“I believe more in the scissors than I do in the pencil.” ~ Truman Capote

Two winters ago I introduced you to my favorite evil nun, Sister Urselena, in the appropriately named Madness post, “The Very Wretched Sister Urselena”.

I mentioned that the dreaded puppet-faced Sister Ursulena would be calling my mom (again) about my school girl antics and to stay tuned for the “pencil incident” – well, here’s the story of my pencil gone bad:

HINT: I did not use my pencil for reading, writing or arithmetic that day. Nope, I had other plans…

I recall a chubby-faced pasty blond boy (whose name I cannot remember) so for sh!ts and giggles, let’s just refer to him as “pasty pencil boy”. Pasty pencil boy was teasing me about usual kid stuff, like church politics or the Sunday collection plate. Perhaps we were arguing over the number of deep crevices in Sister Urselena’s mug and during our little tiff he punched me in the tummy! I didn’t take well to a shot to the gut at six, and believe me, I sure as hell wouldn’t be too accepting of one now. So, like any disciplined student, I happened to have my just-sharpened No. 2 pencil at the ready, and his wrist was well, just THERE, so WHAM!!! I let him have that pencil tip, right in his veiny pale doughboy wrist! (Oh, and the pasty kid was fine

ITALIAN LESSON: Where can I get a pencil = Dove posse comprare una matita?

Hey, “Eye for an eye” right? Isn’t that what the Bible teaches us? Well, Sister Urselena did NOT agree, so I was suspended for a couple of days. YAY! I get to hang with Mom and watch TV – it was fabulous! (Oh, and pasty pencil boy was just fine).

Come on, share a naughty childhood story with me here in the COMMENTS Section– I won’t judge

Never punch a feisty girl in her belly, and head to the home of the madness here: Madness Home.

Cinnabon Trump

When my now Latin King brother (much more about him to come) was about 18, Dad, myself and my bro would visit and “donate” our small share of cash to the sparkly new casinos which were beginning to sprout up along Atlantic City’s boardwalk. 

Atlantic City used to be a wholesome family destination where kids could meet and greet Mr. Peanut, munch on popcorn, see creamy delicious chocolate fudge being made (and get a free sample), play games for prizes — like winning a “concussion” goldfish by throwing a ping-pong ball in their little glass home (so it could die of a brain hemorrhage just after you named it)– and even watch full-grown horses jump off a sky-high ladder into a small pool of blue water way down below.  As a kid, I was totally mesmerized by this feat– not today though.  Today, I’d be the one breaking in with a flashlight and a crowbar in the dead of night to free those poor animals.  Horses that probably had to be shot the next day due to a broken leg after this sh!tty trick.  I won’t get started on the sh!ttiness of it all, instead I’ll let my mind settle in, and be happy with my memories of the Steel Pier, the performing horses, and the delicious Italian meals of various pastas, veal and chicken parmesan dinners with my parents at Patrina’s – an authentic dining spot for guineas, old and young.  And, as my Aunt Patti would say  ”they cooked up some good f*ckin’ sauce!” (this previous post explains a bit more about Aunt Patti http://madnessmomandme.com/2009/12/aunt-pattis-hair-nest-the-twitty-birds).

(Italian Lesson: gambling house = casinò,  casa da gioco)

Back to the beginning of my story:  One of my favorite memories was when my dad, my bro and I were at one of Trump’s casinos and we saw ”The Donald” himself walking right in front of us and, without missing a beat, my brother ran straight up to him and yelled out “YO, TRUMP! YOU OWE MY DAD MONEY!” Donald turned around and asked “Oh yeah? And why is that may I ask?”  My brother said “because my dad lost money up in here, Trump” .  A pretty friendly Donald with his multi-colored cinnabon swirl of a hair-do just smiled and kept on walking with his cronies.  I was cracking up, dad was shaking his head, most likely hoping secretly that Trump may just decide to pull out a Benjamin or two and  say, “here you go, man“.  Well, no such luck, but it makes for a cute little story.

One of my first celebrity crushes...Mr. Peanut

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