I just found out that my ninety one year old Nan got a tad pissed off at my two cousins yesterday.  Nan cursed the hell out of them (said she’d f*cking kill them is they mess with her) and yeah, she wanted to cut them THREE ways: long, deep and repeatedly! Why? Because once you hit ninety, you have the right to get pissed off whenever you feel like it, do you need a reason?

(ITALIAN LESSON: swear/cuss/curse word = parolaccia) 

What really ticked nan off was the discovery of my cousins touching her personal piles of paper “stuff” (paperstuff, mind you, that’s been accumulating mold and mildew in old stinky cardboard boxes for at least three decades, but to my nan, this old crap is as important as it was back in the early seventies).

Today I called my loony lovable mom to fill her in on her mom’s recent cursing and knife-wielding spree. Her reply?
“Well, I guess it’s never too late to start swearing.”  

True ma — and I’m thankful nan doesn’t have her own Italian heater!

“It’s not a gang, it’s a club”  Gilda Radnor used to say in her SNL skits about New York street gangs.  Oops, I mean clubs.  I’ve heard that phrase  over the years  from my brother Paco (well, he calls his club a Nation).    

Paco claims he doesn’t get into much trouble, but I often see R.I.P. splashed across his myspace page when a King brother or sister falls, usually from a bullet or stabbing courtesy of a rival club, but to keep this on the lighter side, I’ll share this story about Paco, my mom and Andrew Jackson.

A few years ago, Paco stopped by mom’s house, threw five crumpled up twenties on the kitchen counter and asked, “Yo ma, can you to iron up some ’funny money’ for me, and sh!t?” 

(ITALIAN LESSON:  Counterfeit = contraffatto)

So, there mom is ironing out the additional wrinkles in Andrew Jackson’s face, while browning the garlic for one of her perfect vats of tomato sauce.  Yup, just a typical day with the Romano’s – always something different, and mom always had a hard time saying no to her baby Paco.

Mission accomplished. Did mom keep any Jacksons? No. Paco offered up a couple as a thank you, but mom replied with “are you out of your friggin’ mind?”

Crazy indeed, head back home for more insanity www.MadnessMomandMe.com

Here’s a funny story, no wait – it’s funny to me now, but it really wasn’t all that funny a few decades ago when I was a stoned teen about to have my brain jostled around for an entire afternoon!  Here’s what happened:   I was about fifteen, it was a beautiful warm and sunny Saturday in Dover …  my friends and I were hanging out doing what many of us little punks did back in the late seventies – smoking a joint.  No harm done, right? I mean I never got into anything heavier, so the whole “gateway” drug stuff seems like total B.S. to me.

There I am with my friends having a good time, talking, laughing and most likely stuffing our faces with a zillion Doritos, and along comes a dark blue Chevy Impala.  Damn! You see, this Chevy happened to have my dad behind the wheel, and his passengers included mom and my cousin Tracy.  They were on a mission: to find me, get my ass in the car and head to Bertrand’s Island Amusement Park for the day.  HOLY SH!T!

(ITALIAN LESSON: amusement park =  parco dei divertimenti or luna park)

Bertrand’s Island was usually a thrill for me, but going to an amusement park high was not on my agenda that day.  I almost tossed my Doritos on The Tilt-a-Whirl, my brains got scrambled on The Scrambler, and flying around on that huge old rickety roller coaster – geez, what a nightmare!

That night when we arrived home, I swear I was the happiest kid in town, and my little stoner secret stayed with me – until now.

Why couldn’t Dom turn the car around THAT day? Oh well, head back to the home of Madness here: www.MadnessMomandMe.com.

MADONNA MIA! I could just go on and on, so let me gather up some snippets to share and I’ll be back with more decades of true-life lunacy.

If you have a weak bladder, pop on your trusty Depends and hang on for the ride!

Crazy or not, head back to the HOME PAGE here: www.MadnessMomandme.com

(Italian Lesson:  Pancake = frittella)

So, I just got off the phone with my Aunt Patti (yes, the one with the everyday f*ckin’ “colorful” conversation (as noted in the post “Aunt Patti’s Hair Nest and the Twitty Birds”) and she told me that my beloved and utterly sweet ninety two year old grandmother - whom I call “Nan” –  was noshing on pancakes yesterday morning for breakfast (OK, normal so far, right?) but, as she was enjoying her pancakes - and in her day, my Nan could whip up some amazing pancakes - Nan was tearing off little buttery bits and shoving them into a nearby book. 

When asked why the pancake pages were all-the-rage that particular day, Nan stated simply “so I have something to snack on later, of course”.  Alright Nan, but wouldn’t a little plate or Tupperware container do the trick ? Awwww, the things we may do at ninety two… I don’t think she was planning to read that book anyway -  I just hope she doesn’t try to cook it!

(You can read more about Nan’s quirky habits lovingly noted in this post: “Joe Pesci is my third cousin, you gotta F*%#!n’ problem with that?” http://madnessmomandme.com/2009/07/joe-pesce/).

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(Italian Lesson: cigar smoker = fumatore di sigari)

Don’t make me get the cigar! Please go back to the home of Madness at www.madnessmomandme.com
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Yes, over the years my dad had to put up with a whole lot of crazy thanks to mom’s spirited “antics”, but he was not without his own classic gems.  Dad loved his Italian meals, and often got himself on mom’s “sh!t list”  for filling his plate with a mountainous heep of second helpings, especially if mom’s garlicy pasta sauce was on the menu.  ABBONDANZA!  as we say in Italian.

(Italian Lesson: ABBONDANZA! = abundance)

A few years ago, mom made one of her famously delicious spaghetti and meatball dinners, and just before she set the food on the kitchen table, my dad started to complain of severe chest pains.  His pain was not going anywhere, so mom called the ambulance to get him to the nearest emergency room.   Dad knew he should get to the hospital asap,  but that scent filling the house – the temptation of mom’s homemade sauce, those scrumptious little meatballs and fresh Italian bread were calling out his name,  “D-o-m-i-n-i-c, D-o-m-i-n-i-c”  – what was this sauce-lovin’ Sicilian to do?

Well, Dominic knew!  When the ambulance arrived, he did what any other appreciative Italian husband would do – he asked mom to make him a “doggie bag” meal to bring along for the ride (and, hey, add some bread for dipping!) - this way he could enjoy his dinner while he waited to see the doc.  Needless to say, dad arrived home from the E.R. pretty hungry that night.

Have doggie bag will travel

St. Margaret's Madness

St. Margaret’s Catholic School, Morristown, NJ – Second grade:  my foray into the Catholic school system.  Jesus, how I hated those wretched uniforms  – come on, who can look halfway decent in those ridiculous plaid accordion-pleated skirts and dowdy white buttoned-up blouses? And that stupid little crisscross tie thing in front of your neck – what the hell was that about?   Where was my favorite little black velvet dress now???

A St. Margaret’s education was OK I guess, but the little me did not leave that school without a couple  “incidents” which got me in a bit of trouble — expelled for a day actually, but more about that in a bit.  This post is all about the mean and utterly terrifying Sister Urselena.  YIKES — even typing out her name makes me tremble to this day!

(Italian Lesson: meschino = mean)

Sister Urselena was one of those nuns who would hit kids acting up in class, and God forbid if you were chewing

Sister Urselena wishes she looked this good

gum, because you’d end up wearing it on your nose and stand in front of the class for an hour with your chewed up gum on the end of your nose.  Yup, this was one frightening nun!  A nun who wouldn’t know a smile if one crawled up her habit and bit her on her ass.  Urselena never smiled at all — maybe it was because she had a mouth like a puppet —a real wooden puppet.  You know, one of those with the deep lines next to her lips, in fact, her mouth opened and closed like a Charlie McCarthy doll.

After seeing Urselena hit a fellow student with a ruler one day, I told my mom about it.  Mom advised me to leave the school if they ever tried to touch me.  So, the next day, I walked to school with my head held high, went straight up to Ursulena and told her that if she, or any nun ever touches me, my mother gave me permission to bolt outta there immediately.  Urselena promptly called my mother to verify this, and mom basically told her “damn straight, sister”! Unfortunately, this was not the last time Sister Ursulena called my mother at home — stay tuned “pencil incident” post.

Get back to the home of Madness here www.madnessmomandme.comor I’ll tell Sister Urselena!

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My Aunt Patti was always talking about Loretta Lynn, Johnny Cash and Conway Twitty and his little Twitty-birds.  She always had a cigarette in her hand, and one of her teased-up Loretta Lynn wigs on her head – the kind which resembled some sort of nest-like bird habitat.  Aunt Patti’s hair was pretty much a mystery to me, I never knew what the heck was under there.  I guess Aunt Patti just didn’t want to bother with styling her real hair, since I know now that she really does grow her own.

A Hot Country Mess

Back in the 70’s my Aunt Patti’s true love  was country and western music — and swearing.  Aunt Patti would swear in everyday conversation;  it just seemed to work for her.  If she saw a cop, she called him a friggin’ flat-footed bastard.  If the car in front of her didn’t step on the gas immediately at a green light, she’d say  “the f*cking light’s not gonna get any greener, ya friggin’ @sshole” and so on. 

(Italian Lesson: to swear like a trooper = bestemmiare come uno scaricatore di porto)

If we were at a restaurant with Aunt Patti, before she could say “pass the mother f*ckin’ mashed”, she would always ask the waitress to being a spoonful of their sauce before ordering any saucy dish.  She’d turn to us and say, “I need taste their f*cking sauce before I order their friggin’ food; I’m not getting screwed with sh!tty friggin’ sauce here”.  Aunt Patti’s colorful raunchiness with the English language always held a high entertainment value, and provided us with something to laugh about the next day.

Now go back to the friggin’ home page:  www.madnessmomandme.com.

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