But Was it Mint?

The funeral home wake.

Conjures up images of a monochromatic widow gracefully blotting the tears as she sits cross ankled before a coffin, doesn't it?

Ah- I see that you're not an Italian American in New York.

We mourn our dead via parade of Prada, Gucci, MCM and the requisite Fendi purses, riding high on the forearms of our women (broads). Impeccable hair and cosmetics (make up like a putana), leather skirts to silk wrap dresses rule. 

This is no place for the LL Bean set (them Jersey broads).

 This is a New York (New Yawk) Italian wake.

Stock brokers (bro-kiz), attorneys (shyster law-yiz), physicians ( doc-tiz), PA's (secretaries at cousin Tony's collision shop) and mobsters (doin' some work wit some guys down dare in Flaw-i-duh) - matters not which path we've chosen, here we find ourselves together again.

The Italian American wake uniform checklist:

___ Large gold medal bearing the image of Padre Pio or Jesus?
___ Is it on a thick gold chain?
___ Is the medal more than three inches in diameter?
___ Is the medal placed directly under the knot of your silk tie?
___ Is your suit shinier than your hair?
___ Does your wife (tomato) have this year's prada on her arm and feet?

Not checked all five? Then you'd best not show your face inside the funeral home.

People will look at you funny.

Test your Italian American wake knowledge.

The clack, clackity, clack noise is coming from:
a. The widow's stiletto heels
b. The widow's chewing gum
c. The faulty air conditioning installed by Louie Ducts

The casket cost fifteen thousand dollars which is known as:
a. fifteen large
b. fifteen grand
c. fifteen bills

The only funeral limousine generally accepted in the NY Italian American community:
a. Cadillac ( Caddy)
b. Lincoln ( Lin-kin)
c. other

OK, that last one was a trick question. Linkins and Caddies are the only way to transport one's dead, so long as the auto in question is mint.

Boning, revisited

"I have something for you back in my hotel room. Walk with me."

The poor Devil followed nervously, struggling to make smalltalk as we entered my suite.

I offered up the small Victoria Secret bag dangling from my index finger.

"I'll try it on for you, if you like."

"No... uh... no, you shouldn't, we shouldn't...."

Poor Devil. Cheeks flush, his eyes shot between the bag and the bed.

"Just open it."

His one hand crumpled passed the pink tissue paper, the other sleeved the sweat now forming on his brow. Just to make things extra difficult for him, I moved a bit closer.

"Go ahead..." I sirened as I let my hair down.

His hands trembled as he eyed the unrecognizable rumple of sheer black fabric.

Camisole? Stockings? He stood frozen as I tussled my hair.

Now freed from it's wrappings, the resilient dressmaker's wire sprang my gift back into it's intended shape.

He gasped.

You'd think he'd never seen a Witch's hat before....

12.25.06

"Aren't we forgetting
the real meaning of Christmas?
You know - the birth of Santa..."


-Bart Simpson

The Stocking Solution

It's not right he thought.

Born to privilege, he'd never known personal hardship, couldn't bear to think of his neighbor's plight into newfound poverty. On the rough streets, the three teenaged daughters now faced a life of hard, menial labor, perhaps falling victim to the crime and prostitution which plagued their town.

But how does one spare the pride of an honest father struggling to raise his daughters?

It's not right he thought.

That night he prayed.

He awoke with a far fetched but perfectly feasible solution. He wrapped a small fortune in currency into one of his socks, and set out into the dark of night. Standing before the neighbor's house, he took careful aim.

Arm cocked back, he flung his stocking solution into the poor father's chimney. The sock would smolder away in the remnants of the fire's embers, leaving the miracle of coins to be found in the morning's ashes. The family would be saved, the father's pride intact, their faith in God invigorated.

Through prayer and devotion to his Christian faith, Nicholas went on to perform many more miracles. His spirit of selfless giving has moved millions of people throughout the ages.

December 6th
The Feast Day of Saint Nicholas

Today

Today is World Aids Day.

No Sparks Between Us

"Is the flame supposed to be this low, Witch?" Father Ben called to me from over his shoulder as he tended the grill.

"I left it on high. Check the setting".

"It's on high..."

I went beside Ben, basking in the warm glow of the pathetic flames sputtering beneath the raw meat.

"I have another tank of propane in the pool shed. Do the honors"?

"I'll carry if you know how to attach that thing" bargained my less than handy friend.

"Relax - I've done this hundreds of times" I assured.

It was a lie - I'd changed a BBQ propane tank maybe five times. Do I go to hell for lying to a priest?

No. Apparently Roman Catholicism offers karmic retribution - the instant variety.

"Uh Witch, what's that hissing noise?".

"Fuck... we're not out of gas - that's a leak".

"Ben! Don't move".

One little spark and that steady stream of gas I feel against my pant leg is going to explode.

I fumbled to slide a plastic cuff over the leak and disengage the tank.

"Witch.... WITCH...W I T C H ...."

Whew.

It was over. The gas leak had been contained, but we were left standing in a cloud of highly flammable gas.

"No sparks between us Ben - we've got to hold steady for a moment while this dissipates".

"No sparks, Witch" he smiled nervously.

There never were any sparks between us, that's why we're friends.

Warning Pain

Supper in suburban New Jersey, or as the locals would say - Joisey. This Brooklyn girl was pleasantly surprised with Nova Terra, gives it three and a half brooms up.

I'd review it in greater depth if only I'd not been so terribly distracted by the dinner conversation.

Shortly after ordering our meals, my companions chose to air their emotional woes. Of the seven at my table, I was the only one not taking antidepressants. Unhappy marriage, career related stress, as a smoking cessation aide - all advocated medication as a tool to avoid feeling unhappiness.

Shockingly, all but one obtained their prescriptions from a single visit to a MD.

Huh?

I made the foolish mistake of asking why one would want to mask temporary emotional pain. Was it not a necessary part of life?

When one touches a hot stove, pain tells us to pull the hand away. Is emotional pain not the same? Sure, the mind is complicated, but simplistically speaking, doesn't pain = warning?