Foreword
Whom God would sorely vex, He endows with abundant good sense.
-Yiddish Proverb
We all know someone who is unlucky. One of those pour souls who can never seem to outrun the dark cloud that follows them around no matter how hard they try; the proverbial “Schlep rock”. There was a time in my life when I wouldn’t believe such people actually existed, choosing rather to believe that these types were simply victims of their own impatience, inexperience, or incompetence. Over the last 17 years I have learned otherwise. I am pretty much convinced that certain people have an innate propensity for mishap. No, I am not one of these people, but I am married to one. My wife is not an airhead, dingbat or anything of the sort. We all make mistakes, have lapses in judgment and make poor decisions once in a while. This constitutes the lions’ share of what we commonly refer to as “the human condition.”, but some peoples’ uncanny “ability” to become entangled in undesirable circumstances goes far beyond what bad luck or coincidence can explain away.
After living with Nancy and being caught up in her boundless mishaps for the better part of two decades I have learned a few things. Most importantly, the desire to overcome adversity is paramount for survival. Secondly, understanding and embracing your place in the universe and who you really are will bring clarity and sanity to your life. Finally, don’t ever take yourself too seriously. Cling tightly to your sense of humor, as it will prop you up when nothing else can. Life is too short to sweat the small stuff, even when trouble comes calling.
One
“Among those whom I like or admire, I can find no common denominator, but among those whom I love I can: all of them make me laugh.”
- W. H. Auden
I get my story telling ability from a long line of bullshitters. Of these, the two most notable are my mom and her mom, Grandma Kitty. Grandma Kitty would get to laughing so hard when telling a story, she would wet herself. She had so many stories- it is a shame she didn’t write a book. Now HER life was an adventure. Mine? I’ll call it a misadventure.
My Mom insists that her tombstone should read, “Here lies Patty. Her life was not boring.” Next to that will be my tombstone, “Here lies her daughter, Nancy. Neither was hers.” My favorite story my Mom tells involves false teeth, a knitted, hot pink bikini top, an inexperienced state trooper, and The Jesus Shoes.
The Jesus Shoes. There’s so much about The Jesus Shoes that I can’t even put it into words. These were the most God-awful sandals EVER. They were like prehistoric Jellies except not nearly as colorful, fashionable, or popular. The sandals were molded rubber with stamped indentations and ridges to make them look like real leather sandals. Oh Lord. Because adding that fine detailing made them that much more attractive. Sure.
Mom had a pair in dark tan and light tan because owning one pair of the ugliest shoes ever wasn’t enough. Both pairs were speckled with paint splatters. THAT added to the fake detailing so nicely. Like every other kind of ugly shoes that have come along which people raved were so comfortable- Ugg boots, Crocs, Birkenstocks worn with socks- Mom insisted the sandals were so comfortable. Please- rocks would get stuck in the hollow parts of the heel. Walking with rocks in your shoes is as comfortable as wearing wet wool socks with Birkenstocks in the snow during cold winter months. I get it now.
Next, the false teeth. When Mom was in high school, one of her best buddies, Roger, thought it would be really funny to push her face down into the stream of water from the water fountain to get her face all wet. Unfortunately Roger misjudged his dunking abilities because he pushed her head too hard, causing her to knock out her four front teeth on the fountain nozzle. Ever since then, Mom has worn a plate to replace those teeth. Needless to say, the gap left between her teeth has been the topic of many off-color jokes. Use your imagination.
When I was little, we had one of those pull-out dishwashers that sat in the middle of the kitchen and was hooked up to the kitchen sink. It just so happened that said dishwasher was sitting out at the same time my mom had to sneeze. Out flew the teeth which hit the dishwasher and promptly broke. Of course, as with all well-timed emergencies, this was a Friday afternoon so she was unable to get into the dentist’s office.
Now, for some reason, on Saturday morning when she got dressed to go the grocery store sans front teeth, Mom decided to pair The Jesus Shoes with cut-off jean shorts and this hand knitted, hot pink bikini top she had. And yes, the stitching was loose so, yes, things were showing that had no business showing. Keep in mind this was the seventies and Mom was pretty hot back in the day but, come on, a hot pink, hand knitted bikini top? To the grocery store?
So of course this was the perfect time for my Mom to speed down the highway because she hadn’t quite called enough attention to herself yet in that outfit. And of course she got pulled over by a state trooper who looked as if it was his third day on the job.
What I would pay to have seen the look on the face of the state trooper when he walked up to our jalopy of a station wagon, with three young children riding in the back seat not wearing seatbelts with a woman wearing a top that barely qualified as clothing who smiled up at him with no front teeth. The poor guy probably figured if my mom could barely afford to dress herself and replace her teeth, she didn’t have the money to pay a speeding ticket. After some stuttering and stammering, he let my Mom off with a warning about speeding. Mom went on her merry way. The officer was surely scarred for life.
That trooper probably still tells that story to his buddies. It’s no wonder I grew up believing that embarrassment was one of my five senses.
***
I’m one of those people that things just happen to. I blame my Mom. For starters, she craved Limburger cheese when she was pregnant with me. Not cherry pie or pizza or some other food whose scent makes you smile when it wafts through the air. The scent of Limburger cheese doesn’t waft delightfully through the air. It snatches you up and smacks you down. Secondly, she wasn’t happy about being pregnant with her third child. My brother, Dan, wasn’t quite four yet and my sister, Sandy, was barely 23 months older than me. All that negative energy was bound to affect me somehow. Add to that, she was so miserable in the last few weeks of her pregnancy, she scheduled her caesarian section earlier than my due date. It is my contention that I just wasn’t done yet. So my karma was off from the start.
I can’t say I made things better for Mom once I came out. Hell, the nurses at the hospital where I was born didn’t even want me around. They would bring me to my Mom when none of the other mothers had their babies. After they had done this several times at odd hours, Mom finally asked a nurse why she was getting her baby when nobody else did.
“Because we have to get SOME peace and quiet in the nursery,” the nurse said.
“Well how do you think I feel?” Mom sighed, “I have to take her home with me.”
I’m really feeling the love here, Mom, feelin’ the love. Yeah, that feeling of love followed me home where Mom took to sleeping in the car so that she could some peace and quiet. Add to that I didn’t even have a name because Mom was convinced I was going to be a boy. I was to be Anthony Patrick, doomed to spend a lifetime with all my Italian relatives calling to me, “Yo, Tooooooony.” After three days and still no name, she finally named me after one of the nurses.
The situation didn’t improve. I was colicky for 10 months and then started teething. AND I didn’t measure up to my brother and sister, the saintly Dan and Sandy. Mom used to gush how she NEVER had any problems
