FireVaney

Ma, Stepdude, and I drove up to Lake Geneva, WI for Mother’s Day.  Before we got there we stopped in Antioch, where Ma and Stepdude mused over the possible purchase of a lot in one of those Redacted Homes developments. Turns out there were too many hidden costs. That, and Ma brings home the bacon these days. Stepdude? He brings home the bupkis. And besides, Antioch is too far from where Ma works. Upon reaching picturesque Lake Geneva, we stopped for a bite at—of all places—Subway. After that, it rained. But the rain passed quickly. We wandered around the old business district, which was very much alive with tourists.  The Copper Mountain Toy Co. & Train Land Of Lake Geneva * sells, among a great many other trinkets, historical action figures of Jesus, of Moses, and of Shakespeare “with Removable Quill Pen & Book!” They also had an action figure of a coffee barista. On impulse, I purchased the three remaining Shakespeares: one as a future gift to one of my many theatri...

Ma won’t even eat half a chicken sandwich. She wants a chicken wrap — which, while advertised, is not sold. (Presumably, they ran out of wraps.) Ma feels that the sandwiches purveyed at this particular concession stand have too much bread. She’d eat the chicken alone — which, to my tastebuds, is tender and juicy — but she’d rather eat a hotdog. That, and instead of buying her own carton of fries, she’d rather mooch off everybody else’s. Not that she’s cheap, she just doesn’t want to eat an entire carton of fries. “Together,” says Ma, “a hot dog and its bun add up to two hundred and twenty-five calories.” To my thinking, this was possibly true of hotdogs and their buns back in the 1950s. “You can have a hot dog, its bun, and a cookie — and keep the whole meal close to three hundred calories,” she says. “Or you can have two hot dogs, minus their buns, and maybe two cookies. Or a cookie and a half.” This was one way to control one’s weight back in the 1950s. These days, the hotdogs I bu...

When you don’t want any bananas but there are nothing but bananas what do you want to do with the time of the next after simple joy of living in the mountains by the sea in the while I meant to write white sunshine of the darn I meant to write dark days of noon in the sun I meant to write sun why are you not eating that sugar cookie? How come the apples don’t want to sing in the while I meant to write white sunshine of your life? Is this going to be another one of your brilliant disguises? No? Why or why not? No? Why are the trees not eating the mixed berries? Are they all rotten? I think that they are all rotten. I think Theatre needs a new lease on life. Oh, are you going to eat that seaweed? Because it’s supposed to be good for apples. Yes, apples are good from tomatoes. And when the child in the box is not ready to dine in the basement why not set him up at the table upstairs? I won’t taste that pie. I will taste that cake. My mother smooshed – that’s a word. I could’ve sworn that ...

Over the phone, Ma reads me the speech Macbeth gives in Act 5, Scene. 5. You know the one. It ends with: “It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Then Ma tells me she wants this speech read in its entirety at her funeral. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she says. Over the phone, she can’t see me shrug and shake my head at the same time. “Sure it’s beautiful,” I say, “as far as beauty in the English language is concerned. But, Ma, out of context? All it means is that life is a big fat waste.” When ole Macbeth shares his nihilistic thoughts, he knows that the jig is up. That’s all. Big bummer for him. Next time, Scotty boy, maybe consider karma. “Ma,” I say, “find me something hopeful to read at your funeral, huh?” After that I tell her to make an appointment with a shrink. She won’t be shuffling off this mortal coil anytime soon.  4 April 2001

Every time Ma or Stepdude flushed the toilet, their, um, deposits wound up on the floor of the basement. The plumber they called in sent a root grinding “rod” through the sewer pipe that ran beneath the front lawn. Somewhere on the other side of the street, the rod got stuck and the plumber couldn’t reel the thing back. To Ma, I said, over the phone, “Sounds like the hook of a monster movie.” The plumber told Ma and Stepdude that the rod wouldn’t budge until the city dug up the street for it. This was particularly bad news for Stepdude, as the bathroom was his favorite room in the house—and the toilet, his favorite seat. So he, Ma, and their bear-sized shaggy dog had to spend a week in a hotel room. When a city crew finally got around to digging up the street (a major suburban artery) in front of their house, they discovered that they’d gouged out the wrong patch of earth. Meaning: They’d have to fill the cavity they’d made, repair the street and the grassy parkway, and start all over...

It’s a simple YES/NO question: “Is it hot outside?” Pose it to Ma, pose it to Grandpa, and their answer? Always, always, always something like: “All I do is sweat.” Restate the question: “So it’s hot outside?” Respectively, their reply’ll go something like: “You don’t believe me, do you? I’m a liar, that’s what you’re thinking. How dare you call me a liar.” And so you’re lambasted when all you’ve done is ask a simple question. In sooth, nobody in my family—save for me, unless the remark I make is facetious (which, if it is, it’s typically as plain as Wonder Bread)—will limit themselves to a simple Yes/No response. In fairness, it isn’t as if they enjoy bloviating at the drop of the hat. You will receive many “I don’t know” answers—especially from Grandpa. Exempli gratia, he never knows what he wants for lunch or dinner. Ask him, point-blank, what he wants for any meal and he’ll say, “Not much.”  19 July 2006

Ma and Stepdude traded in their new SUV for a newer SUV. Ma swears this one will be the last one. But that’s what she said about the last one and the one before that. Seems like Ma and Stepdude jones for a new SUV every time the Earth tilts. Doesn’t help that they’re both hooked on TV, that the TV’s always on, and that Stepdude’s a lifetime subscriber to Car & Driver magazine. It’s a game they play, dreaming up the rationale to trade in whatever new car they own. The last one gave Ma a rash. (Supposedly.)  Ma goes, Dust mites.  I go, That what the doctor said?  Ma goes, He’d say, “Don’t bug me about dust mites.”  So I go, Second opinion?  Ma waves me off. Then scratches her leg.  So I go, You fix the Electrolux?  And Stepdude, he goes, I think we tossed it.  Ok. So. How ‘bout a new one?  A new car ?  A new Electrolux . Or a Hoover.  Pshaw! Maybe when we pay off the Hummer.  (Ok, maybe not “ Pshaw! ” But that was the in...

…in Chicago? Is an empty lot. * Ma takes a photo of it anyway. Then she takes several. She aims her camera at the overgrown grass, zooms in on the empty beer bottles, focuses on the heap of bald tires, too. She snaps at all the fenced in trash. Maybe she’ll paint a picture of it.  There’s also a faded sign facing the sidewalk. It says: “NO DUMPING.” That’s the picture I take. Eighty-odd years ago, the bungalow that stood here housed Pop, his five siblings, and his parents. This is near Humboldt Park, where yuppie gentrification has yet to push out the natives. Pop wanted to go. Return. See what’s left. But of the old neighborhood, he only recognizes Humboldt Park’s park.  We get there, and he walks right past the lot—ignores it entirely—and points to the three story building at 9*6 N. Mozart. It’s clearly less that eighty or even fifty years old. He turns around and hustles over to the much older bungalow at 9*2 Mozart. Pop scratches his head and paces back and forth between...

For your amusement (or disgust), please find hereunder a recent exchange of text messages...   MA :  U left you’re plants [plant emoji] their worried [frowny emoji]  ME :  What makes you think they’re worried?  MA :  Because they said  ME :  What makes you think they’re sad?  [She sends a photo of a potted baby cactus and a potted baby succulent sitting on a window sill.]  MA :  Because they’re looking out the window for you  ME :  How do you know they’re not facing you?  MA :  Because they said,  “where’s [FireVaney]?”  Did u forget them?  ME :  They’re TALKING?!  MA :  Did u  ME :  They’ve never spoken to me.  MA :  Why of course  ME :  They must like you more.  MA :  Did u forget them?  I told them u can go home tomorrow  ME :  Well they just sent me this text: “On second thought, we’d like to stay.”  MA :  Really...

For Malka and Aiden, Great Godfrey Daniels was the  only  restaurant in Skokie.  Ma was very pleased with her flounder. “It tastes like cake,” she said.  I raised my eyebrows, nodded once and said, “Hm.” Although I’ve never eaten fish that tasted anything like cake, I took her word for it.  Nearly every five minutes Carolyn offered Ma a lemon wedge—that is, to squeeze over her “cake” flavored flounder. Ma repeatedly declined. Hearing isn’t exactly Carolyn’s forte. More and more, neither is remembering.  Aiden’s seemingly inexhaustible obsession with the word, if not the concept of, “butt-cheeks,” as a tongue-in-cheek insult, but also, presumably, as an anatomical curiosity, i.e. for an eight year old, is very nearly disturbing.  As a rule, kids won’t easily let go of any curiosity that adults find very nearly, or even outright, disturbing.  Malka—Aiden’s sister, older by three years—was sulky. Malka is frequently sulky fol...