Monkling's Blog

This afternoon we had a little trip down memory lane, a flashback to when we were first married.

For the first 9 months of our marriage, we lived in a 1 bedroom apartment 20 minutes west of where we live now. It was an area of Queens that was way more congested – more traffic, more people, close to zero parking spaces. It did have the advantage of being walking distance to the subway, though, and a much shorter commute for Frank & myself. (We both worked in the city back in those days.)

For that short time, our parish was St. Mary’s. It was about 5 or so blocks away from the apartment. We’d usually walk since driving meant spending an additional hour once we got back from Mass circling for a parking space. We liked it there and were happy with our little apartment and our Church until we realized, fairly early on, that we’d be needing a second bedroom.

We moved into our current home a month before Stephen was born and haven’t been back at St. Mary’s since. Until today.

One of the seminarians had his candidacy today at that Church. (Steve had his last year. You were all forced to read every detail about it here and here and all the surrounding days.) We’ve known this seminarian, Chris, since high school and he will be heading to Rome next month.

Y’all know how much I love seeing my boys so of course we had to attend the Mass. I don’t know why I feel like a proud mother when I see all the seminarians (& some of the younger priests) processing in but I just do. I can’t help myself, even if I barely know some of them. But this post isn’t about my boys. It’s about me because this is my blog.

We walked into the Church for the first time in 24 years. I turned to Frank & Theresa. “The last time I was here, I was pregnant with Stephen!” I looked around at the Church. The outside, the surrounding neighborhood – they all looked familiar but the Church itself didn’t. I do remember it being a very beautiful Church but the details were all forgotten. I suppose having only been a parishioner for 9 months and then not setting foot there for so long had it’s toll on my brain & my memory.

After Mass, we stepped outside. Excitedly I pointed across the street at the cake outlet factory. “We used to stop in there every Sunday after Mass!” I rambled on about the cake, about Guido (our landlord’s name -which, by the way, I had to stifle a laugh when he was first introduced, all sorts of things from our past. Theresa was bored but pretended to pay attention.

I have decided that my next trip should be to Brooklyn, to the place I grew up. I’m pretty sure after 30 years, there probably won’t be much that’ll be familiar but I now have this urge to drag Theresa around and show her my roots. And I don’t mean the ones on my head.

No, I’m not hearing voices! Yes, I do know that’s the first thing you thought of.

When I was talking in a prior post about not understanding the switchboard person whenever I call Steve up in Assisi, Katy said he must have been commenting about my sexy voice. Never having heard my voice, she can keep that deluded idea. Except I’m about to destroy it. This is also the post about the comedy club nightmare because yes, the stories are linked.

Back when we were dating Frank & I went out to a comedy club with another couple. I believe the place, which no longer exists, was called The Back Barn. It did look like a barn, too. That should have been a clue, eh? We were escorted to the front. I’m thinking the person who sat us was adept at picking out good people for the comedians to goof on.

I can remember nothing about that night except for 2 events. One was the nightmare of getting picked on. The other was a very good thing. So there we are, sitting up near the front and the comedian decides to pick on me. He said a bunch of things but the one thing I remember was him making some crack that I sound like a guy.

Now that was probably one of the worst possible things he could say to me, especially when I’m there on a date. The reason is because, after years of enduring comments all through junior high, high school and beyond – things like I hold my books like a boy, I walk like a boy, I hold the wheel of the car like I’m a truck driver… yeah, that hit a bad spot.

Of course, being (counts on fingers…..) 25 years older now, I wouldn’t have taken that crap from the comedian. I’d have made wise cracks right back. But I was way shy in those days. So I was upset but we got through the night and I survived.

So – clearly I do not have a sexy voice. Not by any stretch of the imagination. I know I don’t hear my voice the way others do but let me tell ya, I hate the sound of it and I’m damn glad I don’t have to listen to myself. But, no matter what that dirt bag of comedian said, I don’t sound like a guy.

Now we get to the good part. Frank took me home. He knew I was not in a good mood. (For some odd reason, people can just tell exactly what sort of mood I’m in. I have no clue why.) He kisses me good bye and then says, “I don’t care what that moron said. Don’t let him bother you. I love you.”

What was monumental about that moment is that was the first time he said that to me. And he said it first. I don’t think I said it back to him. I think I was too shocked. I do know that my father was still up & I had to pass him in the living room and I was hoping he wouldn’t look up from his movie because I didn’t want him to see me walking by with an enormous smile on my face. That I can remember distinctly.

Between the Belmont Stakes going off in a bit and Katie getting married tomorrow, I’m having a flashback. 24 years ago, I was at the Belmont Stakes. Of course I’m looking at the crowds there today, & I’m still sweating from the 10 minutes I was outside cooking burgers and I’m thinking, “Damn, I’m glad I’m not there now in that crowd, baking in the sun!” But I was younger back then. Frank & I were there, holding a couple of those drinks in those special Belmont Stakes glasses, for 2 years in a row. Ask me who was racing. Go ahead. I have no freaking idea.

Now it just so happens that I got married 24 years ago this August so, naturally, there was a shower planned. It was a surprise. I mean I knew I was going to have a shower but I had no idea when. I am not an easy person to fool. I don’t think I have ever been truly surprised in my entire 50 years but that time they almost pulled it off.

It happened like this. Frank told me the Belmont Stakes was a week earlier than it was. I didn’t really pay attention so I was completely clueless that it wasn’t really that day. The plan was the same as the previous year – we’d park the car by my parents’ house and walk over. My parents lived maybe half a mile, tops, from Belmont Park. I was out someplace with Frank, no clue where, and then we pull up in front of the house. Up until that point, I still had no clue. Until I saw a car parked outside belonging to a friend of the family. Then I knew.

Now why they were smart enough to park all the other cars off the block but had that car there is beyond me. Seems kinda stupid but I do give them credit for going as far as they did before I figured it out.

Seems Belmont is pretty packed. I’m sorry but I do not need to be there to see Big Brown win the Triple Crown in person. Not squashed in with a bunch of sweaty, smelly people. Thank you very much but I will watch from my nice comfy couch where the only other sweaty person next to me is Frank.

* * UPDATE * *
Well I guess the trainer & jockey were just a wee bit arrogant, eh? Too bad those other 2 horses didn’t keep up with Da’Tara in the stretch or we’d have won a nice little triple.

Kim did one of those MeMe things and mentioned how she saw every single Hall & Oates concert. (Yeah, you have to scroll all the way down before you see that. ‘Someone’ can get very verbose, unlike me.) Then she mentioned the dreaded song: Maneater. I am going to explain why I hate that song.

Back in the olden days when Frank & I were dating, sometimes I would drive. I figured it was only fair to share the driving since every time we went out, he had to drive down from the Bronx.

I had a teeny, tiny silver Honda Civic back then. This car was so light that when it died on me (as it often did) I was able to roll down the car window to reach in to hold the steering wheel and steer it while pushing it. Thank God I never was in an accident in that car because it would have folded up like an accordion. (Yes, the fact that it was small has relevance to this story.)

When I am driving and I need to look behind me, I don’t just use the mirrors and/or turn my head. I twist my entire body to look behind me. This involves swinging my right arm around and resting it on the back of the passenger seat. Someone always managed to be in the way whenever he was in my car as a passenger. I can’t even keep track of how many times Frank got whacked in the head. You would think the guy would have learned to duck after the first couple of times.

During this time period, that Hall & Oates song, Maneater, was popular. Someone changed the words and title to ManBeater. I can’t hear that song without thinking of that.

On Tues. night when we were at the nursing home, we were discussing an incident that happened over 20 years ago. I have decided it needs to live on and so I am posting the story here.

One evening on a subway car, there was a group of young professionals traveling to dinner. You could tell they were professionals by the way they were dressed – the men all had on suits and ties, the women wore dresses. This was back in the days before the work place dress code was relaxed a bit.

It was clear they were heading to dinner because they were discussing this as they rode the train. It was 1 guy’s 30th birthday and this was the reason for the celebration. After listening to them talk and watching them, however, you may have found them just a little bit odd.

“We’re having you for dinner,” they told Birthday Boy with strange smiles on their faces. Then 1 man took out salt & pepper shakers and began seasoning Birthday Boy. That was followed by another man pulling out an apple and sticking it in Birthday Boy’s mouth.

When they arrived at their subway stop, they walked out of the subway station and then took Birthday Boy’s tie off. They used it to blindfold him as they walked to the restaurant. They lead him into the restaurant and to a table where they then removed the blindfold. A waiter came over to them and one of the men says, “This is the guest of honor.”

The waiter looked him up and down and then nodded. “Yes, he will do nicely.”

Sounds like a scene out of some Amazon jungle rather than a restaurant in The Village, eh? Frank was not the birthday boy but he was one of the co-workers involved in this. I think he may have been the one with the salt shaker.

This took place at a restaurant in The Village that no longer exists called Kitchen Witch. I wonder if word got out about the cannibalism.

Dahl Court in Brooklyn wasn’t, in my opinion, the most idealistic of places to grow up but it certainly was never boring. Our house was the very last one on the dead end street so unlike most of the houses on the block, ours was only attached on one side. The other side abutted a sanitation department garage which was always referred to as the D.S. (Department of Sanitation).

Not being a wimpy little girlie-girl, I often would climb over the wall behind my house and into the vacant lot that was part of the D.S. property. There were a lot of interesting things back there among the tree-sized weeds: empty tubes of model glue, empty liqueur bottles, and cat skeletons. One time someone found a rusty, dull machete. If they had hoped to use it to clear out the weeds, that brainstorm obviously came after emptying many of those bottles because the only thing capable of clearing out that lot would have been a chain saw.

The strange thing is, even after knowing there was a machete found back there, I still didn’t have nightmares of Freddy Kruger-like characters jumping over the wall and chasing me. Nope. What I pictured leaping at me over that wall was a werewolf. Yeah, a supernatural creature is just so much more likely to get me rather than a machete waving madman.

Adding to the scary atmosphere was the fact that there were no street lights on the block. This meant that even after I was well beyond the years of actually believing that a werewolf could grab me, I was still a bit freaked out when I had to walk home in the dark.

Come to think of it, I’m still not terribly fond of the dark although at the present time I no longer imagine yellow glowing eyes watching me.

About 2 months after Frank & I started dating, he invited me over to his family’s house for a barbecue. His story was, this was a 4th of July barbecue. He left out the part about it also being a birthday party because his birthday is July 1st. “I didn’t want to tell you it was my birthday because I didn’t want you to feel like you had to get me something.” That was his excuse. (In case you’re wondering, that was 25 years ago, this July and I have absolutely no idea whether or not I ended up getting him a belated birthday present .)

I had already met his parents & his sister but at the party, I got to meet some of his friends. It was also when I learned about this leaning towards pyromania that my kids seem to have inherited.

I’ve witnessed many, many lightings of charcoal for barbecues over the years. I have never, either before or since that day, seen anyone light charcoal in quite that manner. There was no lighter fluid, no electric fire starting thingie, & none of that match-light stuff. That was for wimps. This was a real fire.

I watched as Frank & his father piled crumpled newspaper into the barbecue pit. This was followed by small twigs, gradually working up to larger sticks. Finally came the charcoal briquettes. These were carefully balanced on top of the entire structure. Frank seemed to have a particular method and had this down to a science with a very specific number of briquettes. This was serious business and they could not just be randomly placed. Then came the ceremonial lighting. Flames shot up about 2 stories high. You could feel the heat halfway down the block.

When the smoke and flames finally settled down, amazingly, the charcoals did seem to be lit up just like any other barbecue. Food was grilled and eaten and I still dated him, although I did keep him away from matches after that.

I came across an old journal of mine and found something in it that is just way too funny to keep to myself. For almost 4 years, in the late 1970s/early 1980s I worked for a doctor on the Upper East Side.

He was a wonderful boss and doctor – maybe half the time. The other half, well let’s just say he was troubled and didn’t come in to work. I swear the man had some sort of book with excuses in it that he could refer to when he called the office to say he wouldn’t be in. This is just a mere fraction of the stuff he used to tell us. (I was young, I was going out all the time so it’s amazing I even kept this good of a record.)

April - he threw his back out
- his father had a heart attack
- he was up all night because someone in the building was murdered & the cops were questioning everyone

May - He was out dancing the previous night & hurt his leg
- he slipped in the shower & hurt his arm
- a close friend committed suicide & he had to make all the arrangements
- he was subpoenaed & had to talk to a lawyer
- he had the flu

June - He had to do his taxes
- had meningitis (& recovered amazingly fast)
- for 2 weeks the office too messy w/ construction so he didn’t come in

Sept. – He fell asleep and lapsed into a coma (that’s one of my favorites)

Oct. – He had migraine headaches

Nov. – He broke his tooth & needed emergency surgery
- he overslept (guess he never thought to come in late)
- the stereo fell on his foot
- he moved and nothing was unpacked
- something came up with his ex-wife & he had to go out of town

Dec. – He had a rare thyroid disease (he said it was so rare that you couldn’t even look it up in any medical book)

I just counted (gee, I’m not in the least bit compulsive) and there are only 19 excuses listed here but it does give you a pretty good idea of what we had to deal with. Now doesn’t that sound like fun? Feel free to borrow any of these. I’m sure he won’t mind.

A whole lot of people are going to be disappointed to read the article I just saw on foxnews.com saying that you can’t travel back in time. I’m surprised it took the physicists this long to figure that one out. Obviously they’ve never tried to go back to where they grew up.

I grew up in Brooklyn on this little dead end street called Dahl Court. I have no idea what the origins of that street were. It was like some developer came walking down 58th Street and randomly said, “Gee why don’t we stick a street right here between 18th & 19th Avenue, just for the heck of it.”

We moved there the summer before my 5th birthday all the way from a 4 family apartment about 3 blocks away. If my math is right, it would have been 1962. In the Fall of 1976, we moved from there to Long Island.

A couple of years ago, I drove past Dahl Court. It didn’t look at all like I remembered. For one thing, the street was paved. In all the years I lived there, that street had never been paved. It was broken up into 3 sections: The middle section appeared to have been paved like a normal street at some point in the past. The sections on either side of them were cracked, pothole filled sections of what I think was cement. There was no through traffic on that block so we used to be able to play in the street but if we wanted to roller skate, you could only skate on the middle section because that was the only part that was smooth. You were taking your life in your hands if you wandered off onto one of the other sections.

That’s all the reminiscing for now but don’t worry. We’ll come back to this topic many more times here.