry noises with my mouth all the way back to the couch. I walked all the way back, pretending to have made the toot noise with my mouth by blowing raspberries, and snapping my fingers like I was some jazz musician, all in an effort to cover up the fact that some gas had just passed out my ass.

Friends. NEVER DO THIS. Learn from me.

Now, I wasn’t privy to the initial look on his face when the actual toot McGooted. As I told you, I froze, and for probably way too long (which undoubtedly gave me away), but the look on his face as I returned blowing toots out of my mouth and weird snaps from my fingers said it all.

SHOCKINGLY, he realized that “something suddenly came up” and he had to go. What’s worse is, he didn’t leave right away. He probably thought, “Well, she just gassed, but I can’t let that be the reason I randomly leave” and in the age before cellphones, he couldn’t fake a text or call. So, we just…. sat there. Awkwardly. For like 20 minutes.

I wasn’t really on the phone here! See how good I was at acting? How did he even know I tooted?

And if he had just heard me out! If I could have just said, “Forgiveness, please, for I have just tooted” everything could have been fine!

I never saw him again (not even in the halls) and I think it’s better that way. He was the make-out king who changed my life in that, from there out, I never, EVER kept a boy in the dark about my bum boosts. And I’m so grateful that my mom taught me so well that I’ve never once said, whether in good or bad company, WHO FARTED?

The Van

My best friend’s mom is a smoke show. She always was and always will be. She glows, and at just shy of 80-years old, is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known. You should see her – she looks like she’s 50, acts like she’s 20, and still mows her own lawn. In the 1980’s, she was the epitome of fabulous and had an air about her that made me understand why I was so enchanted with her kids.

She. Defined. Cool.

Growing up, my best friend killed at softball. And when I say killed, I mean it. She was terrifying on the field as a pitcher, and nobody wanted to go at bat against her. I’ve never seen a ball leave someone’s arm so fast as I did with her (and I once dated an actual MLB pitcher!) and, as a result, I knew to stay on her good side. It was like she had a canon for an arm.

I was not good at sports (and had zero interest in participating in them, apart from my Saturday AYSO soccer games where Heather Osborn and I made plans to hang out afterwards, while on the field, during the game). I was a goofy theater kid who knew how to triple time step while singing show tunes as I chanted, “Go sports!” at her games. The following pic is my attempt at pitching. As you can see, we were not cut from the same cloth. *The amount of torment I received from my brother, who was very good at baseball throughout his youth, after this picture was taken will haunt me forever. I do believe that was the exact day I kicked my tiny, left-handed mitt to the curb. Even sadder, I found that mitt not too long ago when cleaning out my mom’s house and…it still fit. I mean, I guess I should be happy that my small hands match my equally small, Hobbit-like feet with toes my husband affectionately refers to as his “lil’ smokies.”

I’m FINE! Why are we still talking about this?

My brother looking cool and me with my zipper down trying to emulate ‘throwing a pitch’ (Ignore whatever substance has stained this picture)

Lori is tall, impossibly beautiful, smart, and so, so funny. She’s been my bestie since we were 12, which means I know her family just as well. When I first met her mom, I was enchanted! She had this magnificent hair that was permed to the nines, gorgeous big brown eyes, a smile that could weaken the strongest of men, and an attitude that let everyone know she was not to be messed with. She cooked dinner for her family every single night, which was on the table by 5pm. Her house was immaculate. The sheets on the beds smelled like clouds, and the couch in the cozy and welcoming living room felt like a hug. Everything about that house on Bellflower felt like home, and I was so happy to be a part of it. There was just something about Nancy that made you feel good and like you belonged.

While she was ADAMANT about not wanting Lori to have the new Aerosmith album for her birthday (it was called ‘Pump’ and she found it inappropriate. But don’t worry…her dad bought it for her. And he probably bought it while he was IN HIS VAN!), she also had words for me after watching a video of my boyfriend and me. Lori and I used to videotape ourselves all the time. We were YouTube LONG before YouTube (and I wish I still had the footage!) – anyhow, one day, my boyfriend and I filmed ourselves talking about his laundry and how many Bounce sheets he had to use trying to get the smell of sweat out of his wrestling singlet, and then we kissed. A simple, closed-mouth peck on the lips! Big Nanc told me she’d watched my ‘pornographic video’ and I immediately felt like I’d failed her! Her approval was everything, and it still is, and to think I had disappointed her was the WORST! But it also made me giggle and feel pretty special that she cared enough about me to want to protect me from any too-young-to-engage-in debauchery. I promised her there was nothing sordid going on, and that was the truth!

I blurred his face so as not to embarrass him with our cringeworthy 80s attire. And for privacy, too, of course!

When we were 15, my mother was NOT about letting me drive for any reason (even though we had gotten our permits, had taken private driving lessons from Sears, and had passed our written exams with a perfect score. BOTH OF US!) But Big Nanc was.

Nancy used to show up to Lori’s games in her bitchin’ Camaro (shoutout to my fellow ‘The Dead Milkmen’ fans) , complete with her lawn chair, visor, and sugarless gum. She could pop and smack a stick of gum like nobody’s business, and she looked like a supermodel in her gingham-style seat doing it. Every dad (and jealous mom) in the crowd noticed Nancy (as they should!) and she couldn’t have cared less. It was not a secret she was a show stopper, but she never felt the need to flaunt it. She would pull up in that car, set her chair on the sidelines, and cheer Lori on with pride.

Not her actual car, but close enough and still as fresh

One night, Lori, her older brother Frankie (whom I was terribly in love with), and I went to see a movie. Frankie had received free passes while he was picking us up from school by some guy randomly handing them out. Turns out they were ‘Screener Passes,’ which meant we got to see the movie before its official release. It was a ‘gauge the audience reaction’ type of thing to see what needed tweaking, what worked, what didn’t, etc. We were so excited to go because not only was it free, we were the ‘deciders.’ We had to leave feedback about whether we liked it or not, how much we laughed, were there things we would change? What should they keep/nix? It was the closest I’ve ever gotten to the Academy, and I’ll always believe I personally had a hand in the way Weekend at Bernie’s turned out. Still waiting for the recognition of my written contributions regarding that classic film. Any day now!

When Nanc came to pick us up from Lakewood Center, she handed me the keys.

To the Monte Carlo.

Not the small, cute, easily maneuverable Camaro. No. To their other car: the black and white sea vessel on wheels.

Does anyone even understand how big this car was? It was a boat, and the wheel felt like something nautical to my tiny hands. What I’m telling you is…this car was HUGE!

While my mother would shout, cry, and eventually demand I pull over (even though I hadn’t even made it out of our neighborhood), Nancy stayed calm, smacked her gum, and reminded me I was “doing just fine. Relax!” I drove us home, somehow got in the left turn lane a few times (despite feeling petrified of doing so), and she never even broke a sweat! She just smiled at me and told me I was a great driver (I can assure you, I’m not). That alone could have sent me into a panic because praise for being good at something was uncharted territory for me.

I must also mention that Lori and Frankie sat in the backseat like this was normal. No fear. And they KNEW ME and how I was/am! I tell her all the time how I don’t understand why she chose me as a friend: I am a nightmare! I freak out, have terrible anxiety, react loudly and with a fair amount of flailing at the smallest of things when I’m scared, and she just remains…. calm. Always! While I’m throwing whatever’s in reach at the wall, she’s looking at ways to solve the problem. I will yell while stating why it’s never going to come together, then she’ll say, ‘Well, here’s a different way of looking at it.’ When the problem is solved, we’ll laugh and I’ll pretend I didn’t just lose myself, then say, “We really got through that together!” And she never disagrees.

I don’t deserve her.

The two of us doing our GQ pose in Palm Springs

The two of us doing our GQ pose at my dad’s work

The two of us *trying* to do our GQ pose in my backyard, but were too cold (despite it likely being about 65 degrees) Hey…it was Southern California! We weren’t used to anything under 70!

But this isn’t about us. This is about THE VAN. And Frank. Who was Lori and Frankie’s dad, and Big Nanc’s husband. And man…he was the best.

There’s no real way to describe Frank. If cool was a person, it would be him. He was funny, he was handsome, he was chill. He was (simply) the best. To see him and Nanc together, you understood their pairing (as well as why their kids are so stunning). They were breathtaking.

He even made reading the Yellow Pages look cool!

Frank was a goof. He loved to make jokes, many of which were dad-themed, and he was always up for taking Lori and me to high school in his cool-ass van. This van was EVERYTHING. It had curtains. It had carpet. It had a stereo (that Frank was ALWAYS willing to blast).

As we sat in the back, he would play the best rock music for us, turn around, and tell us not to tell Nanc, then give us a rascally smile and wink. He would tell us how much he loved dropping us off, how driving us to school made his day, and he would always say, “Stay cool, cats!” Whenever I was over at their house (which was a lot because Nancy was, and still is, an INCREDIBLE cook and made the best dinners ever, which for some reason, she welcomed me to join), Frank would walk in from work, greet his family, then point to me and say, “What’s new, Susie Q?” It made me feel like a million bucks.

When Lori and I were 16 years old, her family moved back to Pennsylvania (and I eventually settled with mine in Michigan from California in my early 20s), however; we maintained our friendship, speaking to each other nearly every day (and even to this day!) We’ve actually been “friends apart” longer than we were friends together, and it’s one of the most important relationships of my life. We had to want to maintain it, and we worked hard to do so (before email, before cell phones, even before Caller ID!) Still, we managed to be there for the big stuff always, and now make it a point to not go more than a few months without seeing each other. It’s the best! (Even IF Frankie says, “you’re still here?”) If no one else gets that, he will. Wink, wink.

First Ocean City Trip together, 2011 (now a yearly tradition involving many a kaftan and lots and lots of crab cakes)

When she got married, it had been decades since I’d seen Frank. I was excited to see him, but also didn’t expect him to remember me because Lori and I had both grown so much.

I was an adult, a mother…I wore mascara and had figured out my eyebrows! I no longer looked like a little kid (and may I just say, thank LAWD for that. Me without makeup is a terrifying tale. As a natural redhead, I have blond brows and eyelashes, which means sans makeup, I look like a fly. Or some other such unsettling insect). My husband, who welcomes me every single morning with, “Hello, gorgeous,” has very gently and kindly encouraged my love for brow filler and mascara. He would never say anything to diminish my confidence, which makes me love him even more, but somehow always has the budget for my eyebrow and lash enhancement products that make me feel better about myself. A gentleman and a scholar, he is. My children, all three, know I do NOT get cremated until I’m 1) DEAD dead. Like…three or four days gone and, 2) unless my eyelashes and brows are done.

As Joan Crawford once magnificently stated, “If you want to see the girl next door, go next door.” I am who I am. I don’t take out the trash without my face on, and I make no apologies! Glamour, darlings. Glamour.

When I first saw Frank outside the church, I instantly felt like a kid again. I was so excited to see him and wanted to run right to him. Then I remembered, “he probably doesn’t remember me at all. Who do I think I am?” As Maid of Honor, it was a bit harder to keep a low profile. I’d only gotten into town the day before and had lots of formal duties to catch up on prior to the ceremony. Then, to my delight and surprise, Frank tapped me on my shoulder (my back had been turned to him at the time), and, in all his big and burly glory, asked, “What’s new, Susie Q?” I still happy cry just thinking about it.

I will never, ever forget those mornings in the van, and will cherish every memory of him I have. It’s so wonderful to see his son (whom I still love dearly and will never forgive for saying I reminded him of Shelley Duvall – I kid. In truth, it was a fabulous compliment, and we’ve already had this discussion as adults, so stop bringing it up!) look so much like him, share so many of the same gentle mannerisms, and be such an amazing Uncle and Great Uncle to the lucky kids in his life. It’s also incredible to see Lori’s son, Frank’s grandson, look and act so much like him. That kid (which he isn’t anymore, but I’m allowed to say he is because there’s no way he’s already grown into the charming young man he’s become) makes me laugh until my stomach hurts, just like his grandpa did.

Great Uncle Franco, and sweet baby Mylah

Her daughter and granddaughter are just as precious (though her daughter looks more like me than Lori. We’re looking into it, but I’d swear she’s mine and I love everything about it. Because it would also mean Lori’s perfect angel baby granddaughter was mine, too. Which I keep trying to convince the baby of every time I see her. We’ll get there).

Cheers to this amazing family I’m so lucky to know and feel a part of, and that marvelous van I was so fortunate to cruise about town in. I can still smell that shag carpeting and feel the rush of Led Zeppelin blasting through the speakers.

*And for the record, Nancy is STILL a smoke show who effortlessly puts the rest of us to shame.

Top of That Taco

Some people are sleep walkers, but I’m a sleep talker. I’m also a sleep laugher. I laugh a LOT in my sleep, and it terrifies some (while amuses others – more on this later!) My husband knows to stay on his toes, because I sometimes say some wild stuff with zero recollection of it the next day. I often find him still wide-eyed on the couch after one of our nocturnal encounters, and I promptly deny accountability and remind him of his dramatic side. “You say I’m the theater kid? You should prepare your 16 bars, because you’re the one being theatrical!” He gets a kick every time (but I also believe he really does sleep with one eye open).

Hey, after 27 years together, you do what you have to do to keep things fresh!

Recently, I began speaking some gobbledygook during my slumber, and when he looked at me with his ever-familiar “wait…what?” look, I told him he was just jealous because he ‘wasn’t as great a rapper as me.’ I am NOT a rapper, nor is he (though I do kill it on Shoop at karaoke. I’m just saying). Whatever I do say is never threatening or harmful, it’s just…bizarre. To the point I wonder what actually goes on in my head while I’m snoozing.

I know our brains work a lot of things out while we sleep via dreams – we confront dormant demons, process our trauma, or simply incorporate the shows we watch as we lay down to rest (I don’t know about anyone else, but TV is my best friend and lifelong security blanket, and always has been. (Sorry, Lori!) and I need it to survive. JK. Lori has known since we were 13 that she’s number two next to TV, and she accepts it with grace. She even lets me sleep in the master bedroom when I stay at her house, because it has a TV. She gets me. I return the favor by sauntering about in my Mrs. Roper kaftans, and never-ending praise of her cooking, which is truly fabulous, and introducing her to new reality TV trash, which lifts both of our spirits about how good our lives really are!) But boy, I really know how to bring it.

All of this started very early, though I couldn’t recall the details if I tried. Rather; they are (and always were) relayed to me by the often-confused (and newly-cautious) people and/or bedfellows whom I’ve said things to while asleep. When I was eight-years-old, and my dad and brother were at Tahquitz, my mom and I were enjoying a quiet night watching Family Ties before my bedtime. When the show ended, she directed me to my room (that I was always afraid of), turned off my light (which I’m still afraid of), and wished me a good night’s sleep (which perpetually eluded me until around the age of 40 – eh, who am I kidding? I still have issues with sleep, they’re just less sucky these days).

Man, that little concrete wall seemed SO BIG to me at the time!

Our house in Lakewood (where we lived until I was nine) had a HUGE kitchen. It felt like the majority of the house was kitchen. It could also be that I was very little and it seemed much bigger than it actually was because in reality, the house was just around 1,600 square feet, which at the time, was considered ‘modest.’ We moved up and up several times, with our final home in California being around 3x that. And trust me, I’m not trying to diminish the size of any house (and there were much bigger ones to be had in that area)! Hell, mine today barely clears 1,200 square feet! I think part of the reason I chose to downsize as an adult was because I learned right quick that bigger houses don’t bring you more joy or make anyone in them happier if there’s already strife. I remember saying out loud, many a time, “I would be happy to live in a cardboard box if you were just nice to me.” And that was the truth. Plus, with all that extra space, there’s just more to clean. My husband delights when we’ll be watching a movie or show that features some huge house, and my first reaction is, “Do you know how long it would take to CLEAN that place? There is SO MUCH GLASS!”

The house also had a sizable family room, which is where our TV, couch, and chairs were set. The carpet in the family room, as I was told, is why my parents bought the house, but to me, it looked like someone had a bad experience with pizza and let it be known. All over the place. It was this red, plaid-ish, brown-black combo that just kind of…existed together. For me, it was too loud, but what did I know? I was sure I’d marry Kenny Rogers and live a life of ‘celebrity wife’ at the time.

Anyway, after resigning to my bed with the cool, yellow, Peanuts-adorned canopy, I emerged in my favorite nightgown, hands clenched, stormed through the kitchen, and slowly made my way to the family room with a very stern look on my face. Clearly, I had something to get off my chest. According to my mother, it was only around 9pm, but she still proceeded to engage me with caution. I guess because I’d done this before?

Though I don’t remember the incident itself, I will forever remember the feel of that kitchen floor. It was Spanish tile, it was cold, and you could feel the groove of each inlay on the arch of your foot as you meandered your way about the house. Looking back, it was gorgeous! My mother had an eye for decorating that I did not inherit. Our homes were always beautifully bedecked with the newest design trend (that she somehow knew about six months prior). She literally got her real estate license for shits and gigs so that we could spend our weekends checking out open house homes in order to get design ideas. I don’t think she ever sold a house, nor had any desire to.

My mother-in-law has that same gift, and I often tell her how much I need her because I lack any bit of taste. I like nice things, and I do enjoy a magnificent appliance or piece of furniture, but ornamenting anything has never been my thing. Maybe because I was never allowed to? Who knows…I just know I’ve never excelled with it, and really don’t give much thought to it. Trish the Dish (my MIL) can make ANY room look like a 5-star resort with five bucks and a paintbrush. She’s remarkable.

I walked through the kitchen to the family room, where some ‘grown-up TV’ like Hill Street Blues was likely playing, confronted my mother, and said, firmly, “I CAN’T GET THE CLOSET DOORS OPEN.” She responded, “Why do you need to get the closet doors open?”

I said, “To GET THE SHOES! WHY ELSE?”

(I don’t even like shoes! My brother and I were raised on our parents’ belief that shoes inhibited healthy arch development. They believed we should be barefoot and walking on grass as often as possible. Not gonna lie, I’ve got GREAT arches and would still rather be barefoot most of the time).

Then I turned around, stomped back to my room, got in my super-sweet Peanuts bed, and went back to sleep.

I have no recollection of this.

I used to accuse my friends, parents, and brother of lying about my sleep-talking and claim they were just trying to rile me up (which was easy to do!)

They weren’t.

My brother and BFF used to record me on the RCA VHS camcorder (after insisting it was time for bed) and there are incriminating videos somewhere out there of me accusing Joan Collins of being at McDonald’s and my mascara running and no one telling me. But we’re not here to talk about that, and I admit to nothing.

Like junk food, rest/sleep was a bit of a no-no in our house growing up, too. While my mother was allowed to lay abed day after day, my brother and I were not allowed to sleep past 6am, even on the weekends. Should we, our dad would find some way to make a whole lot of noise, then remind us what a beautiful day it was outside, and how we were wasting it. Any of my childhood friends would tell you that my dad would start microwaving the mackerel he’d caught days prior for the cats around dawn, while also turning on the kitchen sink water (as we were camped in the family room in full earshot) a million and one times, then playing dumb when it woke us.

To this day, I apologize when someone wakes me for having been asleep in the first place (and still get terribly offended when accused of being asleep), then my husband reminds me that it’s okay if I nap, sleep in, or wake early, so long as I got the rest I needed (which wasn’t the case with young kids! I guess my childhood trained me for being a young mom…I could go DAYS on a few hours sleep and still have a great time with them!) I’m still not sure I believe him but I’m getting there.

Because I don’t know if you know this, but…good sleep is GORGEOUS.

So, on this particular night, my husband was outside, grilling up some burgers. It was summertime, and in our state, it stays super light out during the summer months. We generally (and now, more frequently) tend to eat fairly early. Dinner at 7pm? What are we, aristocrats? We’d rather eat early, go to bed early, and rise with the sun.

But summertime is different. The air is so fresh and the fireflies are so bright and our backyard is just so lovely. I LOVE to feed people, and will buy enough food for an army any time we’re having a BBQ (or any other such event), because I love to fill tummies. Part of my love language includes acts of service. I want the people I cherish to know how grateful I am for them, and filling their bellies with good food and drink is just one small way I can accomplish that. I love to cook, and there’s little better than sharing a meal with the people you love the most.

With: Classic Burgers, Hotdogs, Fish and Steak Tacos, Chicken Wings and BBQ Pizza

On this night, it was just us and the kids. We didn’t have any people over, and my WORD, he cooked so late! All three kids were in their teens, probably already ate, and likely had later-night plans. Good for them! I, however, was very hungry and also, very tired. It had been a long week, and I was spent.

I had put together the necessary accoutrements, prepped the corn-on-the-cob, and readied the potatoes (I am of Irish descent, and you will have to take my potatoes out of my cold, dead hands. I love them. Any kind. Prepared ANY way. With EVERYTHING. You could give me a potato casserole, and I’d still ask for a side of potatoes. Seriously). I swear to you, my husband will say, “She’s not lying about the potatoes.”

It had to be around 10pm when he was finally done cooking, and I was long asleep. Burgers at 10 pm? What kind of crazy is this?

As I was snoozing (and likely forming my sleep-talk response), he came into our room to eat his dinner next to me. I could smell it, and I was famished. I lifted my head, looked him square in the eye as he was noshing, and said, “Give me the top of that taco.” Here’s how it went from there:

Him: “Honey, I didn’t make tacos.”

Me: “You KNOW what I mean.”

Him: “No, I actually don’t. I made burgers, not tacos, that you requested and fell asleep before they were done.”

Me: “WHAT-EVER. Top of that taco and you won’t even give it to me. RUDE!”

‘Top of That Taco’ was one of the names we threw around for the Tiki Bar in our backyard (which is tiny. And is currently mostly a storage den for random patio chairs and my husband’s various side project leftovers, but we’ll get back to it. Because as a Tiki bar, it was TOIGHT!) Instead, we landed on ‘The Bone Zone,’ (with a big thanks to Jon Glaser). *If you’ve never seen Delocated, go find it immediately on wherever it may be streaming, watch it, and thank me after*

There is a reason we have been together for so long. I think I delight him by being so…unpredictable? He definitely likes telling me the wacky stuff I say to him the night before. If only I told him how delighted I am by his melodramatic gasps, stares, and pearl clutching any time he’s disturbed during his sleep.

This is mostly all to say, stay on your toes, accept the people you love for exactly who they are, and understand you will never be as good a rapper as me.

And also, obviously, when I ask as politely as I did then, GIVE ME THE TOP OF THAT TACO!