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.

My Christmas Gifts

Each and every year, no matter how much I protest, my family always buys me clothing. I can't tell you how many times I have received some kind of hideous knitted sweater that is 10 times the size of me with some kind of gold-foiled flower on the bosom. Since I am about a foot taller than anyone in my household, everyone thinks that makes me morbidly obese and buys me enormous clothing.

“Oh, Stephie, ve just got it a few sizes bigger in case you need to grow into it,” they always claim.

I’m 25. The only thing that’s growing is my hatred of knitted sweaters.

Growing up, Grandma always made me wear ugly sweaters no matter how huge or moth-ball-smelling they were. Of course, I had to wear them on top of itchy, probably expensive, imported, hand-embroidered Hungarian undershirts. To this day, she still comes up behind me, lifts my shirt, and screams, "A Vese! Ing! Ing!" (Her Kidneys! Undershirt! Undershirt!) She would always say, "You're kidneys are exposed, you are going to catch your death!" Last time I checked, my kidneys were still inside of my body, especially since I don't recall ever waking up in a bathtub full of ice.

One year, in an effort to protect my kidneys, Nagymama actually bought me a pair of flowery underwear that must have been size 87. These things were so freaking huge that I actually pulled them over my clothing and up past my chest. I started to strut around the house and sing Madonna songs as both of my cousins laughed hysterically.

Nagymama came over with a sober look on her face. She grabbed me by the arm, pulled me down and said, “Stephie…you’re supposed to wear dat UNDERNEATH your clothing.”

Thanks for the clarification, granny. And Merry Christmas, everyone! Protect your kidneys.

Photo by Michael Bretherton

Velcome Back to Piscataway

If you can't see the video above, try this link instead.

Part 2 of the exploration of my former New Jersey abode. Please watch Part 1 first :)

Thank you to my family who, despite not quite understanding the whole "filmmaking thing," has a good sense-of-humor and deals with me!

Thank you to Cameraman Matt for his assistance with capturing our family events on film (and braving our "little castle," as my mom likes to call it.)

Songs used:

J.S. Bach: Toccata and Fugue in D Minor

Elvis Presley: "Jail House Rock"

Mannheim Steamroller: X-Files Theme Song

Prom Part 1: Prom Preparation

I was thrilled one day when my friend Allen, a Senior at the time, asked me to go to the prom with him. But there was an issue with getting a prom dress. I didn't come from a ton of money, so the idea of spending between $100-$250 on a dress you would never wear again was ridiculous. But my aunt was the queen of savings and a great seamstress, so we figured we could just find a discount gown and she would "make it work."

I probably tried on about 500 fuchsia-sequin encrusted-lace-imbibed dresses before I found "The Black Dress." The black dress actually reached to my ankles (which was a difficult feat, being 5'11") and had amazing rhinestone spaghetti straps. And it was on clearance $19.95. I had struck gold!

Somehow, my aunt convinced me to buy it a few sizes too big because she was convinced that I was "still growing," and I had six months before the prom. She assured me that she would alter the dress on the night before the prom so I could have a perfect fit.

The problem is, my aunt sewed couch cushions, not dresses, and business had been so busy that she didn't have time to deal with the gown. Before we knew it, the prom was upon us, and my dress was still not altered. But my cousin promised we could make it work!

"You know, all the stars just glue themselves into their dresses before their award shows?" she claimed.

"Really?" I asked. This sounded like a really good idea.

I am a moron.

The night of the prom, my cousin attempted to crazy glue this dress to me and I was literally hanging out of it. To make matters worse, the crazy glue left a huge white stain on the front of the dress. I freaked out, and Nagymama didn't notice - she was more worried about me eating dinner, which consisted of a huge bowl of "letcho." "Letcho", is a dish made of various sewed peppers, tomatoes and rice. Supposedly, it is really, really good. But Nagymama always cooked it for HOURS, until it was completely falling apart and stuck up the house. She also never used spices, which is the whole POINT of being Hungarian, if you ask me!

"My dress doesn't fit! My life is over!" I wailed.

"No problem!" my aunt said. "We'll fix it."

There is no weirder sensation than having your cousin curl your hair while your aunt is coloring in your boob with a Sharpie marker while your Nagymama is trying to spoon mounds of letcho into your mouth.

"Nagymama, you're going to ruin her lipstick!" my cousin screamed.

"She needs to eat! And you're making her look like a whore!" Nagymama said.

"You're gonna to poke her eye out with dat eyeliner!" my mom cried.

"Stephie, you should really get a better pushup bra next time," my aunt suggested.

Did I mention that this room was only large enough to hold a bed, a television and perhaps two people? Not an entire family full of women with hot curling irons and various phobias.

So, finally, my cousin held up a mirror. And I cried.

My hair was "crimped" not curled, which might have been great in the 80's, but not 1999. My eyeliner looked more like raccoon makeup than "Sexy and Smoky." My chest was red from the chemical burn and I had a big hard black shiny spot in the center of my dress. And the fabulous rhinestones had started to fall out of the spaghetti straps.

It was at that exact moment Allen arrived at the door.

"ONE MORE MINUTE PLEASE!" I struggled to fix myself as best I could to avoid exposing my naive date to my family under all this stress.

My grandma immediately cornered him and tried to make him sit at our sticky kitchen table. She already had a bowl of letcho waiting for him. He politely declined and then informed us that the limo was waiting outside.

Just as I was about to panic, he said, "Here, I got you this," he said. He put a beautiful corsage of white roses, covered in flecks of glitter on my wrist.

I smiled. For a moment, I felt pretty. And then my cousin said, "Where's the boutonniere?"

I was confused. "What's a boutonniere?" I asked. I looked at Allen and he shrugged.

In the distance, I hear a microwave beep but thought nothing of it.

My cousin was exasperated. "You moron! You're supposed to buy your date a flower that matches your corsage so people know you are together!"

I had never been to the prom before or witnessed anyone else's prom-goings, so I had no idea that this was a custom. My cheeks turned bright red.

"No problem," my aunt said. "Ve'll improvise." She pulled the corsage off my wrist, grabbed a kitchen knife, and started hacking it to pieces.

Meanwhile, Nagymama walked over to my date with a glass of orange juice. "Nice boy" as she patted him on the back. Problem is, when you're about 4 feet tall, if you want to pat someone on the back, your hand usually lands on their ass. My date got a weird look on his face.

"MOM! NAGYMAMA IS TOUCHING ALLEN INNAPPROPRIATELY!"

He looked over at me. "No, it's okay, she's fine...but I really can't finish this....drink. I don't want to offend her."

I realized that she had microwaved the orange juice she had given him. She was always afraid that people would catch a cold, so she frequently warmed up beverages in the microwave - nothing was ever hot, but everything I drank growing up was usually "piss warm."

"Oh, god, forget it, we're leaving."

I threw the drink in the sink, grabbed Allen's hand, and ran out the door with my aunt chased after us. "Vait, vait! Dah flowers!"

My aunt grabbed my date and struggled to pin the hacked apart corsage bits onto his lapel. I pulled the tattered remnants of the corsage back on my wrist and started heading towards this gate.

My mom stopped us. "Vait! Von last ting! Let me get a picture of the happy couple!"

If I ever find this picture, I am going to burn the damned thing.

(To be continued)

Photo by Sasha Dunaevski

Nagymama Featured on MySpace

So, I was sitting at my computer, during lunch, stuffing my face with oatmeal raisin cookies, when I went to send a friend a "Happy Birthday" message because MySpace, being the life saver that it is sometimes, reminded me that I am a horrible friend and missed a birthday. And I was a little surprised to see a (pardon my French) SHIT TON of messages on my account. I was confused. Did people on YouTube "google" me and find my Myspace?

And then I actually used the eyeballs in my freakin' head and looked two inches to the right. This is what I saw:



Let me tell you, I uploaded this video on there about a year ago, with NO TAGS, NO DESCRIPTION - I think a friend from my mom's church wanted to see it and the easiest way I could get it to her was through MySpace. So, I forgot I even had it up there! I guess someone noticed!

You know, originally, I was going to make my personal MySpace the only place on the internet where I would have "friends only," i.e. people I actually knew...because who the heck would really want to read me ranting about bad drivers or how I made a "Snakes on a Plane" costume for Halloween? Only very supportive, non-judgmental friends, that's who! But I guess that means I just have to get to know you all if you add me as a friend:P

So, thank you MySpace.com! You have made my granny famous-er-er. That word is hard to say. I don't think it's even actually a word. Okay, that means it's TIME FOR BED! This time, no shoelaces :)

The Lake House (vs. The Doll House)

(Please see Part 1, The Doll House, before reading this entry).

My aunt’s lake house in North Jersey was always the highlight of my summers. On the way down, we would always stop at this cute little homemade ice cream shop at the side of the road. Despite my mother’s protests, my aunt always ordered me a two-scoop Black Raspberry ice cream on a sugar cone. Normally, mom usually wouldn’t let me get “red colored” ice cream or italian ice because she was afraid I would stain my clothes, and she wouldn’t allow me to get sugar or waffle cones because she was afraid they would break my teeth. Needless to say, I still hate vanilla ice cream and “cake cones” to this day.

On this particular afternoon, I wolfed down the ice cream as fast as I could, and between brain freezes, I begged my family to get back in the car.

My mother rolled her eyes. “Vait vait, don’t vorry, you’ll get to play the Candyland soon.”

Normally, I was thrilled to go to the lake house because I got to play with the antiquated Candyland that they kept on the coffee table. Being an only was lonely at times, and my two cousins proved to be better opponents than my Barbies and my knock-off Teddy Ruxpin. But this time, I was anxious to get to there because I knew what was in the trunk – the doll house.

We finally arrived at the house, which was one of about fifteen other old, wood-faced homes on the lake. As usual, we parked about a million miles away from the house. Parking was frequently an issue since the locals hogged all the spots with their broken down “classic cars.” I could bet money that even 20 years after the fact, the same rusty 1960’s GTO is still sitting in my aunt’s assigned parking spot.

My family dragged the many bags through the overgrown jungle that was the side yard. My aunt always “meant to” bring a lawnmower out to the house, the very same way her husband always “meant to” fix the planks on the adjoining boat garage - until the planks inevitably caved and allowed their untied speedboat to float up Cranbury Lake and out of their lives. We managed to pull the bags through the tangle of weeds, but one of the bags ripped, spreading shoes and itchy sweaters everywhere. There was general chaos until my aunt ran up to get another garbage bags. She wore a pair of stained gardening gloves to avoid poking herself with thistles that were now embedded in the clothing. She scooped everything into the bag and we dragged it up the rickety staircase into the Lake House.

I sat on the couch and looked at the hideous stuffed fish that was mounted above the foyer as my family grabbed the rest of our belongings from the car. I spotted the infamous triangular bag in the corner of the room. The excessive pulling, pushing, and dragged left several dime-sized hole in the bag, and I could clearly see the pink plastic facing and the purple shutters.

As I went to reach for it, my mother walked through the door and yelled, "Don't touch that! Now, go pee so ve need to go get firevood and tings from dah store!"

There were several issues with this request. First and foremost, I just wanted to play with the stupid dollhouse, but I didn’t dare disobey my mother because she would tell – and since I was an overly-sensitive seven-year old, I would cry whenever someone yelled at me.

The other issue was that peeing at the Lake House was an unpleasant, multi-step process. It required going into the horribly scary bathroom with no light, trying to find the toilet to “go” in, and then promptly going down to the lake with a bucket, washing your hands with the weird-smelling lye soap, and then bringing the bucket full of soapy water back upstairs in order to flush the water-less toilet. I would have rather “held it” for a few more hours.

And then of course there was the firewood store. This required us to cross the entire lake using the longest, most rickety swinging wooden bridge on the planet. For whatever reason, I was the only one terrified of this bridge - maybe because I can't swim. As usual, by the time we walked all the way to the bridge, my mom and aunt were engrossed in conversation, so didn't seem to hear my terrified yelps as my cousins swung the bridge to and fro, screaming, "Oh, no, it's gonna fall!"

We finally arrived at the wood store and they bought some lighter fluid and kindling for the fireplace. The store was on the main road, so it seemed like we were only off the bridge for a minute before we had to go back onto it. I couldn’t handle anymore teasing, so I stood at the entrance, hysterically brawling until my aunt scooped me up and carrying me all the way across.
I think my cousins felt guilty, so they immediately opened the Candyland box when we got into the house. For a moment, I forgot about the dollhouse in the other room and fell into the world of "Plumpy" and "Queen Frostine" in the Gum Drop Mountain. I heard my aunt gathering the wood for a fire, while my mom pulled out sandwiches for us from the cooler. We munched on our dinner as my aunt lit the fire, and my mom put on a pair of plastic gloves. My mom grabbed one of the garbage bags and asked my aunt something inaudible.

"This is it!" I thought, "I'm gonna get my toys!" I figured I would be generous and share some of the clothes with my cousins, but not any of the toys because they were so mean to me on the bridge.

My mom rooted through the garbage and pulled out a pair of jeans. My aunt looked at them, nodded…and then she threw them into the flames.

I was confused at what was happening at first, until I saw my mom grab a brand new teddy bear and toss it in like an old rag.

I screamed. I cried. My mother and aunt were genuinely confused.

I ran to protect the dollhouse, nearly impaling myself on its pointed roof. My mom screamed at me to back away. "Dese are Lisa's tings! They are not for you! Don't touch them - you don't want to catch the asthma, do you?"

Turns out, my mom and aunt were always told by Nagymama that everyone had "Infection Asthma ." And I guess they believed her. After all, that's why Lisa, her mom, her sister, and her brother had asthma - it couldn't POSSIBLY have anything to do with genetics.

So, on that day, a lot of things went up in flames, including my hope and dreams for a Barbie Dollhouse. In retrospect, I know my family was just looking out for me (even though the fumes from burning plastic probably caused more damage than a made-up disease ever would). But even today, as a 25-year old woman, every time I see a fireplace, I see a mental picture of a sad-looking teddy bear melting into oblivion.

Eh, what’s a childhood without some scars, right?

Velcome to Piscataway

If you are having trouble seeing the video above, try this link.

This is an example of a typical visit to my family's house - stressful at times, but pretty fun! In this clip, you'll meet my mom and have a short tour of the front of my quaint little one-bedroom former place of residence. Sound simple and uneventful? Hardly.

Please keep in mind, my family is pretty unusual - I reserve the right to poke fun of them, just like they poke fun of me [all the freakin' time] - but remember, they are MY FAMILY, so please don't be mean. Don't mess wit' mah mommah! :oP

Thank you to Cameraman Matt ( http://www.cinevore.com )for helping me shoot these videos (he's a brave soul!

Re: Nagymama: A True Story

Wow, so the last week or so has been pretty amazing. I don't think I have ever had so many e-mails in my inbox at one time! Because of YouTube, I have managed to connect with long-lost friends & family, as well as make a bunch of new friends that are helping me learn to read & write in Hungarian!

Originally, this video was shown to an English-speaking audience, so the scene with the bedroom was supposed to sound like a very upset rant from Nagymama! I took some audio I videotaped her, so if anyone is curious, here is the translation for the bed scene:

"Dollar! Smelly stingy pig, he got $50,000 that he shares with his Mistress, but you don't get a thing." I originally chose to use this sound clip because my deadbeat dad is probably the #1 thing my grandmother talked to herself about, even in her sleep (which is really sweet if you think about it - she's just looking out for me!)

As for the end credit scene was translated as a joke since the other thing Nagymama usually rants about is gypsies and robbers watching her through the window, and her plans to chase them away with her broom. I used that particular clip because she points at the camera, but the subtitles were a joke based on things she has said in the past. The actual subtitles are: "I'm going to play the lotto, and if I win, I will put it in an envelope for you." Also sweet and funny, but my animation class seemed to like the "joke" subtitles better.

So, here is the never-before-told backstory about this film. I was a senior at the Philadelphia University of the Arts and I had no freaking clue what to do for my senior project. I wanted to avoid the chaos of my junior year (2001-02) when I began production on a film called Fabian Fish, a tale about a clownfish and a yellow tang trying to escape from a fishbowl, but the clownfish keeps forgetting "the plan" every few seconds. Sound a little like a Pixar film that came out later that year? Yeah. I’ll tell you more about that Junior Film in another blog.

Anywho, it was well-known through my social circle that I had a pretty darned sheltered childhood. (Like…I didn’t know who the Beatles or Simon & Garfunkel were until college, I still haven’t seen any of the Starwars movies.) As usual, my friends were giving me crap about how my family kept me locked in a cage, and I said, “You ain’t kiddin’; my granny basically tied me into the bed my fastening the blanket down with shoelaces because she was so scared I’d fall outta bed!” My teacher overheard the story and said, “Now THAT is what you need to make your senior movie about!” I figured, “What the hell?” My professors have always said, “Write what you know,” and I sure as heck know my family!

Thus began the tale of “Nagymama.” I really wasn’t sure which story to write about, but for whatever reason, the mirror & shoelaces fiasco seemed to be the most traumatic and life-defining. And believe it or not, the full-story is possibly WORSE than the movie. I had to drop out a few details just so it would make sense in the context of a 4-minute cartoon, so here’s what actually happened:

My entire life, Nagymama stayed up and checked on me. CONSTANTLY. She surrounded the bed with dining room chairs to make sure I couldn’t roll out, fastened the blankets with shoe laces, toted around a flashlight and mirror, closed all the windows in 90 degree weather, and then stacked pots & pans in front of the windows so she could hear the robbers and/or gypsies. God only knows, she’s unbelievably hard-of-hearing, so if someone DID break in, they could probably steal the very bed she was sleeping on without so much as a peep.

So here’s the kicker - I was actually 12 or 13 years old when I found out this whole thing was NOT normal.

I was at my first slumber party, and we were complaining about our parents. I said, “Yeah, and don’t you HATE IT when they come up to you when you are trying to sleep and check your breath with a mirror?”

My friends looked at me like I was nuts.

One quickly responded, “Uh, Steph, people do that to infants – that’s how you tell if a kid has SIDS. You check ‘em with a mirror to make sure they are still breathing with a mirror.”

I guess Nagymama just never stopped.

I asked my cousins if their parents did this and they confirmed that the ritual was a little excessive. I considered running away from home, but my cousin had an idea: Hold my breath, just to see what would happen. So, one night, I was tucked in, it was hot as heck, I had to go to the bathroom, my grandma was snoring like a beast, and I was generally pissed off. So, I rustled around a bit and she woke up….grabbed the mirror…walked over…and I held my breath.

I know what you’re thinking: I’m “mean”. I could have given the poor old lady a heart attack. Believe me, this was not my typical behavior – it was DESPERATION. So, what happened? Like the movie, Nagy pretty much ran around the room screaming, and called in my mom. And then my mom started freaking out, too.

Nope, they didn’t call an ambulance. They didn’t try to resuscitate me. They ran around the room screaming. In a way, it’s a little disturbing to think about because if something DID actually happen, I would have been a goner!

So, after realizing that everyone was genuinely upset, I opened my eyes and the covers had been pulled off of me enough for me to scoot out. I ran to the bathroom, not only to pee, but to escape two very, very, very pissed-off Transylvanians cursing and screaming after me.

God, what did the neighbors think?

So, this full story said, my teacher told me to cut it down – omit my friends, cousins, and mother, focus on Nagymama, and draw myself as a younger child so it wouldn’t be so...weird. I still think it’s pretty weird.

After this YouTube feature, what surprised me the most was the all-out race war this little 4-minute film started. Hungarian vs. Romanian. Romanian vs. Hungarian. Everyone vs. America. It might be naive for me to say this, but it never ceases to shock me whenever I see racist comments. I really thought more people were over that. Also, last time I checked, I made a film about a weird childhood moment, not social commentary or international border analysis.

After listening to my film a few times, do realize that I made a fatal error in judgment - I clipped out the words "old world" from the original script where I said "some unusual old world traditions,” and added “Hungarian” because some of my colleges were confused about how my family could be Hungarian, but from Transylvania, which is in Romania.

You wanna know the hideous reason I took out the words "old world?" Because I can't freakin’ SAY the words “old” and “world” next to each other. There are certain words that I just can't pronounce for god knows what reason – “theater”, “collegiate”, “ballot”, and of course “old world”. I think I tried to pronounce this freaking line 900 times and I sounded like a bee bit my freakin' tongue.

I was actually tempted to upload the uncut audio, embarrassing as it might be, just so people stop thinking I hate Hungarians, hate my culture, and that I am a “terrorist.” But as I was trying to dig through the clutter of my old crappy-crap-crap computer that my original animation files are on, I came to a startling revelation – I am wasting my time. You can't make everyone happy.

People are going to think what they want to think, regardless of the innocent intent. People will post “You suck” and “FU” all over blogs, videos, hell, even public restroom stalls, simply because they want to vent some of their anger. It’s like being able to anonymously crap on someone’s front lawn – they get relief with the guaranteed that no one will chase them for having made a mess.

Mostly, I think people forget that there is a real person on the other side of that comment, and criticism that isn’t constructive is simply destructive. It’s hard enough to expose my most embarrassing moments to the entire world, so it’s a bit disheartening when people tell you that your life was not lived correctly.

I've always felt that in order have a fulfilling life, you must have the ability to laugh at yourself. As strange as my childhood was, I wouldn’t change a darned thing about it, because I am who I am because of the way I was raised. I am Hungarian-American, and proud of it.

Or as my mom would say, “Oh, Stephie, you are such an overly-sensitive American. Vhat is vit you people, you over-analyze everyting.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, mom. Pass the goulash, would yah? It’s really tasty.”

A Lesson In Hungarian: What's Szorít?

This video answers the age old question -- What is Szorít?

Okay, maybe it isn't an age old question.

Basically, I was letting my cousin's Erika's son play with my video camera while my other cousin gave Erika's husband a lesson in Hungarian - "szorít" (to tighten, to constrain) vs. szólit (call) .

This is mostly just a silly home movie, but I thought some bilingual people would get a kick out of it.

The Doll House

All I ever wanted was a Barbie Dreamhouse.

Unfortunately, mom was the only one supporting me and Nagymama with her baby toy assembly-line job, so an item this extravagant seemed excessive. Even at a young age, I was very aware of finances, so I made due with the cardboard boxes she brought home for me from Pathmark.

I was actually quite content with cutting windows into the sides of the boxes with my safety scissors, and draw carpeting and artwork all over the inside of the houses. My aunt was even kind enough to give me scraps of foam and fabric from her upholstery shop so I could have a deluxe dream-bed in my cardboard mansion.

But I still yearned for a Barbie Dreamhouse for one concrete reason – I wanted Barbie to stand up straight. The boxed my mother got me were meant for 2-Liter Soda bottles, so they were about 10 inches tall, whereas Barbie is 11.5 inches tall, so she had to walk around the house with a hunch. Needless to say, my dolls sat around and “ate dinner” lot. It’s amazing that Barbie and Skipper didn’t get fat.

I spent most of my childhood days fabricating elaborate cardboard houses, and Nagymama would spend most of her nights tearing them down. And of course, since we both slept in the living room, it was very difficult to hide my mansions from her. I tried to tie the boxes together, tape them, glue them – nothing would stop granny from disassembling them every night when I went to sleep and piling the boxes neatly in the corner. Once I even tried to stay awake so she wouldn’t tear it down, but then I gave in to the threats of the “Wooden Spoon.”

So, one day, I looked out the window and saw a lady from church talking to my mom in the driveway. A young lady sat in the back of the church lady’s car, playing some sort of handheld electronic game. I could hear their muffled talking.

The church lady said that her daughter, Lisa, had outgrown out of her clothes and toys. I remembered her daughter from when she and I were in Pioneer Girls (like Girl Scouts, but they sell religion instead of cookies.) I couldn’t believe the young girl in the car was Lisa; she was once a quiet little mouse that always had a Barbie doll in one hand and an inhaler in the other.

My mom agreed to accept the donations and dragged a few black garbage bags onto the steps. She smiled as the church lady pulled away but then ran inside to make a frantic phone call.

This was my chance! I tried to sneak out the front door so I could peak into the bags, but Nagymama nabbed me and told me that if I went outside, the gypsies would steal me and put me into their caravan. Just then, my mother hung up and went outside to see what the commotion was about.

They shooed me in, closed the door, and continued to argue on the front steps. I ran to the side window and pressed my face against the glass to get a better look just as they started dragging the garbage towards my mom’s spicy-mustard-colored 1979 Dodge Station Wagon. As Nagymama lifted one of the bags into the trunk, I saw a shocking piece of triangular pink plastic poke the bag.

A dollhouse!

And as quickly as a saw it, it disappeared into the depths of the monstrous car. Mom and Nagymama promptly walked through the door, and before I could protest, my mother announced that we would be going to my aunt’s lake house for the weekend.

I stopped in my tracks.

Now everything made sense; the toys were a SURPRISE! I deduced that I wasn’t supposed to SEE the dollhouse because they were going to bring it to the lake house and let me set it up there so Barbie could have lake-front property. THIS made sense! I pretended that I didn’t see any of the bags for fear they would take them away from me for ruining the surprise, so for almost a week, I waited in anticipation of my dollhouse.

...To be continued...

Wooden Spoon

I was very lucky growing up because no one ever spanked me. But Nagymama sure did threaten! Whenever I did anything out of line, she could grab a wooden spoon and wave it at me, or pretend that she was going to hit me with her slipper (aka “Papucs” – see story below).

So, one day, we had a Jehovah’s witnesses at the door, and as usual, my family felt guilty and let him in to give his monologue. I was playing with Barbie too loudly or something and everyone stopped in thier tracks. Nagymama took one look at me and screamed, “Hol van a fa kanál?!” (“Where is the wooden spoon?”) A fairly normal threat to someone who speaks Hungarian, but this is what that sentence probably sounds like to an English speaker: “Holy one, oh fuckin’ hell!” He looked a little disturbed at Nagymama’s rants and promptly left.

A few weeks later, he rang our doorbell again, but this time, he brought backup – two more Jehovah’s witnesses. My mom whispered, “Stephie, go to the door and tell dem dat we are Jewish.”

I was confused.

“But, I thought we were Catholic…”

“Yes, yes, but dah Jewish people are more religious den Catholics, so let’s pretend to be dem so dey don’t come back.”

Somehow I don’t think it was “being Jewish” that made them stop coming. It was probably that fa kanál.

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The Real Nagymama - Behind the Scenes

A light conversation turns to Nagymama vs. Nagymama.

Papucs Problem

Growing up, whenever I entered my home, I braced myself for the evitable yelp from Nagymama, “PAPUCS! PAAAAPUCS!”

“Papucs” is Hungarian for “slipper”. Any time you came into my house, you had to lose your shoes and don the papuch. It didn’t ever help me that I’ve always been tall, so by age 14 I was already 5’ft10” with a 10-1/2 shoe size. Papucs never came in sizes lager than 9 from the El Cheapo Store, so my fully-socked feet usually hung several inches over the sides.

Man, no wonder I never had a boyfriend.

Thinking back on the papucs, I swear to god, she had 500 of these things! Dr. Seuse would have a field-day on my Nagymama:

Old papucs. New papucs.
Red papucs. Blue papucs.

The thing is, no matter how many papucs my mom would buy her, she would wear the oldest, nastiest pair with the cardboard sticking out of the bottom. But that never stopped her from hemming and fixing and gluing and sewing and nailing and taping.

But then one day, we had a papucs problem.

Nagymama had started to get up in age, so she kept on losing her balance. It didn’t help that my papucs never had any sort of tread at the bottom, so my mom tried to hide all her papucs and make Nagymama wear sneakers. But somehow, Nagymama would find the papucs and run around outside chasing cats away or try to climb the roof to clean the gutters. In three years, I think my Nagymama has ended in the waiting room at “Med-Emerge” ten times in papucs-related accidents.

My mom finally had enough and threw out all her papucs. Without even flinching, Nagymama went into my closet, took out my nicest pair of slip-on high heels, and went to go weed the garden. I didn’t even notice until I saw them propped up by the door, caked in mud and weed reminants. They were stretched out so much that they were almost as wide as they are long. I told you that my granny is cubelike: that includes her feet.

Defining Bloodline

It was always a big deal whenever my dad called. I always knew he was on the phone when my mom was on our old rotary phone and the German Shepard next door would start howling in tune to her screaming.

That's the thing about my family - they would be great stage performers because they sure do know how to make their voices project. In my family, there is only one rule to arguing in Hungarian: The person that speaks the loudest always wins the argument, regardless of being right or wrong.

So, this particular day, I was home from kindergarten and my mom saw me peaking around the corner. She sighed and held out the phone.

"Stephie, talk to your asshole fadder."

I could hear his mumbled voice protesting from the receiver.

I grabbed the phone and struggled to hold it to my ear with both hands. Boy, those old rotary phones sure where solid.

"Hallo?" I asked shyly.

“Szia, Stephie.”

It was still weird to hear such a deep voice, since I had no male influences in my family. I imagined a giant Bela Lugosi on the other line.

He quickly broke into his usual rant,"Don't listen to your crazy bitch modder. You know, your name wasn't even supposed to be stupid freakin' Stephanie."

"Really, Apu?"

He continued, "Me, I vas gonna name you Margitka, proud Magyar name. But she names you some crap outta some American baby-name book and sends you to school tinking you are Romanian. Listen, Stephike - you are not to tell ANYVON dat you are a dirty Romanian, you hear me? You are von-hundred percent Hungarian blood."

I was speechless.

"And any German you have in you from your Nagymama’s parents you shit out in your diapers."

I twirled the phone cord around my little foot. "But Apu...I thought I was from New Jersey."

See, that's the great thing about little kids. They see no distinction between races. Maybe it should stay that way.

Who's Your Daddy?

My mom and dad got divorced when I was 2. I didn't really know much about my father, other than his voice. He had a really deep voice and a thick Hungarian accent.

I had never heard another man with a voice quite like his until I saw a tall handsome man on TV one day...tall and pale like my mom said my dad was...with straight dark hair and piercing eyes, like my mom said...so of course, my 4-year-old mind figured that Dad (Apu) was on TV.

That man was Bela Lugosi.

"Anyu! Apu is on the television!" I screamed to her whenever "Dracula" was on.

She smiled to herself. "Yes, Stephie, your fadder sure knows how to suck dah blood out of anything."

Obviously, I didn't see the irony her comment until today.

The Bowlcut

I feared the chipped, 1970s, spicy-mustard–colored bowl in our kitchen cabinet. It was used primarily for whisking egg whites, making dough, and to measure out my haircut.

One day, I was walking through my kitchen, nagging my Nagymama for a Fudgesicle before dinner. After about five minutes of persistent whining, she reached in the freezer and handed me the frozen treat. I ripped the white waxed paper victoriously, but my bliss was cut short when I spotted the notorious bowl in the middle of the kitchen table. For a moment, I hoped that my grandma was just going to make us some Hungarian crepes (Palacsinta) for dessert, but I dismissed the thought when I saw the rusty, green-handled scissors adjacent to the bowl.

I almost dropped my ice cream.

This was a trick! They were getting ready to give me a haircut! I looked for a hiding spot. I had tried everything in the past: hiding behind the shower curtain in the bathtub, standing in the back of my mom’s closet with her blue bathrobe draped over me and cowering behind cardboard boxes of toys under my bed. For whatever reason, they always found me.

This time, I tried the hamper in the living room closet. I knew when my mother’s friend Dimitri had arrived because I could smell his cheap aftershave, even with the closet door closed. She felt that since he was good at mowing our lawn, he would be a competent haircutter for her little girl. I could hear muffled chit-chat a few feet from where I was standing. I was still sucking on the remnants of my ice cream when blinding light flooded in from the opened closet door. “Sorry for all dah mess,” my mother said, “I haven’t even had a chance to do dah laundry—” She opened the top flap of the large wicker hamper and had already dumped about five pounds of handkerchiefs and kitchen towels on my head before she saw me.

“Stephie! Vhy are you playink in dah closet? Silly girl.”

She lifted me out of the hamper with great ease.

“Say hallo to our friend, Dimitri!” I didn’t even have a chance to wave hello before she took the popsicle out of my hand, dragged me across the house, and seated me in our blue, flower-patterned kitchen chair.

“Ve’re gonna do some snip, snip, snippy today, yes?” Dimitri said, his breath reeking of vodka. I stared at his grey speckled five-o’clock shadow as he placed bowl on my head. It was cold, heavy, and still smelled like eggs. He hummed some semblance of a polka as he snip, snip, snippied away, his shaky hands occasionally slipping and putting a little “v” in my perfect ring of hair.

My mother and Nagymama provided the audio commentary the entire time.

“No, it’s crooked, vat are you doing, that side is shorter than the other, make sure you trim her bangs!”

Nagymama was always afraid that my bangs would pierce my eyes, so as always, she made sure to have him trim them about an inch too short. She then took two pink plastic, bow barrettes and pinned the extra hair to the side of my head.

Dimitri handed me an old black pocket mirror. “Lookit, you’re beautiful!”

I looked like I had a receding hairline at age seven.

The next morning, I went to kindergarten with my navy blue, pom-pomed ski cap pulled over my head. I tried to hide in the back of the group, but my teacher nabbed me.

“No hats in class, Stephanie!” she snapped.

“But I vant to, my head iz cold.”

I could hear a few of the boys snickering in the front row.

“No ‘ifs,’ ‘ands’ or ‘buts,’ take that hat off right now!”

“I can’t I—“

Mrs. Vandershaff had her hands on her hips. She meant business.

All eyes were on me. I slowly pulled my hat off to reveal a slightly staticy version of my bad haircut. The entire class erupted with laughter.

“A-ha, we have a new BOY in class, ha ha ha!” said Patrick, the head bully.

It also didn’t help that my mom had made me wear a boyish sweater with the big red knit tie sewn to the bosom.

“What’s your name, NEW KID?” said Kelly, the girl with pig tails, a pig snout, and a barnyard attitude.

“I bet it’s STEPHEN!” Patrick roared.

Kids can be so cruel.

If I knew what I know now, I would have come up with a snappy kindergarden comeback and put the class to shame. I sometimes imagine running into Patrick in the grocery store and saying, “Oh, yeah? Well, I am rubber you are glue, whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you!” I’d pull out Kelly's pig tails and shove her head in a plastic trough of gummy worms in the candy isle.

Somehow, I don’t think it would be as effective, fifteen years after the fact. And I might get arrested.

So, after all of that, Mrs. Vandershaffy, seeing that I was visibly upset, put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Well, I like your haircut.” Of course she did. She had the same exact haircut, minus the hideous pink barrettes. Lucky her.

I wonder what color her bowl is.