My Night in Jail

Even as a 25-year old woman, I have to lie to my mother any time I go on vacation. It’s not because I’m sneaking around; I’m just “protecting her from the truth”. If she knows I’m on a plane/ train/ automobile, she’ll worries herself sick, so out of sheer love, I lie.

Keep in mind, lying to my mom is no small task because she has "Radar". A few years ago, I went to Las Vegas, I had no sooner gotten off the plane when my phone started ringing off the hook. “Oh, I’m just playing video games, mom. That’s TOTALLY not the sound of 5,000 slot machines going off at once…”

So, last week, I went to the Ottawa International Animation Festival. I made the mistake of telling my mom about when I first went to the convention in 2002, so every year she starts pestering me about it when September rolls around. This year, I was hoping she would forget, but the night before my flight, her Radar went off.

“Stephie, you going to dat Canada ting again?”

“Yes, it's tomorrow,” I replied glumly, knowing damned well that I had just stepped into a two-hour conversation.

“Are you gonna get your period? Did you pack pads?”

“Oh, my gosh, mom, please…”

“Don’t forgit your Passport. Your birth certificate is no good now.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And don’t jus pack crappy tank tops, it’s cold in Canada.”

“Yes, I know, this is like the fifth Canada trip I’m taking.”

“Listen, your teacher is gonna be dere to chaperon, right?”

“I’m 25 now, mom, they have ME listed as a chaperon.”

“Vell, I hope a teacher is still around to check and make sure nobody steals you. Are you bringing your mace?”

“No, you’re not allowed to bring mace across borders.”

“Are you still staying at that crappy Jail Hostel?”

“Yeah, it’s cheap.”

“But vhat if something happens? Vhy don’t you buy some more mace?”

“Listen, just for you, I’m going to bring the giant pair of razor-sharp tweezers your sister got me for my birthday. If anyone messes with me, I’ll just impale them.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I’m vorried…”

“Don’t worry. These Canadians...they’re a gentle people.”

“Stephie, don’t forget to pack your maxi pads.”

As expected, the conversation went on like this for another hour and forty-five minutes.

So, I went to Ottawa and had a grand old time. The Jail Hostel isn’t even that bad – there’s a full kitchen, eating area, free wireless internet, and male and female floors are segregated. I highly suggest it for the value! The only thing I hate is the public showers – they’re a little skeevy.

One night, I entered the shower with my pool shoes (mom reminded me to bring them about a million times), and closed the stall door behind me. In the middle of shampooing I heard someone come in a few stalls down from me. I finished up, toweled off, I noticed that the other person in the shower never turned the water on.

My paranoia set in. I had already called 9-11 earlier in the week because a student collapsed from alcohol consumption, so I was imagining some drunk girl chocking on her own vomit in the shower. I glanced over at the closed stall door and just as I saw a flash of HAIR peek our from over the partition. Now, keep in mind, it was about 3:00 in the morning and I had attended about 500 marketing seminars, so I figured I was hallucinating. I looked up and saw the hair peek out once again. To ease my apprehension, I slightly bent down to peeked below the stall, expecting to see painted toenails, but I simply saw four legs of a chair.

I reacted before I could actually think. “What the f*ck do you think you’re doing?” I asked the bathroom door. I stopped to think for a moment. Holy crap, I can’t believe I just said that. I am standing in an old prison at 3:00 in the morning wearing nothing but a towel talking to some disembodied head of hair in the shower. If this isn’t the setup to some grisly horror movie, I don’t know what is. My mother was right all along. Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh…

I rustled around in my bag…crap! That's right, no mace! But I had my trusty thrusting tweezers. I pulled them out and waited for a reaction.

The door replied in a teenage male voice. “Ohhh…..crap. Am I in the girl’s room or something?”

I rolled my eyes. “Uh, yeah, and I gather you learned that from staring at me from the side of the shower stall inappropriately?”

“CRAP! CRAP! No, uhh..it’s a mistake! F*ck! I thought I might be in the girl’s shower and I was trying to be inconspicuous! Sh*t! It’s not what it looks like!”

For about two seconds, I believed him. I mean, heck, if I accidentally walked into a male shower room, I would probably hide until I knew everyone was gone, too.

Just as I let my guard down, the crazed 18-year old bust out of the shower stall. I stood there, shocked, with my feeble tweezers in hand as he ran by me, calling, “Sorry sorry sorry sorry!”

I was dismayed to see that he was wearing street clothes, and had no towel/toiletries to speak of. I was speechless. This could only mean one thing...

PEEPING TOM!

I ran back to my “jail cell” as fast as I could, squish-squashing puddles of water though the entire corridor. I threw on my pajamas and immediately tried to wake my friend Lisa who was sleeping in the bunk above me.

“Lisa, Lisa, come downstairs with me, I need to go to the main office. Dammit...”

Nothing. Not even a stir. She was out like a light.

I didn’t want to walk around alone anymore, so waited until morning to file an incident report. The more I thought about it, the more it kinda creeped me out. I went back to the shower, just to see if I was making a big deal out of nothing. I went over to his shower stall and the chair was still in there. I stood up on the chair and got a full gander at the three adjacent stalls.

Man, I am such a moron for showering alone in a public bathroom. Someone could have totally attacked me, or I could be in a Canadian prison right now for murdering some punk with a pair of tweezers. Thank GOD I am about 6 feet tall…I mean, what if he had seen me and thought, “Well, I can’t assault this brontosaurus, so I’ll wait for some smaller girl to molest.” AHHHH!

I considered hanging up signs to warn the other girls with a little picture that said, “Girls! Make sure you shower with a buddy!” But just my luck, the whole “Shower with a Buddy” slogan would attract MORE Peeping Toms.

In an attempt to rationalize this whole incident to myself and not completely lose faith in society, I just chalked the whole incident up to some kid trying to get a cheap thrill. But just in case, I verbally warned all the college girls on the trip. Professor Larry overheard the story and commented, “Well, let’s just hope he was only peeping at you with his eyes and wasn’t taking pictures with his cell phone.”

Thanks, Larry. I hadn’t even thought of that.

So, next time you’re cruising the internet for porn, let me know if you come across my picture on www.SoapyBrontosauruses.Com. And please, for future reference, when you're in a public shower of any kind, be safe and Shower with a Buddy.

Prom Part 4: Prom Weekend

If you haven't read the beginning of this story, please begin with Part 1, Prom Preparation.

The limo dropped me off and I watched as my family flooded down the stairs to open the Kapu. I peered back and the driver shot me an evil stare as he drove away. I sighed, but before I could even inhale, my mother started asking questions. Anyu always asks a lot of questions, but never listens to the answers because she is too busy thinking of the next question. I ignored her, sauntered into the bathroom, and shut the door.

For about a half-hour, I chiseled layers of makeup off my face as she bombarded me with questions through the door. “Stephie, vhat are you doink in dere? Did you see Jordan? Vas he wit hiss new girlfriend? Does she look fat? Stephie, don’t git soap in yer eye. Do you tink he still vants you? Vas his new girlfriend very heavy? I tink he still luffs you. Did you git soap in yer eye? Stephie…”

I plopped into bed and set my alarm for 8 a.m. Although the prom was a total bust, I couldn’t wait to go down the shore with all my friends in the morning. Though some miracle, Anthony’s mom convinced my mom that she would make sure I hung out on the boardwalk, far way from the deep, dark, dangerous ocean. You see, the problem is that I can't swim.

When I was 13, Anyu signed me up for swimming lessons after one of my teachers yelled at her for being too overprotective. So, there I was, the only 5’foot 8” girl in a 4-foot deep swimming pool with a bunch of three-year-swimming laps around me. Sadly, I actually flunked out of the class because I refused to “jump” into the pool from the side; I was convinced that my lungs would fill with water, my eardrums would explode, the water would hold me down, and I would be unable to resurface. So, instead of sending me to more lessons, every time I went on a school field trip, Anyu simply made a large note on the “Allergies” section of my permission slip: “Stephanie, she cannot swim, don’t let her drown,” next to a drawing of a curly-haired girl swimming with an “X” through it. I don’t even HAVE curly hair.

I woke up the morning of Prom Weekend and immediately ran to the bathroom to get ready. As I was brushing my teeth, Anyu swung open the bathroom door without knocking and pinned the cordless phone to my ear. “Hew-whoa?” I said, my mouth full of minty paste.

I heard Allen’s pre-pubescent voice on the other line. “Hey, it’s me.”

I spit the toothpaste into the sink. “Oh, hey...I’m almost ready, should I bring the soda in a cooler or do you already have one?”

“Well, uh, don’t worry about it, see, I don’t think we’re going.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah, some stuff came up, and uhhh, yeah, I think we’re just gonna hang out today, just the guys, but we’ll go down to the shore later on in the summer. Okay, I gotta go, my mom is calling.”

Click.

I stood holding the phone in one hand, with my toothbrush still partially hanging out of the side of my mouth. I immediately called Crystal, hoping she would still want to hang out and save me from yet another weekend with my family. Alas, I got her answering machine. I left a desperate message and glumly sat down to play some Sega games.

My mom stood over me with her hands on her hips. “Vhat are you doing? Don’t just sit dere! Vhile you vait, go outside with grandma.”

“Go outside with grandma” always meant “manual labor.” Nagymama kept a large vegetable garden in the back of our one acre yard, and I was in charge of getting the water from spicket at the front of the house to the garden. I begged my mom to just buy a hose, but she always said “A hose is too much, I don’t vant to vaste vater.” I probably wasted more water carting overfilled buckets to empty into Nagymama’s leaky watering can than if I had ran a garden hose from New Jersey to China.

So, I spent the entire afternoon trying to keep the buckets of water from soaking through my shoes, wondering where the hell everyone was. It wasn’t until Monday that I heard what really happened: The boys decided to ditch all the girls because they didn’t want to people to assume we were their girlfriends, thus ensuring that they would “bang some hot chicks” down at the shore. I don’t know if any of you guys have ever seen the Jersey Shore, but I don't think any “hot chicks” frequent the area, unless you like chicks that wear hideously big plastic earrings to match their hideously big plastic hairdos.

“I’m so sorry,” Crystal said as we piled books into our lockers, “I was so pissed about the whole thing, I just went off-roading with my brother and didn’t even think to call you. What did you end up doing all weekend?”

I sighed. “I helped my grandma water her vegetable garden so that she could grow more crap to put in her famous ‘letcho,’ which is basically over-boiled tomatoes, peppers, and rice.”

“Oh, so THAT’S what smelled-up the limo the other day!”

Dammit. I hate Letcho.

Photo by Diego Medrano

Velcome to the Kitchen

Please remember to watch Part 1 and Part 2 before viewing this video.

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

A typical visit to my family's kitchen. Pretty stressful, but you get used to it. :)

Thank you to Cameraman Matt, http://www.cinevore.com, for his assistance with capturing our family events on film.

Songs used: Brahm's Hungarian Dance No. 1, performed by Leo Christopherson, http://www.leochristopherson.com

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

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?

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...

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.