If I were on top of things, I’d remember that I’ve signed up to teach three cooking classes in the fall. Apparently, I’m decidedly not on top of things. So, I guess it’s a good thing that I at least look at my mail. I got my catalogue and found out about my cooking classes when I saw my name printed in it. One is The Complete Pasta Course. The other two are Some Like It Hot and Tapas: The Little Dishes of Spain. Great. Now all I have to do is figure out what I’m teaching and I’ll be all set. (Of course, the classes have to meet minimum registration requirements and they haven’t been since the economy went into hibernation. Don’t think these will fly either. Time will tell.)

I often think about how I learned to cook. I know I’m pretty good at it, but I have to admit that I’ve never been to school.  I learned to cook from watching three people: My grandmother, my dad and my mom. That pretty much sums up my education in this arena. I also have a lot of memories surrounding food and smells. One of the things I used to love to do was congregate at my grandmother’s in Everett after Sunday Mass. My grandmother would have a pot of gravy and meatballs on the stove. Now, let me clarify this “gravy-sauce” thing. My family doesn’t call red sauce “spaghetti sauce.” We call it gravy.

It wouldn’t take long for us to start mucking up the works. Before you knew it, someone would grab some Italian bread and start dunking it into the gravy. Then, we’d start eating the meatballs. My grandmother would have to run out to the kitchen to protect Sunday dinner and, boy, did it annoy her that we were depositing breadcrumbs into the gravy. You thought she’d never shut up. When she started speaking Italian, we all knew we were in real trouble.

Another memory I have about my family involves ravioli. We’ve been eating homemade ravioli at all major holidays for years. It was my dad who used to make the raviolis. We’re talking no machine here, not even a crank.  All the dough was made by hand, rolled out by hand with a rolling pin, cut into neat circles with these great aluminum drinking glasses we used to have, and then stuffed and assembled by hand. I have a very vivid memory of my dad laying a large sheet over my grandmother’s bed, and my dad would neatly lay out all the ravioli on the bed as he made them. Invariably, he would make “The Papa,” a giant ravioli that we got to cook and eat on the spot. It’s a funny thing about this memory. It’s like I’m in my grandmother’s room right next to her bed. I remember exactly how her room was set up.  There are ravioli on the bed, and I can look right out her door and see my dad in the kitchen making more.

It’s a very vivid memory, and I have it at the weirdest times. I lost my dad at an early age, but the memories I have of him are very much alive. At any rate, when my dad died, my mom took over making the ravioli. Now that my mom’s gone too, both of my older sisters have picked up the holiday ravioli making.

My sister’s Christmas eve bash

Now here’s a family tradition. My sister Mamie hosts a Christmas eve open house every year, and has been doing this for more than twenty years. The evening starts about 6 p.m. and people keep coming and going right up until the early morning hours. In keeping with Italian tradition, the emphasis on Christmas eve from a food perspective is seafood, so my sister serves things like octopus salad and smelts. When my mother was alive, my cousin Richie would always ask, “Hey, Auntie Frannie, you making calamari pie this year or what?” She always did, and she always made extra so people could take some home. Now that my mom’s gone, my sister carries on the tradition using her recipe. Of course, logic will tell you that not everyone wants to sit around eating octopus and smelts — particularly small children — so there’s always the traditional meat balls, roast beef and ham for the less adventurous eaters in the family.

Most of the people coming to the open house are on my mom’s side of the family, not my dad’s. My dad’s sister Phyllis used to come every year before she passed away. I’ve recently met a lot of Della Piana’s on Facebook. We know we’re related, but we’re not sure how. Regardless, my mom’s side of the family is huge. I have a lot of cousins. My mother’s brother, my Uncle Tony, had fourteen children. He used to joke that he had sex with his wife only fourteen times, but she got pregnant every time. And his children now have their own children and grandchildren. It’s a great way for us all to catch up with each other.

The little kids love it because there have to be fifteen or twenty kinds of cookies for them to gorge themselves on. There’s a small cookie tree that gives them access to cookies and candy canes. Eye leve. No permission required. No waiting. Hey, it’s Christmas.

The inevitable Ying-Yang

Of course, food can evoke some ugly memories as well. I’ve had my share of both. Some of the uglies have been doozies. Let’s start with what I like to call the granddaddy of bacterial contamination: Tofu. Yeah. I will eat it as soon as the package is open. If it isn’t used all in one foodie event, it’s trash. I never save it. If it comes in hot and sour soup, I eat around it because only Buddha knows how long the restaurant has saved it for. (Of course, there’s so much vinegar in that soup that it probably wouldn’t matter much anyway.)

On this particular night, I ordered Chinese food for Beth, Thalia and myself. We went to a place called China Wok in Beverly. We’d lived there for about seven years, so we were familiar with the place. I was the only one who didn’t eat tofu that night. I was also the only one who didn’t get sick. So picture it: Two bathrooms. Two yakkers. Ugly. Okay, I’ve got this thing about vomit. Know what I mean? To have two people yakking at the same time in two bathrooms didn’t leave me much of an option for going to the bathroom myself. Of course, Thalia was done after several hours, but Beth is never that simple. No sir.

Beth got so sick that she nearly dehydrated. She ended up in Beverly Hospital for a freakin’ week. It was amazing. They ran blood cultures and all kinds of other tests. She couldn’t even eat for the first few days she was there. As a joke, I managed to get some yellow tape that said “Toxic Waste” at work. I snuck into the hospital room while she was sleeping and taped up her bathroom door. The nurses were laughing like hell when I returned a few hours later. It was no joke. She couldn’t leave until she could eat, and she couldn’t eat until the end of the week. Then, they released her with anti-nausea medication. Exactly one week later, the exact same thing happened again and Beth ended up in Beverly Hospital for another week. They never actually came up with any reason for this bad health event other than the tofu. Thankfully, it didn’t happen a third time.

Ah, but we’re not done yet! One other messed up food event happened with the charming and delightful Miss Headcase. You remember her! Turner’s Falls? Photography? Yeah, that headcase. Not this one. Her sister Janet visited from California once and we drove down to Newport, Rhode Island for the day. We decided to eat at a place called La Forge Casino.

Miss Headcase ordered steak. I cannot for the life of me remember what Janet and I ordered.  So anyway, we’re eating when all of a sudden, I look up and Miss Headcase is seriously choking on a piece of steak. I mean, this is no joke. Everything I learned in my CPR class was coming true. She finally pushed herself away from the table and started moving around the restaurant holding her throat. Janet, I have to tell you, just kept eating.

I finally caught up with Miss Headcase right near the kitchen door. Thinking wasn’t an option at that point. I grabbed her as best I could, pulled her back, and did the heimlich. I figured I had one shot. It worked. Just as the executive chef was walking out the kitchen door, Miss Headcase chucked a piece of steak right onto his freakin’ shoe. It was absolutely the perfect ending. It looked like a comedy act, frankly.

Vacation? Well, let’s just say that vacations are a thing of the past these days. Okay, so there are the yearly visits to the evil mother-in-law, but that stops this year. Our August 24 foray into hell will be cancelled, at the suggestion of Beth’s therapist. Frankly, I’m relieved. The thought of having to deal with the mess left behind after that trip was not pleasing me. We went there about four months ago for several days and almost had to check Beth into the local looney bin to recover. It was tough at home, I’ll tell you. But that’s another post for a different day. Today, it’s all about our RV adventures!

Now, I’ve been camping. (I’ll tell you about the moose incident some day.) RVing is not camping as most people would define camping. The first time we went on an RV trip, it was just me, Beth and Thalia. We got a small Winnebago. The photo here is an accurate representation of the size. It was an easy drive, sort of like driving a U-Haul. It was great for the three of us, and Thalia got the thrill of sleeping in the bedroom above the cab with her own little television set. There’s plenty of storage space, so we managed to bring all of Miss T’s favorite tapes to play. You know, the standard fare of the day: Bear in the Big Blue House (one of my favorites, actually), Rollie Polie Olie (ever watched this one?), and of course –Scooby Doo (I happen to love “Scooby Doo and the Witch’s Ghost). She was, well, a happy camper so to speak.

Aside from the storage space that allows you to bring as much stuff as you want to provide all the comforts of home, there are other things about  RV travel that are cool. Having a fridge and a stove is awesome. You know, I have “roughed it” in Vermont with my friends and had greenheads land in my frying pan. They are disgusting. I love to cook, and I’m always elected to be the cook, but cooking is never fun when you’re fending off a swarm of fucking locusts at the same time. And greenheads do not taste good either. So, on those days when the sky is falling, it’s always great to be able to have an alternative. RV travel is also great in the bad weather. Where would you rather be when it’s pouring, inside a tent worrying about touching the sides and letting the sky in or in an RV where you can pull out toys, games and videos? That’s a no-brainer for the normal. But aside from all that fun stuff, there is one dicey little responsibility that is a bit ugly. (Naturally, it was a responsibility that fell in my column.)

Emptying the shit tank (or gray water) on one of these things isn’t for the squeamish. No sir. You know, you’ve got all these little controls and lights inside the unit and you monitor how much fresh drinking water you have and what the level of gray water is. The idea is to fill up the fresh water before you head out and keep in replenished on the road, and to find places to dump your gray water when the shit tank fills up. (The gray water also includes your shower run-off.) If you’re staying in one place for several days, you simply hook up the shit tank with the hose and leave it open so that it’s like a functioning home toilet. That’s the easy part, except the gases can sometimes smell bad and then you have to create a trap. It’s when you’re on the road and not connected that can sometimes be unpleasant because that means when you get to your destination, you have to hook up and dump what has collected in there. Just be sure the hose is connected properly, that’s all I’m saying. And gloves. Gloves are supremely important. Now, I’m not squeamish about this stuff (vomit is a bit different; it’s a phobia, I admit), but gloves are important. And make sure they fit you properly. If they are loose, it can cause all kinds of problems. Then they are just getting in the way of a problem-free connection. Campgrounds tend to look down on those who dump shit on the ground, folks. And it wouldn’t be an RV trip if you didn’t spring a leak in your hose. No sir. If you don’t have a spare (and you should), they usually sell them at the campground store. Here’s a hint: If you are renting an RV and there’s duct tape wrapped around the hose in several places, do yourself a favor and invest in one.

One of our first trips out in an RV was to Jellystone Park in Sturbridge, Massachusetts. We went there for Thalia because it’s totally geared to kids. It’s a pretty great take. I have fun with my kids, so it was fun for me too, especially since Yogi Bear was one of my favorite cartoon characters growing up! We also took a trip to Acadia National Park in Maine when Thalia must have been just a little more than three.

We spent the first two nights at Bayley’s campground in Scarborough, Maine. We would stay here several more times over the few years we spent RVing. It had lots of stuff for Thalia to do and that’s what was important. We felt it would be unfair to drag a child out on the road and expect them to sit around while we read or watched TV. We had to find a happy medium, so places like Jellystone and Bayley’s were perfect. This trip also harbors a memorable event.

We took Thalia to Pirate Cove mini-golf in Old Orchard Beach. We were making our way around the course and she was actually doing pretty well. At home we often took her to mini-golf on Route 114 (Danvers, I think) where Richardson’s Ice Cream is. She used to run around on the course stealing everybody’s golf balls. She was being remarkably reserved at Pirate’s Cove and we were happy with that. It was a weekday and the place was pretty empty. Beth and I were clowning around at one hole and Thalia kind of drifted off to the previous hole. When we turned around, she was peeing into the cup. All I remember is Beth saying, “Oh, fuck!” Then we started laughing hysterically while running after her. Thalia told us she didn’t want to pee on the grass, so she chose the cup instead.

Movin’ on up and livin’ large

All the while we were renting mini Winnies, we had been looking at Class A vehicles. They were impressive. We decided to rent one after Aaron was born. He was pretty young when we went on these RV trips. He couldn’t have been more than six months old. When you’re carrying stuff for a six-month old, you need more space. That was our logic. So we moved up to an Infinity the first time out. This was at least at 32-footer, and the cost to rent it for a two-week period varied between $1,800 to $2,000. (The cost isn’t for the squeamish either.) That’s a pretty good indication of how my business was going at the time because I was self-employed by then, happily running New Wave Marketing & Public Relations. We used to rent from a place up on Route 1 North, although I can’t remember the name of it. It was an independent operation and the owner’s name was Steve. The people who worked there were great. Then, he sold to Moturis and things went to shit. The prices went through the roof (as if a couple of thousand plus insurance wasn’t enough).

Class A’s are massive compared to something like a mini Winnie. Everything about driving them is different, but I was up for it (Beth didn’t want anything to do with these). I love to drive and I’m fearless in most instances, so it was fun for me. When you plan a trip with one of these, you do so differently. You have to worry about the height of overpasses, and you really want to stick to a 32-footer because some states forbid anything bigger on certain roads. (And yes, a bigger vehicle means…a bigger shit tank, folks.) Best of all, however, are the comforts. Let me tell you, in one of these you won’t care if it’s raining greenheads or if it’s a hundred degrees outside. The one we rented had two side-outs in the living room and master bedroom, make it huge inside. There were sofas and chairs, wall-to-wall carpeting, a big screen television above the driving area and a multi-speaker stereo system. We had central heat and central air. In short, it was like driving around in a house.

Maine was a popular destination during this time. That’s because Beth and I love the ocean. We’ve only lived in a land-locked town once, and that was Winchester. Other than that, we’ve been near water: Gloucester, Beverly, and Amesbury. Amesbury may not be near the ocean, but the Pow Wow River runs through the center of town and the back road ride to our next-door neighbor, Newburyport (which is right on the ocean), is a beautiful one along the Merrimack River.

We took a second trip to Maine in a 32-footer. This time the destination was the Bar Harbor area. On the way up, we made a stop in Camden because, first and foremost, it’s beautiful. It also has Planet Toys, one of my favorite toy stores. We used to stop and get Thalia and Aaron one present each for them to use in the RV. You know, nothing extravagant. We also stayed in a great campground called Hadley’s Point. (For some reason, I could not access its web site so I couldn’t put in a link. I’ll keep trying!). On the same trip we also stayed at Megunticook RV Resort in Rockport because we had told Thalia about Andre the Seal (he actually died in 1986) and wanted her to see his memorial statue.

More than just the sole proprietor of Grim Reaper Airways

Yes, on another trip Beth proved her versatility with vehicles of size. Thank Buddha that it’s just simulated with an airplane. It was not simulated with a 32-foot RV. No siree. Motorcycles. Fine. Honda Civics. Fine. Toyota Camrys. Fine. Things get a bit dicey after that. And let me give you immediate proof. We are sitting here at the kitchen table. I am writing while Beth is using flight simulator. I heard the alarm go off and then a crashing noise. Beth then announced that she landed too hard next to the runway in Lugano, Italy. Apparently, this was a good thing since Beth had messed up and was trying to land on an outgoing runway. She would have been creamed by a huge jet. Between the sound and our laughter, Aaron figured out what was going on. “What happened? Did ma just crash land again?” Just another day of sheer hair-raising adventure with Grim Reaper.

But Grim Reaper Airways isn’t her only claim to travel fame.  Her RV adventure was on a trip to Saco River Camping Area in New Hampshire. This time we were pretty much staying put once we parked the RV. I found a great car rental deal in the area and rented a mid-sized car for the long weekend so that side trips would be less taxing on the driver (read: Me). For the moment, however, we were done with driving. Aaron had just about had enough of being on the road, so he was in his chair in the wailing mode.

Beth was outside directing me into the spot. Now, I have no problem driving these things so I was just fine. I was ignoring Aaron. For some reason, Beth was distracted by his crying even though she was outside. She wanted to be inside where he was screaming just in case he was dying or something (not very rational, but that’s our Beth). Why she thought it would be better inside was beyond me, but I wasn’t about to argue. At that point, I wanted the RV parked and Aaron picked up. She decided that she was going to pull it in. I went out to direct her. Meanwhile, Aaron was still screaming. So, if she was distracted outside where the screaming was muted, imagine how distracted she must have been inside. (And yes, you may question my judgment in allowing her to back a 32-foot RV into a space. I question it myself.)

It went sour from the beginning. I was directing her one way, and she turned the RV in the opposite direction. Even though I was yelling “Stop!” she managed to hook the bumper onto the water spigot. Then, for some unexplained reason, she put the RV into drive and almost pulled the freakin’ water spigot out of the ground. I remember running up to her door and just banging on it to get her to stop. She did. I managed to disengage the bumper from the water spigot, got in and parked the RV. The good news was that the campground equipment was fine. The bumper, was pulled out from the RV, but it was relatively minor. Luckily, I had put Beth on the driving list and I had purchased additional insurance above my own private policy. Normally a great driver, Beth would never drive an RV again. She wanted no part of that.

It didn’t matter, though. Our RVing days were coming to a close. The economy was getting tighter, and my business was sliding a bit. Our very comfortable world was about to come crashing down on us. But I’m not ready to talk about that one yet.

Every once in a while, I slip in a character study of people invading my life for better or worse. This is one that falls on the “for worse” side. We may call her Auntie Buddy, but she ain’t nobody’s buddy. How would I describe her? Well, let’s see…unyielding is a good word. That can be followed by dictatorial. Self-righteous works well also. Resentment should be her middle name. And for a woman who is a devout Catholic, she is decidedly un-Christian. But that’s not so far removed from most of the outwardly devout/inwardly nasty Christians I’ve come into contact with over the past, say, five years.

Her real name is Aurora Ann Catanzano, but she never used the Aurora. She hated it. She called herself Ann. She was named Aurora because supposedly the Aurora Borealis was visible the night she was born. Personally, I think it was one of those times in history when Lord Voldemort was making a return. That’s what they saw in the sky the night she was born.

Auntie Buddy is a resentful person because she never did what she wanted to do with her life. She was in love with someone, but her Catholic brainwashing caused her to walk away from that relationship because he was divorced. She never found anyone else. Auntie Buddy never escaped the fate of the unmarried youngest child in a large Italian family: You are there but to serve. Iron your brothers’ clothes. Do your mother’s errands. Take care of whomever is sick. You know, responsibility with that old world charm.

Only the good die young

She is living testimony to the old addage that “only the good die young.” She’s the last in her family at 93, and she’s as ornery today as she was when she was 50, 60, 70 and 80. You can never do enough for Auntie Buddy. And when you do go out of your way for the eightieth time, she’s always got something to complain about. There’s always something you just could have done ever so much better. She brings new meaning to the word ungrateful. I believe I may have left that descriptor out of the first paragraph. That belongs there as well.

I was unlucky enough to have to live with her after my father died. My mother simply could not afford an apartment on her own. It was like living with all three of Cinderella’s evil stepsisters rolled into one. As I got older, her nagging got more offensive and harder to take. By the time we moved to Riverside Avenue in Medford, I was prepared to take extreme measures. To spite her silently, I used to back her 1964 Chevy Nova out of the garage and drive it around the block. This wouldn’t have been bad, but I was only about 13 or 14 at the time. Finally, I got bagged by a neighbor, who came over and blew the whistle on me. That was ugly, but I eventually ended up owning that very car. It was a great car, but I never really took care of it. I was a student at the time. On the way home from an overnight party, I managed to seize the engine (which usually happens when you don’t pay attention to the oil and water). That was a sad day.

Crossing the line

You know, I could handle all the stuff as a kid. I admit that I do have a resentment toward sweet, little old Auntie Buddy. However, I bear that resentment for something she did to me much later in my life. When my family was teetering on homelessness, she could have helped. Auntie Buddy, the cheapest person on the planet, has plenty of money put away. Her plan is to leave each of us $25,000 when she dies. My oldest sister approached her, told her what was going on, and asked about helping me. And Miss Happy said, “All she has to do is ask.”

Well, I did ask and I have to tell you that is the toughest thing I’ll ever have to do. I hate asking for help; it is not in my nature. I’ve been on my own for a long time. Instead of helping, however, she turned me down. She gave me $200 that day but said that was all she could do. She was determined that she was not going to give anyone the money before her death. Not long after that, we were evicted.

Dereliction of duty

When my mother was dying, we promised that we would take care of Auntie Buddy when she was gone. They had been friends (although I don’t understand how) as well as sisters. It wasn’t that my aunt didn’t piss my mother off. It was more that my mother didn’t take any shit from her. I have to tell you that — although it is not very Buddhist of me — I have no desire to caretake her. I’m trying to get past this little issue, but for now there is no getting past it. In fact, I’ve considered voodoo in the past, which is decidedly un-Buddhist. However, I have resisted my darkest thoughts to date.  There are other complicating factors, like I neither have the time nor the financial freedom to drive down to Wakefield from Amesbury to do her food shopping or anything else. I leave that torture to my sisters.

Haven’t seen sweet, kindly, old Auntie Buddy for a while. Missed her at Easter. Dang it. Didn’t go to the fourth of July cookout at my sister’s. Dang it. I’m just striking out all over. I hope the trend continues.

You know, my name causes me a lot of problems. That’s because my legal name is Frances and my middle name is Deborah, but nobody has ever called me Frances or Franny. It’s Debbie or Deb, but not Frances. (It’s also never Debbi with a little heart over the “i.” Not ever. Got it?) It’s also not Debby. No.

I’ve never used Frances, though. My dad wanted me to be named Frances after my mom. (Francis was also his middle name.) My mom wanted Deborah, supposedly because it meant ’strong willed.’ I’ve been looking around for definitions of the name that say it means strong willed, but the closest I can find is industrious. Rumor has it that my dad went down to the office at the hospital (?) and changed it to Frances Deborah from Deborah Frances.  Let me give you a few examples of some of the trouble all of this causes.

All of my work stuff, like pay checks, insurance cards, and the like are under Frances Deborah. So is my license and my registration.  A lot of my other stuff, like my resume, is F. Deborah. It’s tough for the people at Rite Aid pharmacy because they may get a prescription called in for Frances Della Piana. However, I am in their system as Deborah Della Piana.

When I was a kid, the nuns refused to use the correct spelling of my name, which is Deborah, because it was of Jewish origin. They refused to use it, and would send my report cards home with the name Debra. Who the fuck is that? That isn’t my name? I was most unhappy about that, and let me tell you, so was my mother. She named me, after all. The nuns learned pretty quickly not to call me ‘Frances’ in the classroom because I would not raise my hand or acknowledge the name.

Even my dad, who wanted my first name to be Frances, never called me Frances. To him, I was Debbie. It’s pretty clear that my father won the battle, but my mother won the war. So there you go. But that’s just one of the ‘name things’ going on in my family. The other ‘name thing’ is nicknames. This didn’t involve me. My nickname was Debbie. But it did involve several other people in my family.

First, my sister’s name is Mary. Everybody calls her Mamie, and it has absolutely nothing to do with Mamie Eisenhower. We’re not sure how that happened. My Aunt Florence was actually called Auntie Muff. I’m not even going there. My Aunt Buddy is the most complicated, though. Her real name is Aurora because she was born when the Aurora Borealis was visible. She hated the name Aurora, so she used her middle name, Ann. But we all called her Aunt Buddy. (And let me tell you, she’s nobody’s buddy, either but that’s a different story for a different day.)

My Uncle Salvy had two sons. One was called Gigi (his real name was Frank) and the other was nicknamed Nanny (he was Anthony). And hold it a minute, we’re not talking the pronounciation of the Leslie Caron movie, Gigi. For the nickname, the ‘G’ is hard and the ‘i’ is pronounced like a long ‘e’.

This whole process seemed to really take hold in my Uncle Tony’s family (my mother’s brother). He and his wife had fourteen children. That’s right, fourteen children. 14. Here’s a little listing of his childrens’ nicknames:

Gay is actually Philip

Dukie is Marilyn

Dusty is Christine

Winkie is Louise

This seemed to be a phenomenon on my mother’s side of the family, although it did extend slightly to my dad’s side. In fact, my dad’s name was Julius and everyone called him Juju. He also had a sister and cousin who were both named Phyllis. To distinguish between the two, we called his cousin Big Philly because she was tall and skinny. I suspect, however, that my mother was behind both of these nicknames.

W-T-F?

The weather is getting warmer here in Amesbury and, whenever it does, I think about Provincetown on Cape Cod. Is that because I’m gay? Yeah, I’d have to say that’s a large part of it. At one time, the GLBT community was not as mainstreamed as it is now and P-town (as we affectionately call it) was our town. We were in large numbers there and could feel safe and calm being ourselves. And, in my younger days, it was an unbelievable party town and that’s what really mattered.

I spent a lot of time in P-town with my friends George, Joe and Steve, but I remember one trip in particular when we took the boat instead of driving. That meant we could get a jump on drinking by starting on the boat, like about 9:00 a.m. By the time  we docked, we could barely walk, let alone negotiate a trip to the place where we were staying. I remember that we all kind of fell on top of each other as we got off the boat. We were laughing so hard it took us forever to get up. To top it off, we were staying at the White Dory Inn, which was quite a walk from where the boat docked. Luckily, we managed to hitch a ride on the back of some guy’s pickup truck.

And that didn’t stop us. No sir. We immediately got a bottle of wine and headed for the beach. Yours truly here, of course, fell asleep in the sun and ended up spending the night in bed while everyone else went out and partied. I did, however, make up for lost time the next evening.I have a ton of memories from these times, like Tea Dances at the Boatslip, the female impersonators at the Crown & Anchor, and partying at the Pied Piper or the A-House.

Much later in my life, after we had all gone our separate ways and I met Beth and settled down, P-town became a refuge for my little family. One summer Beth, Thalia and I spent two weeks there. It was just awesome. We took Miss T to the beach every day and then we’d go into town and hang out with her. She met a lot of characters when she was young, and this was where she developed her open mind. In fact, Beth took this great photo of “Cher” when Thalia was about eight months old. We were there for the P-Town version of the PRIDE parade that year, and it was great because Thalia’s window opened right out onto the street. It was like a mini-Mardi Gras.

If I ever have the opportunity to ’summer’ somewhere, screw Florida. I’m going to P-Town where men can be women, and women can be anything they damned well want.

Shhhhh. We’re trapped on Cape Cod. STOP. Doing yearly family duty exposing small children to family members. STOP. Limited web access or exposure to sane people. STOP. Evil mother-in-law/mother/grandmother (take your pick) in control. STOP. It’s at these times that wifey says the most incredible things, like “Yeah, she hates us. But not enough to leave us alone.” So, I ask you again: WTF is with my life?

Yes, it’s Easter. I just got back home from Easter dinner at my sister’s house. It’s days like these when you realize just how dysfunctional families can be.  But that’s a different story for a different day. I should say that I really do not celebrate Easter from a religious perspective.  I was born Catholic, but I’m Buddhist by choice.  The folks on my mom’s side of the family are traditional Catholic. However, I’ve found a much more eclectic mix on my dad’s side.

I have a Facebook account and I have “101 friends.” Of course, some are truly friends but most are people you meet electronically. I enjoy it. I’ve got friends from many other countries. I have a group of friends from Starbucks 9269.  But I’ve been fortunate in that I’ve been able to connect with people from my dad’s side of the family, a part of the family I’ve not really been exposed to. They’ve branched out more. They are different, and they are not all practicing Catholics.

My parents were older when I was born. I never met my grandparents on my dad’s side. I only met his brother, Angelo, and his sister, Phyllis. I never had exposure to the rest of the family, but we’ve managed to find each other on FB. It’s been fun because we’re all trying to figure out how we’re related. We’re not quite sure yet, but I hope we get there.

Now, let’s talk a bit about Easter at my house. I sometimes feel that I am the master of what I call fringe parenting, and today was a very close call.

Last night my son, Aaron, and I colored eggs and then we put them in a bowl in the fridge for the Easter Bunny. I was up late writing and didn’t hit the hay until the early morning hours. At 6:00 a.m. my alarm went off. It was planned that way because I wanted to get up and hide the eggs. I woke up and looked at the clock and rolled back over. The egg hiding didn’t hit me at all. Then, at 8:30 a.m., Aaron ran up to wake me up. I told him to wait downstairs and I’d be there in a few. Then, it hit me. Easter Sunday. The eggs are still in the fridge. Shit. That was all I could think.

When I got downstairs, Aaron was curled up under the blanket, leaving me the opportunity to really be sneaky, grab the bowl out of the fridge, and hide the eggs. It was pretty pathetic, the sight of me running around the house hiding eggs. I managed to pull it off this time, but I may not be so lucky next time. No issues for my daughter around the Easter Bunny. Nope. The bunny isn’t real. Neither is Santa or the tooth fairy.  She’s done with that stuff, and she is chomping at the bit to announce her findings to her brother. She refrains only under the penalty of death.