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

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 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?

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 Secret Language

Although one in five people in the U.S. speak a second language at home, my family seems to think we’re the only people on the planet that are multi-lingual, so they call Hungarian “The Secret Language”. Although my mother and I usually have conversations in English, she starts speaking in Hungarian when she wants to tell me something that she doesn’t want anyone else to hear (including the government, who she is convinced has tapped our phone lines).

Of course, they never taught me Romanian because this was the “Super-Secret Language” they could use to talk about me. I complained about this to my Romanian roommate in college, so she phoenetically wrote down, "Mom, I know what you are saying, stop talking about me" in Romanian. I did the best I could to memorize this, and when mom started speaking to Nagymama in Romanian about their secret plans to kill me or something, I repeated, "Mamă, nu mai vorbi despre mine, ştiu ce spui." They both looked pretty shocked for about a minute, and then they just continued their conversation...in German. Damn you Europeans, you’re all too smart.

I will never forget the day when we went to a full-day festival and stopped by the local administration building to grab a schedule of events. We hadn’t even entered the building before we were halted by a woman blocking the doorway, obviously too busy talking on her cell phone to pay attention to where she was walking. Nagymama doesn’t like waiting for anyone, so she looked at me and loudly proclaimed, “Néz,es a kövér disznó! Az arca pont ug nez ki mend eg ló.” Rough English translation? “Look at this fat swine walking here. Her face looks just like a horse.”
Nagymama must have forgotten that The Secret Language” does not work when you are at the annual indoor-outdoor festival of New Brunswick that features dancing, food, and most importantly…Hungarians. Yes, dear Nagymama said this right in front of the Hungarian Heritage Center, and judging by the look on the woman's face, she definitely had some Hungarian Heritage in her.

Eh, what can you do? You shoud be able to say whatever the heck you want when you're in your 90's.

Photo by ACS

Introductions

My family is very nice, caring, and funny, but for some reason, they have no social graces whatsoever, especially when it comes to making introductions. This makes meeting new acquaintances very awkward because I always find myself giving people a "Disclaimer" every time I plan to introduce them to a family member. My family means no harm - they are just brutal in their honesty and criticism.

To save on time, I've actually devised a quiz based on situations that have actually happened to see when someone is ready to meet my family. Grab a pencil and see if you pass the test!

1.) When I was in high school, my friend Susan came over to help me with a project. My mom said:
A.) “Hi, Susan, it’s been a vile! Come, haf a seat!”
B.) “Susan, good to see you! How is your moddder?”
C.) “Susan, why don't you come over more often? Is it because you think all Transylvanians are vampires? Because dat is really a negative stereotype and I don't appreciate dat. Get out of my house.”
D.) “Hi, Susan! Look at you! You got so fat.”








Answer: D (4 points). I later had to explain to Susan that the world "Fat" was a compliment in my culture because it meant you were healthy...so in other words, I lied to make Susan feel better. I apologize to all Transylvanian-Hungarians for fibbing, and I hope you didn't punch my friend Susan if she ever called you "Fat" as a compliment.

2.) Nagymama was at my cousin’s baby shower. Upon seeing my 8-months pregnant cousin, Nagymama:
A.) hugged her and said, “I am so happy that I have lived long enough to see my beautiful grand child bring my great-grandchild into this world.”
B.) said, “Congratulations!” and handed her a large wrapped present.
C.) said “Happy birthday!” and then immediately whispered, “Oh, my God, she got so fat.”
D.) wandered away.






Answer: C (4 points). Apparently, we have this on tape. If my cousin ever finds it, I promise to put it up on YouTube. If you answered A, deduct 2 points - you have seen too many sappy movies, no one actually talks like that. If you answered D, add 1 point, as this is likely to happen at any given time.

3.) Upon meeting my first boyfriend, Bob, Nagymama:
A.) said “Nice to meet you, you are a good boy” and then said in Hungarian, “What kind of screwed up name is ‘Bob’ anyhow?”
B.) handed him a cup of orange juice that was warmed in the microwave.
C.) handed him a plate of Little Debbie snacks that she claimed to have baked fresh that morning.
D.) All of the above.



Answer: D (4 points). You know, I tried to warn Bob, but he didn't believe me.


4.) When I met my mother’s friend Amy at church for the first time, my mother said,
A.) “Dis is my friend Amy. You know, her beautiful dodder looks just like you.”
B.) "Dis is my friend Amy. She used to be fat. Amy, do you have a picture you can show Stephie of when you used to be fat, I mean, really fat, 'like a pig' fat?” then puffed out her cheeks as a visual aid.
C.) "Hey Amy, dis is my dodder Margo. Uh, I mean, Stephie."
D.) “Dis is my friend Amy, I’ve already told her all about all your accomplishments because I am a loving moddder that is so unbelievably proud you and I just luff you so much,” and then she hugged me and give me a $50 bill.



Answer: B (4 points). If you answered C, add 1 point because this actually did happen as well, but not when meeting my mother's friend who "Used to be Fat." If you answered A, deduct 2 points, and if you answered D, please deduct 10 points and remember that this quiz is based on my reality, not on my wildest dreams.

5.) Whenever my mom introduces Margo to people, she says:

A.) “This is my niece Margo, she’s one of my sister’s two lovely daughters.”
B.) “This is my niece, Margo, she works really hard as a home health aid to assist hospice cases.”
C.) “This is my niece, Margo. She’s 35 and still single.”
D.) "This is my niece, Stephie. Uh, I mean Margo."



Answer: C (4 points). If you answered D, add one point because this also happens very often.


6.) Whenever Margo complains about how my mother introduces her to people, I tell her to sarcastically reply with the following line:

A.) "Yes, and this is my aunt, Ildie. She’s 54 and divorced twice."
B.) "I do not know this woman."
C.) "This is my aunt, Ildie. She has a daughter named Stephanie that went to school for animation and you should make a tax-deductible donation to her film festival in order to support independent filmmakers and animators all over the world."
D.) "Thank you. I'm going now."



Answer: A (4 points). If you answered C, add 1 point, because I would love it if my cousin said that, but she'd probably punch me for asking. If you answered D, deduct 1 point, as this is what my cousin ACTUALLY says, not what I tell her to always say.

7.) Whenever I tell my mother that I am randomly bringing a new person over the house she says:
A.) "I can’t handle it!"
B.) "Good, I’ll have grandma go warm dah orange juice."
C.) "No! The house isn’t clean and you know, I can’t do anything because grandma…grandma, she….oh, grandma. Vell, you see, grandma…" and then trails off.
D.) A & C



Answer: D (4 points). If you answered A or C, add 1 point. The funny things about letter C is that I have never actually heard my mom finish that sentence and she says it ALL. THE. TIME.


Now let's tally your points:
20-28 Points: Are you ready for some Goulash?! Well, that’s too bad, because my family never makes goulash. We’ll go to a Hungarian restaurant in New Brunswick if you want some of that. But if you swing by Nagymama’s place, you can have some toasty warm OJ with a side of Little Debbie!

10-20 Points: Vhat are you talkink about? You obviously understand that my family can be offensive at times, and you might even enjoy hearing about it or watching it from a distance. But I’m not completely convinced that you won’t leave the day with mental scars.

0-9 Points: You can’t handle it! You probably shouldn’t be reading this column because it might rupture your delicate, Utopian mind-set. But who knows, perhaps even idealists enjoy watching train wrecks, but I don’t think you could handle being in one.

Photo by Sanja Gjenero

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

Anyu's Christmas Gift

No matter how hard I look for "the perfect gift," every year my mother opens her present, make a sour face, and says, “Oh, is dis from the Dollar Store?”

“No, Mom, they don’t sell 24K gold necklaces at the Dollar Store, but you keep looking.”

She then looks at me suspiciously. “Did somevon just gif dese to you and you’re givink dem to me?”

“No, Anyu, I just bought them online last week. Wanna see the receipt?”

“Oh, my God, you didn’t buy dem on Dah Ebay did you? Are these used? I don’t vant to catch AIDs…”

"No, actually, I bought them off some diseased hobo on the street corner for $5. He gave them to me for a great price - all I needed to do was give him my social security number and your maiden name. Pretty good deal, huh?"

This is when I usually get dirty looks. My mother doesn't appreciate the full range of my sarcasm.

Last year, out of sheer frustration and lack of time, I simply printed a photo of myself and framed it. To be honest, it gave me a weird sense of relief to give her the picture because it featured a photo of me in Japan. I’ve been wanting to tell her that I went to Japan to visit a friend, but I think the sheer shock of telling her that I have boarded a plane might send her into cardiac arrest. I’m sure one day I’ll just have to buy her a nice bottle of wine and pull out the slide show:

“Mom…here’s a picture of me on a horse.”

“Ah!”

“And here’s a picture of me in the ocean. In Japan.”

“AHH!!”

“…And here’s a picture of me in Colorado, meeting my father and his brand new wife for the first time.”

“OH, STEPHIE, NOOOO!”

“Yeah, I know, right? He’s already been married like four other times…”

(At this point I would probably realize that my mother has exploded into a fiery pile of ash.)

So, to keep it simple and alleviate some of the guilt I have been feeling for lying to my mom about traveling, I gave her the Japan photo (Okay, I didn't mention that the photo was from Japan, but hey, at least I'm trying.)

Go figure, for the first time in my life, she freaking LOVED it.

"Wow, look at dis beautiful picture! I haf to show dah people at church...you're actually dressed up so you don't look like a man!"

I guess I'll take that as a compliment.

And you wanna know the most satisfying part of that gift? I bought that frame at the Dollar Store.

Photo by Lawrence

The Christmas Cards

My cousin Erin usually hosts the family Christmas party. Over the years, Erin has learned that if she wants a party to get started at 2 pm, she has to tell my aunt Sophie that it is at noon, so my aunt will have sufficient time to wake up late, shower, make a sumptuous breakfast for her husband, do her makeup, vacuum the house, wash and wax the car, run into some burning buildings to save some orphaned children, and go last minute Christmas shopping. Erin then has to tell my mother that the party is at 3 pm because or else my mother will arrive three hours early, just in case there is traffic on the two mile stretch of highway she has to travel every day in the New Jersey suburban nightmare we call our home.

Last year, everything seemed to work out just right and Nagymama arrived with my mother right on time and marveled at my cousin’s beautifully decorated bi-level home.

“Some day, I’m gonna vin dah lotto and buy bi-levels for everyvon!” she says, in very cute, broken English.

"Yah, yah, you've been sayink dat for 40 years, give it a rest," my aunt said from the doorway, bearing boatloads of gifts.

As Nagymama removed her coat, her attention immediately turned to the several dozen Christmas cards that were neatly hung on the staircase. She immediately grabbed my cousin’s arm, pulled her down, and whispered in her ear with a whisper full of hot, wet air and cookie crumbs, “I know your secret, my child.”

“What are you talking about, Nagymama?”

“These Christmas cards…these cards were not sent to you. You just bought a box from the store and wrote them out to yourself so you would look more popular.”

My cousin couldn’t look more shocked.

Nagymama nodded knowingly, “Shh! It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone.”

Photo by Alaina Cherup

Nagymama's Run-In With the Law - AGAIN!

After Nagymama's last run-in with the law, my mom was very hesitant to allow her to walk anywhere. But one beautiful spring day, Nagymama insisted that she needed to go buy a lottery ticket from the corner store because of the upcoming $4 million "Mega Jackpot."

"I'm doing this for the good of the family," Nagymama protested in Hungarian, "We will be so happy when we can buy a bi-level home. I'll be right back."

Nagymama left for her walk and locked the gate behind her. After about thirty minutes, we started to hear sirens from around the corner. My mom rummaged through our tin of random keys.

"Oh, no, I tink Nagymama took both gate keys."

Just then, ambulance whizzed by. I immediately started climbing the fence.

“No, no, no!” my mother screamed, “You gonna fall and break your neck. I’ll go to dah garage and get sometink to cut the kapu!”

“Do you know how much it’s gonna cost to replace the fence after you massacre it? Besides, by the time you cut through, grandma will be halfway to Mexico or something. I'm tall! Lemme hop the damned thing!”

My mother finally allowed me to climb one of the shorter fences on the side of the yard, but I had to hoist her over first. She kicked and screamed the entire time, but eventually, we made it to the street. We jogged around the block only to see police cars, ambulance, and of course, Nagymama.

The police told us that on the way back from the store, some teenager ran after granny and tried to steal her purse. Instead of letting go, Nagymama held onto it, and continually smacking him with it. Out of sheer frustration and embarrassment, the hooligan finally just pushed her down and ran into the woods. I don’t blame him for running; my grandma can kick your ass.

Fortunately, an older gentleman saw the entire incident from his car. Not only was he kind enough to call the ambulance for grandma, but he identified the mugger as ONE OF HIS OWN EMPLOYEES at the local McDonald's. Needless to say, the robber’s burger-flipping days were over.

They arrested the kid and throughout the I.D. process, Nagymama would not stop yelling about her purse. “You crazy gypsy! You smelly swine! You stole my winning lotto ticket!”

The cop nudged the robber. “Hey, where’d you toss the bag?”

"I dunno, I chucked it somewhere in the woods," he muttered.

For the rest of the afternoon, everyone and their mother scoured the woods for that bag. Eventually, we found it; all this fuss was made over $2.30 worth of change, two keys, a comb, a used handkerchief, and a very water-logged lottery ticket.

This story probably would have been a lot better if that lotto ticket was a winner, but that’s okay. In the end, Nagymama is still a real winner.

Photo by Uffe Nielsen

Cat Food?

Last year, my family and I had just gotten back from one of our usual holiday excursions to HomeGrown Buffet, and my cousin Irina and I were sharing juicy gossip on the couch while Nagymama neurotically rearranged the items in our house.

“Oh, Cousin,” she cooed, using her usual Balki Bartokomous impersonation, “Once again, your mother has managed to mortify me.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Nagymama pacing all over the living room. I sighed and tried to ignore it. “So, what did Anyu do this time?”

“Well, Lisa from church just got married and asked me to watch her cat for a week. She just got back, and before I was even able to ask, ‘How was your trip?’ your mother butted in and said, ‘You know, Lisa, you are not qualified to be a cat owner. You just dumped your cat on Irina.'”

“Oh, man….”

“Lisa looked so shocked and pissed that she didn’t even know what to say. So, of course, your mother just kept on talking, ‘I tink dah cat likes Irina more than it likes you. But Irina doesn’t even like cats, so don’t tink she’s gonna take it from you.'”

“I wonder whatever happened to the filter that was supposed to be installed between her brain and her mouth.”

“They ran out of them at the factory, so she’s just walking around all...dysfunctional!” Irina shook her head. “I had to apologize to Lisa later, and I told her not to worry about it. After all, your mother is always telling me that ‘I am not qualified to be married,’ so Lisa not being a ‘qualified cat owner’ is nothing in comparison.”

“You gotta love it, though. If ever you should need brutal, uncensored honestly, just ask my mom.”

“Ask?” Irina yelled, over the sound of Nagymama clanging pots and pans in the background. “You don’t need to ask! She just gives, and gives, and…”

We finally turned as the clanging sound got louder. Nagymama had squeezed behind the entertainment center to pile pot lids and cans of cat food against the windowsill. She frequently conducts this ritual to prevent burglars from breaking in...and stealing all of our cat food.

Nagymama had reached a little too far, lost her balance, and fell over. Irina and I both saw it coming in slow motion; I was still starting my sprint over to her when I watched the entertainment center fall backwards and television set tumble off onto her. It was one of the singular most terrifying experiences of my entire life.

I ran up to her, expecting to see a pile of Nagymama reminiscent of a flattened Wile E. Coyote. Instead, I found a very annoyed (and very lucky) Nagymama struggling to get up off the floor.

“Crazy crappy TV stand, made out of cheap shit wood, stupid thing would fall over if the wind blew,” she muttered in Hungarian.

Irina and I struggled to help her up, and in the meantime, my mother and aunt rushed in to assist. I realized that her head was bleeding, but my aunt came to the rescue with a wet washcloth. Of course, Nagymama, a.k.a., “The Woman of Steel”, swore that the gash was no big deal, and was simply annoyed by the disruption.

“Get off of me, you smelly swine, why are you wetting my head, are you trying to kill me by freezing me to death?!” she screamed in Hungarian, trying to push everyone away.

After a few hours and a few stitches, Nagymama was back on her feet and back to securing our little fortress.

In the end, my mother just threw her hands up in despair. “I keep trying to get her to stop this nonsense of putting cat food on the window, but I can’t control her. How am I gonna make her stop?!” my mother cried.

“Hey, I have an idea. Stop buying cat food...we don’t even OWN a cat!”

Photo by Matty & Sharon

A Typical Thanksgiving

My family is pretty small, so they never want to prepare a full, traditional Thanksgiving. Instead, they prefer to go to the HomeGrown Buffet* (*name changed to protect the innocent), wait in the cold for 45 minutes to get a table, and feast amongst the other dregs of society.

Now before you crucify me, let me tell you that I typically like buffets. Sure, the food has been sitting out for a while and some little kid stuck his booger finger in the mac & cheese, but what the hell do you expect for $5.95 a head? But even with my general thriftiness, it somehow seems sacrilegious to go to a buffet on Thanksgiving (especially the HomeGrown Buffet, which is the “Motel 6 Express” equivalent of food service).

Years ago, I begged my mom to let me cook dinner and she got worried that I would burn the house down. Rather than argue, my cousin and I split the cost of one of those pre-made Thanksgiving dinners from the local grocery store. I was quite pleased with the relative ease and inexpensiveness of the meal, but my mother was extremely unhappy.
“Dese yams are shitty,” she said, as she took another bite of the creamed orange goo. “So, mom, next year we won’t buy them.”“Screw it, I vant to go back to da buffet. I like hafing a variety of foods.”

I don’t think “variety” is the right word. My family likes to eat the same food every single time, but they like the idea of having an endless supply of it to “play with”. Mom typically gets a piece of broiled fish that she mashed into a pile of powdered mashed potatoes, beets, corn, and chicken gravy. I think she likes making this concoction more than she likes to eat it, because she usually swirls it around for a while, talks to my aunt, swirls it some more, and then throws it out because it’s cold. This usually happens four or five times.Nagymama also really likes the idea of multiple servings…of cake, more cake, and nothing but the cake. My mom and aunt try to feed her some meat and potatoes, but she usually just stuffs the drumsticks in her purse and reaches for the carrot cake. She usually grabs a piece for herself, realizes that we don’t have any cake, so she places it in front of us, yells at us to eat it, and runs back up to the buffet as if they were running out of the stuff. This also usually happens four or five times. It’s actually kind of cute, but gets old quick when you realize that she’s stuffed cake into the pocket of her pants and you are the one that has to launder it.

In addition to the horrors of eating piles of pastries next to processed turkey fat with mushy stuffing and grape jelly instead of cranberry sauce, Nagymama is a bit hard of hearing and my family is naturally very loud. Like…REALLY loud. On more than one occasion, I’ve noticed people move tables just so they aren’t near us. This usually doesn’t stop Nagymama from running up to adjacent tables and following small children around the restaurant and patting them on the head. People usually think its sweet, but after a few minutes, it gets a little creepy when she doesn’t stop patting and they notice that she has cake and salad dressing on her fingers.

So, although everyone means well, our Thanksgiving usually ends up being an unnecessarily overindulgent, sticky mess. But if you think about it, there actually is something very uniquely “American” about that!

Photo courtesy of Garrison Photography

The Un-Sexy Costume

If you go to any party store, you might notice that there isn't a heck of a lot of selection in terms of theme when it comes to Halloween costumes. Sexy Witch. Sexy Cheerleader. Even Sexy Nun! After my experience with the Medusa costume, I told my mother that there would be no freaking way I would ever give her another "Sexy Halloween Picture", lest she post it on the church bulletin board or tattoo it on some part of her body. But of course, right after Halloween, mom gave me a call.

"You comink home for Thanksgivink? Make sure you brink some sexy pictures from Halloween. Unless you went as dat shark again..."

“It wasn’t a shark, it was a plane, remember? I went as 'Snakes on a Plane'."

“Oh, yeah, yeah, da airo-plane. Vell vhat did you go as this year?”

“I went as a banana.”

My mother was silent for a moment.

“How da hell did you make a banana costume?”

“I bought it at the store.”

“Did anyvon else go as fruit, or vere you the only fruity one?”

“It’s from this cartoon, “Peanut Butter Jelly Time", it's this internet thing where-"

“Vhat? Dere's no bananas in peanut butter and jelly.”

"No, no, it’s this just this song where-"

“Vell, Elvis put fried bananas in his peanut butter sandvitch, but no jelly. Vho else vent vith you? You haf pictures?”

I gave up and changed the subject. How on earth can you explain an internet cartoon about a banana to a woman who thinks a Computer Mouse is a character at Disney World.

At least my friends knew what the "Peanut Butter Jelly" song was. They knew it well enough to steal the pictures off my MySpace Page and turn it into a little joke. You see, this is what happens when all of your friends are animators:



Animation courtsey of Chris Farinella
Photo courtsey of Liesje Kraai

The Medusa Costume

When I was 12 years old, one of my cousins did my hair and makeup for the 8th Grade Dance and for once, it looked pretty darned good (unlike my Prom). To this day, my mother occasionally pulls out the 8th photo, sighs, and says, "You used to be so sexy."

It's amazing because most peoples' mothers would like to have photos of them in their graduation caps, prom dresses, or confirmation gowns. I'm quite certain that my mother would prefer a photo of me airbrushed, bikini-ed up, and straddled over some kinda sports car or bear skin rug. Let’s be realistic - since I have a respect for human life and the persistence of vision, I am going to abstain from any bikini-ing in the near future.

Well, one year during Halloween I was a poor college student and looking around for a costume. I happened to come across about 12 yards of free pink chiffon fabric in my Fashion Design class, so I somehow jerry rigged a toga out of it, pinned some snakes in my hair, did some crazy makeup, and went as Medusa. The only problem with the free fabric was that it was a bit sheer, so just in case, I had to wear beige "pasties" so I didn’t expose myself. I looked "okay", so like most Halloweens, my friends and I took a bunch of pictures, had a grand old time, and weeks later, I forgot about the old Medusa costume.

Eventually, Christmas rolled around and I had no idea what to buy my mother. And as usual, my mom requested “A Sexy Photo.” So I rounded up what I could into a 4x6 photo box, and somehow the Medusa picture ended up in the mix. I thought nothing of it until I went back home for Easter that spring and saw that old Medusa picture – blown up, mounted, and framed on my aunt's piano.

“Where did you get that photo and why the heck is it gi-normous?!”

My aunt shrugged. “Oh, your mom blew it up at the office supply place and gave them out to everybody at the new church so they could see what you look like. What's the big deal?”

“She gave that picture to churchy people? But I’m wearing PASTIES!”

To make matters worse, that evening, I had to go to Easter service with my family. I hoped that everyone just forgot about the weird picture, but of course, the second my mother introduced me one of the Church Ladies, I got a look of judgement and surprise. “Oh, my, Stephanie, you look awfully different from your picture!”

You see, my mother strategically cropped the snakes in my hair of the photo and neglected to tell everyone that this was a Halloween costume. Everyone assumed I just dressed that way because I went to "art school". I covered my face in shame.

The church lady continued, “Well, I like you better without makeup!”

My mom was not pleased. “Oh, no, no, no, the makeup is better.”

I knew what was coming. She reached in her wallet and pulled out the 8th grade photo and shoved it in Church lady’s face. My mother shook her head with disappointment, “See, didn’t she used to be sexy?”

Photo by Julia Freeman-Woolpert

Trick or Drink?

Every year, I wanted to dress up as Barbie for Halloween. But rather than buy a blonde wig and some type of princess gown, we would go to the local K-Mart and buy a “Barbie Kit” which contained what looked like a crappy vinyl hair cutting cape with a dress painted on it and a plastic face mask. Don’t get me wrong, I really wanted that cheap-o costume because all the kids in school ran around in plastic “Ninja Turtles” or “Power Ranger” suits. It sure beat the heavyweight upholstery fabric my aunt used in prior years when constructing me so many couch-like costumes.

When I was about 8 or 9, I convinced my mom to let me be "Princess Barbie". We got home with the costume and my mom immediately whipped out a pair of trusty scissors. For a moment, I was afraid that it was time for my Bowl Cut, but instead, she started cutting into the Barbie mask. She was convinced that the plastic mask would asphyxiate me, so she cut larger nostrils into the nose…and in case my nose was stuffy, she cut off the lips…and so I didn’t trip while I was walking, she cut open the eyes. Nagymama had to physically restrain me as I screamed “Don’t cut! Don’t cut!” as if Mom was amputating my freaking face.

Once she was done butchering Barbie, I glumly put on the costume; I was at least satisfied that she did not cut into the dress. But of course, since New Jersey is usually a bit chilly during Halloween, Nagymama made me bundle up and cover my entire costume. So, I basically went door to door wearing a peach-colored jagged piece of plastic strapped to my face with a piece of elastic, two layers of patched-up sweatpants, a Christmas turtleneck, and an oversized goose-down coat buttoned to my chin. This is how the door-to-door conversations should have went:

“Trick-Or-Treat!”

“And what’s your Halloween costume, little girl?”

“Formerly Barbie. But now I’m the creepy guy from Texas Chainsaw Massacre who straps people’s faces to his own face.”

“Oh, okay. Here, have some crappy Mary Janes, they’ve only been sitting around my candy dish for six months.”

Oh, the frustration.

So this Halloween, much like every other Halloween, Nagymama, mom, and I went over to our neighbor Gustaaf’s house for candy. And as always, he invited us inside. I hated going inside because their house always smelled like mothballs and old doilies, and he and Nagymama would talk to each other in Dutch for hours on end. After a few minutes, I stared to anxiously pace around the house because I wanted to go Trick-or-Treating.

Gustaaf’s 500-year-old wife, Olga, screamed after me, “Shit down, shit down, you run round too mush, I git you someting.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

I was scared because almost every other time I went over, Olga brought me out hideously bitter grapefruit juice that my mom would make me drink because it was “good for me”. This time, I was thrilled when she brought out what looked like a cold glass of soda. I took a fast gulp and nearly spit it everywhere. I must quote Ralph Wigum from “The Simpson’s” when I say, “It tasted like BURNING!”

Nagymama was not pleased with the faces I was making. “Drink it, you don’t want to be rude, do you?” she said in Hungarian, with her menacing, “I’mona get the fa kanál” stare.

So, I drank it. And the family talked some more. And Olga poured some more. And Nagymama stared some more. And I drank some more.

After some endless jabbering, Gustaaf finally reached into his wallet and pulled out a five-dollar bill, which was my “Treat” for this year. For a moment, I got excited thinking about how much candy I could buy with that $5! As I went to walk to him, I felt a little funny, and promptly fell over.

Oh, the chaos…

I was immediately picked up, ushered out, and brought home for fear of concussion. My mother deduced that fell because I could not see correctly in my mask and gotten my foot caught on my vinyl Barbie dress. In reality, it probably had something to do with the two-and-a-half Black Russians Olga had given me.

I didn't get much candy that year. But I'm pretty sure I got a hangover in the morning.

Photo by PeeJay

Nagymama's Run-In With the Law

Whenever Nagymama walked to the corner store to buy milk and eggs, she would always stop by the liquor store to buy a lotto ticket. Since my grandmother has always been a little bit of a handful, my mother always welcomed Nagymama’s trips to the corner because it gave her “a moment’s rest”.

Well, one day, that “moment” turned into over an hour. We started to get really worried; the store was no more than half a mile up the road, so Nagymama was usually there and back in about 30 minutes. My mom ran to scour the neighborhood.

Nagymama wasn’t at the corner store. She wasn’t at the liquor store. She wasn’t even at her usual spot at the local McDonald’s, eating hamburgers and petting little kids on the head with greasy fingers while their parents smiled uncomfortably. Nagymama was missing.

Little did we know that Grandma had gotten her lotto ticket as usual, but on her way back home, she started “shopping” for houses. For as long as I have been alive, Nagymama has wanted a “bi-level house”. She would even “case” the neighborhood to see if any bi-level houses were for sale, so “I vill know vhich house to buy vhen ve hit dah lotto.” If she had saved all the money that she spent over the years on lotto tickets, she could have probably bought six bi-levels!

So, on this particular day, she must have gone up to one of the neighbor’s houses and they called the cops. God, I could, just HEAR the phone conversation:

“Uh, hello, 911? There’s a crazy old lady wearing house slippers on my front lawn, peeking though my windows and writing something on a napkin. She probably belongs to someone. No, I checked, she’s not wearing a collar…”

The cops immediately answered the call and drove up to Nagymama, asking her is she was lost. Although she speaks Hungarian, Romanian, German, and Dutch, her hearing is really bad and her English is only “so-so.” She lied, “No, no, I am Mizz Mary Smith from New Brunswick!” They assumed she was disoriented and couldn’t remember where she lived, so they planned to put her in the car and drive her around the neighborhood until she recognized something.

Both cops got out of the car and tried to get her in the back. She clawed and kicked and scratched and screamed bloody murder. She screamed so loud that my mother was able to hear her from around the block. My mom sprinted towards the noise, screaming, “Anyu! Anyu!”

Of course at this point, there was such a commotion that all of the neighbors were outside to see the spectacle. This is yet another reason I didn’t have many friends in the neighborhood.

The cops finally saw my mom and backed off of grandma. “Officers, officers, dis is a mistake, dis is my modder!” While Nagymama then proceeded to take her papucs off and smack my mom in the side of the arm.

“You’re trying to send me to the nuthouse!” she screamed, “You called them to take me away!”

If that was true, I might have had that phone number on speed dial.

Photo by Eric Martin