If you live in Berea and you were outdoors this afternoon, you can stop wondering: yes, that was the first time I ever mowed a lawn. No, I didn't really know what I was doing. And yes, I'll be alright.

As for everyone else, don't ask.

The first meatballs we've ever made in Berea -- they're now on the stove. Wasn't easy: still don't have the full complement of kitchen gear (or ingredients), but after some improvisation and the most minor of grease-fires, we're on our way.

Of course I ate a few as I plunked them into the sauce. Tasty.

Next up: setting up the wireless network. (Guess that means I'll be offline periodically this afternoon as I alternately fuck up/restore my router configuration.)

The other day I went to the library to return a book that I had gotten through the inter-Ohio library exchange. In Ohio, not only can you get a book from anywhere in your county but through any of the counties and University libraries throughout Ohio. I was quite excited because it was a book I read when I was young and really wanted toshare it with the boys. It is called "The Night they Stole the Alphabet".

So anyway, at the Berea library all returns are just dropped in an indoor book return if on time, but because I had gotten this book from Inter-Ohio library exchange--I just didnt want to drop it in. Seemed like I should tell someone. Very politely, I walked up to the librarian and said--excuse me this book is from the Inter-Ohio exchange, and I do not want to just drop it in the shute. The librarian then looks at me like I have approximately six heads and says--Where is all the documentation and do not remove green paper that was wrapped around the cover. I'm like what are you talking about? There's this little green slip they gave me.

The librarian is now about to stroke out on me. I'm totally perplexed. I thought I was doing the right thing by telling her and now she is taking off my head. She then goes on in a very loud and nasty voice to tell me, how is she going to know what library that book goes back to? I had several ideas about where she could go back to, but felt that would only make matters worse.

The whole time Cookie is like , Mommy what is she talking about? We never had a green wrapper on the book. And I'm trying to keep him quiet because the librarian is rapidly becoming psychotic. She hears him and says--Young man there are always green wrappers on the inter-library books--as though a six year old could really give a hoot.

Now I'm like well maybe my mom removed it or something. Which really made no sense because why am I feeling bad about something I had no idea existed and did not remove. The librarian is once again back on--how will i know what library I should return it to? I then say, you might try Ohio University--as that is stamped all over it. Which makes her get more angered. Finally I just walk away--cuz really what am I suppose to do, I returned the book in a timely fashion. How long was a suppose to listen to her rant. But she is not quite done yet--she starts telling the man behind me what a no goodnik I am. My picture is probably up on the walls of all libraries in Ohio, just like the FBI's most wanted or the bad check people with a big note--NEVER LET BORROW INTER-LIBRARY BOOKS-KNOWN REMOVER OF GREEN WRAPPER.

As I walked away I thought, Wow, so this is what happens when you remove the tags off pillows.

It must be planting season because so much of Pennsylvania has recently been iced, chocolate-cake-like, with a thick covering of cow shit. That was the ride from trunz. But I'm here now, getting myself settled at Berea-Rose, eating some olives and sliced tomatoes. The boys are setting up their Hot Wheels tracks. Alane is out getting the stuff we're gonna need tomorrow morning to make meatballs. I talked to Bazzukajoe earlier today... He too went to his barber recently... And he too was told something ridiculous.

Walking to the office this morning from Grand Central is when it hit me. I was sipping my coffee, uncharacteristically looking up, seeing the city around me and remembering how I saw the place so many years ago, roaming around in yearning adolescence, distracted with curiosity, with a sordid collection of teenage delusions slung over my shoulder. I thought the streets were mine -- which seemed reasonable because I planned to do so many noteworthy things in the coming years. This was before I realized that the most extraordinary actions are taken very quietly -- face to face, or anonymously, painfully but appropriately unremarked upon. At least in this world.

I'll miss the city; I already miss the way I once regarded it. This place not mine and never was. And that's okay. I have other things to keep me busy -- tomorrow I'll catch up, finally, with Alane and the boys, a truly extraordinary circumstance that I've staked out for myself. There I can be comfortable knowing that I've more than vindicated the misplaced arrogance of my childhood.

Now if I could just do something about the misplaced arrogance that drives my mid-life efforts...

So I'm sitting here, drinking my coffee, letting the sweat dry from my morning jog. I saw them again -- the two women chatting and running. This time I passed them going in the opposite direction. They went by with such speed that a billow of air slapped my cheek as I passed. They even smelled fresh.

I considered calling a cab to get back home.

Last night I was IM chatting with Little Vito and he mentioned that he was spending a lot of time at the gym. So I asked him: if there was a woman working out nearby, did he find himself working out harder?

His answer surprised me -- he said absolutely not.

Wow (he made me say it), here was a man in total control of his cardio-vascular conditioning regimen! Self-discipline impresses me.

His series of explanatory IM notes follows:

the harder you work / the wierder of a face you make / you make like these wierd grimaces / peoples lips shiver when they do some exercises / turnin red / groanin / sweating / you gotta put the time in / on the walk to the water fountain

It appears that Little Vito has thought this through -- even more than I have. He has a plan, and he's sticking to it.

It's a sunny morning. Gotta head out to the office soon. Tomorrow morning I start the long drive to Berea-Rose. I wish I could snap my fingers and find myself pulling into the driveway... But hopefully I'll spend some time with Guido and Kay tonight -- maybe we'll make Dead Newt Home Brew beer... for old time's sake!

Having taken the day off in anticipation of a full day of truck-loading, I decided to devote my lunchtime to getting a long-delayed haircut. I went to Bronxville and sat while Tommy finished up with his prior customer. Tommy was in a foul mood -- he was locking horns with the customer, and the mood was decidedly sour.

After the man left, it was my turn. Tommy explained to me that the previous customer was a very stubborn man. Had always been. And Tommy should know: he's been cutting the man's hair for the last 38 years.

I told him about my move and he told me about the two or three weeks he lived in Garfield Heights, Ohio, many years ago. We chatted. He clipped my thinning hair. I watched through the mirror as people walked up and down Pondfield Road.

Then, when Tommy was done cutting, he fumigated me with hair spray. I think he used an entire can. I stink of the stuff. I wouldn't be surprised if I have bugs stuck in it from walking to the Food Emporium. I'm taking a shower.

So after all my belly-aching about how much stuff I have to pack and how hard it is to move these piles of boxes around the apartment -- three guys climbed off a truck not more than two hours ago... and they're done. They moved those boxes like real men. Stuff all gone; truck all loaded... And I'm sitting here wallowing in self-loathing.

And not for the first time this week!

Yesterday, as I jogged past Crestwood station on my way back from my run, two fit-looking women overtook me jogging in the same direction. I responded as would any male afflicted with testosterone poisoning -- I straightened my posture and quickened my pace. But they didn't notice me... They were too busy chatting. This really annoyed me. Not only were they running significantly faster than me, but they weren 't even breathing hard (even at a slow jog my lungs sound like I've just run through a cloud of mustard gas).

So of course I tried to keep up with them. Which, of course, was pathetic (which, you'll remember, is defined in the Encyclopedia Mastandrea between the entries for panettone and pizzaiola). By the time I got to the Pirate Ship Playground to turn off and head home, they had already crossed the bridge and were even with me on the other side of the Bronx River.

If I could think of another bad pun, I would put it here. But I can't, so I'll just talk like Big Vito and mutter to myself: patetic.

The Big Kahuna had it absolutely right about the whole moving experience. He advised me to burn everything and start over with new stuff on the other side.

I hate boxes.

Right now the apartment is an obstacle course -- stacks of boxes punctuated with bundles of odd-shaped belongings and furniture. For the last few days the place was looking like a real mess; by now things are looking neater. And sadder.

In the morning I'll disassemble the desk and box up some of the personal items I've been using. After that -- I have truck.

(Reminds me of the witty rejoinder I told at the office, oh, about 15 years ago -- when the chatterbox secretary spent the whole day complaining about her husband's frustrating attempts to purchase a new truck and I urged her to please shut up already, to which she said, "Ugh, tell it to my husband," and I replied, "Why, I have no truck with him." I felt pretty clever, until I realized that no one in earshot got the pun, so I slunk away to my cubicle to plot revenge... Alane didn't think it was funny either when I told her that night. Nor did Guido. Or Gene. Some friends I got...)

Here in South Florida, April 18th, 2006 will forever be remembered for the painful silence...of the WPBF evening weather report. The absence of arguably the greatest meterological mind of our time...Rob Lopicola, was devastating for so many of his devoted fans. Fans were overheard saying through tears "I guess we should have expected this, a fish so big couldn't last in a pond so small. Dear Lord, how are we going to make it through hurricane season?" We at the Macaroni Dish wish "The Lopicola" a fond farewell and best of luck as he enters the national network stage. As you will read in the article below, Rob's next destination is being kept confidential until the big press conference announcement but I've heard the rumors and the whispers (New York, you lucky dogs) ...dont you agree that The Today Show with Lauer and Lopicola sounds like a ratings goldmine? In sum, we in South Florida sadly lose a local celebrity, but one lucky national network is going to bring all Americans...a Weather God.
http://www.tcpalm.com/tcp/local_news/article/0,2545,TCP_16736_4628454,00.html

No sooner said than done: Rob Lopicola is coming to New York!

It's the power of the blogosphere!

Blogger is punishing me for not being a diligent blogger. I tried to write a new recipe to the blog, the first in over a month and it will not publish. . .It basically sits and spins. Ahhh. . .and it was a recipe we really enjoyed. Me especially. I tossed it together in just a few minutes for Sunday brunch and it turned out much better than I could have imagined.

John, I stand (or sit) amazed that you are cleaning out the freezer by consuming the food. Good luck on the rest of the move. I feel your pain. The garden is doing my back in as well.

By now, I have filled many boxes. I have already breathed in huge billows of dust; organized many diverse possessions; irritated several lumbar and thoracic discs; and accomplished surprisingly little.

I'm sitting here now, watching the Yankees, trying to let me back relax before I tackle the next few piles of crap.

At least I had a chance to eat -- grilled some pork chops from the freezer that appeared to have a 2002 date. They were tasty.

Okay, here I go... Those shelves in the hallway are coming down!

I know I should know this--but has Frylock changed fryers. I sent an Easter card and it was returned to sender. I also vaguely remember hearing that the Post Office was having some sort of Jihad against Frylock, and that he was not receiving his mail although he was still there. I shall send the card to Spumoni South and have them give it to him.

Today I had to work which requires me to be there by 6:00 am. This was further complicated by the fact that they are shooting scenes from Spiderman 3 here and closed the one main street through town. I was not daunted and drove down the street at 5:20 am as the police followed behind me shutting down the street. Apparently they are using Cleveland as a stand in for NYC--I fail to see the resemblance but it is film making.

Yesterday, we went to the indoor amusement park at the IX center for Cookie's birthday. It was much better than the Kalahari experience and the boys got to ride many things. For some inexplicable reason, a petting farm was there and I think the boys enjoyed feeding the cows and goats and sheep more than the rides. They actually spent about a half hour doing it. Most of the animals were babies so they were pretty cute.

They say New York has it all, but when it comes to on-air weather forecasting, New York is at a distinct disadvantage: it doesn't have Rob Lopicola. And this is the media center of the world? Perhaps this post will spur all bloggers from the NY metro area to start the much-needed letter-writing campaign that will convince the local networks to finaly get professional.

I want my Lopicola!

No offense to the Spumoni and its many fine neighbors -- but all that talent shouldn't be wasting away on a distant affiliate in a small market. (We just have to be careful -- once he gets here they'll probably want to snag him for one of the national morning zoo shows... it least it'll be a step up from that other fat bastard...)

There will be much packing into boxes this weekend. This is the final stretch.

Earlier this week, as I made the long and painful journey across Interstate 80, I sat at the steering wheel and thought to myself:

Trunz.

I was not immediately conscious of why the word had jumped into my mind. But as I drove I began to notice a foul odor. I assumed it was coming from outside, but oddly I wasn't driving out of it, even after several miles.

Finally, I decided to overtake the truck I had been following for some time. As I passed I saw a sign on the side of the truck:

Municipal waste. De-watered solids.

Now I knew whence came that stink. This was a truck full of brunz. And not just any brunz: this was freeze-dried brunz.

So of course I had to call Steve immediately to tell him about it.

"I'm driving alongside a semi carrying a load of crap-jerky," I said, or something to that effect. And I also thought of a replacement for Steve's earlier usage lesson:

"The truck full of brunz created a strong sense of trunz for all nearby motorists."

Yeah, we definitely need to open a university.

Ah, yes. . .the burnt linoleum at the Castle. . .I have been to that holy shrine to the man most likely to burn down Brooklyn. . .it's one of the reasons I am so fond of that guy. . .he shares my passion for things that smoke, fry, frizzle, pop, spark, flame and go boom. . . .

I also was one to play with the inner workings of things as a kid. . .gears fascinated me even when I was a toddler I am told. . .I could sit and play with a plastic board with knobs and gears forever. . .when nothing else held my attention for more than a moment. . .my favorite toys were Legos, Lincoln Logs and the Erector set. . . my favorite memories are of times in the workshop with my dad.

I was/still am big on a person finding their own passion, but I was disappointed that none of my children leaned in that direction because I couldn't fill the house with gizmos, gears, Constructs, robots, motors and such. . .(well without admitting that they were for me, not the kids.) Joe and I still hit the toy stores now when we go shopping together. . .we both hate to shop, but we love the same kind of toys.

Thanks for the birthday party notes, Marlena. . .I am so glad that the birthday party was a blast. . .we were there in spirit, trust me. . .

I kind of hate to say this publicly, but I am not all that fond of pizza. Now garlic bread and pasta with a creamy smooth alfredo with veggies. . .that's my kind of "EYE" dinner.

e-post script. . .I changed my screen name. . .hope no one minds

Airport Guy misses the best part of the quote: as Vito walked away from the (oft-repeated) electrical hack he would mutter under his breath, "this kid is gonna burn the fuckin' house down."

Would that he had been so lucky!

Thanks for the clarification, Frylock! I now feel that I can use those terms correctly. Do they qualify for the encyclopedia Mastandrea?

Loud talking? Sensational food? Excellent, I'm so glad that you all had a great time. I think that Nick's table had everything on it when I visited last July, so that's appropriate. Special thanks to Jenia for the tribute, and to all those who stared, "You don't know what you're missing!"

A chill? I don't think I've ever been prouder of Da Chimpz. You can't be referring to me. I didn't start wearing safety glasses until I took organic chemistry lab in college. That photo does remind me of a WWVS moment when I was a teen and Vito caught me peering inside the back of a transistor radio. If I recall correctly, he said, "If you break it, I'm not replacing it."

BTW, the irony is not lost on us that a waterpark is named after an African desert -- the place left us feeling a little dry anyway. I don't bother to repeat its name or provide a link to their site because I don't want anyone going there.

Tonight I'm getting my stuff together to prepare for the long trek back to Tuckahoe tomorrow. Everyone else is asleep already (Alane has to go to work early in the morning). I'm here cruising at cable-internet speed (and liking it) while I take a bunch of photos off the camera's memory card. Alane took a few while she had Da Chimpz at the museum. This particular one gave me a chill.

Does this activity make anyone reminiscent of any other towering figure in the Mastandrea annals?

What would Vito say? What would he say?

Joe and Elly, I need to say Thank you a million times over, for the gift certificates you gave us to Nick's Tomato Pie. It made our holiday/birthday weekend. Elly, the next trip, you're there!! We ate like vultures, talked very loud, sang happy birthday, played with Ellexa, and received dozens of stares from our neighboring tables. (My father was fumed after asking my mother to set his watch for the right time. Unbeknownst to her that meant the watch was to be set a minute earlier, but he never told her that. So she didn't. Thus, making it yet again, the wrong time. Our table raised a few decibels due to that incident.) But the FOOD was sensational. The table had everything on it, even delectable key lime pie. I had a slice for you, John. And for you, Joe, Jenia had a slice of everything except the table cloth.

To celebrate Mojo's birthday today we visited another indoor water-park -- Kalahari, not very far from the place we went to last time (Alane had offered them a traditional birthday party or the option of a water-park trip -- they opted for the latter).

So how was Kalahari? It was Krapahari. Too many people. Too cold. And some surprisingly bad design elements. Taken with the fact that Mojo woke up this morning resolved to renew his hold on the title "Mr. Furious," it was a particularly trying day.

We're already back at Berea-Rose (expensive day-passes to Kalahari notwithstanding) and we've eaten some of the leftover hamd and potato salad from yesterday. We had some people over and it was a good time. I mentioned to Marie in the morning that we'd have 11 people here for dinner and I wasn't sure I would be able to pull it off. Then I remembered I was talking to Marie -- who could feed 11 people with the ease some people display in making a peanute butter sangweech. I should know better than to complain.

OK, Joe let me shed some light on the language barrier so that you may use these terms in your homestate with confidence.

Trunz: (proper noun) this is derived from 18th Ave. meat market of the same name. It refers to a truly foul aroma. ex. The car smelled like Trunz.
I'm sure when the Nebraska pigs take a brunz it probably smells like Trunz.

Brunz: (noun) this is not the act , but the actual contents of the bowel movement. So the proper context is not "I brunzed", but instead "I had to take a brunz", or as Joe Fatone Sr. would say I need to go the the Brunz Room. Legend has it John has dropped brunz in 300 different Manhattan public restrooms.....and left quite a few smelling like Trunz.

I have much to be thanful for beyond the much needed drought relief, sleep, quality quiet time and fortuitous meal scheduling relative to our neighborhood blackout.

I'm also fortunate that the power went out after I spoke with the Ohio, New York and Spumni South contingents. We've bundled cable TV, internet and telephone with one company for years. When the power goes to your home it also fails at their distribution hubs. Check your local listings but if you're like us your only working phone in a blackout will be a cell phone.

I am particularly glad I got to talk with Bazzuka Joe about words. My assumption was incorrect but I'm not sure I can explain it properly. Suffice it to say that you shouldn't use those two words interchangably.

Our Easter holiday is definitely going better than some folks'. Whoever struck the power pole and knocked out the power on our end of town is having a rotten holiday, I am sure. So are our neighbors, most of whom have driveways lined with cars. . .Just after Joe hung up from chatting with family at Spumoni South, the electricity went off, leaving most everyone in the middle of cooking their Easter luncheons without power. (We would have fired up the smoker and the camp stove and finished it up, but then there are just the two of us, not a whole hoard.)

However, we did not have to. . .Luck was on our side. Normally we would have breakfast together and then a late lunch, but I thought Joe needed the sleep more than sustenance, so we skipped breakfast and he caught an extra 40 winks.

We opted for lunch right at noon, so the ham and ginger-orange-Grand Marnier glaze, sweet potatoes, & crab fried rice were in the oven and out at a few minutes after noon. . .the rolls were in to brown when the beep beep beep of three UPS units sent Joe to the fuse boxes with his voltage meter and Tarka to the door to ensure that I left the building in case of fire. (She doesn't differentiate between the smoke alarm, the UPS and our emergency pagers. All she knows is 'protect the humans.') Joe ascertained that it was an outage and it was confirmed when we heard the call go out over his work radio that the local power company was responding to an accident near here.

We were able to enjoy a very companionable lunch with a bottle of Asti Spumonti Zonin all the while watching the neighbors gathering for their family luncheons with no electricity. They all seemed to think that standing around in their yards grumbling was the appropriate response.

We didn't gloat; indeed we were very thankful that luck was on our side even if the brown and serve rolls were not browned. Then we cuddled up for some quiet time together (it is a rare thing with Joe's job) and just relaxed and enjoyed the lack of noise from computer fans, TV, radios, stereos and other electronic equipment. . .

Now that the power is back on and the neighbors have all gone back in to their respective homes, I am still thankful for a quiet dinner and time together and the restoration of power so that the food is under refrigeration and we can enjoy the leftovers.

It would definitely have to be a family thing. . .The Urban Dictionary defines "brunz" as:
1. brunz N. An elderly person. Typically used in a derogatory tone.
and says the "trunz" is undefined.

Joe and I had (still do, sometimes) a language barrier with our growing up in different locales. . .Now I know it's not just where you live, but your family's lexicon, too!

Words are funny.

I noticed that Joe Head used 'brunz' and 'trunz' interchangably (I believe), yet neither word shows up on the acronym list at smellypoop.com

Seems to me they need a Mastandrea on staff!

The "new" Kosters still sells Key Lime Pie from the Upper Crust Bakery, and I did in fact bring one home that night...but it just didn't feel the same. It was like the pie's integrity had been compromised by the store's unconscionable behavior. Now that I think about...there wasn't even bracciole under that glass countertop! So with the worlds premier legal mind in the field of pork at my side, we will push for the maximum penalty allowed under the law.

Another funny word:
Knish (why isn't the k silent? or is it simply missing an apostrophe?)
stretchmark: ( I really don't know why this is funny, it just is)
goiter: (sounds like an oily fried finger food you'd order at the Ale House)
chowder: (maybe because it rhymes with powder and I imagine myself pouring some into my sneakers when I go without socks)

I used to love Koster's. But alas, they have dishonored themselves and our family. Therefore I must litigate against them.

Steve, I'll take your case.

Initially, I am exploring a "tortious interference with dinner" cause of action. It'll be a tough theory to prove: the U.S. Supreme Court has stubbornly refused to recognize sausage rights in this country, despite the clear text of the "fennel clause" in Article V and Amendment XIV. Roman law used to recognize a private right of action under the "lex salumeria," and that provision actually survived in European Civil Law as the Writ of Salsiccia well into modern times. But the soul-less bureaucrats of the E.U. have lately written it out of their sprawling body of regulation. Kind-a ironic for a bunch of people who never met a guideline they didn't like. Even the U.N. has chosen to not enforce the "Pork Sausage" guarantees contained in its 1962 Convention on Human Rights -- just the occasional toothless Security Council Resolution once every few decades -- no help to us.

Koster, you disappoint me.

I bet they don't even carry the key lime pie anymore.

It's egregious.

I have a legal question for John and Alane: a few weeks ago Jenia and I were planning a nice barbecue at Spumoni Gardens South. We both agreed the nights feast required cervolet, so we made the necessary pilgrimage to Kosters. Upon arrival we discovered that new management at Kosters no longer deemed Italian spiral-sausage an item worthy of carrying. So as a result, our evening suffered irreparable damage....do we have a legitimate case? Possibly a discrimination case against Italian-Americans?

Also the word "congoleum" reminds me of my Aunt Phylliss Fatone's pronunciation of her favorite movie: "Steel Mongolias". A word I find gross is "fondle". It just sounds like I want to throw up.

I like the words duodenum and jejunum. They refer to the stomach, but I think they would make a great Hollywood duo, or unique celebrity baby names.
A word I do not like though, is sputum. The way I see it, the more vowels in a word the more removed I feel from it. Out of 13 letters, my last name only has 3 vowels, and they're all E's. Insanely interesting.

Cookie used to sing bits of "La la la, linoleum" back in the (relatively peaceful) days before he could talk. We played that song video for him, oh, several hundred times. Back then Cookie's favorite word was "juice," something he would intone in the form of a command delivered as a question. We kept many bottles of Juicy-Juice on hand to quench his unending thirst. At the time, Juicy-Juice had a cross-license agreement with Sesame Street that allowed them to put the faces of muppets on the bottle labels. I remember the big bottles of red juice with Ernie and Bert's face on the front. Cookie would point to the bottle and ask for it by name:

"La-La-Juice."

I called John yesterday because i was on I95 and i gaze to my right and see a yugo in full rally car form with a big wing. I have not seen one since john had one. I remember him repairing the tranny with epoxy. WOW.
Congoleum is a really great word. I remember steve and i constantly using the word Sphygmoidoscopy. Once again our meatpipe sensibility rears its greasy head. Have you ever had a long drive. Been in the car too long. You know you did some silent farting but nothing outrageous. You get in your car the next day and you swear somthing died in the car. It has somehow fermented over night and now smells like Trunz.

I can understand "La-la-la Linolium" but not "Cong-cong-cong Congoleum."

I'm sorta back to reality after a sick day (sore throat and fever). Tarka bolted out of the motel room every chance she got which is unlike her this past weekend. Clearly, the room was as unhealthy as the conference I attended over the weekend. I was elected Vice-President of our state association. One of my key tasks will be to increase the popularity of our organization. I've been told I'm scheduled to go hunting with an old lawyer next weekend....

Next I'm attending three days of training in support of a new job requirement. I really do believe that if they add a new job responsiblity they should have to give up one of the existing ones. My plate is already full and highly stacked so anything new will likely fall off and leave a slippery spot on the floor. How unsafe!

I have two words for your shoelace and velcro weary hands, Marlena. No, they're not "rubber gloves." "Duct tape!"

When is the Tuckahoe bonfire? I seem to remember being called "the most likely to start a fire" some years ago....

I was going to end with a "Giant Eagle" joke when Ellie poked her head into my computer room and asked if I wanted some oranje juice. One whiff of the remains of recent flatulence and she quickly added, "Or a room deodorizer?" When I pointed out that I already had one plugged in, she questioned whether it was plugged into the right place. Clearly our "meatpipe sensibilities" have rubbed off on her.

Make mine a screwdriver!

Lately I am not so obsessed with shoes. I am obsessed with floor-covering. Not just any floor-covering: Congoleum. The company was mentioned today in a newspaper article about litigation scams and I found it delightful: I love to say Congoleum. I have occasionaly addressed Alane as Congoleum. As I rode the train home tonight flipping through my newspaper I repeatedly mouthed the word... Congoleum. It's definitely one of my favorite product names, entering the pantheon along with Proctor-Silex, Neo-Synephrine and Medjool (as in dates).

Tonight, I shall finish off the bottle of vodka (I think I bought that bottle the summer after Mojo was born) and sit on my sofa and say the word Congoleum at uneven intervals. With the baseball game on TV. While playing with my feet.

This weekend Jenia, Steve, my cousin Steve and I went to St. Petersburg, FL for a beautiful wedding. We had a lot of fun, but if St. Petersburg was to have just about 10 more inches of rainfall a year, I think the city would be underwater. The bridge we took to get there was terrifying, I thought at any moment the waves on the tough side would knock the Ravioli (Rav 4) into the harsh Gulf.
I have a new kid in class that started today, his main goal in life is to take off his shoes. That puts the grand total of children in my class obsessed with feet, shoelaces, and sneakers to 4.
If you've never had to be routinely interupted by yelling at a child for taking off his shoes, and constantly putting it back on his feet and retying the dirty laces or linty velcro, you can't really understand the frustration.

Unable to perform carbon-14 testing on the mystery-vintage chicken, I simply cooked it and ate it -- knowing to cook it hard and with many overpowering spices. It was okay. But my rice-cooker doesn't do such a good job anymore, leaving my rice hard in the center. That's the third or fourth rice cooker we've run through in just a few years.

Bazzukajoe called me from the highway yesterday. He was excited because he had just sighted a Yugo on a flatbed. It was all dressed up as a rally car. He was incredulous when I explained to him that the car started its life as a Fiat 128 -- an honest-to-goodness rally car.

I've been packing boxes all weekend, finding many long-forgotten treasures, discarding many more.

I just cooked and ate the six-year-old steak. Well, coming out of the package it seemed to have already cooked a little, so maybe I should say I cooked it further. And it was horrible, but not quite as horrible as it could ahve been -- it did taste vaguely like beef. I smothered it in Heinz 57 sauce and feasted.

I can't wait to get myself and our cooking gear to Berea-Rose.

It's just leftovers until then. Last night I opened a fiasco of chianti, vintage 1988. I'm not sure if chianti is a variety that is even capable of aging well. Perhaps if it had been in a cool dark cellar, tilted to keep the cork moist, maybe then it would have maintained itself. Instead, it had been tucked behind a broken-down couch the Castle 1526. Tossed by psychic storms. Stored with deteriorating rubber balloons. Not far from Vito's ass.

The cork was waxed on the sides, but I could tell it was crumbling on the wine end. When I poured the wine into a glass I immediately noticed the color. It was sort of red. But not red like velvet, the way you'd want in a wine. This was red like rust. I sniffed. I winced. I sipped. I scowled. I spat.

I poured the rest of the bottle down the sink. It was too bad... 1988 was an interesting year for me.

Next up: an ancient pack of frozen chicken breasts. Expiration date: August 12. Year: unknown. Kind-a like Pot Luck. Or more like Pol Pot Luck.

Much of my day was devoted to preparing my New Yor state tax forms -- with the fed requirement having been dispensed with the aid of Tax Act software -- a free download that doesn't install annoying ad-ware like those assholes at Turbotax and Taxcut. But, being the cheapskate that I am, I didn't purchase any of Tax Act's premium options, such as support for state filing. So I decided to do that part the old fashioned way.

What a mistake -- the design of the New York state forms is perfectly awful (and I'm not even thinking about the money involved -- that's a whole other rant, one that I must actively block mentally lest my head explode).

Many a profane oath was uttered today as I attempted to follow the opaque directions contained in the sizeable booklet that had arrived in the mail so many months ago. Even trying to figure out whether I could use the short form took me almost an hour. It turned out I could not -- but an online search to locate the answer to the booklet's form-riddle first led me to believe that I could... Wasting more time. So I crumpled up my half-completed IT-150 and tackled the long form IT-201. Each form was supported by a dizzying/infuriating array of unintuitive instructions, each of which was further embroidered with encyclopeadic references to arcane exceptions, exemptions and who-knows-what-else that (probably) didn't apply to my situation.

As my forms neared completion I heard the mail carrier clattering at the boxes in the vestibule. I went to fetch my junk-mail, wanting a break from the torture that was being so merciless inflicted upon me by the Empire State. What I got instead was a jury summons -- they want me to show up at the state court in White Plains on May 1, no doubt to further demonstrate to me the wondrous efficiency of state-designed process.

Let's see, will I still be a resident of this august jurisdiction as of May 1? I must be careful about how I answer: they might make me fill out a bunch of forms.

As geekette sows, so do I reap.

Well, actually I'm sure her planting is going a lot better than my foraging for food in an increasingly empty kitchen. Tomorrow, for instance, I will eat a steak that is now defrosting in the refrigerator. The label has a "sell by" date: April 24, 2000.

I suspect the steak will be as yummy as the chicken I cooked earlier in the week. Anticipating my imminent relocation, I have also sorted through my prized assortments of scary canned foods. Not so much to eat the stuff -- though I would, if the cans in questions weren't each so many years old and quite possibly botulized.

My favorite is, of course, the fried dace in salted black beans. Mike Yee used to keep that stuff in the cabinet when we lived together in college. And when he wasn't around Guido and I would eat the stuff. We couldn't decide if we liked it because it was tasty (tasty in its literal meaning: "full of taste") or because it was utterly ridiculous. Is it true that Mike went on to study global food politics at NYU? Maybe he can help us figure out why they don't carry food this interesting at Stop & Shop. Or Publix. Maybe I'll go to the Giant Beagle in Berea and ask them if they can start stocking the stuff -- just to see what they say.

Unfortunately I have decided that my scary canned food collection is not worth packing and moving, so off it goes. But not before I pry open that classic can of dace, given to me as a parting gift from a kind-hearted co-worker at the Law Journal so many years ago.

Yep, stuff still looks the same as it did in the 1980s. Unable to help myself, I even ate a bite of the stuff. Tasty... just like I remember.

And now I don't feel so good.

Spring Fever has me in it's clutches. Three trips to shop already this month and everyone of the trips ended with me bringing in something to pot up or stick in to the ground.

The Reger begonias have to stay indoors for another month, but then they can go out to the patio in the shade with the rest of the house plants I drag in and out according to the season. It's a full day job in both directions, but I truly am a green freak.

I have pansies blooming along with the daffodils, jonquils, and grape hyacinths. (I planted hyacinths last fall in pots lined with chicken wire to keep the squirrels from digging them up and eating them, but they still didn't survive.)

The peas I planted and mulched in January are peeking out. The strawberry plants are greening up (I lost about half of them and all my azaleas to the repeated freeze-thaw cycles we had this winter--pretty common in Nebraska).

The forsythia I planted last fall are about 18 inches tall and rather funny looking with six or seven tiny blossoms on each. In a couple of years they should be pretty. . .at least they survived being poisoned with weed killer by the crazed neighbor next door.

I planted another row of peas, a row of broccoli (not Rabe) and two of onion sets. It got dark before I got the potatos, spinach, lettuce, cabbage and collards in the ground. Just as well. . .turning up the ground with a turning fork is murder on my back so four rows is really pushing it.

We may have severe weather tonight and tomorrow, but the plants had to go in the ground because we are going out to an Emergency Management conference this weekend and I wasn't about to get a house sitter for a dozen pansies and three dozen broccoli plants.

Of course if the 'large hail' in the forecast happens, it will shred them and I will be out the $$ I spent on them and will be doing the work all over, too, when the ground has dried out. I mulched them with straw in hopes that it might protect them from the weather. I suspect Mother Nature can find them no matter how well I try to camouflage them.

If Mother Nature doesn't get them. . .the rabbits might. I have a cat and a dog and the rabbits are not afraid of them at all and enjoy feasting on the garden. (We also have to contend with ground hogs and deer.) It was too dark to put the netting down over the rows that I finished. I stumbled back to the house in the dark as it was.

Now that you are home owners, you can look forward to to spring fever and yard work, too!

Colon health. Wouldn't seem to be an issue for anyone who recently received 10 lbs of broccoli rabe in the mail. Right now I'm eating some chicken that was chiseled from the freezer earlier this week. I don't know how long it was in there. Years, certainly. It tastes like freezer .

What does freezer taste like?

Hard to describe, but it don't taste like chicken.

I made a cauldron full of lentil soup, and I have been eating it everyday. Not only for lunch, but dinner as well. For one, it agrees well with my stomach, two, I really like the word lentil and bean for that matter, and three, there is that old saying: You are what you eat.
It would be the most joyous occassion if I turned into a Lentil -OR- my famed snack, a Prune Bifidus Regularis Activa Yogurt. mmmm...that's colon healthy.

I booked myself into the Y W-C-A. I said I like it here, can I stay?

I don't think I ever drive 25 mph around here, except maybe on the Gowanus Expressway (no, probably never that fast on the Gowanus).

Roto is rude.

Hey Guys, Sorry I hadn't blogged in a while, I had the Rotovirus-Lite this weekend, and yesterday. It's quite sexy, I have that whole cocaine chic look down to a 'T'. Now that the virus has stopped, I have accomplished the task of completely dehydrating my whole body, so now I'm dealing with respiratory complications. No worries, it's nothing that shouldn't subside by next week. I just keep telling myself that my last day of Special Ed Pre-K is May 23rd, I think I can stick it out. At about 6 weeks left and 5 shit diapers a day, I think I can make it out alive. I wear latex gloves, but it's the darn puke, you never know when a kid's gonna hurl. For all reasons, my mother suggests wearing a surgical mask, for this, maybe I'll take her up on it. But I still refuse wearing one to the Company C Hair Cuttery. She could pull off the hat and cape, but not I.
Talking about the red lights in Tuckahoe, I have to agree with Alane. Two Novembers ago, I visited, and we were on a mission to take John Paul and Joseph to the YWCA, where they attended classes. (John & Steve, stop singing Morrisey) We were running late as it was, but then John Paul tipped his sippy-cup full of a red hued juice all over his shirt. Instead of driving home to pick up a fresh shirt, we ran into a Gap in White Plains and actually bought him a new one. Just not to deal with the lights.
I loathe Orlando traffic at Christmas time. Let's not discuss.
PS- When I was on the Downtown Disney website looking up Pleasure Island there was a small asterisk that said: "Pleasure Island is named after Merriwether Pleasure". I don't know much history, but that name sounds a little drag queenish if you ask me.

Not to burst John's bubble and it has been some time since I looked at the New York driver's manual--but I believe that in residential area in New York the speed limit is suppose to be 25 which is routinely ignored. We also lived close to several parkways which upped the speed when driven.

The other day my folks took Mojo to church with them during the week for a mass for my brother Joe. I warned my mother that this would not go well and she would be better off attending church with lucifier, but they took him. Mind you my folks insist on sitting at the very front of the church--another no-no when with Mojo. First Mojo develo-ped over active bladder disease and insisted he had to go to the bathroom three times during mass. When he went the second time, he had trouble going (and probably knowing the trouble he would be in for a failed attempt) and my mom told me she heard him say to his ochinchi, I know you have to go. Then through the entire mass and mind you this is a week day mass so it is like 30 minutes, he kept asking, Is it over? Finally the mass ended and they were walking out, the priest says to Mojo, Yes it's over. Which made me wonder how loud he was inquring about the mass length. Unlike Bazooka Joe, I know longer have to wonder what my kids are thinking. Mojo also told the chimney guy, "you should shut the dorr when you come in."

I do remember however one time specifically pondering what the heck they were thinking. They were probably 3 and 2 and I went into the kitchen to put laundry in. I had left them some marshmallows to eat in the living room. Instead of eating them, they chewed them and spit them out on the table--then began dancing in it in their bare feet...

Cookie has ended his rein as the star kindergartener, don't tell Grandpa Vito but he said his favorite team was the New York Mets and this was posted on the star kindergartener bulletin board. He also had to cut out photos of things he liked. He cut out what appeared to be Mt. St. Helen's erupting explaining to me he liked battles and this was the smoke of battle. He cut out some lumberjack climbing a tree with one of those special tools--explaining he liked to climb to high places. His final picture was like a porch lamp--this he said was for his new house which he like alot. I'm hoping he didnt give the battle explanation to the teacher, but I'm certain he did.

One point of frustration in the Berea area is the prevailing local speed limit -- a pokey 35 mph on the main roads and a super-slow-mo 25 mph on the local streets. Since driving is the only way to get around, I suppose I'll be spending a fair amount of time crawling along at thay pokey pace.

It may or may not be more frustrating than driving in and around Tuckahoe. I don't drive very much any more in New York -- I haven't worked in Westchester since 1993. That means I've been taking the train every workday for some 13 years (and I can tell many more tales of frustration). This weekend I did a lot of driving, taking care of several little errands that I'd been neglecting.

Talk about frustrating: every traffic light in Tuckahoe seemed to be synchronized to change to red as I approached. It was utterly infuriating. Main Street in Tuckahoe has traffic lights that I swear are set by sadists. I kept hearing Alane's voice mocking me, repeating back to me what I would always mutter as we drove around:

It's all red lights in this town.

And indeed it is.

Friday, representatives from three different moving companies will come to our Tuckahoe apartment to size up our belongings and prepare price estimates. Once I get their quotes, I'll know how big a bonfire I need to have.

Quick! While it's still April Fool's Day! Enjoy some of the pranks out there

I've been in training for the last three days except when I was interrupted by a weak tornado. Never a dull moment I guess.

No words needed (too bad you can't see the gesture I'm making now).

I've never seen that much brocolli rabe.

It's great to see you blogging again Marlena. I laughed out loud. Bread soda? It made me think of the strangest soda I ever bought. It was a Jamaican Ginger Beer that they must not make anymore (or hawk on the Internets). It contained no alcohol but had a wonderful ginger 'bite.' Speaking of bites Ellie and I are fans of the Pink Pussycat Botique and the Erotic Bakery. Thanks for that stroll down 'Amnesia Lane.'

For the record I have never seen that much broccoli rabe. . .actually, I have never seen any broccoli rabe nor tasted it. . . .The cuisine of the day is Mexican. . .with tamales, enchiladas, queso dip and quacamole.