Read Me First!

What is American Goulash? It's what a call my life - a mixture of Hungarian and American influences served up with a little bit of paprika. Okay, so technically, it's a dish that kinda resembles hamburger helper, but I was trying to be a little poetic about it, dammit! If you are looking for the recipe for "real" American Goulash, it's here.

How Should I Read This Blog?
Make sure you you read this blog from bottom to top (oldest to newest - use the "Archives" button on the right to get back to the first post on July '07). Blogger uses the sidebar instead the "Previous/Next" button at the bottom for navigation.

Are these stories true?
Happy and sadly, yes. It's a little weird to share my most personal and embarrassing moments with the entire world, but then again, therapy is really expensive so this is a pretty good alternative. Sure, some names have been changed because I don’t feel like getting sued/pissing anyone off. And if you realize that a re-named person in this story might be you, then I am required by the State of Pennsylvania to tell you that it is purely a coincidence. :)

Warning: Some of these stories may be "TMI" (too much information), so if are offended by blunt, uncensored honesty, please do not read forward.

The Guilt

My cousin Liz and I went for a walk one day to the local playground with her two small children, Attila and Kris.

"So, how is the art stuff going?" she asked, as she simultaneously pushed a stroller, filled a sippy cup, and adjusted Attila's hat to keep the sun out of his eyes.

I sighed. "Overwhelming as usual. I've been going to a billion networking events, gathering sponsors, writing proposals, keeping the books straight, coordinating venues, attempting to apply for grants, distributing flyers, dealing with website issues, answering technical questions, creating tons of promo graphics and copy, and that's just the freaking film festival!"

"Well, what else is happening? I mean, school is over, so you can relax a bit, right?"

I chuckled at the thought of relaxation. "I've doing crazy amount of freelance graphic design and animation stuff, which means writing MORE proposals, and I'm still working full time at the architecture place, attempting to write short stories at least once a week, writing several online columns, and pitching around a couple cartoon series ideas at conventions. Oh, and I just signed up to be a writer on a short film like a moron, so we are shooting next week."

"Don't burn yourself out, cousin!"

"Eh, I'm happy. I wouldn't have it any other way. My friends and I call it 'the guilt'; when you feel guilty going to a movie or just 'hanging around' because you should be working."

"'The Guilt'? That's just another way of saying that you're a workaholic."

"Yeah, well, what can I say, I write ad copy all day, 'The Guilt' spins a little better than 'Workaholic'."

"You know, I think it's genetic. I used to act just like you when I was at the radio station, and I thought everything would change once I had kids. But believe it or not, it got worse."

"This is not possible."

"Oh, you haven't experienced guilt until you have felt "Motherly Guilt". That is the fear and anxiety that you will be the worst mother on the planet. And unlike a day job, this guilt does not go away. No paid vacation. No full dental. Just constant unrelenting guilt."

"This sounds very unappealing."

"So, yeah, instead of hanging out by the water cooler or running to Starbucks on my lunch breaks, I go crazy trying to balance Attila's swimming lessons with bonding time with my inlaws, while trying to go to Gymboree with Kris, and inevitably at least one of them catches something from another kid, so then I have to deal with one sick kid and one kid that wants to play. Oh, and of course, then I wonder if it's my fault that they're sick, and if I am feeding them all the right organic foods, since I know this is the only time in their lives I am going to be able to make sure they eat right, but every day you find out that something else is bad for you and causes problems. At the end of the day I find myself wondering if I accidentally spent more time with Attila than Kris, and did I do enough learning exercises with them, and then I wonder if I did TOO many learning exercises with them because I don't want to stifle their creativity, and then I wonder if I should be the one reading to them every night or if I should be encouraging them to read or if I am putting too much pressure on them."

"You should be the spokesmodel for birth control."

"The thing is, I do this because I love my kids, and I would do anything for them, I just wish it didn't come with so much anxiety. Sometimes, the only thing that makes me feel better is YOU."

"Wow...really?" I was touched.

"I mean, I must be going a good job, because your mom fed you McDonalds all of your life and she didn't exactly read you bedtime stories you turned out okay."

"Oh. Thanks. I think?"

"You're welcome."

I considered our conversation for a moment. "God, cousin, we're both complete raving nutcases."

"So, you wanna go get iced coffee from Dunkin' Donuts? We should probably get Decaf."

"Yup. That sounds like a good idea."

Photo by Jyn Meyer

Whipped Cream Sundae

The other day, my boyfriend's roommate brought over "Sundae-Making-Supplies”: whipped cream, cherries, sprinkles, and some peanut butter cup ice cream. As you all know, I freaking hate peanut butter, especially peanut butter cups. Still, I can never turn down an opportunity to snack on sweetness, so I filled a small wine glass with whipped cream and topped it with rainbow sprinkles and like five cherries.

"Whipped cream sundae!" I announced to no one in particular. "Reminds me of my mommy!"

"Why's that?" my boyfriend asked, looking up from his mount of fudge-swirled-peanut buttery ice cream sludge.

"When I was a kid, Anyu would always come home and say, 'I haf a surprise for you!' and swirl a ton of whipped cream into a crystal glass. It always made me feel fancy, so that's how I like it now."

"Wow. That's the least traumatic thing I've ever heard you say about your mother. It's actually kinda sweet that you still make whipped cream sundaes."

"Well, this one isn't exactly the same. This is a wine glass, and the ones we had were stolen, fake crystal glasses from the Howard Johnson where Nagymama worked. And we never had maraschino cherries, Anyu was afraid it would stain my clothes. Oh, and I could never put the 'jimmie-type' sprinkles on it like this. She was always afraid that long sprinkles would get lodged in my throat and I would die, but the sprinkle 'dots' were okay. But this still makes me nostalgic..."

"-And there's the trauma!" he said, laughing.

"What? No! No trauma! It's just whipped cream!"

"You know, Steph, I think this is why you're so stressed out all the time."

"Yeah. You're probably right."

Photo by Trine de Florie

It's Peanut Butter Jelly Time

My friend Alia and I usually sat together at the same lunch table, and on occasion, Kayla would join us. Kayla was popular, so she generally rotated from table to table, and only really visited us when she wanted something. One day, Kayla dropped her purple Thermos-Brand lunchbag on the table and greeted me with a quizzical stare.

"What the heck are you crunching on?" she said, inspecting my brown bag labeled "Stefike". Kayla was always looking to switch lunches with someone because her mom always packed the same thing.

"Green peppers with Country Crock." I replied, not even looking up. "On toasted white bread." Anyu always put together sandwiches fresh from Nagymama's garden, so I usually had some combination of raw green peppers, radishes, iceberg lettuce, or American cheese with margarine. "Why, what do you have, Kayla?"

"Um, peanut butter and jelly, like normal people."

"Oh. I've never had one of those."

Alia and Kayla simultaneous yelled, "YOU'VE NEVER HAD A PEANUT BUTTER AND JELLY SANDWICH?!"

Kids from the other lunch tables turned around. If I wasn't uncool already, my friends had just confirmed it.

"Listen," I whispered. "Peanut butter with jelly..it's just...unnatural."

Kayla rolled her eyes. "Oh, okay, so I guess then manufactured butter substitute with manufactured bread substitute with green peppers is natural?"

I pondered while chewing. "Good point..."

"Well, why don't you try one?" Alia asked.

"Yeah, eat it!" Kayla shoved her oozing peanut butter sandwich in my face. I hesitantly took one bite and immediately spit it out into a napkin. I rummaged in my lunchbag, desperate for a Juicy-Juice to wash it down.

"What's your problem?" Kayla said, shocked at my obvious abhorrence to her staple lunch cuisine.

"Ewww..." I said, my mouth still sticky with sandwich residue, "The jelly slides all over your tongue, the peanut butter sticks to the roof of your mouth, and the bread is a soggy mess. That's a very stressful sandwich! In the words of my mom, 'I can't handle it!'"

"Yeah, well, it's better than your weird Hungarian vegetable butter sandwich."

Alia came to my defense, "I don't think there is such thing as a Hungarian vegetable butter sandwich. I think it might actually be British."

"Yeah, whatever," Kayla muttered under her breath, "Commie bastard."

"Excuse me?" I was pretty sheltered and went to a not-so-great public school, so at the time, I wasn't really sure what a Communist actually was.

"In Soviet Hungary, Peanut Butters YOU!" Kayla said in a horrible fake Russian accent. Alia burst out in laughter, and since I didn't understand the Yakov Smirnoff reference until YEARS later, I assumed that my friends were making fun of me.

Like any young girl that was desperate to fit in with her friends, I immediately applied for the school's "Free Lunch" program so I could stop bringing green pepper sandwiches to school. In retrospect, my green pepper sandwiches tasted better than anything the school slopped onto a plastic lunch tray. Maybe because they were made with love. And fake butter.

Photo by Daniel Wildman

The Kindness of Strangers

The Annual New Jersey Hungarian Festival occurs the furst weekend of June in New Brunswick. As much as I am looking forward to having a little bit of fresh lángos with powdered sugar, I always get worried when I take my family to public events. I already mentioned the whole ordeal concerning "The Secret Language" but sometimes, Nagymama's actions speak louder than her words.

Every time we attend the festival, we always make sure to stop at the Athletic Club around dinner time to sit down and enjoy truckloads of stuffed cabbage, kielbasa, and other Hungarian goodies. We usually all sit down at the long rows of tables while we eat so we could enjoy a free performance from the talented Hungarian Folk dancers. One time, we were so enamoured by what was happening on stage that no one noticed when Nagymama wandered away.

It wasn't until I heard the table next to us laughing hysterically that we even noticed that she was gone. Apparently, she quietly strolled over to another table, grabbed a bottle of Hungarian "Bull's Blood" wine from in front of a random stranger, pour herself a glass, and sat back down.

“Oh, my gosh!” I’ll pay for it!” I shouted over to them.

As I apologized, Nagymama effortlessly popped her teeth out of her mouth, tore off a piece of rye bread from her stuffed cabbage platter, shoved the bread into the wine, and then began sucking on the bread loudly. The table of strangers started laughing even harder.

“Don’t worry about the wine,” they said in Hungarian, “It’s payment enough watching your lovely grandmother enjoy herself.”

"Nagymama, say thank you for the wine," my aunt said to her.

"This bread is shit," Nagymama replied, as she finished the last inch of wine and continued to suck on the bread crust. "Complete shit. If they don't give good bread, the whole place will go to hell. Sari, can you go get me a soda?"

Of course, the strangers laughed even harder and actually poured her another glass of wine. It's a good thing that Hungarians have a good sense of humor :)

So. Is anyone going to the Hungarian Festival on Saturday? If so, I might see you there!

Photo by Vangelis Thomaidis

Quick Bite: Pee-Zamas

After I came out from the bathroom during my family's weekend retreat, my family noticed that had changed into comfortable red fleece bug-eyed penguins pajamas with matching velvet penguin flipflops.

Anyu looked at me up and down and made the same face she always makes when she's disappointed. “Stephie...had yer boyfriend seen dose pee-zamas?”

“Yes, he’s seen them, he thinks they’re cute.”

She just shook her head.

“Stephie, with pee-zamas like dat, you’re never gonna get laid.”

Pillow Talk

The LBI Bible Conference has a package with a modest, but clean room that includes a set of bunk beds, two queen-sized beds, a small bathroom, and three-square meals a day for only $77/person for an entire weekend. That’s a pretty good deal, despite the fact that I always get a headache from spending 72-hours solid with my family.

We all got there late Friday night, so as soon as we walked into our assigned room, my cousin collapsed onto the nearest bed. She was exhausted from the nearly two-hour drive filled with criticizing, agonizing, and general GPS worshipping. I decided I needed a break as well, so I threw my bag on one of the beds and fingered my pocket for my cell phone.

I looked over at my mother who was noisily rummaging through piles tinfoil-wrapped sandwiches. “Anyu, I’ll be right back.”

She furrowed her brow, “Vait, vait, vait, vhere are you goink?”
“I just want to call my boyfriend to let him know we got here okay, I’ll be right outside the door.”
“Nooooo! Somevon is going to steal you, Stephie!”

“What the heck are you talking about? I am a 6-foot tall adult on a Bible Conference compound in the middle of an island that only has one bridge to the mainland. No one is going to ‘steal me’!”
“I heard on 20/20, when you are on dah cell phone and not paying attention, dey can push you in the car. You stay here and talk.”

“Irina is trying to sleeping, we’re probably disturb-”

My cell phone started ringing and vibrating to the theme song to “The Super Mario Brothers Super Show”. I didn't even need to check the caller I.D.

“Anyu, it’s him, I’m gonna go out for a second.”

“Nooooo! Stay here!”

“Why, so you can listen to my conversation?”

“I don’t care about vhat stupid crap you talk about, just don’t go outside.”

“I don’t understand this. I’ve lived on my own for eight years, I’ve walked through West Philly at midnight and I’m fine.”

“Sometimes vhen you're here, I can't handle it, so I vorry. If you die in Philly, it’s your own stupid fault, but if someting happens vhen you are in front of me, I vill never be able to forgive myself. You’re not gonna die on my vatch!”

“Would you people please shut the hell up?” said the pile of blankets that used to be my cousin.

I rolled my eyes. My phone lit up with the message, "One missed call."

“Forget it, I’m going to go talk in the bathroom.”

I ran into the bathroom, shut the door, and pressed my speed dial.

“Hey, hun, we’re here!" I said, happy to speak to a friendly voice that didn't nag me. "Oh, and don’t mind me if I sound echoey, I have to sit on the toilet to talk to you because mom doesn’t want me going outside. No. I am not actually ‘on’ the toilet, I am just sitting on top of it. Yes, my pants are on...”

There was an urgent knock on the door followed by a shrill, “Stephiiiie!” My mother yanked the door open.

“What?! Do you need to pee or something?” I asked, attempting to shield the phone from the reverberating shouting.

She pushed past me into the tiny bathroom with a bunch of pillows tucked underneath her arms. “Princess Stephanie! I brought you pillows for your throne!”

My boyfriend overhead and started laughing, “Did she just call you ‘Princess’?”

“She’s only saying that to show off because you’re on the phone...Oh, my gosh, she’s putting pillows on the toilet...”

My mom shook her finger at me, “Don’t look so crazy, I just don’t vant your ass to catch cold. Now sit.”

“That’s freaking gross. I don’t want to sleep on toilet-pillows! GET OUT OF HERE!”

“So, put towels between the pillows so dey don’t get germy...”

With all the shouting, pillow poofing, and towel tossing, the bathroom suddenly felt very claustrophobic. “Anyu! Fine! I will sit on the pillows. But please, get out, I'm on the phone!”

At that very second, another phone started ringing in the distance. Anyu dropped everything and sprinted out of the bathroom, “Oh, dat’s Sophie on dah line, I have to catch it!”

“Good,” I said to my boyfriend, who was still laughing in the background, “Someone called Irina’s cell phone, so at least now Mom will be distracted. God, sitting on this thing is weird, I feel like I am ready to lay a darned egg or something. So. How was your day?”

As he started to speak, my mom yanked the door open. She was awkwardly holding my cousin’s cell phone and screaming into it from three inches away. “Oh, Sophie, Stephie is here vit me, Stephie, say, ‘Hi’ to Sophie.” She shoved the phone in my free ear.

“Ah! Ah! Sensory overload!” I screamed.

My boyfriend chimed in, “You know what, hun, I’ll just call you back when your mother isn’t there. And you aren’t talking on two phones. On a pillow. On a toilet. Have a, um....fun?Vacation?”

“Yeah, wish you were here.”

“Yeah, well, no offense, but I’m pretty glad I’m not!”

Photo by Christian Kitazume

GPS vs. LBI

Every year, my mother, cousins, and I spend Mother's Day weekend on the Jersey Shore, specifically LBI. Although LBI stands for “Long Beach Island”, I always call it “Large Bowel Irritation” because of the amount of stress and anxiety that goes into this vacation, especially the hour-and-a-half car ride from our home in Central Jersey.

"Okay," my aunt said, as we were leaving, "So vhen you get to dah main road on dah island-"

I interrupted. "Don't worry, I have a GPS."

"Vell, it gets very confusing, so you have to make sure to look at the John...Ron...Surf..."

"I'm bringing the GPS, don't worry."

"Yes, the...Don...Juan, um, you make a left at the...Ron Paul Surf Shop."

"It's Ron Jon. And don't worry, I have a GLOBAL POSITIONING SYSTEM. So no matter where we are, we can find-"

"Yes, uh-huh, let me draw you a map."

After about thirty minutes of map-drawing, agonizing, and direction-correcting, we finally got to the car. I plugged the GPS in and waited for the stupid thing to find a satellite signal.

"Vhat is that, a rah-dio?" my mom asked. "Play some romantic music, none of this other crap you listen to."

"No, Anyu, it's a GPS. I was trying to explain to your sister that-"

"Do you have Roy Orbison? I vant to listen to Roy Orbison."

"I don't have a stereo, mom, someone broke in and stole it, remember?" I pointed to the gaping hole in my dashboard.

"Then why don't you listen to music on this portable radio instead?"

"It's not a portable radio, mom, it's a-"

"Turn LEFT onto CEDARS LANE," the GPS said in a robotic female voice.

The entire car fell silent.

My mom raised her eyebrows. "That's our street!"

The machine continued to chirp orders, "Immediately turn RIGHT onto STELTON ROAD."

"Oh, my God, Stelton Road...I think it's taking us to the highway!"

"Yes, Anyu. I programmed this thing to get to LBI, so it's giving us directions."

As I turned the wheel, the GPS said, "In 1.2 miles, turn LEFT onto highway 287 south."

"287! I can't believe it said 287!" my mom shouted.

"Yes, um, just so you know, it's gonna say every street on the route to LBI, so, uh, don't get too excited."

"Vhy didn't you TELL US dat you had dis vonderful machine?"

"I told your sister. I told you. I shouted it from the highest rooftop! What do you need, a tattoo on my head?"

"Stephie, don't leave dis in the car, or dah robbers are gonna take it again, just like they took your stereo because you left it in the car."

"The stereo was built into the car. I couldn't exactly take it with me on adventures."

"No, I see you it sometimes, you carry your car stereo with you. I see it, in your ears!"

"That's an iPod."

"Oh. So, don't play the music too loud in your ears. You'll hurt your drums!"

Eventually, the GPS brought us to LBI, but the saga didn't stop there. (to be continued)

Photo by Jan Roger Johannesen

The Oldest Mother

One Sunday morning, our pastor has a special request after his sermon,“Would all the mothers in the church please stand up?” About half the congregation rose to their feet.

“In honor of this Mother’s Day, we would like to honor our special mothers! Let's give them a hand!”

My mother scowled during the applause. “See, you’d better appreciate me! Look how everyone else appreciates me! You never clap for me...”

I rolled my eyes; I never win these arguments. “Mom, I DO appreciate you, remember that time I...”

“Shhh!" She interrupted, "Be quiet, the pastor is talking!”

The pastor smiled upon the rows of women, all glowing in a maternal light. "Today, we would like to treat our oldest mother! Mothers under the age of forty, please sit down.”
My mother immediately sat, even though it was a complete lie. She gave me the killer, "Don't you dare say a word," stare.

He continued, “Any ladies under fifty, have a seat..." Fewer women remained standing. "Now anyone under sixty, please be seated.”

Nagymama sat down, “This is stupid, my legs hurt,” she said in Hungarian.

My aunt pleaded, “Stand back up! They are trying to honor the oldest mother!”

Meanwhile, the pastor continued to speak, “Anyone below seventy, please sit down.”

My mother and aunt tugged on Nagymama's elbows and she swatted at them like flies, “The both of you are crazy! Go into the water and go under it!"

“Anyone below eighty sit down.” Only one woman remained standing. The usher ran over to give her an extra microphone.

"Mrs. Daga! How old are you?”

“Eighty-two,” she said sheepishly.

“Is there anyone in the congregation older than eighty-two?” The entire church fell silent, except for the Hungarians arguing loudly in the back.

"This guy talks too much," grandma complained. "He's just always going, 'Pa pa pa pa pa,' spouting off nonsense! Let’s go home.”

The pastor ignored the bickering and continued, “Okay, so I guess the prize goes to…”

“Vait, vait, vait!" my mother yelled as the ushers started to hand the Bath & Body Works gift set to Mrs. Daga. "I tink we haf dah oldest modder!” All heads turned to my grandma.

“How old are you?” the pastor asked. Nagymama looked like a deer in headlights as the usher put the microphone in her face.

One of the other ushers chimed in, “Pastor, she doesn’t understand. Here, let me try in German…” He walked over and yelled right in her ear, “Wie alt bist du?”

My mother looked at her, "Anyu! Hány éves vagy?"

My aunt grabbed her arm, "Câţi ani ai?"

It didn’t matter if we asked in English, German, Hungarian, Romanian, or Pig-Latin, Nagymama just clutched her purse and sat with her lips sealed.

“This is ridiculous,” I said, “She’s ninety-”

Before I could even finish that number, Nagymama leaned into the microphone. “Hallo?” she said, her voice echoing through the vast church walls.

“Yes, Karolina! How. Old. Are. YOU?”

Nagymama laughed, “Sex-ty four.”

“No, wait, she’s not sixty-four, she’s-”

Nagymama looked over at me and glared. She softly but firmly said,“You shut your mouth before I shut it for you."

So, on that day, Mrs. Daga was accredited as the oldest mother and received the complimentary Bath & Body Works Gift Set, regardless of the fact that Nagymama had at least ten years on her.
Moral of the Story: You are only as old as you feel. If you feel good, you might as well skip the door prize and lie through your fake teeth.

Photo by Julia Freeman-Woolpert

The Shredder

Phone call transcription:

"Anyu, what do you want for your birthday?"'

"A man..."

"Walmart is fresh out of those, what else?"

"A nice rich husband to take me out dancing."

" Yes, that's located in the same isle as 'Man', and that isle is closed due to severe shortages...Seriously, mom, do you need anything?"

"I vant a paper shredder."

"Wait, didn't I already buy you a paper shredder a while ago?"

"I gave it avay."

"Well, if you didn't need it then, why do you need it now?"

"I don't vant anyvon to go through my trash and find my social security number."

"Then why did you give away your paper shredder?"

"I vanted to look good."

"...so you gave someone a USED paper shredder?"

"Yah, so I need another von."

"Are you going to keep it this time?"

"Yes. But your aunt might need it. And then you can just buy me anodder von next year."

"Well, why don't I just buy you TWO paper shredders so you can keep one and give the other one to her for her birthday? You know, from both of us?"

"Vhat are you talkink about, are you crazy? I don't need two shredders! Just buy me a good von, not some El Cheapo von from dah Dollar Store."

"They don't sell shredders at the Dollar Store."

"And don't you dare give me YOUR shredder, Stephie, you need dat! For your important documents."

"I don't give people used paper shredders as gifts, Anyu, I think you're the only one on the planet that does that.

"You make sure you shred all important documents, you hear me, Stephie?"

"Yes, okay, I'll shred all my important documents. And while I'm at it, I'll shred my driver's license, birth certificate and social security card."

"Nooooooo!"

"Oh, my gosh, I'm kidding, Anyu. Don't worry, I shred what I need to shred."

"Don't photocopy your social security card, Stephie. Don't give it to anyvon, you can't trust it! If you copied it, make sure you shred it. But don't cut your fingers."

"Okay. I have to go now."

"Vatch your fingers!"

"Okay."

"And shred credit card offers, don’t just throw them dah garbage."

"Okay, mom, I gotta go."

"So, did you buy your aunt a shredder, too?"

"No, Anyu, please, I have to go."

"Because I don't tink she needs one now, but her burstday is not until September. You remember, right?"

"Yes, September 1st, I remember. Listen, mom, I really gotta go."

"Are you still coming for my burstday?"

"Yes! That's why I was calling, to see what you needed!"

"Vait vait vait! It's your burstday, too! Vhat do you vant? Be honest, do you need a shredder, too?"

"Jesus, mother, we are not exchanging shredders for our birthdays! I told you, I have a shredder! To be honest with you, for my birthday, your gift to me should be you buying YOURSELF a shredder so we can never, ever speak about shredders ever again!"

"So vhat do you vant?"

"Just some Poppy Seed Beigli (Hungarian Dessert Roll) from the farmer's market. That's all I want. Really. Don't buy me a shredder."

"No shredder?"

"Seriously. No shredder."

"Vhat if dey don't have the poppy seed?"

"Then get me the walnut kind, I don't care."

"But vhat if they don't have it? Sometimes they don't have it."

"Mom, I really don't need anything..."

"But the valnut..."

"I'm sorry I asked! Um...pineapple. I like pineapples. Just buy me one pineapple and put a bow on it, that's all I really want."

"Pineapple? I'm going to look cheap if I only give you a pineapple."

"Then buy me 500 pineapples! Mother! I gotta goooooooo! Please! Don't worry about my gift! I'll see you later!"

"Okay. You bring the shredder. Don't forget it at your house."

"Okay!"

"...and not a cheap von."

"Okay, bye."

*click*

So, okay, everyone, I need a little help. My mom’s birthday and my birthday are both on May 3rd, so if you can find her a husband who already owns a paper shredder, that would be enough of a gift for all of us. She likes long phone conversations, long walks on the beach, and really long chest hair. Any takers?

Fit to Be a Mother

When I was in college, my roommate offered me her usual Friday-night babysitting job because she has a hot date instead.

“No freaking way,” I said, “When my cousin had a baby, they had to sit me down on the couch and surround me with pillows so I wouldn't break it's neck with my man-hands.”

“This isn’t exactly an infant, she’s three-and-a-half. She's much less breakable.”

“But I don't know how to change a diaper!”

“Three year olds don’t always wear normal diapers, they have pullups. Man, you haven’t been around kids much, have you?”

"I was the baby of the family, so how the crap am I supposed to know this stuff?"

“Well. It pays $11/hr. And they have all the premium cable channels.”

I was normally paid $6 an hour to serve rich people ice cream in a store with no air conditioning or cable TV. The offer sounded tempting, but I was still a little concerned. Just as I started thinking about the horrifying legends of babysitters accidentally putting babies in the microwave, the phone rang.

Of course, it was my mother. “Stephie, you vant to come home tonight and go to dah Hometown Buffet for dinner?”

“I can't, I might have to babysit tonight.”

“Babyshit? Who vould ever let you babyshit? You're not fit to be a mother!"

Of course, I decided to take the job out of spite.

I arrived at the house and Mr. Dad and Mrs. Mom gave me the tour of their lovely, probably ridiculously expensive, downtown Philadelphia apartment. As they showed me the downstairs, I spotted the big screen television. I got a brilliant idea; if I could just tire the kid out, she would go to bed and I could watch as much Comedy Central as I wanted.

On the way out the door, Mr. Dad left five dollars on the table. “Be a doll, go get her some iced cream with bananas.” Last time I checked at my own ice cream parlor, five bucks got you a melty swirl cone with no bananas to speak of, but who's counting?

As the couple walked out the door, I heard a faint, "Ooooo, icie-cream!" from below the table. A little curly haired blond girl with huge eyelashes stared up at me. "You have icie-cream?"

"No, but we can go get some!" I said, trying desperately to buy her love. I grabbed the money, took her hand, and locked the door behind me.

We slowly, but surely, walked through a very nice neighborhood to get to a 50's style ice cream parlor that was about seven blocks away. Although she could walk quite well, she kept on laughing and trying to throw herself down on the concrete. I got scared that some crazy bicyclist would go by us too fast and hit her, so I decided to carry her the rest of the way. I learned very quickly that kids are really heavy, squirmy, and kinda pointy.

Once we arrived, I ordered her a strawberry "icie-cream" with rainbow sprinkles and a side of bananas. They didn’t have any kiddy chairs, but the attendant assured that the stools were safe. I sat beside her with my arms stretched out, ready to catch her like a freaking baseball, in case she decided to dive off head first onto the linoleum. Although the attendant gave me some funny looks, the kid didn’t seem to care, and she voraciously devoured the entire concoction. I'm not even sure how much she even swallowed since most of it was on her face or flung onto the table. After cleaning her up, I carried her back home, getting jabbed with her now sticky, pointy elbows the entire way.

"Music Time!" she demanded as we walked in the door.

Mrs. Mom had told me that she liked listening to cassette tapes and dancing around, so I grabbed the collection and put on every awful Raffi and Sesame Street tape I could find. We sang and danced for ten minute until she screamed, “Pee Pot! I want the Pee Pot!”

“Okay, fine.” So, I took her to the bathroom.

She stopped in her tracks and looked at me like I was some kinda nut. “No, I don’t have to go.”

“Okay...”

We went back to Happy-Fun-Music-Hour and I did my best Baby Beluga swimming dance move. She started screaming, “Pee Pot! Pee Pot! Pee Pot!”

I took her to the toilet again. There was no peeing in the pot. This went on like this like two more times, and then she started to cry. Hysterically.

I had no choice but to call Mrs. Mom. “Your daughter keeps yelling that she wants the Pee Pot, but when I take her to the toilet, she won’t go. Does she have a little potty or something that she uses instead?”

Mrs. Mom started laughing hysterically. “It’s Teapot, not Pee Pot. She wants her “I’m a Little Teapot” cassette tape. Okay, so I'm a moron.

We danced around to the freaking teapot song for about another hour, I made dinner, we finally went to the "actual" Pee Pot, and then I started to get really tired. "Time for a bed!"

"Lez pay Barb-beeee's Dream-how!" she said without missing a beat.

The hours of Comedy Central watching were quickly slipping away. I came to a startling conclusion: Children don't GET tired. Obviously they are like some kind of rechargable battery that gets more life every time they drink a Juicy Juice.

After playing with Barbie and her numerous outfits, careers, and very abused Ken's, I said, "Okay, wow, it's late, time for bed!"

"I'm a dradle!" She started spinning around and knocking crap over. Everywhere.

I finally managed to lure her into bed with a bedtime story. Just as she closed her eyes and I turned the last page of "The Berenstain Bears and the Slumber Party", Mr. Dad and Mrs. Mom burst through the door. Of course, the kid jumped out of bed, so all my bedtime efforts were in vain. I should have strapped her in like Nagymama always did to me.

"So how did you do?" Mr. Dad asked, "I hope she wasn't too much trouble!"

"No, she was fine, except it was really tough to get her to walk so I just carried her back and forth to the store. Man, you guys must have arms of steel!"

Mrs. Mom looked shocked, “You carried her the whole way? Why didn’t you use the stroller?”

My brain started churning. Stroller: A device that transports babies. One does not use a stroller for a child with working legs. Error, error, does not compute.

They must have seen the confused look on my face because they never called me again. Either they assumed that I was a complete moron because I did not take a class in “Stroller Function and Etiquette 101” or they saw my horrible "I'm A Little Teapot" dance moves on NannyCam and was afraid that I would be a poor influence on their child’s dance-skill development.

Either way, my mom was right, I'm not "fit" to be a mother. I would need to go to the gym at least like four time a week to build up enough muscle to wrangle a squirmy little kid.

Moms and Dads of the world - my hat's off to you!

Photo by Michael Chambers

Snacky Cakes®

On April 5th this year, Nagymama turned 97-years-old. To celebrate such a momentous occasion, I decided to make a platter of ninety-seven of her favorite Snacky Cakes® for her to enjoy.

"You're freakin' crazy," my mom said over the phone. "Where you gonna get ninety-seven cakes?"

"Snacky Cakes®, mom, yah know, the Little Debbie kind that she pretends to bake for all the neighbors."

"You know, Nagymama, she just von't eat! Your aunt cooks her all dese nutritious foods, spinach, soft paprikas, everyting, and for some reason she just don't eat!"

"But she still eats cake, right?"

"Yes, vell, but she should eat more than just cake."

"Okay, then, I'll put some brownies in there, too."

Don't get me wrong, I am a big believer in health food, but once I am 97-years-old, I'm not going to eat spinach, either. If you make it past 90, you should be allowed to eat whatever the heck you want. If Nagymama asked to eat nothing but Cool Whip, chocolate sauce, and vodka off the tanned body of a male stripper, I'd wouldn't really blame her. It would just give me more to write about.

Despite my mother's apprehension, I went to the local grocery store to pick up Nagymama's ninety-seven little gifts. I must have looked like a lunatic in the pastry isle:
"Okay, Zebra Cakes come in packs of ten, but Honey Buns come in packs of six, and Butterscotch Krimpets come in packs of twelve. Which Snacky Cake® combinations should I use to get to ninety-seven without going over? The square root of the Cosmic Brownies divided by the radius of a Swiss Roll is...pie?"

After trying to do the math on my cell phone, I decided to just buy buttloads of them and feed the excess Snacky Cakes® to my roommate. I put together a fabulous spread in a big Tupperware cake saver (pictured above), put the lid on, and decorated the top with a pair of "Sock" Papucs (the socks with the little plastic grippies on the bottom). I also added to the Earth's growing trash problem (pictured below).
The next day, I called my mom to let her know I was "dropping by". My cousins get mad at me if I give more than four hours' notice before coming home because my mother frequently panics endlessly about my hour-and-a-half commute. "Did you talk to Stephie? Vhen is she comink? Is she brinking anyvon? Who's drivink? Are you goink to vatch movies? How many? Is Richard Gere in dat von? So did you talk to Stephie? Vhen is she comink?"

I was surprised when my aunt answered the phone. "You know, Stephie, your mom is upset with you because you never call."

"Uh, I talked to her two days ago, after attempting to call her three times this week and getting no answer. Why don't you hook up the answering machine I bought her?"

"You didn't even remember to call on Nagymama's birthday."

"I'm on the phone now. Today is her birthday. What is the problem?"

"But it's late now, why didn't you call earlier?"

"What the crap are you talking about?! It's three in the afternoon! Next time, I'll call at three a.m. so I don't miss it. Let me talk to Anyu for a sec."

I could hear my mother in the background, "Who is dat?"

"It's Stephie, hold on, I'm talking to her. You know, your mother says you never come see her."

"Oh, my gosh, I was just there a few weeks ago, and you people haven't even seen my 'new place', which I've lived in for two years now, by the way. Let me talk to Anyu."

"You didn't even come see Grandma for her birthday."

"I am freaking loading presents into the trunk as I am talking to you, for the love of God and all that is holy, let me talk to my mother so I can come by for dinner."

"Oh, you're coming by? That's good."

I heard my mother gasp in the background. "Stephie is coming over? Noooo!"

My mother wrestled the phone away from my aunt. "Don't come here, Stephie! The house is a tornado from Grandma, I can't handle it!"

"Don't worry about the house, I just want to say 'Happy Birthday' and give her cake. She'll be happy. It's fine..."

"Don't come over. Today's no good. I wasn't expecting to see you until our family vacation in May. I can't handle seeing you 'til May. The house isn't clean. Here, talk to Grandma."

I heard Nagymama's familiar breathing on the phone."Hallo?"

"Boldog születésnapot, Nagmama!" I shouted at the top of my lungs. "Happy Birthday, Grandma!"

"Tank you, tank you. I am very busy now, you call backs tomorrow. I talk to you den. Bye-bye."

Click. And that was it: I'm damned if I come over. I'm damned if I don't come over.

My cousins still wanted me to come by and hang out, but I was so frustrated about the whole situation that I just ended up cleaning out random boxes of string from the shed and weeding the garden. And during this weeding process, not only did I somehow hurt my tail bone, but I ended up killing all the hyacinths I was so desperately trying to save. Oh, and the Snacky Cakes®? I forgot them in the trunk, so now instead of giving Nagymama ninety-seven fresh, tasty little treats, she's going to get a really big, disgusting, melted one.

Moral of the story? Yah try to do something nice, and all you end up with is a pile of dead flowers, melted cake, and a pain in the ass.

Happy Birthday, Nagymama! I tried!

The Red String

Last weekend, I was suddenly inspired to start a garden, despite the fact that I have a million impending deadlines to deal with, a stack of receipts to calculate for my taxes, and an illogical fear of worms. I think part of the reason I was compelled to rip apart the weed-filled flowerbed is because for the first time in history, Nagymama is getting too old to upkeep her garden, and some sappy part of me wants to follow in her footsteps. I also convinced myself that I will save a ton of money on produce, which is probably a lie given the time and energy that gardening takes, but I figured I'd give it a shot.

I knew that if I was to start a garden, I would need tools, which were in the old shed filled with junk from the 85-year-old lady that formerly owned the property. So, on Saturday morning, I put on an old sweatshirt and my spelunking gear and entered the evil, dark, dank shed. I didn't have to clean very long before I came upon a large cardboard box that was completely filled with little bits of string (and spiders. Oh, man, sooo many spiders...) All of a sudden, flashbacks of Nagymama popped into my head. What the hell is it with old ladies and string?

Nagymama always kept every piece of string that entered our home. She horded the string that came with boxes of baked goods. She collected the ties from old bath robes. She ripped elastic bands out of old clothing. Of course, Nagymama's most famous use of string was to save shoelaces in order to tie the corners of the blanket to the mattress so my skin wouldn't get exposed while sleeping. We all know how that turned out.

Even with this extraordinary string collection, once a month, Nagymama ordered my mother to go to the dollar store and buy her balls of red string. Nagymama never knit, and we certainly didn't own a giant kitten, so I suppose she wanted all these balls of string because really liked bundling things. For instance, since I didn't have a proper dresser, she bundled all my clothes with the string and set them top of an old cardboard TV box covered with a Hungarian embroidered tablecloth. This was always an issue in the morning when I wanted to grab something to wear and I could not untie her double knots. Of course, if I ever tried to cut the precious red string, she would immediately grab the fa kanál and start screaming like crazy!

What confused me the most about the red string was that Nagymama HATES the color red. I was never allowed to eat red Italian ice, I would get in trouble for wearing a red clothing, and to this day, she yells at me when I paint my fingernails a deep shade of ruby. "Red is dah color of streetvalkers!" she told me as a child as she scrubbed my head with a bar of Dove soap, trying to "get the red out" of my hair. Perhaps she should have tried Visine; apparently that "gets the red out". Sorry, I had to make that pun; if I didn't, someone else would.

I mentioned this red string story to a co-worker, and she admitted that her great-grandmother also toted around red string because it was supposed to protect against the evil eye. Apparently, her great-granny frequently tied bits of red string around their wrists and and stuffed wads of it into their coat pockets. Holy cow! It all makes sense now! Nagymama was protecting my hideous 80's clothing from "Szemmel Verés", the Evil Eye!

After all this reminiscing, I sorted through the box of string from the shed, and didn't see a single strand of red string. I figured that the former owner wasn't superstitious, she was just crazy. As I placed the box on the heap miscellaneous trash, I started to realize how useful some of the shreds of string would be to tie some of my freshly-planted tomatoes to their stakes. And then I started to think about all the rusty tools and bits of wood that needed to be tied together before they were put out for trash pickup. And then I thought I should keep some bits of the stronger string in my trunk in case some part of my crappy Honda falls off and I need to tie up my muffler.

*GASP!* I've caught Old-Timer's Disease! I'm beginning to like string! I might as well just start wearing papucs everywhere and force feeding everyone Little Debby(tm) Snacks, because I am basically Nagymama, Jr.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have things to bundle.

Photo by Nico van Diem

Quick Bite: April Fooled

No one ever calls my home phone number except for telemarketers and my mother. After listening to six "very urgent messages about your car's warranty," I finally heard a familiar voice:

Hallo, Stephanie....dis is your modder. Don't forget, today is April Fooled, so be careful nobody puts poison in your food.

Wow. Next March 31st, I'll make sure to sleep with a gun in case someone tries to sneak into my kitchen and put poison in my cereal or worse... my GOULASH!

Did you play an April Fools' joke today? What was the worst April Fools' joke played on you? Or were YOU the one that played it?

Photo by Georgios M. W.

Speech Class

Growing up, everyone in my household spoke Hungarian, so I only knew a little bit of English from television (good thing we didn't have cable!) Once I was old enough to attend kindergarten, my family assumed I knew enough English to get by. That was a big mistake.

On the first day of school, Nagymama walked me to the classroom and waived goodbye without explaining the intricacies of elementary school. “See you in a few hours,” she said in Hungarian, as she turned, shut the door behind her, and walked away.

I stared at the door for a moment until I heard a voice behind me that sounded like the parental figures in the old "Charlie Brown" cartoons.

“Wa wa!” the voice said. I turned around to I see an entire roomful of strangers looking back at me. A tall matronly woman was offering me her hand, "Wa wee wa?" I stood there, stunned, and realized that everyone in the room must be aliens from Mars since I could not understand what they were saying. I panicked, climbed up to the side window, and cried for Nagymama through the glass. Alas, she was already halfway up the parking lot and couldn’t hear me. The teacher dragged me away from that window kicking and screaming.

I must have gotten over the language barrier, because in my next childhood memory, I could speak English fluently...but vit un accent and a stah-studd-stutter. I had to attend an English as a Second Language (ESL) class in order to get over my linguistic problems. I always hated going to ESL because they would make me color. Even at that young age, I couldn’t understand how coloring would help me learn English and I had no patience for the arduous activity. To make matters worse, they forced me to recite tongue twisters in front of five other kids, and I was the worst one in the group.

One day, my kindergarten teacher was reading everyone a story about owls on the magic circular carpet, and my ESL teachers came to collect me. "Stephie, time for your speech lessons,” my teacher said, getting ready to flip to the next page of the storybook.

“No! I na…na…na…need to know vhat is happened to dah owl!” I screamed. Eventually, the two unfortunate ESL teachers had to drag me by my armpits down the hall into the other room. They stuck me in a chair next to some other, better behaved students and immediately placed a picture of a teddy bear in front of me.

“Color it,” the ESL teacher commanded, unable to shield her aggrivation.

I grabbed a brown crayon, scribbled on it, and screamed, “Done!” I went off to pout in the corner while the other five students painstakingly colored within the lines.

After a bit of pouting, the other, much nicer Speech teacher came over to me and whispered in my ear, “If you complete your lessons, I will give you a magic sticker to put on your ESL Book. It’s magic because it smells like fruit if you scratch it.”

Magical items, oh boy! Not only did the bribery work, but I was the envy of all the other students in my kindergarten class. From that day forward, every time I returned from ESL class, kids would run over to scratch the Magical Sticker until nothing was left but a pathetic piece of peeling paper that smelled like chemically-treated grapes mixed with grubby fingers.

Once that little notebook was covered in stickers, I did not have to attend ESL ever again. Go figure, Robert Fulghum was right when he wrote “All I Ever Needed to Know, I Learned in Kindergarten.” Case in point:

A.) Before kindergarten, I hated coloring -> I went to school for animation, which is nothing more than glorified coloring.

B.) Before kindergarten, I had a stuttering problem -> I now do professional voiceover work.

C.) Before kindergarten, I hated public speaking -> All I freakin' do these days is host live events where I speak publicly, and I don't even receive rewards of fruit-scented paraphanalia!

D.) I had a European Accent -> It’s gone. This makes me sad. My mother still has her lovely blended Hungarian/Transylvanian accent, and if you ask me, it sounds sexy. Apparently, I now I have a Minnesotan accent. This is the one thing that never ceases to boggle my mind as I’ve never even BEEN to Minnesota! I am convinced that one of my ESL teachers must have wiped my brain clean and inserted her own accent into it. Either that or huffing all those scented stickers must have somehow warped my brain, oh, golly gee gosh, don’tcha know?

To sum it all up, I firmly believe that there is only one vital piece of information that I am missing from my kindergardten "edu-ma-cation"....What the heck happened to that stupid owl?

Photo by Sophie

The Shoe in the Kapu

Back in 1995, while I was trying to beat the hardest video game on the planet, aka, Sega's Ecco the Dolphin, Nagymama walked right in front of the TV to get my attention.

“Hey, watch it!” I screamed, poking my head between her legs to try to avoid the giant squid monster shooting pointy things at me.

“Stephie, come outside, there’s a shoe in dah kapu*.” (*Hungarian for fence)

“What?”

“Dah shoe…it’s in dah kapu.”

“And dah grandma...she’s in dah way. MOOOOOVE!” I protested in the most irritating teenage whine I could conjure.

“No, come outside now. Dere’s a MAN’S shoe in dah kapu.”

She finally forced me outside and pointed to the size 13 Timberland boot sticking out of the fence in the side yard. My mom was already outside inspecting the shoe and ranting about it on the cordless phone to my aunt. Although the scene was a little strange, I really didn’t give a crap because I just wanted to figure out how the heck to beat that stupid squid so I could see the game's ending.

I eventually made it back inside, but just as I unpaused the game, my aunt busted through the door. Of course, she wanted me to pause the game so I could give her a hug and a kiss.

"So, tell me, vhat's the new story about the shoe?"

After about ten minutes of unnecessary boot-related conversation, my mom called her into the kitchen in order to relive every captivating details of the shoe over warm orange juice. I finally picked up my controller off the floor. About thirty seconds later, there was a knock on the door. This caused even more mass hysteria, since my aunt had forgotten to lock the kapu behind her. My mother assumed that it was the angry one-shoed bandit here to kill us.

Turns out, it was the cops.

“Hello, ma’am, we are just letting anyone in the neighborhood know that a carjacker is on the loose and might have been on your property. Have you seen any suspicious light-skinned male, 6-feet tall, with a blue bomber jacket?”

“I tink ve haf his shoe,” my mother replied.

We started to walk the cops to the backyard but the shoe was gone. A few feet away, Nagymama was holding it under her arm like a prized jewel while tearing through piles of leaves and bushes with a rake.

“These cops are here for the shoe,” my aunt explained in Hungarian.

“Oh, no,” my Nagymama replied, “That’s my shoe. I’m looking for the other one so we can sell them. They’re real leather, you know!”

With a little coercion, Nagymama gave the evidence to the police, and later that day, they arrested the one-shoed bandit that ran through our back yard. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until 2005 that I was actually able to finally beat Ecco the Dolphin…and there’s no “ending”. It just says, “Congratulations” and makes some stupid trumpet sound effect. It should probably say, “Congratulations, Stephie. It took you ten years to beat this ridiculous game and your grandma never even found that freakin’ shoe.”

Photo by Steve Knight

American Goulash - Part 4: Still in Dah Kitchen

Nagymama reads through some of the fan letters that were sent to her during her simultaneous YouTube & MySpace Feature! Note: I printed them all out with really big text so she would have an easier time reading them.

Thank you, again, everyone, for giving my grandma her 15-minutes of fame after being alive for almost a century! (She will be 97 in April! Doesn't she look AWESOME?!)

Special thank you to Cameraman Matt, for his assistance with capturing our family events on film.

Songs used: Brahm's Hungarian Dance No. 1, performed by Leo Christopherson.

Before you click "play", here are the original videos (in chronological order) in case you're a new reader that has missed some Nagymama action:

Nagymama
The Real Nagymama
Velcome to Piscataway
Velcome Back to Piscataway
Velcome to the Kitchen

If you are having any trouble seeing any videos, you can probably view the slightly pixely-er YouTube versions.