It's Peanut Butter Jelly Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo by Daniel Wildman

The 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

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

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

Prom Part 3: The Actual Prom

Please see Part 1: Prom Preparation and Part 2: The Promenade before reading this.

Once we arrived at the prom, the boys got out first to help their dates out of the limo. When it came to my turn, I reached for a hand, but my date was nowhere in site. I looked over and there he was with Jordan Sanders – my evil ex-boyfriend.

Jordan was my very first boyfriend, and we broke up after five months because “he went into depression.” During our relationship, I had developed fascination with Vlad Tepes since my mother had just informed me that we were Transylvanian (and not 100% Hungarian like my father claimed). In addition, I was having a bit of a crisis of faith, so I started studying many religions, including Islam, Judaism, and Wicca. Jordan’s friends knew all of this information decided that I was the reason for his depression. They told the entire school that, “I put a Wiccan curse on him because I was nothing but an evil satanic vampire that sacrificed chickens.” No kidding.

The irony of all of this was that I was actually a devout Christian vegetarian at the time, and the whole “depression” was a ruse to cover up the fact that I refused to participate in sexual activities (or chicken sacrificing) with Mr. Sanders. In retrospect, I am really glad it happened because it opened my eyes to the stereotypes and stigmas Wiccans go through daily, just for following a peaceful, 100% Satan-free religion. People always fear what they don’t understand.

So, of course, on this day of all days, I did not want to see Jordan and his entourage. His moron best friend Chip, a squat little man with a voice reminiscent of “Nelson” from the Simpon’s, pointed his finger at me.

“Whatchu doing here, Step-On-Me You-ASS?!” Chip snorted. My date looked slightly conflicted, but did nothing to help me.

“I’m sorry, what did you call me?” I asked, as I walked closer. Crystal trailed closely behind me; she must have known that this was not going to be good. Now, I must forewarn you, I am not a violent person, but as you can see from Part 1 and Part 2 of this entry, I was not having a good day.

Chip continued his teasing, “You heaaaard me, Step-On-Me, You-Ass!”

So, I did as he told me to do: I placed one high-heeled foot directly on his and stomped down as hard as I could. Sure, it was immature. But you should’ve seen the look on his face.

“What the fuck, bitch?” he screamed, as he jumped in place holding his foot.

“You keep saying “Step-On-Me,” so I simply obliged.”

Surprisingly enough, even Jordan laughed at this remark. But Jordan’s and Chip’s dates were not pleased and rushed them inside. Crystal shook her head. “Wow, that was random and unnecessary. But awesome.”
My date sat down next to me and immediately started devouring his dinner roll. I was worried that he was mad about the Chip incident, but he simply complained about his retail job and then asked if I wanted my bread. I was relieved – sharing food usually implies friendship. He must have been really hungry though, because he even stole a roll from the empty seat next to us and snagged Crystal’s piece because she was “dieting.”

Meanwhile, my friend Ian stopped by the table and I was thrilled to see him. He was an interesting blend of an athletic ROTC (Reserved Officer Training Corps) guy and a complete socially inept nerd. He wasn’t even bad looking, but he wore a trenchcoat (which had its own stigma in high school) and spent most of his days creating duct-taped swords for RPGs (Role Playing Games). This, unfortunately, did not score many points with the ladies, but I always thought he was a pretty funny dude.

As Ian and I were talking I noticed that Allen had disappeared. “Tony, where’s Al?”

Tony barely looked up from the intricate Anarchy symbol he was drawing on the tablecloth. “He’s upchucking in the bathroom or something.”

“Wait, why?”

“I dunno, he ate too much.”

“He doesn’t know when to stop eating? What is he, a goldfish?”

Tony gave me a mild shrug.

“Typical.”

Ian gave me an awkward glance. “So, uh, do you wanna go dance or something instead of sitting here?”

“Um, okay.”

I timidly walked with him to the dance floor. It would have been too awkward to slow dance, but I knew I could survive if a fast song came on because of the few Spanish dance classes I took freshman year. I was releaved when some early 90’s techno song came on. We danced for two or three songs and for a moment, I forgot myself –

Until my oversized top fell down.

It was only for a split second, but that second was long enough for my buddy Ian to glimpse his first set of real-live female breasts. See, I’m a good friend, right?

After the prom was over, we all walked outside and it was freezing. I noticed most of the girls were wearing their date’s jackets, whereas my date walked 50 feet away from me. I would take a chilly evening air over wearing a jacket with puke all over it any night.

I heard footsteps behind me and felt a jacket go over my shoulders. Ian had ran out to give me his jacket. I muttered a thank you and shruggled into the coat. I was mortified and couldn’t even look him in the face. Writing this all out now, I realize the kid probably kinda liked me, but I was too much of a moron to even see it. If you’re out there Ian, I’m really sorry about that – thanks for letting me borrow your jacket.

Photo by Ltz