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 Oldest Mother

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mrs. Daga! How old are you?”

“Eighty-two,” she said sheepishly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Karolina! How. Old. Are. YOU?”

Nagymama laughed, “Sex-ty four.”

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

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

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

Photo by Julia Freeman-Woolpert

The Shredder

Phone call transcription:

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

"A man..."

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

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

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

"I vant a paper shredder."

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

"I gave it avay."

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

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

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

"I vanted to look good."

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

"Yah, so I need another von."

"Are you going to keep it this time?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nooooooo!"

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

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

"Okay. I have to go now."

"Vatch your fingers!"

"Okay."

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

"Okay, mom, I gotta go."

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

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

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

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

"Are you still coming for my burstday?"

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

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

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

"So vhat do you vant?"

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

"No shredder?"

"Seriously. No shredder."

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

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

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

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

"But the valnut..."

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

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

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

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

"Okay!"

"...and not a cheap von."

"Okay, bye."

*click*

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

Fit to Be a Mother

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay...”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo by Michael Chambers

Snacky Cakes®

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

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

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

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

"But she still eats cake, right?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Birthday, Nagymama! I tried!

The Red String

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo by Nico van Diem

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

Summer Lovin'

One beautiful summer afternoon, my cousin Liz, her husband Bernie, and their two children, Attila and Kris, came down to Philadelphia so we could visit the zoo. This was a momentous occasion since I had never been to the zoo with my family; Anyu never allowed me to go the zoo or circus because she was afraid that the lions would get out of their cage and eat me.

Of course, we weren't in the park more than five minutes before we came across the Galapagos turtles, who were very slowly, methodically, and LOUDLY “making turtly love” as usual.

Attila, being a very inquisitive four-year old asked, "Stephie-néni, what’s are the turtles doing?”

This is not a question I wanted to answer. Not only were they make a terrible smacking sound when their shells rubbed together, but they were also very...vocal...about their behavior.

"The turtles are hugging, they’re friends."

He looked concerned, "But why is that one screaming?”

“Because, uh…hey, look, there's a rhino!"

After a fun day of petting bunnies, seeing wild cats, and eating ice cream, I was pretty tired, so I sat on the bench next to Liz while Attila and Bernie went on a boat ride. I was enjoying the warm summer breeze as I happened to look over at the lake to see Attila waving hello from a paddle boat that resembled a swan. I smiled and thought, “Wow. That is cute. This is such a perfect day. My family awesome. I wish I could hang out with them all the time.”

As if hearing my thoughts, Liz turned to me and said, “So. Are you still thinking about getting that nose job?”

“What…uh, no, I…”

“Because if you’re scared, it’s really no big deal, they don’t even need to knock you out, they just give you a local, cut the tip of your nose, file down the bump, and you can leave that day. If you want, we can go in together - I feel like my nostrils aren't the same size.”

She lifted up her nose for me to see.

“Liz, your nostrils are fine. And I went to the doc for sinus issues. He says I'm fine for now and don't need surgery, so that’s good news.”

“Oh, so your insurance won’t cover it?”

“No, my insurance isn't going to cover a freaking nose job if there's nothing wrong with my nose.”
“Oh." She looked at Kris for a moment in the bassinet and then right back at me. "Well. I just thought it would be a great enhancement to your appearance.”

Suddenly, I knew why that turtle was really screaming - it was warning me to run away.

Photo by Elvis Santana

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.Nagym