Peaches Gets An Exorcism

This past weekend my 5 month old niece Peaches got baptized. My 90 year old cousin, a retired bishop, performed the ceremony. According to my cousin who did seminary in Rome, the baptism is actually a form of exorcism. This sounds intense but my 90 year old cousin is gentle as a lamb. He was the most well liked bishop in the Pittsburgh dioceses before retiring and married all my older immediate family members, my parents included. While he did not marry my sister Skipper or my brother in law Boomer, he made a celebrity guest appearance on the alter.

Sure, I get the church wants to play it safe and all. As a lapsed Catholic, for as much as the exorcism trivia was cool, it was also a bit much. Peaches is a 5 month old baby. She still has her brand new car smell. This small being who cries, poops, but also has a way of eliminating all familial drama when she’s around should be celebrated. Plus an RC baptism is the parent’s first chance at starting the college fund. It’s not the day where Peaches sits up in her crib, her head spins around in a 180 and she screams, “Demi! Demi!” (Note: Peaches has projectile vomited on me before so there is that potential). 

However, I will give the bishop this, Peaches is teething. Hell hath no fury like a teething baby. Peaches woke everyone up several times during the night because of the pain she was in. While I felt terribly for her ordeal, it also woke up the entire house. Her pooping schedule was also off, so there was the fear she would poop in the christening gown. I am sure she wouldn’t be the first baby to do so but still, a pooping baby in a white gown is the devil. So yeah, maybe my cousin had a point.

The most fascinating thing about  a christening and a new family member is talking to the older family members. We were trying to figure out how old The Bishop was. “He’s gotta be 90.”

My sister in law Marie laughs, “Isn’t that old?”

My brother Wendell says, “No, he married our parents, aunts and uncles. He’s up there.”

At the party, we all try to figure it out. My Aunt Barb says, “He married my husband and I 46 years ago and he had been a priest a while. And he renewed our vows 25 years ago. He has to be at least 90. But he’s still driving. How is he doing that?”

The man who christened Peaches just might be immortal like the Highlander. However, in the event he wasn’t I decided to talk to him a little about his life. First, I wanted to figure out how we were related as I have 26 cousins in my immediate family alone. Apparently he is my now deceased grandfather’s cousin. The Bishop studied in Rome back in 1952, and was away for four years from his family because flight was so expensive. He talked about how Europe was after the war, and how there were certain Communist countries he could not visit with his friends. It was a world without internet, cellphones, GPS, and cable TV let alone Netflix.

Just as I was well aware of The Bishop’s age, I also became acutely aware of my own. The world he knows is different than the one I know and will also be different than the one Peaches will know. Someday, she will look up at me with her big blue eyes and ask, “Auntie April, what’s a CD?”

She will also say, “I saw an old movie, one from the 80s and they had landlines. How did people function?” I won’t lie. I will say the 80s and 90s were hell because living without a cellphone is war and war is hell. Okay, maybe I won’t but it sounds like something crazy an older relative will say. Even those thoughts make me acutely aware of my age.

I can safely say I have known Peaches for her entire life. About a year ago we did her gender reveal party. Skipper was sick every day as she was in the early throws of pregnancy and craved Stove Top Stuffing which Boomer was forced to cook. Before the party, Skipper called me on my way to school in California to inform she had, “A bun in the oven.” This was after she and Boomer returned from Bonnaroo. So yes, Peaches has already been to a hippie music festival. 

I also feel old as I remember standing next to Skipper on her wedding day as maid of honor. Not only was it a lovely treat, but she was talking about having kids within three years. Then it seemed sort of scary because I had remembered Skipper as a young bride. When she tried on wedding dresses she started to weep stating, “I look like an adult woman who has a mortgage and pays her own cellphone  bill!”

I also remember meeting Boomer for the first time. It was clear he liked my sister and she liked him back. Being the big sibling I asked him what his intentions were. He said he liked Skipper. I looked him in the eye like Clint Eastwood and said, “Man, if you mistreat Skipper in any way I will kill you.”

It since has become a running joke between the three of us. Boomer is a good guy and has morphed into a good father. Peaches for the most part is a good baby. Towards the end of the day, it was my shift. Her parents wanted a nap and my parents had to clean after the party. This meant I was on baby duty. We played with her toys which had the same song going in a loop. Songs that were stuck in my head for days and yes they are still haunting me in my sleep. Peaches also tried to eat the entire train because why not. After all, earlier in the day they gave her an exorcism for a reason, right. When she had the train taken away she got my finger and gripped onto it with her tiny fingers. Swayed by adoration and amazed by her strength, I was caught off guard when she stuck it in her mouth and bit on it with her half of a tooth. (I had also hoped I washed my hands). The Bishop was right. This kid was possessed by the devil. 

After I yanked my finger out of her mouth Peaches started to hiccup and fuss. What to do? I don't have children and my parents are cleaning. Skipper and Boomer are sleeping. So I hiccup back. To my surprise Peaches laughs. She hiccups again, I hiccup back and she laughs again. It turns into a game. Now I am liking this. Peaches is an evil I can work with,“Peaches, you know your parents might not like this, but you might have a future in show business. Your Auntie April needs an opening act. Start working on your television 7. Save yourself a few years of grief. And as for that exorcism, we are all going to hell. You and I will just be in the back playing jokes on people.”

Flashback Friday: The Homework Card

It was the winter of my 5^th grade year and my mom was away……that story is for a different time and place. The trip was sudden and emergent. Before she went, she froze a series of TV dinners for my brother Wendell, my sister Skipper, myself and my father. Her goal was for us to eat healthily while she was gone. My big task was heating them up, following the instructions.

The reason the task fell to me was because I was the oldest girl. Skipper was 8 and Wendell being a boy couldn’t be expected to do such things. My dad bemoaned my culinary skills and decided that there would be no more heating up. We were dining out at McDonalds, Pizza Hut, and on Lentin Fridays getting greasy fish sandwiches at The American Legion.

When the news that I failed to heat up the food properly reached my mom she told me she was cooking for her and her 5 siblings when she was my age. I got the barrage of the blame. Via telephone I was told I had let my family down and failed to pull my share of the load in her absence.

Yet my failure got us fast food every night. Skipper and Wendell were not only happy with me for dropping the ball, but as they announced their fast food dinners to their school friends they became the envy of the land.

My dad was the only parent on deck and that meant we were home alone for several hours. At first things were super tense because my dad was so used to my mom’s back up. She was the good cop, he was the bad cop. My mom would gently coax the confession and my dad was like the cop on those shows yelling, screaming, and finally you would break down naming names. You know, the cop who’s confession might convict an innocent person.

While the fast food diet quickly became part of the routine, my dad tried to hold fast to the no television on school nights rule. We had no cable, but TV time was TV time. Wendell was more than guilty of monopolizing it, and often knew to clear the decks as he heard the garage door. Never a fan of English class, he read The Red Badge of Courage as Married With Children played.

One evening, he had miscalculated our dad’s homecoming. Wendell was caught red handed. My dad snuck up on the 13 year old, took his book out of his hands and hit him in the head with it. There are some reading that are probably appalled, but it was funny at the time. Wendell yelped, and my dad gave him the riot act about how there was to be no television. And my dad gave him the speech about how his father had never finished high school.

After my brother’s public humiliation, we went to Pizza Hut. My dad admitted he hated The Red Badge of Courage and thought my brother’s English teacher was a little nuts. Apparently she had been divorced and let everyone know she hated her ex husband. As my dad explained, “That poor bastard probably escaped with his life.”

While Wendell was deterred for 2 days, he soon redoubled his efforts to watch television undetected. One day our dad came home surprisingly early. Wendell’s speed was a little better. He ran up the stairs but left his book in front of the television that was still on. My dad came home, shook his head, and turned off the TV. There was no lecture. Instead, it was the Pizza Hut buffet once again.

Sure, we were in danger of getting Type II Diabetes but who cared? You only live once, right?

And when we got home on that school night, my dad proposed we watched TV as a family. This was a departure from the lectures we often heard about my father’s days as a paper boy climbing up the hill both ways in subzero temperatures. Instead, we had iced cream and watched Married With Children as a family.

 “It’s your mom that doesn’t like the show. Don’t tell her I let you watch it.” My dad said, adding another scoop to my bowl. He knew out of the family members I was my mom’s ride or die and she would get the information out of me. She always did. So I kept it quiet. I was a chunky kid and for me ice cream was the best thing next to money of course.

During this time a different dude emerged. This was the anthesis of the man I had known my whole life up to this point. In both extended families- my mom’s side and my dad’s-my dad had a reputation for being strict. He was the boss. My aunts and uncles knew when one of us was on punishment we weren’t allowed to watch TV at their house because the punishment wasn’t like Dread Scott. It extended to all territories and borderlands.

My dad was a spare the rod spoil the child kind of fellow. He was a nice guy, but if you got out of line you were in for an ass whooping. Unlike my friends who were grounded, our punishments were swift yet painful. We got loss of TV for bigger things, like forging signatures on tests and homework, like my brother Wendell had so infamously done the year before. I can still hear his hooping and hollering as my dad used his belt to this very day.

Looking back, science tells parents not to do this. But my parents were trying their darnest to keep us out of the penal system the best they knew how. As a result, we did well in school most of the time and were extremely polite. Unlike today’s children, we would not dream of speaking to our parents so wickedly. What I am trying to say is, my parents tried hard to make us good people.

One day I found myself in the line of fire. Skipper had dragged her feet to get ready. Since she was a kid, Skipper has never been a morning person. She dawdled in getting her clothes on, and had gotten up late to begin with. As a picky eater, it also took her forever to select a breakfast that fitted her taste. Not to mention her stomach hurt from the Pizza Buffet the night before, the venue that had become the regular dietary staple for our family.

We missed our bus, and it was all Skipper’s fault. I could have caught the bus without her but my mother told me my job in life was to take care of Skipper. So while it was tempting to leave the sometimes pain in the ass younger sibling home, I would have gotten more grief in the scheme of things.

Of course there was that moment where I had to confess my incompetence to my dad. In past instances this was met with him telling me what a moron and a failure I was. As always Skipper would be off the hook, and it would be all my fault it took her forever to get up, get dressed, and pick breakfast. He would point out Skipper wasn’t a morning person and I should be more understanding.

It’s not that he meant it. Like Skipper he is not a morning person. And when his morning routine is thrown off, it has always been a cataclysmic shitstorm. I was ready for it.

Instead, my dad wasn’t even annoyed in the least. If anything, he confessed his regret was not getting to spend enough time with us because of his two jobs and how he was thrilled to take us to school. It was on his way to work as it was, and going in a little later he would beat rush hour. As an added bonus, we got McDonalds breakfast because Skipper had not yet eaten.

The adventure wasn’t over. I forgot my math homework. It was done, but I had left it on the kitchen table. I realized this during math class, and hoped Miss Toledo wouldn’t collect it. Sometimes she collected homework, sometimes she didn’t.

Too late.

Miss Toledo, a well meaning but high strung school marm type, gave me my homework card to sign. She was a former librarian who also had my brother Wendell for class several years before. During open house she told my parents both Wendell and I had the worst handwriting of any of her students. But our academics and knowledge of history amazed her. Miss Toledo also talked about how she loved the stories I wrote and gloated over the one about a cat named Crackle that won a ribbon. But then she opined that she wished I wouldn’t doggy ear the books I got from the library. Yet in the next sentence mentioned I also won the prize for most books read in the class.

Miss Toledo, like a kindly magistrate issuing a punishment, told me fair was fair and my homework card still needed to be signed. Rules were rules.

The last time my homework card had to be signed, my mother expressed her disappointment. She promised not to tell my father, but she lied. I experienced public humiliation at the dinner table equivalent to a tribunal. I was told such behavior would make me a failure in life if it continued. And then my dad said he didn’t want to be embarrassed if he saw my teacher in public because she would mention I forgot my homework. He was right, Miss Toledo would.

I knew the punishment would be worse but my mother had served as the good cop pointing out I did confess. My dad said that if I did it again I should expect a beating.

Sweating like a pig in a slaughterhouse I knew I was a dead woman. My dad didn’t deal well with fools or failure. While we were getting take out nightly, the verbal lashing I got when I failed to heat the food was one for the record books. My mom wasn’t here so the punishment would be free form. This was my second offense. While his mood had been good lately I didn’t want to chance it.

On the flipside, my dad’s philosophy was if you confessed and were honest, you could cut a deal on the punishment. If you lied and he found out, he showed no mercy. My dad was sort of a hanging judge though, so a deal with him wasn’t a deal at all.

Perhaps just a smack in the head. It would be over. Then he would tell me how time was passing, I was messing up, and “minimum wage retard jobs are waiting.”

Yes, the prolonged psychological smack in the beating. You know, the real wounds that cause a lot of pain but make better communal, comical anecdotes later on amongst those who were raised with corporal punishment. The thing that makes the bad cop parent like Chairman Mao, both loved yet feared.

As I got off the bus, I was chalk white.  “What’s wrong?” Wendell asked.

“Forgot my math homework. Miss Toledo is making dad sign the homework card.”

Wendell laughed with a mix of superiority and shock. “Good luck with that. But you are lucky it’s cold otherwise he might make you pick a branch from the backyard.”

Yes, sometimes we had to get our own beating stick from the backyard. This was more frequently reserved for Wendell who hid my dad’s actual beating stick on several occasions. Wendell figured it would get him out of the punishment that was coming. Instead, my dad sent him to the backyard to get a branch. Wendell, still thinking he could outsmart my dad, would come back with twig after twig. Finally my dad picked the branch himself.

The way my brother whelped probably woke a few of the dead in the cemetery down the street. Mind you this was after Wendell saw it fit to bury his report card in the backyard claiming he never got it.

 “It’s my fault. I could tell dad I’ll do your dishes after your beating.” Skipper offered.

“Why not just talk him out of it?” I insisted. She owed me that much.

“I can’t do that. Sorry. It wasn’t my homework.” Skipper then went off. She didn’t want to be around for this. She was much too slippery and smart…..and I was snake bitten by my own family.

Then Wendell offered, “I could forge dad’s signature…….I got pretty good at forging mom’s. It’s not super hard. He doesn’t even have to know….”

This was like the guy getting out of the joint offering to do another burglary with you even though he was caught red handed. Sure, he led the police to him but he had experience. “No thanks. You get caught.”

“If you get beat, we can get that over with and then maybe go to Wendy’s.” Wendell said trying to make things better. “You suck as a cook and dad likes fast food anyway.”

Time inched by as if it was molasses in a barrel. My dad came home and his mood was hard to read. The pit of my stomach lurched. Doom was immanent.

Before I could confess, Wendell, in order to detract from his covert television watching proudly announced,  “April forgot her math homework and needs you to sign her card.”

Snake bitten by my own family again.

Grinning like a Cheshire Cat, Wendell wreaked like the street snitch who had ratted out an accomplice for a lighter sentence. He knew my dad had seen him turn off the television and run up the stairs. He knew his one job to take the trash up was not done because he was busy watching TV. He knew he had accidentally left his required reading in the TV room and it didn’t accidentally walk there.

Meanwhile, Skipper was hiding upstairs. She knew when Wendell or I got it if she was out of sight out of mind she could be perceived as perfect. The air was thick. As for Wendell, the white of his teeth showed and the sicker I got. I hated my brother, but I dreaded what was coming in seconds.

Would it be the belt?

Would it be the stick?

Would my dad be in an extra terrible mood and make me get a stick from the yard as the snow fell?

Would he be merciful and just backhand me upside the head and have it hurt for a minute?

Instead, my dad tiredly grumbled, “Get the damn homework card and let me sign it.”

He laughed as he saw the notation Miss Toledo made. “That woman needs to get a life or a husband. Something. Anyone with handwriting that neat needs to get a life.”

Wendell and I stood shocked, completely speechless.

And then he looked in my direction and said, “Listen, just remember your homework from now on. This will be a bill someday, okay?”

I hadn’t gotten beat with a stick, belt, branch or backhand. There was not the usual “idiot,” “moron” or “retard” my dad had grown so fond of calling us when we screwed up. There was no horrendous story about how he had to walk to school or on his paper route in the frigid cold. Where was my beating I feared? I had been preparing myself all day for my punishment. The death knell had been playing in my mind. Instead, there was this anti-climatic ending to the whole story that was both a disappointment and a relief.

However my brother wasn’t quite off the hook, “Were you watching TV?” My dad said. “And why aren’t the cans up?”

Wendell stammered to make some excuse. He mentioned he was doing homework. Granted, he was reading The Red Badge of Courage while watching Roseanne, but he was trying. My brother ran out to take the cans out. Minutes later he returned. There was no fight. There were no insults. My dad was tired and he just shook his head.

And then my dad asked, “Anyone in the mood for Chinese?”

“Sure.”

When my mom returned things came back to normal. My dad again became the hard line disciplinarian. However, my mom was beyond outraged our father had not only fed us take out for two weeks, but there had been TV watching on a school night…….especially Married With Children as a family. But you know what they say, when the cat’s away the mice will play.

Bottom line, my dad was way more cool and chill than I gave him credit for. 

Bittersweet

Residency is over and I am feeling a mix of emotions. The first is sad. I miss my friends and my fellow cohorts. I miss my teachers. I miss my classes. I miss being around a community of people who like to write as much as I do.

I feel inspired. I am working on a piece about my family and my political activities. A Sienna (graduating cohort) told me I was to focus on a special project. When he tells you to do something, you do it.

I also feel inspired by the talent of my classmates. I also feel inspired by those who have families and children that are doing the program. I am lucky if I remember my puppet babies somedays.

I am feeling relieved to get some sleep.

I am feeling excited to dive into graduate school.

I am feeling curious to see how my new found zeal and knowledge informs my activism, ventriloquism, comedy and acting.

I am feeling discomfort as family members are asking me what I plan to do with this. I want to remind them that they aren't paying for it and to butt the hell out of my life.

Most of all, I am feeling proud of myself for taking a huge step. For adulting. For disagreeing with someone and then guiding her towards renewing her health insurance.

I am also feeling exhausted because I have been in school for 10 days straight. I love LA and I love the new direction my life is taking. For the first time I dont feel driven by the Type A bullshit that has made me a hard to take basketcase for so long.

I can't wait until my next residency in June. Until then, Happy Trails!

Buy My Merch

Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer (Elmo & Patsy)

It was the summer of 1998. On Saturdays, we typically did yard work and then had a late lunch/early dinner. My mother thought it would be a special treat to eat on the back porch as we had been working all day. The house was cluttered as it always was in those days. After all, three kids ages 16, 13, and 10 lived there, respectively.

A week previous, our neighbors across the street had gotten robbed. There was a lot of talk as a mysterious jogger had suddenly been seen in the neighborhood. One neighbor asserted that this family, nicknamed the Clampets, had faked the robbery in order to get insurance. No one knew for sure.

We were a gun owning family, but not a vocal one. My Dad wanted us to know there were guns in the house and to respect firearms. He felt it was important. We also knew how to fire a gun if we had to. For a time my parents even belonged to what was known as a local “gun club.”

However, gun culture proved just to be too overwhelmingly stupid for my parents for lack of a better word. My dad wasn’t a hunter. Because of his career and work hours he didn’t have time, and my mom felt it was disgusting. Plus a lot of those folks were toying with starting their own militias and spouted Second Amendment rhetoric frequently. My dad studied it and knew while the Second Amendment was important, there was no truth to this hillbilly paranoia. When he explained no one was going to lose their guns anytime soon he was met with resistance.

My dad would explain as a lawyer this couldn’t happen, there would have to be many, many, many lawsuits before the Second Amendment was overturned. But they would interrupt him explaining one could never trust the government for very long. My dad would say they were giving the government too much credit. They couldn’t even deliver a piece of mail on time. But this fell on deaf ears, and some were really and truly losing their hearing because they were around guns so damn much.

Out of our family, the best shot was actually Skipper. I was a terrible shot. My skills behind a gun were tragic. Skipper could shoot a bullseye without effort. Later, she would go on to become a champion markswoman.

My dad’s whole thing was that yes, we owned guns but we were never to tell anyone. It was because he didn’t want them stolen or used in a felony. He also knew that if one of our moron friends accidentally shot themselves, it would be a shit show for lack of a better term. But yes, we had them and that was all we had to know.

After dinner, we were cleaning off the table. Dishes were about to be washed and the TV was about to be turned on. Auspiciously placed were my brother’s cleats from summer football practice. Not so far away was my notebook from writing camp. Pick up after ourselves…..ehhh……you know how it goes with kids.

Just then, there was a loud banging from downstairs.

“What was that?” My dad asked curiously.

“Nothing.” I said. “Probably some crap from Wendell’s football.” I said glancing over at my brother. While the season had yet to start, my brother had weights and other things he was using to buff up. Cumbersome and annoying, I had stubbed my toe on several.

There was a second bang, now it was more like a slam.

 “I think it’s the boxes we stacked.” Skipper said, referring to boxes of books we were getting rid of. These books were old, outdated encyclopedias in our basement that still referenced the former Soviet Union. My father felt they were obselete and we needed space for other things, so my mother, sister and I had stacked them one night while our dad was working late.

The noise grew louder. Now it was as if someone was walking. We all froze in panic.

“No one’s home.” A male voice was heard saying.

We all gasped in horror. Oh shit.

 “Guys, stay out here. Dad is going to get his gun.” My mom assured us.

Then she instructed, “If there is a group of intruders, run out the back deck. Run to the nearest neighbor and get help.”

Note this was before the age of cellphones so this all made sense.

My dad went and retrieved a firearm from a place in the house where it was hidden. Meanwhile, we were in the Florida room closes to the deck in case my father couldn’t shoot the intruders in time. These burglars might have been bad but they had never seen my dad when his was pissed. He was just a Western Pennsylvania man defending his home and he knew that at the end as a lawyer, he knew his rights and would get off.

Skipper began to cry. I held my sisters hand, and Wendell covered us both. “Keep it together. They can’t know we are here.” She said.  

“Beware mutherfuckers.” My dad said under his breath. “I will kill any sonvabitch that comes in my home.”

My dad’s dark eyes flashed. There was no way these intruders were making it out alive.

Sure, these guys might have been bad, but they never saw my dad when he was pissed let alone defending his home. My dad was a nice guy, but when you crossed him he could cut a bitch for lack of a better term. One former associate at his law firm referred to my dad as “Satan” because of the way he spoke to opposing counsel. Yet when someone who heard this story saw our Dad with us at a local restaurant, he could hardly believe it was the man he had heard so many horror stories about. Bottom line, you didn’t fuck with my dad and come out unscathed.

“If any of you see their faces before you run for it, remember them. They are going to ask you in court.” My mother instructed.

Wow Mom, way to make a bad situation even worse. My stomach lurched at the thought of the potential tragedy that was about to happen. My heart beat and I felt everything freeze. I got ready to run, bad ankle and all. Skipper could go the fastest and Wendell wasn’t notorious for his speed. My mom always tripped and fell when she got nervous. It was a tick she had. Gosh this was going to be a shit show.

And shit show it was.

The door opened and I was expecting a scene from what would be a 20/20 crime special in seconds. I expected tragedy. Instead I heard,  “Wendelin, that is no way to greet your mother in law!”

Fear disappeared and now we were just startled and amazed. My mom sprinted inside as my father dropped his gun to his side. The look on my dad’s face was priceless. Standing there was my Nuni, barely five feet tall with snow white hair and a light purple summer pants suit. On her head was a summer bonnet. Her lips had frosty pink lipstick. With her was a man who looked like the disenfranchised son of Charles Manson.

“MOM!” My mother said, shocked and pleasantly surprised. “You didn’t tell me you would be stopping over!”

“I tried to call but you didn’t pick up and your message machine was full. Here’s the book I promised you. You know the one about raising a teenage daughter with an interest in the arts.” My grandmother handed my mom the book.

Nuni continued, “It was from Barb.” Barb was my cousin’s wife. Their son had gone to film school and wanted my mom to have the book because I liked to write and work with puppets. He was currently living in LA with some girl from Brazil. The book was to give my parents hope and to assuage their fears about my dreams.

 “Get in here and give your grandmother a hug.” My mom instructed, trying to make the most of an awkward situation. Meanwhile, my embarrassed father disappeared to put his firearm back in the undisclosed location.

When he reappeared she said,  “Wendelin can’t kill me! He has to do my will first.”

“Who’s this?” My sister Skipper asked pointing to her friend. Her strawberry blonde hair had recently been cut and she was wearing her summer shorts and top.

“Oh this is Bob.” Nuni explained. “He’s a friend of Rachel’s from the Ren Faire. I saw him at the Walmart and he needed a ride.” At the time, Nuni worked as a greeter at Walmart. She was literally the mayor of the superstore. Nuni was so incredibly popular that she was even featured in several of their local television commercials.

Aunt Rachel worked at the Ren Faire. It had become her yearly gig and the only thing in her life that was constant. After breaking up with Rick and then running out on her wedding to Josh (subject of another blog) Rachel had sough solace in the Ren Faire. While my grandparents had blown their life savings on a wedding that was never to happen, they were glad their wayward creation was finding an outlet.

As for Aunt Rachel’s friends, they were notoriously nondrivers or had their license’s suspended for whatever reason, so Aunt Rachel was the chauffeur of the group. On this day, Bob needed a ride to wherever he was staying, probably a halfway house. Who knew…..

Either way, Nuni, who’s conduct never ceased to shock, awe, and amuse thought it was nothing short of hysterical that my father had almost shot her. Meanwhile, my father’s face was twisted in that state that was a mix between embarrassed, confused, and somewhat pissed. Nuni explained she would have knocked but when she parked her car, she saw the garage door was open.

Yes, Nuni was notorious for never using a front door let alone knocking. She had let herself in my Uncle Seth’s townhouse once because he left the back screen ajar. Needless to say he caught her youngest son and his wife Taylor sharing a moment of passion. Talk about killing the mood. Of course, Nuni freely and fearlessly relayed this story as my dad continued to stand there, mouth gaped open at this happenings of the day.

Minutes later, Nuni and Bob departed. My dad was pissed, but not for the reason we figured. Nevermind he had almost blown his mother in law’s head off. As he explained, , “A STRANGER CAME INTO MY HOUSE AND IT WAS MESSY! I WAS SO EMBARRASSED!”

“Honey…..” My mom said trying to calm him down.

“I WORK TWO JOBS TO KEEP THIS HOUSE GOING AND YOU GUYS SIT AROUND ALL DAY EATING BON BONS. I ASKED YOU TO CLEAN THE BASEMENT!” My dad roared.

My dad had not come from much and having strangers see his house messy always got under his skin. However, we didn’t know we were going to have company. My dad continued, “GRACIE, HOW COULD SHE! I ALMOST SHOT HER! I WASN’T PREPARED FOR COMPANY. THERE IS THIS FUCKING THING CALLED  A PHONE. YOUR MOTHER COULD USE A FUCKING PHONE! OR BETTER YET, A FRONT DOOR!”

My mother said nothing expect, “Sorry, you know how she is.”

“HOW SHE IS ALMOST GOT HER FUCKING KILLED!!!” My dad was on a roll. “AND THEN FOR THIS STRANGER TO SEE MY HOUSE MESSY, HOW DO YOU THINK I FEEL!”

“Dad the stranger was probably homeless, it’s better than he normally lives.” Wendell reasoned. We all nodded in agreement.

“Nuni is hardly a housekeeper.” I said. It was true. And if Bob had been to Nuni and Pop Pop’s house, our place would have been the Palace of Mr. Clean in comparison.

“It doesn’t matter what you think or feel at this point.” My mom said trying to smooth things over.

“You almost shot grandma!” I informed him. “How we feel completely matters.”

Skipper ran over and gave our dad a hug. He probably needed one after that. “How about this, lets red off the table and forget this ever happened.” My mom suggested. I thought she was in good spirits seeing her mother almost got shot. (Red in Pittsburghese means clean off).

My dad shook his head. “Okay, but April has to vacuum the basement and Wendell has to pick up first.”

“Why do I have to vacuum?” I protested.

“Because I said so.” My dad snapped.

Wendell and I marched down to the basement to clean. After that, my dad calmed down and the gun was returned to the undisclosed location. We watched some stupid Adam Sandler movie and the incident became a piece of the family’s woven fabric.

And from that point forward, we all remembered to close the garage when we were done for the day. That way, if someone got shot it was a burglar and not grandma.

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Rick

Growing up, your aunts tend to date the darnest guys. This was no exception in my family. When I was about 9, my Aunt Rachel dated a guy named Rick. File Rick under what parents don’t want their daughter to come home with.

Days before my Pop Pop met Rick for real, Rachel showed up to our house with her newest flame. The reason for her visit was because Aunt Rachel had just been fired from another job. It wasn’t her fault. Most employers don’t understand vacation at will. It was a flower shop, and apparently she wanted to hang out with Rick and didn’t show up. Now she needed a few bucks to get through the week and she knew my mom’s door was always open.

Rick was a sight for sore eyes. He had dirty blonde hair, an AIDS era mustache, and a wife beater shirt. While he told us he usually styled his hair in a mullet, an admission that no one anywhere should make at any time, the Navy made him dawn his current do.

When Aunt Rachel brought Rick, I still remember the roaring of his pick up truck waking our quiet suburban block. Rachel, my mom’s kid sister, walked in with her conquest on her arm. His too tight jeans made him look more like the LGBTQ comic book star Tom Finland than the tough man he aspired to be, but why tell Rick.

Aunt Rachel wore a low cut shirt, a short skirt, and had terrible posture. All made my gym teacher mother gasp. Yes, her kid sister who struggled in school with severe dyslexia before it was understood. This same kid sister who had low self-worth. This same kid sister that my mom always had to keep an eye on. And this same kid sister who was now shortening her lifespan.

“This is Rick. The dream boat I have been telling you about.” She informed us as he walked in.

“Dream boat I am, so dreamy the United States Navy can’t even certify me.” Rick chimed back in his Southern accent.

My mom told Rachel she wanted to speak to her privately, probably to exchange twenty dollars and to confront her about her latest in a string of bad decisions. Our mother instructed us to show Rick our backyard gym. Our dad had installed a chin up bar and a rope because he felt it would be good for our upper body strength the previous summer. Wendell, who dreamed of playing football, was on their faithfully day in and day out trying to tone his muscles and get fit for the upcoming season.

 “They make us do chin ups in the Navy.” Rick said to Wendell, “And a man has to know how to do chin ups.”

“I can do 5.” My brother Wendell said. While he was strong, his body was still pudgy and growing. Wendell jumped up on our backyard chin up bar and did 5.

“Well in the Navy they make us do 20 or more.” Rick said. And then he jumped up and did several. Skipper and I stood in awe of Rick and his strength.

Just as this was happening, my dad pulled in the driveway from a long day of work. Rather than enter his garage, he stopped his car. It wasn’t to watch. No, like a hungry Great White he was lurking and wanted his prey to know he was there.

Stopping his car engine, he exited his Buick and walked down to the jungle gym. Sure, he was a lawyer off the clock but was ready to kill if need be. The look in his eyes indicated that he already disliked Rick, possibly because he knew my mom was going to give Rachel a few bucks and these two would have not stopped by had he been present.

Wendell also made the proverbial kill list. He was tardy with his room cleaning and the deadline was today.

Skipper and I ran over to hug our dad and Wendell stood in shock. Sensing the silence as we were no longer cheering, Rick jumped down from the chin up bar.

“Why aren’t you cleaning your room?” My dad snapped as he saw Wendell standing there.

Instead of butting out, Rick obliviously chimed in. Gosh, he was dumber than the grass under our feet.  “Hi, are you the man of the house?”

“Yes, I own this home, my wife is inside and those are my children.” My dad said putting his arms around us. His glance never left Rick.

“And where have you been?” Rick was now proving to be the brain trust he was. I wanted to tell the dumb ass to shut up now but it would be of no usage.

“Working.” My dad replied. His eyes not moving. I could tell he was freaking Rick out on purpose.

“Do you ever use the chin up bar?” Rick was now curious as my dad was in excellent shape. Meanwhile, I was curious as to how Rick was still alive.

“No. I don’t have time. I have a job.” In not so many words, my dad called Rick an idiot and a loser. At that moment, Rick got it. He gulped. And that’s when he found my aunt to make his exit.

My Aunt Rachel departed along with Rick in the roaring pick up. Actually, fled was more like it. While Rick seemed too stupid to be evil it was funny to see him sweat like that. But my mom was not holding her tongue over dinner.

Aunt Rachel said Nuni had seen him in McDonalds looking all handsome in his Navy Uniform. Nuni, my mom’s mother, was a character. Friendly and outgoing, she made friends everywhere she went and talked to everyone. She had fixed my parents up initially, and thought she could do the same with Rachel. This was a fail.

“Wendelin, what was she thinking!” My mom demanded. “This guy is a loser!”

“Gracie, your mom never thinks. That’s the damn problem.” My dad said shaking his head.

“She wants to move to Alabama and live in his trailer after he’s discharged!” My mom bemoaned. “Two years ago, when Rachel dropped out of college my dad called me crying. I said let her work. Let her get it together. Now she is dating THIS LOSER!!”

“Let it go Gracie, it’s not our problem.”

“But he could do a ton of chin ups.” Skipper said.

“That’s what unemployment looks like.” My dad informed her.

“In all fairness unemployment was kind of good looking.” I told my dad.

“It won’t be when he makes you a single parent.” My dad cautioned me.

Wendell laughed. “He was seriously jacked Dad. I could only do 5 chin ups…..”

“And so that’s why your room wasn’t cleaned! You were screwing around with that redneck!” Wendell gulped. The table went silent. My mom changed the subject to the fact Wendell’s science project was a finalist in the contest at school. The uneasy transition proved to work as my dad quickly forgot about Wendell’s room.

That evening, I had a dream. Rick came to our house, except his pick up truck was roaring and jumping over fences and people’s houses. The dream was pretty cool actually. And Aunt Rachel was yelling with joy the entire time as Skipper and I were in the truck bed. So what they were risking our welfare and breaking several laws? It was awesome.

The next morning my mom woke us up. As it was late spring we still had school as summer had not quite come. My dad was getting ready for work. Seeing him I said, “Dad, I had a dream. Rick came with his pick up and was jumping over houses and fences. Aunt Rachel was in the truck, and Skipper and I were in the back of the pick up.”

“That wasn’t a dream.” My dad said shaking his head.

“What he is saying is, your aunt made a terrible decision.” My mom shared.

Two days later, my grandparents had a party in their backyard. My dad was unable to come as he had a huge case he was working, and there was a filing date with federal court that Monday. The party began as usual, my Nuni telling colorful stories as she flitted in and out like a butterfly looking for a new flower. With white hair and a plethora of pastels, she stood barely five feet tall and was akin to a tropical creature each time you saw her.

“Mom, what were you thinking?” My mother said confronting my grandmother as people came in. “Rachel is dating a guy who has probably been voted most likely to go to prison!”

 “He’s handsome and Rachel needs to meet men.” Nuni said.

“She would be better meeting men at the food stamp office.” My mom was now livid.

“They aren’t getting married. Relax Gracie.” My Nuni said. “I never thought you would marry yours. Besides, he’s in the service. He has a job of some sort. It could be worse. He could be like Phyllis and Rob.”

My mom rolled her eyes. Phyllis was my mom’s other sister who was dating Rob, a man who fearlessly lived off of women. He had a glue on rug, glue on chest hair, gold chains, and announced that he was training to be a porn star. Phyllis and Rob would have been there, but Rob had been beaten up in a street fight and was currently in the hospital.

“Anything is better than Rob.” My mother seethed.

Just then, the rest of the cousins entered and we found ourselves in the backyard. My Pop Pop, a quiet, gentle man, put out bread crumbs to feed to his pet squirrel Jinx. Well it wasn’t really his pet, Jinx was sort of a pest my grandfather adopted. In many ways, my Pop Pop was the antithesis of my dad because he would have just killed Jinx.

Pop Pop was an the type everyone loved. Because my father had lost his own dad young, Pop Pop adopted him at times. My Pop Pop had been a college man and then World War II broke out. After graduating from The University of Pittsburgh, he enlisted in The Navy. Because of his engineering degree, he went through officer training and at the time of his discharge was a second lieutenant. My Pop Pop never spoke of the war or his Navy days but always remained friends with his shipmates. The war ended and life went on.

He coached my mom as well as the rest of her siblings in swimming, owned his own life insurance business and played tennis religiously. Of course as my mom bemoaned my Nuni’s bad decision making ability to her sister Magdelene, who’s children were dancers, Rachel entered with Rick.

I knew they were coming from the Duke’s of Hazzard roar of his pick up truck. Rick entered carrying Rachel. As soon as they saw my Pop Pop he set her down. Some of us laughed. Some of us gasped in horror.

 “I bet she’s pregnant.” My cousin Starboard said.

Starboard was Magdelene’s younger daughter. Mindy, a dancer, was in New York for the summer hoping to become a professional ballerina and Starboard hoped to join. She had a head of dark, springy curls and always dressed like Blossom. Like Skipper, she had been named for my Pop Pop’s love of ships and the water. While he said nothing else about his time in the service, he taught his kids all about boats because he felt it was important.

“Hello Mr. Wallace, pleased to meet you.” Rick said extending his hand. My grandfather, gray hair and Mr. Rogers sweater, looked confused. He looked very scrambled. My Pop Pop was sharp, this was a whole new thing. Seemingly disinterested, he continued to throw crumbs hoping Jinx would catch them. Was he getting dementia? My friend’s grandmother had that and it was nasty.

“Good to meet you too.” Pop Pop said, seemingly not focused as his big task was feeding Jinx.

“Rick’s in the Navy.” Aunt Rachel explained. “Just like you, Dad.”

“Oh yes, that was a very long time ago.” My Pop Pop said looking up laughing.

“Mr. Wallace, you would be pleased to know young men like me are making the US Navy strong!” Rick declared.

My mother marched over. Ever ready to micromanage a shit show, the oldest child in the family had to let Rick know what time it was. “Dad wasn’t just any Navy man. He was an officer, weren’t you, Dad?”

“Yes, Second Lieutenant. I was aboard a military aircraft carrier.” Pop Pop said. “We were in the Okinawa for much for the war and near Japan. But it’s over and I don’t like to talk about it.”

“I didn’t realize I was in the presence of an officer.” Rick said. He stood up and saluted my grandfather.

“Please, sit down. That wasn’t necessary. I haven’t been a member of the military since 1946.” My Pop Pop assured him gently. But Rick was standing there with complete salute.

“I hope she isn’t knocked up.” Starboard said again.

“What does knocked up mean?” Skipper, age 6, asked.

“Shhhhh……” I said as Rick continued to stand with a complete salute. At first it seemed he was mocking my grandfather, but he was tragically such a simpleton it was no longer even funny.

“At ease.” Pop Pop said. Rick relaxed his salute and sat down. He yammered on and on about something stupid and his thick drawl didn’t help. As Rick talked and Rachel chimed in, my grandfather’s eyes closed.

“He always falls asleep at parties.” I observed as Starboard stood near me.

“It’s because he’s old.” Skipper said. “Old people always sleep.”

“Maybe he’s dead.” Starboard offered. “My neighbor died like that.” Yes, Starboard, age 8, had all the answers.

“He’s not dead. His hand is moving.” Skipper observed. Her sunkissed strawberry blonde hair sporting ringlet curls from a perm my dad suggested she get to give her hair more volume.

“Also, if he was deceased his color would change.” Skipper educated us. “When there is still some red, you know there is blood moving.” Skipper had been reading a medical book she got for Christmas and announced her plans of becoming a doctor.

After my grandfather had been out for sometime my Nuni entered the backyard. Carrying a tray of something that resembled shish kabobs, she called to my Pop Pop, “Wake up Mike and stop being an old man. The kids inside think you are dead.” Yes, she never had the filter.

“Shut up Loretta. You are going to kill me one day.” Pop Pop replied.

“I would have done it already but I spent all your money.” Now we were all roaring. Yes, my grandparents were literally a comedy duo at times and today was one. Rachel laughed as Rick now looked confused. The two braincells he had were doing an awful lot of thinking.

“Being married to you is like life in prison. Except with life in prison I would have a chance at parole.” Pop Pop said now giving the zinger that finished the routine. We all applauded. How could we not?

Rick and Rachel than said they had an errand to run. We didn’t want to ask, and we prayed they weren’t going to get eloped. As they exited, Pop Pop perked up and went back to feeding Jinx. Murmuring to himself he lamented, “Enlisted men, they never change.”

Pop Pop had not been asleep. He had been tuning out an idiot in the most effective way possible. In the days before the block button this innovation was genius. For his bravery in the line of stupidity he was to be commended.

Rachel would later break up with Rick after he was sent to sea on a submarine, had a nervous breakdown, and spent time in a psych hospital. It wasn’t the time in the psych hospital that drove her away, but the fact she fell in love with his best friend, Josh. She figured Josh was more soft spoken, better looking, and had a better double wide I suppose. I dunno, that story is for another blog……

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Basic Needs

When I was about 8 or 9, I forget which, I was in the third grade. My dad's mother, Mema Ralph, was babysitting us. She was a character to say the least. Mema Ralph was probably not the best parent to my dad let alone any of her children. She was terrifying in her own way with a brutally honest streak. In between she was also a tad of a shit stirrer, but it added to her charm. As a babysitter, she was a combination of every child's worst nightmare and every comedian's greatest wet dream.

Her greatest charm was she didn't give a flying fuck.

Looking back, she was a Great Depression and War era kid. Her husband worked long, strange hours so she was essentially left to raise a house of kids on her own. He died when my dad was 19, and she still had four young kids at home after her oldest three flew the nest. She worked and was a single mom even though most days she was overwhelmed.

My Mema Ralph was a survivor with her clip on earrings, fire engine red hair, caked on makeup, nails with multiple coats on, perfume so strong she could kill an animal, faith in God, and most of all her foul mouth. Yes, she was a survivor, as in she would knock you out and would ask no questions. As she hit her 70s, her eyesight was bad too, so she might actually knock you out if you were walking on the sidewalk because she was starting to drive there......OOPS.

Mema was babysitting. My parents were somewhere, I think my mom's father, my Pop Pop, was in the hospital for some reason. Probably prostrate or skin cancer, he had both quite a bit unfortunately for some time there. This would have meant my Nuni, his wife, would have been with him. Either way, Mema Ralph was always last on the list to babysit and with good reason.

Much of it had to do with the circumstances around my brother Wendell's birth. At the hospital, my Mema Ralph told my dad to get some food as my mom was in labor. My mother told my father he was not going anywhere. And then when Wendell was finally born after 24 hours of rough labor and C-section, my parents carried her first grandchild out. Mema responded by informing my parents, "Don't expect me to watch that kid."

She caved in and watched us a few times. Each being a bigger disaster than the next. Once, my brother broke a box lid and she made him tape it together and kneel in the corner until my parents came home. Needless to say my mom was beyond pissed and said to my dad, "Wendelin, I do not care if she is your mother. She is not watching my kids ever again!"

My dad tried to defend my grandma of course, but it fell flat. He knew she was crazy. He never tried to hide it. But on this particular night, my folks were desperate for a babysitter and Mema Ralph was called. My brother hid in his room, and my sister was no where to be found. It was just me and Mema.

So here we were in my parent's kitchen. It was a Thursday and I had social studies homework. The only crinkle was I forgot my book and that's where the answers were. So I figured I would rely on my grandmother's knowledge, age, and expertise. After all, she was near 70 years old. She had to know a few things. Whenever I forgot my book my mom knew most of the answers. My Mema Ralph had to work the same way.

This is how the conversation went:

Me: Mema Ralph, can you help me with my homework?

Mema: Yes Dear.

Me: What are the three basic needs?

Mema: Air, water, and God.

Me: That doesn't sound right.

Mema: Nonsense without air you suffocate and die! Now back to your homework and let me help you.

Faithfully, I scribbled the answer down. My grandmother went on to help me with the rest of my homework and without question I continued. Mema gave information with authority, and I didn't argue. She was my grandmother. She had to know.

That is, until I got my paper back the next day.

It didn't have any wrong. It just had SEE ME PLEASE in big, red, nicely written teacher handwriting. The woman I had for class had been teaching a long time and was nothing short of an angel. With a bemused look on her face, she wondered what happened to me, perhaps the best social studies student in the class, because this was not typical.

I explained frankly, "My grandmother helped me with my homework."

She laughed and agreed to let me do it again. The second time around not only were all my Mema's answers wrong, they werent even close. Turns out the basic needs are food, clothing and shelter.

Moral of the story, never forget your book. Never ask grandma to help you with your homework. And maybe grandma's do know something because without air you suffocate.

All that aside, I know she would have mixed feelings about this photo but she would agree some hot guy with money might want to extract my digits. Miss you, Mema.

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Teenager in Love (Dion and the Belmonts)

My grandmother was a published poet at age 68. Her author bio read, "I have a large and colorful family. It's filled with chaos, excitement, drama, and rewards. I just write it down."

Nothing is more true in a large family. There are all sorts of characters. The way I explain my family to people in you are either at the top or down on the bottom. There is no middle ground. I take that back. Thanksgiving is the only place where someone who just got into Yale and someone who just got out of jail can eat together at the table of brotherhood. 

When I was in middle school, my cousin flipped out. He was the oldest of my grandma's kid sister's kids. My family is large as I explained, so I would have to have a flow chart to even add clarity and that would probably still confuse you some. Max was going through a problem phase. He was 16, in love, and willing to go the distance for his bae. Max had some revolting nickname for her which escapes my mind, but it was something like Sugar Lips. 

Max's parents wanted him to come home after a long day at the fair. The family had only one car, but Max had just learned to drive and wanted to stay and have fun with Sugar Lips. His parents explained it was near his curfew, but Max wanted to do what Max wanted to do. So as they were going home, Max insisted he and Sugar Lips could not be apart. His parents told him to call her tomorrow. On a long and lonesome dirt road, Max jumped out of the car as it was moving. He flew out, hit his head, and his mother was screaming. Her son was knocked unconscious. 

Max was put on a life flight. They were not sure if he would make it. After 2 days in a coma, Max woke up. It appeared he had no brain damage. His memory was still good, but he lost some of his sense of taste. Either way, his parents were glad to have him alive. 

Max went about his life. He was a hockey star, but seemed more aggressive. Max also excelled in math and science, but was more aggressive in class when he chose to show up. Before the head injury, Max's grades were lackluster at best. But after hitting his head they improved. However, as I explained he made a bad habit of yelling at his teachers. That's when he chose to deck one in the middle of class. As you could imagine, Max got expelled. 

Max and Sugar Lips were stronger than ever. Her parents were not fond of Max as he had just been kicked out of school for punching a teacher. But for as strong as teenage love is, it is about as strong as something that is built on quicksand because as we know the plot line could quickly get a rewrite. Another young stag entered the fray. Yes, one who was currently going to school but grudgingly so. One who went to the same church as Sugar Lips. One who Sugar Lips's dad actually introduced her to. One who called her by her real name, whatever that was, and not Sugar Lips. As quickly as he rode in, Max was written into the pages of history in this young woman's life. 

Well they say breaking up is hard to do. 

Max was blowing up the phone of Sugar Lips. She was not picking up. He showed up at her door. Her father told him never to come around again. Max was not giving up. So being the well adjusted youngster he was with a head filled with amazing decisions, he followed her and her new boyfriend. Her new boyfriend felt this was creepy and broke up with her. Max had his Sugar Lips back.......or so he thought. 

Apparently she was done. And so were her parents. So they got a restraining order against my cousin. But some call it legal action, Max called it playing hard to get. 

In rural Pennsylvania, people own guns. You have to. The cops are far away and if you have a farm you need to protect your animals from predators. This was the case with my cousin's family. Most folks use the guns for those purposes, but not Max. He went to his parent's tool shed, took a rife, and headed over to the house of Sugar Lips. His proposal, they rekindle their love or else it was murder/suicide time.

When he came over, needless to say she freaked out. The gun sent her screaming. Max  held her hostage for several hours as she was not allowed to call the cops. When her parents got home he held them hostage too. The police were finally called in some way. And when they came my cousin surrendered without incident. At that moment, he realized the relationship was over and Sugar Lips was gone forever.

Or so he thought. 

Max went to jail and the toss up was if he was going to be charged as a juvenile or an adult. Of course his head injury was taken into account. Max also got several letters from Sugar Lips in jail wanting to possibly be friends someday. She didnt want to cut him out as she still cared about him. However, her parents were quick to stop this. 

Needless to say my cousin made the news. My friends thought he was hot. Yes, at the end of it guys like my cousin get a babe and decent dudes dont. Max ended up being sentenced as a juvenile which relieved our entire family. Before he went away Max said to my grandmother, "You know, it's not going to be all that bad. I don't have to go to school. It's prison for kids."

Apparently it was going to be more than Max intended. In Pennsylvania, kids go to school 180 days. If you are an incarcerated juvenile, you have to go to school year around. Max was incredulous. Hey, it's prison for kids! 

Max had some hard lessons while he was inside. In Pennsylvania, if you are an incarcerated juvenile, your parents have to pay to have you housed in the system. Max's parents decided to emancipate him. So in addition to sucking at the whole parenting thing, they were cheap. Instead of looking at the choices that got them to this point, his mother told the judge her son was "a bad seed and the product of a criminal gene."

His father insisted that it was "just teen love gone wrong and boys will be boys."

Max never had a chance in hell of being normal. My grandmother knew this. She also knew his craptacular family had turned their backs on him. So for his birthday and holidays, she sent him cards and presents. Because his family wanted to save money, this meant commissary was out of the question. Knowing Max had no one, she put money on his books. This wasn't about a head injury or a criminal gene or even teen love gone wrong. Max was lonely, heartbroken, and had no half normal adult to talk to. 

He completed his sentence and got out. Max met a girl and got married. No, kidnapping and firearms were not a part of the proposal. 

Now Max is married with a kid. He's a good dad working 2 jobs to support his daughter. Part time as a used car salesman and part time as a lab test subject. Max's dad brags that it's the best job his son's ever had, "So what my boy can't pee on his own and glows in the dark. He's rich!" 

While he is quite the character, Max never forgot my grandmother's generosity. At her funeral he drove all the way from Ohio where he now lives to speak about how when he was incarcerated, my grandmother was the only one who remembered him when his own family wanted nothing to do with him. 

Now I write the story. I have to. Or in the words of my grandmother's author bio, "I have a large and colorful family. It's filled with chaos, excitement, drama, and rewards. I just write it down."

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18 Cents......

Yes, that is a real Christmas song. My dad and his family used to sing it when I was a kid. Apparently unknown artists before the days of the Countdown Singers put out little records. 18 Cents is the most depressing Christmas song ever. It's about this poor kid who has no money except for 18 cents and how he divvies it up. But damnit, 18 Cents is our depressing Christmas song.

I am glad 2016 is almost over. I am so tired I feel as if I will die some days. There are moments where I want someone to throw a blanket all over me. Yesterday I was so exhausted that I nearly fell asleep in the train station. That would have been a bad idea, but eh.

Lately, I have been running around so much and there has been so much to do. I have been dealing with folks overseas. Then I have been getting ready to showcase my show The Lady and President Tramp at APAP. I have been interviewing piano players who work everywhere and are more tired than I am. In between I have been getting onstage and delivering telegrams. Today I interviewed a young woman still covered in my Lady Gaga sparkles. I know, STABLE.

I asked her about her life as if I had the right to judge anyone covered in my sparkles. She lived with her boyfriend. I asked how their relationship was because I had a piano teacher who broke up and wouldnt get out of bed. This is why I don't know how to play piano. She said things were fine. I said I had to ask. Then I remembered I was covered in sparkles. I was in no place to judge anyone anywhere.

Two weeks ago, I did a podcast with an Irishman who was recording me from a bathroom in Poland. It's not what you think, often the bathroom is the quietest place in the house. I have a soft spot for the Irish because my dad's family is Irish. Heck, my pop's himself is the stereotypical Irishman in a lot of ways. His dad even more so.

Either way, I am ready for 2016 to be over. I am ready to hear my mother's lecture about how I need more protein in my diet. I am ready for my father to shame me about my life choices as we watch Big Battles and I admire his train platform. I am ready for my male younger cousins to tell me about how they realized recently that women were jealous. (Honey, we all jealous). I am ready for one of my female cousins to have a meltdown over a guy and spill the truth via eggnog. And I am ready to tell her at least he went away on his own, you didn't have to get the cops involved.

I am ready for my cousin to get out his trump and to start playing 18 Cents

Here is the link to the podcast I did with the Irishman from his bathroom in Poland. Enjoy. http://thecomedycast.com/podcast/the-comedy-cast-interview-with-american-comedian-ventriloquist-and-writer-april-brucker/

This Is Growing Up (Blink 182)

I am an adult in some ways, and in some ways I am not. Currently I am 32 year old. I live in a house with 2 dudes. One is a talented painter who is never home. The other is my landlord who has funny stories about NYC back in the day and is obsessed with UFOs. His parents live downstairs, and when they need anything they yell up. My home life is like a sit com.

My life outside of home is like a rambling nomad. I live from gig to gig and can live on pocket change if need be. I am working on managing my money better.......kinda......on Mondays. I am living off the snack food my mom sent me. She also has to call me to make sure I eat sometimes because I do forget. Yeah, real adult.

As for my outside life, my comedy and activism with one Donald J. Tramp has been sending me all over the place. First to Cleveland. Then to Las Vegas. After which I went to Long Island. Then I will be at the debates in Vegas again. Life is exciting.

This past July I went to Cleveland during the RNC and marched with Stand Together Against Trump. (STAT). I arrived at the RNC right from my sister's wedding in Pittsburgh. One stressful event to the next. Everyone kept asking me if I was nervous I might get killed.

Truth, as the maid of honor helping to plan her wedding nearly killed me. Everyone kept acting like I should have been jealous or bent out of shape because I'm older. I have had a fiance and 2 boyfriends I talked marriage with. I know full well you kiss a frog and he becomes a price, but alas, that prince becomes a man.

Nonetheless, the wedding weekend was an odd paradox. It was a throwback to my parents' generation, that of the Vietnam War. There was the establishment and the anti-establishment, at the same event. Both well educated. Both able to argue their point.

It was analogous to the time Richard Nixon walked his daughter Pat down the aisle on national television as an example of family values to what he viewed as the disruptive protest generation. My dad is hardly Nixon, but my sister was dressed in white walking down the aisle representing the establishment. Standing next to her on the alter, the one not getting married and heading to the protest after her fun was done, I was a representing the closest thing we had to the protest generation. The blushing bride and the dirty hippie, side by side at the same main event.

Skipper is hardly political, but at the same time she now had purchased a house and had a husband. Boomer had been a Ron Paul delegate years before in 2012. Now they were settling down. I was a rambling wheel, unattached. There would not be much collateral damage if my idyllic values got me killed. My parents would cry. I hadn't much property aside from my puppets or books. Despite the fact I was older......yeah she's the adult.

During the wedding, I steered away from discussing Donald J. Tramp or Cleveland. It was my sister's day. Skipper was decked out in white. If there was going to be drama, I didn't want it to be because a drunken Trump supporter relative and I got into it.

When my dad mentioned it, they wanted to know if I was afraid. I was excited. You see, my sister was marrying Boomer but I was marrying the revolution. For years I had dipped my feet into the activist pool and then ran away. Now I was being pulled back in to stop a man akin to Hitler. The thought of being political scared me at times, that's why I never committed. Now I was fully committing to my destiny of using my gifts for the greater good and I felt complete. So one could say we both got married in a way that weekend.

As for being afraid.......I was afraid when my former fiance's violent temper came my way. I was afraid when he hit me. I was afraid when he tried to choke me. I was afraid when it looked like I was going to be kicked out of college. I was afraid when my drug addict former roommate was stealing from me. I was afraid when I was living off my laundry money because I was so broke. I was afraid when I was stranded in Long Island in the middle of winter. I was afraid when I was stranded late at night on the Jersey Shore and missed the last train. I was afraid the first time I climbed a mountain which was in a rainstorm and slipped. I was afraid when I was handed eviction papers. I was afraid when I had to go to court on my own in front of the judge as the bully boy lawyer taunted me with his straight, male privilege. I was afraid when my former soldier ex boyfriend had a psychotic break when he thought Isis was watching us and Barack Obama was their leader. I was afraid when his sister called me and threatened me after we broke up. I was afraid when my evil landlord tried to burn down my apartment. I was afraid when I tested positive for the virus that gives one cervical cancer. I was also afraid at age 9 when I nearly drowned in the ocean and grabbed my mother's leg. I was afraid when mold and bed bugs overwhelmed my former apartment to the point where my hair was falling out and I couldn't breathe.

Yet each time God appeared and got me through it, and each time there was a rainbow on the other side. If I got shot in Cleveland I had lived through worse. And maybe if I went out saving the world, or at least trying, I could go out saying I did some good. If the hose, the gas, and the dogs were my fate I would gladly go the way of better men and women before me.

My parents were thrilled I was taking this step, but nervous. My dad is a lawyer and has been involved in politics behind the scenes for local candidates in the past. So he was proud when I was carrying on the family political tradition of being a good Democrat.

As for my mom, she was a Second Waver and led a sit in so the female athletes could get letter jackets just like their male counterparts at her Division I University. Apparently, my mom was also the go to person for the administration, and even was able to get the woman athletes special meal times/study halls like their male counterparts had for years and took for granted. Alas, she had hung up her activist stripes long ago as life went on. She was a teacher, wife, mother, and now mother of the bride and mother of a peaceful protester.

I am not saying Skipper twirls her hair, cracks gum, and only wants to be a wife and mother. By all means this is far from the case. In some ways she has done more for feminism than I have. Skipper is an ER doctor and has lectured on genetics in Washington, DC. The sciences are hard pressed for women and Skipper is a trail blazer among many who is helping to correct that problem. Additionally, she is a champion marks woman who more often than not gets a crack shot. Her area of expertise is gun safety and bullet wounds. Heck, she knows as much battlefield history as I do if not more. We are easily Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, respectively.

Unlike myself, Skipper has always been more traditional and dreamed of being a wife and mother. I have never had the pull the way most women have. Eh....whatever.

My brother Wendell has a fellowship at a hospital and is too busy to care about this election. Sometimes he even sleeps in his lab. Politics are the last of his concerns, seeing sunlight his first.

In any event, the RNC will get several blogs of it's own I promise.

Fast forward to last night.  I did a show with Queerball. Yes, it was an all gay comedy show. An all inclusive safe space for LGBTQ people and allies, it was a wonderfully supportive place to display work. When I got the chance to be a part of this effort, I jumped on it.

Backstage, before showtime, I found several of my fellow performers fired up about the election. Some even took the bus to Philadelphia in order to help local citizens register to vote. Others had phone banked or were planning on doing so.  All were anti-Trump and pro-Hillary.  They were all excited to hear not only that I went to Cleveland, but had protested Donald Trump and had an act that mocked the bigot.

Afterwards, remarked that not only had he enjoyed the satirical jab at the Donald, but liked the fact my act had a message. It made me smile to hear that. This also made me realize that just as Queerball founder Timothy Dunn wanted to create a safe space within the NYC comedy community and the UCB, together, we were using our collective talents to make the world a safer space for all marginalized people.

This extended to safe spaces, LGBTQ friendly improv jams, making videos about things that we felt were unjust, protesting with puppets, phone banking, and signing up people to vote. We were pounding the pavement trying to stop tyranny. We were actively embracing the solution, both artistic and political. We were trying to silence Donald Trump, the scary real life ventriloquist puppet of the Republican party, and push down the crumbling infrastructure of a party built on hate.

"I don't want to just sit at the bar and complain about Trump. I don't just want to vote either. I want to do all I can to stop him." One of my comrades said as he expressed his desire to volunteer for the Hillary campaign.

I will close by saying this. Skipper and I could not lead more different lives currently. Yet my parents raised us both to be leaders. Skipper is leading the charge in the front lines of scientific research, and I am leading the charge with Donald J. Tramp on the front lines of history. We are both trying to leave the world better than how we found it.

 Sure, I am wearing Batman leggings and have yet to shower. Eh, maybe I'm doing better than I thought I was........

Let's Go Crazy (Prince)

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today, to get through this thing called life…..” I remember those words spoken back in the day listening to Prince on the 80s throwback. It was my sister and I having a makeshift dance party in our family weight room. It was my dad screaming to turn the music down. It was always our escape during forced family time, when my dad controlled what we watched on TV, and the times Skipper and I wanted no part of it.

This weekend Prince died, and Skipper was having her bridal shower. Both are a sign that time passes, and both a funeral and a wedding have odd ways of bringing the crazy out in everyone. Let’s go crazy, eh?

Weddings as I mentioned are stressful, and this event in general was stressful. Weeks before, at the edge of a near breakdown, my Aunt Marie sent me a rambling email about setting up. She advised me to bring a track suit and then change into my clothes there. I replied to her email, but apparently she didn’t get it because she called my mom. Apparently her daughter Kelly didn’t get it because I got another facebook message wanting to know if I would come and set up.

Aunt Marie is my sister’s Godmother. She is well intentioned but sometimes high strung. Then again, of course she would be super high strung. This was a big event, and the opening act to the main event…..the wedding.

Of course I will come and set up. It’s my sister’s wedding. I am The Maid of Honor, aka family member who gets to sit near the bride and act as her indentured servant at all wedding events. Yes, I have only put this wedding on a physical timeline, prodded my parents and sister to complete the guest list, and make people stick to their deadlines. This wedding only haunts me in my sleep. Yeah, I’m there.

The other stress of the weekend was Boomer, my sister’s fiancé, had his parents coming to town to meet my parents. They had to go to some of the wedding appointments with my mom, and make some wedding decisions. However, their flight from Boston was delayed, and my mom was flipping out because they had appointments to go to. It all worked out, but it was one more stressor.

While the parents were doing wedding stuff, I cleaned the kitchen and vacuumed as well as scrubbed and did a load of dishes. I felt like this was going to kill me, and in no way am I ready to be a domestic engineer. My mother was pleasantly surprised, but my father felt it was still too dirty. I freaked out. I had only spent all day cleaning.

Diplomatically my mother informed me that there was always a new level to clean, and the house had to be perfect for the man party. It was in part so my father could show off his newly renovated man cave. So there was MORE cleaning to be done. And kindly she informed me that at a time like this, there was always MORE CLEANING. Nevermind my parents have spent the better part of the year using their weekends for home improvement projects regarding this wedding. And the fact they changed my childhood room around. Yeah, it looks cleaner than when a teen lived there but damn, I have never felt so violated.

Fortunately the Nelson’s turned out to be lovely people. Mr. Nelson is an engineer, and Mrs. Nelson works with people who have diabetes. Gentle spirits, they too were from large families. They too were stressed about this wedding. At least we were all connecting on that level.

The next day was the shower, and to say the lid was about to blow off the stress pot was an understatement. Skipper went to the salon to have her hair done, and I my mom and I decided to have the wedding timeline meeting with her. During the course of the meeting, I found out one of my sister’s bridesmaids, a young woman who is a trauma surgery fellow, cannot get off for the wedding. However, she is coming in days early just to help out and spend time with my sister. As I was planning, my head nearly exploded.

“I need to know about conforming bridesmaids!” I snapped as I began to chart the weekend. My mom snapped back at me. I had other wrinkles to sort out, such as the fact each girl would need 45 minutes on their hair and the hair dressers had to come at 8 AM to get started. Someone who wanted to act rogue was on their own. When I am in a planning phase I am akin to General Patton on the Peninsula. Don’t get in my way, bitches!

Yeah, I know it’s not my wedding but at this point it’s like I am this far in the foxhole, might as well lead the charge.

I got ready to go to the hall, and my cousin Kelly was supposed to retrieve me. Aunt Marie had been planning this event and now we were down to the wire. However, the clock ticked and she was late. My dad and I plotted on what to do, as Skipper was having her final dress fitting. He advised me to stay calm, weddings made everyone crazy.

“Why is that?” I asked.

“It’s because they are looking for an excuse to be crazy and finally have one.” He informed me. Seconds later, Kelly pulled up to rescue me from a possible impromptu cleaning project involving the man cave.

Kelly apologized, she had to pick up a prescription of horse pills because apparently she somehow in her travels contracted shingles. It’s always a question of what isn’t happening when these things go down. When we got to the hall, Aunt Marie was wearing the proverbial captain’s jacket and gave us orders. To say the place looked beautiful was an understatement. She and my Uncle Frank really outdid themselves. I mean really.

They handmade the decorations hanging from the ceiling, and they also handmade the party favor margarita glasses with bath salts and other treats in them that said, “From my shower to yours.” My mouth hung open in pleasant surprise. Perhaps this was going to be a party and not D-Day as initially dreaded.

Guests came in, and Kathi, a fellow bridesmaid and high school bestie of my sister’s, helped me intercept the present as soon as the women entered. That way they could put on their name tags and socialize. While Skipper and I knew some of the people present from growing up, others were relatives coming from afar. This is the blessing and curse of having a huge family because you always have to pose the awkward question of, “How are we related again?”

Everyone was really nice and the event went smoothly. A lot of people came because they had known my grandmothers, and they had come to their children’s weddings. Others to my pleasant surprise actually have been following my exploits on social media. Many spoke about my dad as a little boy.

Of course the second there was an inkling of down time it was back to work aka opening the presents. Yes, WORK. Kathi and Kelly handed the presents and disposed of the wrapping paper and made a bow. Skipper shined like a diamond as she opened them. And I, sitting to her right, painstakingly catalogued everything. The entire time I took copious notes hoping my ipad would not melt down or crash.

Skipper made out like a bandit. She got so much cook ware that with her medical degree I somewhat worried that if she had trouble paying off her student loans she might resort to cooking meth. But then I remembered she was a good kid. However, she got enough liquor decanters to make many an alcoholic in my genetic line jealous.

However, all jokes aside, she lit up the place and was kind and gracious as ever. Sure, there have been times I have wanted to strangle her in the planning of this wedding, as she is not one to make a decision easily. At the same token, she has grown up into a nice young lady and I was so happy for her and proud of her at that very moment. All and all, she’s a good egg.

My gift accidentally had a moment. I got her the cake cutters and matching flutes as per tradition for the Maid of Honor. I also got her a cake topper back in January from the party store down the street. Actually, it turned out to be too big to be a topper, but I had no clue what she still needed let alone who was throwing the shower at that point. My mother and I were worried it was going to be us before Aunt Marie stepped up. Thank God. Either way, I purchased it because it looked like Skipper and Boomer.

In purchasing this, I had no idea that the bag I would put it in would play wedding music. Either way, when I pulled it out, music played. It was a WTF moment. The whole room ooed and awed at my present. Yes, we all agreed it would be used for the cookie table. (the cookie table gets a blog of it’s own).

In any event, the shower was a success. Cleaning up was like climbing the last stretch of Mt. Everest. Skipper, my mom, and I wanted to go. But Aunt Marie and Uncle Frank had really put their blood, sweat, and tears into this event. It would have been wrong for us to bolt. Plus we had mounds of presents to load.

When I got back to the house, I thought I would get to put my pajamas on and crash. No such plan. There were some men folk straggling. I did what I always do when my parent’s have house guests, visit like a civilized human. However, it was also nice to see men. The party was wonderful and everyone was generous, but after a room full of women for several hours you want to see other civilization. It’s similar to when a chick arrives at a sausage fest.

My dad’s friend Dr. Reb was there drinking with Mr. Nelson, and we discussed the election and laughed. Mrs. Nelson told a story about how Boomer had snuck out as a child, and like a gentle soul she read a book on the experience about raising young men. The Nelson’s were different than my parents. We would have been killed dead had we done that. Skipper and Boomer both turned out relatively well, so perhaps everyone’s parents did a good job in their own different ways.

The next day was spent crafting 55 thank you notes. Skipper, being thoughtful but not so practical, wanted to make each one special. I warned her that she would get tired. She did as I dictated each gift from my master list and my mom addressed and then handed it back to me to steal and stamp. Just when we thought we were done, we had failed to account for the gifts that were shipped to the house, aka shadow gifting. And then Skipper had a few envelopes with gift cards she forgot about in her purse.

There was added drama when there was a gift from one woman named Nanette. She had come with a group of my dad’s family members and no one knew who she was. So we had to call my Aunt Marie who was still in her glory over the shindig she threw to find out. It was a daughter in law of one of my dad’s many relations. Sigh…..

Just when I thought my day was over, my dad wanted me to teach him how to use social media. As I gave this sixty something year old a lesson as we sat in his man cave, I wondered which of the fates I had pissed off. Explaining twitter to my dad was interesting to say the least. He needs it for his job, and I wondered why no one else had bothered to explain it, but why ask?

All this was in between Skipper chronically facetiming Boomer as he spearheaded their house hunt, and her making sure he didn’t fall asleep in the car. Face to palm, these people had taken my last kernel of sanity. If I saw the color white, heard wedding music, or even the word wedding I was going to scream……..

Just then my dad proposed we watch Bridge of Spies. As usual, there he was controlling the TV clicker. The radio stations were all playing Prince. My sister and mom were on my last nerve. Maybe I could dance to Prince alone.

However, weddings are like funerals. You begin to realize you won’t have everyone forever. It’s just not the way it goes. Skipper was getting married. While I would be gaining a brother, we would never be able to hang out like this again really and truly. And if anything happened to any one of them, I would be devastated. The good part is, Prince’s music will live on but these moments won’t.

So I watched Bridge of Spies with my family in my dad’s newly fashioned man cave. My mom fell asleep half way through the movie. Skipper hogged the blankets. My dad and I actively talked history. We all agreed it was Tom Hanks at his best.

During the film my mentor texted wanting to talk. I told him he would have to wait a bit. The movie was just getting good and we were all detoxing from a long and stressful weekend. At the end of it all, they are crazy people, but they are my crazy people.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life.”

Born in Your Bed

Each Sunday, I talk to my mom and dad. It's weird calling my parents now that I am getting older. There is always a mix of wanting to avoid talking to them, but yet knowing for as crazy as they are, they too are mere mortals. Translated, parents become important in a way they weren't before because you know you aren't going to have them forever.

My mom told me today that they were polishing my bed. This is a mix of spring cleaning and the never ending marathon of dusting etc for my little sister's wedding. Anyway, they told me that my bed was "shiny like a tuba." Yes, my bed frame is old brass. It does rust. It's actually was my parent's bed before it was mine, and my great grandmother's bed, too.

I got it because my sister was an accident, birth control gone wrong. I was privy to this information when I was a teen and my mom was telling us how birth control could mess up. Apparently I was birth control gone wrong too. My mom says she's grateful because if my brother was an only child she would work as a docent at a museum because he shortened her lifespan so much.

When my sister was born, they had to move me out of the nursery to a big girl bed because now the crib was hers. This was an emergency and that meant me sleeping in the heir loom. Thus my sister stayed in the nursery and got a single bed when the time came. Serves her right......lil accident.

So today, as my mom is telling me about this, the conversation took an interesting and disturbing turn:

Mom: I think I might have been born in your bed.

Me: No Mom, you were born in a hospital.

Mom: No, I was born in your bed. People werent born in hospitals then.

Me: Mom, you were born in a hospital. Remember, your mom and the lady across from her swapped names?

Mom: Yeah, that's right.......I was.......then your grandmother was born in your bed.

Me: What?!

Mom: Yeah, geat-grandmother had to use this doctor she didn't like because of the bank. They pulled your grandma out with forceps and broke her nose.

Me: Really?!

Mom: Really.

Me: That's a lot. Birth.....Childbirth.......in my bed. Blood, guts......EWWWWW!!!!!!!!! No.....just no!!!!!!!!

Dad: So that's what we have to look forward with you.

Me: I am never having children.

Dad: It's better than someone dying in your bed.

Me: Then I would never sleep there again.

Dad: Well people die in hospital beds all the time and they flip the mattress over.

Me: If anyone died in my bed I would burn the damn mattress.


Later I thought, there had been a birth in my bed. Then my parents had my bed before me. So there had been lots of ucky action there. Dear God.......what a disturbing thought. And I just came from church too. May God cast Satan out of my mind......