Cafe Leone

ALS SUCKS!

my father | 5 Comments »

Luckily, the infestation was just confined to her head!

Baby Goats | 5 Comments »

As you know, I am an atheist. Many people believe that is because I am too ignorant of the facts of Christianity. Of course, I argue that I know more about the Bible and religions in general than many of my Christian friends. But that does not matter to them, because I can never argue the whole “faith”component of religion, which some people fall back on when I question their logic.

So, here is a chance to make me smart.

Can anyone tell me what do the Easter Bunny and chicken eggs have to do with:

A. Each other

B. The resurrection of Jesus

For that matter, what do Santa Clause and shopping malls have to do with the birth of Jesus?

Obviously, I am being facetious and am not so stupid as to believe that those pagan rituals and Hallmark creations have ANYTHING to do with the true meaning of the holidays. But, every once in a while it bears remembering…for both Christians and non-Christians.

Happy Easter everyone who is celebrating and Happy Day for all who are not.

I love these holidays, Christian or otherwise, and take them as an opportunity to reflect on the things that mean the most to me. So please know, I am forever grateful for your friendships, tolerance and your words!

imponderable | 6 Comments »

I gave you fair warning, so each word you read now brings you closer to my rant.

I need to receive Remicade infusions every month or so as part of the treatment I receive for my condition. Remicade acts as an immuno-suppressant.  Essentially, the theory is that my body has an over-reactive immune system that kicks in at the slightest provocation causing this nastiness to happen to me. Remicade will work to flatten my immune system and basically reboot it.

During this time, I am extremely prone to infection (because I don’t have much of an immune system), but have managed to side-step most of the illnesses running rampant at the Leone Estates.

So, here is the rant part: The logical conclusion of everything I said above it that I need to avoid people who are sick. IT IS NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND! I am not contagious, you idiots.  So, if you are pretending to be interested in my health and I go off and explain my treatments, the first words out of your mouth should not be: “OH! Stay away from me, then! I don’t want to get sick again!” Then proceed to tell me about the poor cold you just recovered from!

I don’t have leprosy. It is my immune system that is broken…not yours.

I just had this conversation on the elevator with someone and I am angry that this person got off the elevator and I am stigmatized, at least in his mind, as having a contagious disease.

It is important for me that people use their brains.  I am not a smart person, but I do the best I can to stop and think before I speak.

Thank you for allowing me a chance to vent.  Now it is your turn:

Go ahead and rant about something, anything that pisses you off. You are safe here. No one reads this stuff anyway.

health | 11 Comments »

(In the small case that you do not know me, this is supposed to be taken tongue-in-cheekily. I only have ONE crush in my life….and you know who you are!)

I admit it, I am addicted to The Food Network. I have always enjoyed cooking, LOVED cooking….but then I had children. Now I enjoy microwaving, standing up while eating and having a bowl of cereal for dinner. At some point in my myriad career changes, I strongly considered going back to school in order to study pastry chefery.

Also, TFN is one of the few channels on TV that are completely kid-safe. I am violently opposed to violence on TV and hate that my children are subjected to extreme images…even, especially rather, on children’s channels. Their constant exposure to graphic and violent images, has led us to watching only The Food Network and The Weather Channel.

So, this household spends a lot of time learning to cook, if not actually cooking. Coco even falls asleep to Iron Chef America (the one that is on at midnight..not the one at 7!)

No one can watch a channel so much without developing deeper feelings for some of the personalities…I am just glad it is not with Ryan Seacrest.

Here is my list of Food Network Crushes:

• I have to admit my biggest crush is on the human Q-Tip, Giada DeLaurentis of Everyday Italian. Now, before you go and crucify me by implying that I like her only because of her, ummm, chesticular endowments, please know that you couldn’t be further from the truth. My attraction to her begins and ends with the way she says “mozzarella” with a perfect Italian lilt. Listening to her read a menu is like listening to Cecelia Bartoli belt out a Mozart aria. I am enraptured in both scenarios but with Giada, it includes food, so advantage Giada.
• Next comes Ina Gartner, of the Barefoot Contessa. Not normally my “type” but oh my goodness, her breathy voice, coupled with her no-holds-barred suck-face she does with hubby, and I am fanning myself. You can just tell that she is a tigress.
• Next on the list would be Bobby Flay of Iron Chef America, et al. If I cooked with that spatula, I would be into him. He is the only one who can pull off the Iron Chef arms-crossed stare-down with the authenticity of a professional wrestler. Also, he is married to that hottie from Law and Order, SVU. If I were them, I would just put the bed in the kitchen.
• No list of Food Network Babes would be complete without the closest thing they have to a pornstar, Nigella, of Nigella Bites. I sincerely believe she has at least one orgasm during the taping of her show. Cooking as foreplay…I’m in!
• The hippest of the Geek Chic is Alton Brown of Good Eats. If I were on TFN, I would be Alton Brown. No one can make the science of toasting bread more interesting. With all the cheesy props used on the show, I would be happy to be the guy dressed in a foam carrot costume on the set.

I used to think Rachel Ray belonged on this list. She is clearly adorable and has that squishable laugh. That is what I used to think…then she tried to carry out her plan for world domination and has become so over-exposed, that I think I am starting to see her in my family photos…this chick is everywhere! I’m out on the “Yummo.”

My least favorite TFN stars (with no offense to them…just in case they are out Googling themselves right now)

• Michael Chiarello of Easy Entertaining with Michael Chiarello - Is this guy even Italian? Putting oregano on freedom fries and serving them in an orchid vase, does not constitute crush-worthiness.
• Anthony Bourdain of I’ll Eat Anything I Can Put in My Face (officially of the Travel Channel) - I love this show and I love the way he higlights how purely random our food tastes are. In this country, we can eat fried chicken embryos with reckless abandon, but squirm at the thought of eating cow tongue. But Anthony’s main-lined nicotine-induced anorexia, wears thin. I think he is spending more time looking for heroin in the bazaars than he is looking for eel testicles, but I guess I would be too.
• Paula Deen of I’ll Have a Stick of Butter with That, Please - I am sorry Southern-accented people, but “You All” only has two syllables, not twelve. I must admit to loving the fact that there is a pound of lard in every one of her recipes from lard soup to key lard pie.
• That OCD guy, Marc Summers of Unwrapped. I like watching how they make Bosco but I think the show would do fine without him on that fake diner set with those fake diner people having fake diner conversations in the background. He always looks like he can’t stand any of the food he is talking about. They always put a bowl of something in front of him and he looks at it like it is filled with cow tongues.
• Al Roker - Duh!
• Robin Miller of Quck Fix Meals - I am was ready to move her up the list, but she looks too much like Katie Couric and that scares me. Plus she needs to show me that she can do more with food than throw it into a crock pot. Just because I am too busy to cook, doesn’t mean you should be too. It may be “quick” to throw everything in a pot, but it takes four days to cook this stuff.
• Sandra Lee from Semi-Homemade with Sandra Lee - What world does she live in? Do any of you redecorate your kitchen to match your dinner? My kitchen is usually redecorated WITH dinner! Do you put artichokes in a fish bowl and use it as a centerpiece? Can you cook with those outfits she wears? Every single sleeve extends past her hands! How does a human cook like that. I cook in nothing but an apron (scorch your retinas now) and here she is wearing clothes that make her look like a negative image of Morticia from the Addams Family. Perhaps in Stepford Wives-Land, you can do that, but not in the world in which I live. Plus, I am not about to sprinkle Jello powder on Pillsbury Crescent Rolls and call it dessert.

Just my opinion….until I change it.

funny | 9 Comments »

    "What? Wait. I can’t hear you. Hang on."
    "Hang on!" He said even louder. His elbow raised high in some make-believe self-important way.
    "I will call you when I get to my office. I am on the elevator right now."
Dean tucked his cell phone into his jacket pocket; too preoccupied to notice the looks of disdain in the eyes of the others taking the same trip.
    The muffled, digitized ring begins again. People begin shifting uncomfortably and their clearly audible sighs do nothing to hide their disgust as Dean answers it again.
    "Yeah. I know, I know. I said I will call you when I get to my desk. Jesus!" He hung up angrily, but this time his elbow nearly smashed into the woman behind him.
    An elevator, and a crowded subway are perhaps the only place complete strangers can stand so awkwardly close. Standing so close, and yet trying so hard not to make eye contact; that was the dance played out a million times per day. But for now, all eyes have been released from their usual lock on the changing floor display to collectively sneer at Dean.
    Floor 14, the doors open and Dean allowed himself the luxury of first exit, though there are others physically closer to the front of the elevator.
    He walked past rows of cubicles, each the same, save for the pre-approved personal flair added by their occupants. He did not notice Julie’s cube looks a bit overrun with plants and other greenery. If he ever slowed down long enough, he would have noticed that bamboo plant with some purple fish inside the glass vase swimming through the roots. If he slowed down, he would see Stephanie’s desk with a disturbing number of cat paraphernalia; cat calendars, cat mug and, strangely, a cat mousepad. From golfing magazines to Hallmark cards. From Employee of the Month awards to the ubiquitous pictures of children, everyone had a story to tell. Everyone needed to put a personal mark to break the sameness of their cubicle neighborhood, cuburbia. Dean couldn’t be bothered. He stormed past them all until he got to his own cube. On the way past his boss’s office, the only space enclosed by four walls and a door, he managed a drive-by wave.
     Dean turned on his computer and grabbed his emails before remembering to call his sister.
    "Sorry, Jo, it is not even eight and it already is getting…"
    "That’s fine, Dean. I understand. You know I wouldn’t want to bother you unless it was important."
    "Listen, Jo. I know Ma is disappointed in me for missing their fiftieth anniversary party. She already gave me an earful but you know that no matter how much planning I try to do, I am at the mercy of these customers. Just the other day…"
     "Don’t! Don’t do this Dean. I don’t care about your friggin’ customers." Audible crack in her voice shattered his ability to create a coherent thought.
    Dean sat up, turned his chair to look out down to the crowded street below. It was becoming clear to Dean that this was not the normal "You really blew it this time" call.
    "Sis, If Don is hurting you in any way, I…"
    "This has nothing to do with anniversaries or wife beatings, you fucking moron! Just stop. This is hard enough for me without you playing the idiot detective. For once in your goddam life, listen."
    The sound of silence penetrated the next twenty seconds like a bullet.
    "Your father, our dad, Papa…..He died last night!" Silence. Did you hear me? Lui e morto!" She screamed the last sentence in utter exhaustion and obvious frustration.
    Dean chewed his cheek and blinked hard and fast as he came to terms with what he was told. Normally, never at a loss for words, there were no words to describe what Dean was feeling. He dropped his cell phone to his lap as he stared through the objects in his cube.
    "Dean, for crap’s sake. Did you hear me?"
    He picked up the phone again.  
    "When?" was all he could come up with.
    "Yesterday. It happened so fast. By the time we got to the basement, he was already lying there in a pool of blood."
Dean let the image of that pool of blood flood his brain. He was no longer thinking of his father. He was simply picturing the ever expanding pool of blood like a death scene in some bad movie.
    "We told him every day not to play with the electricity. But of course, he had to try to re-wire the light over his workbench so that it would go on whenever he turned on the big light to the room. You remember, we even used to laugh at him for being so harebrained, and as always, he didn’t turn off the power to the light. Instead he tried to do it the usual way and just hope that the live wires wouldn’t cross. Well, you know, the guy is 79 years old. His hands shake so badly, he is blind as a bat, I am surprised he didn’t kill himself shaving. The jolt knocked him to the ground. It was the fall that killed him. His head hit the cement floor hard enough to shatter his skull. That bastard! If he wasn’t dead, we would all be laughing at this. I wish I could laugh right now."
    "How’s Mama?"
    "Well you know Mama. She has been dressing in all black for the last fifteen years just because she knew he was going to kill himself someday.
    That was just like Jo; never at a loss for breaking life down into the ridiculous.
    Her given name was Giovanna Bruna Cedrone. At no time did anyone ever dare call her that. Giovanna was reserved only for the birth certificate and it was Jo for the rest of the planet. She had classic Italian features. Olive skin that was shiny like she bathed in the magical oil. Her hair, thick, was always out of control. A wisp of hair would find its way in front of her eyes and she would blow it back with a well-placed puff. Her eyes were buried deep inside of even deeper sockets. Not-so-skinny would be the best way to describe her body. Italian food coupled with four children will change the architecture of any body. She preferred to be called curvy. Her Sophia Loren breasts would find little use for her bra as they spilled easily over the top.
She was a loving mother to her four boys. Over-protective, of course. A parent has to be these days. Stern, without a doubt. She was not above a quick slap in the butt as a form of enforced encouragement. But, not a heartbeat later, she could drop down to the floor and play video games with them with all the genuine enthusiasm as if she were a child herself but with all the skill of a mom genuinely in love with her children. Then she had no problems springing back up once her husband came home in order to start dinner. She was tireless. A good quality to have in a small house filled with boys. To Jo, her family was her life. Without them, there would be no Jo.
    She never strayed far from the town she grew up in. In fact, she never strayed from this very house in her forty-five years on this planet. She, her husband, Donato, and their four boys lived just below her parents in the same house on Lincoln Road.
    "Listen. If you are interested, the wake will be Friday and the funeral will be Saturday. If my opinion matters, I think Ma will really appreciate it if you would come and pay your respects."
Dean remained silent. Silent, stunned and hurt. His brain trying to process everything and grasping nothing. His sister’s words spilled salt into the wound. What was she saying? Of course he would come home.
    "Interested? Papa is dead and all you can say is ‘if you are interested?’ Come on Jo. Cut me some slack, will ya?"
    "I will cut you some slack…once again. Just don’t disappoint Ma. She really needs all of us now more than ever. But she doesn’t need any of your ‘I am too important bullshit."
    Dean put his jacket on and retraced his steps back out. This time he was stopped by Julie who needed to know how he wanted to respond to the latest report highlighting his team’s underperformance for the last quarter.
    "Dean, I was just coming to see you. I am putting together the agenda for the Executive Update Meeting on Friday. I saw your slides and noticed that there was as decrease in your team’s performance over the last month. I thought it would be a good idea if we can deflect any questions about it by putting an asterisk next to the stat and a single comment from you."
    Dean caught about half of her words and tried to ignore the rest.
    "I really need to get out of here. Something personal has come up."
    She heard without listening.
    "That’s OK. How about a quick sentence. I’ll walk you to the elevator."
    "Um, alright. Listen. Just tell the Executive Committee that we are still reviewing the stats, but it looks like having one Rep out on maternity leave and the recall of our major player across all age groups resulted in an increase in call volume. We are confident that the next quarter we will see higher customer satisfaction as we recover from our slight downturn in call answer rates. Blah blah blah. You’ve done this a million times before, Julie! Can’t you figure it out?"
    "You know they are not going to buy that. Don’t you?" They are simply going to ask why we did not forecast staffing requirements. It’s not like we didn’t know she was pregnant."
    As he handed her the report, he stopped long enough to look in her eyes.
    "Just tell them to take their staffing requirements and stuff them up their ass. Let’s see them forecast that." He said as his head cocked to the side exaggeratedly.
    Julie Moretz had this ability to look right in your eye, nod her head in agreement and at the same time she could make you feel like you were standing on your head. At this moment, she perfected that look.
    He threw his keys on the table next to the door; put there just for that purpose. His apartment had very little "new" furniture. In fact, one of his girlfriends called it "dorm-room chic." The one piece that became Dean’s pride and joy was his bar. He remembered how excited he was when it was delivered to him. It even came assembled; a unique feature for Dean’s decor. Made from a warm, rich cherry wood and even came with the optional brass footrest. It had a stemware holder and a mini-fridge for precisely chilling white wine. With the bar came a free gift of the Boston Bartender’s Guide. The first thing he did was go to the liquor store and collect every bottle off the Must Have list. He sampled everything on that list and maybe concocted hundreds of drinks following the precise recipe in that book. He impressed no one but himself when he meticulously cut up limes and opened two jars of maraschino cherries to place in the special bins at one of his parties.
    Tonight, that is not what he wanted. He had no use for preparing a complicated drink. He went to the fridge, dropped to his knees and moved a small collection of hot sauces out of the way. After knocking over a few, he found what he needed. He picked up the gallon wine jug. The one with the screw top. A special package from his father.
    Every September, his dad would press his own grapes into wine. He would send a carefully wrapped bottle to Dean every month. The bottle came from the same stash of bottles collected over the last thirty years. His dad even learned to use the computer at seventy-five years of age, just so he could print out cute labels. The label had an image of a lion in the shade of some tree in Africa caught in a giant yawn. Inscribed on it was his father’s birthday, June 12, 1939 and the words in some Ancient Roman script, Bottled with Love By La Famiglia Cedrone. The reason for the lion was not so romantic or symbolic. It simply was one of the standard stock images that came with the labeling software.
     Usually the wine just sat in the fridge with Dean taking the occasional sip or using it in some recipe. Tonight, Dean needed to drink it. It didn’t matter that the red wine was refrigerated. To his father, drinking warm wine was like drinking warm beer. He could never understand how Americans complained that the British like their beer warm and at the same time say that red wine should be never be cold. Neither made sense. Dean reached for a juice glass from the cabinet. He poured the wine into the Williams-Sonoma Picardie glass and drank most of it without tasting it. Drinking now was not about savoring. It had nothing to do with slurping and analyzing tannin, watching the "legs" or distinguishing hints of dark fruits and plums. It was about coping. Coping in the only way Dean ever really learned how to cope. This process was designed to hit him hard.
    He turned on the CD player using the remote on the counter and then threw himself on the sofa. He placed the gallon jug on the floor next to him. The voice of Pavarotti filled the room but it was the images of his father that filled his mind. He took another gulp of wine. In minutes, he finished his third glass.
    At 7:16 AM, the alarm had been going off for the last sixteen minutes with not even a flinch from Dean. He half-opened his eyes, rubbed the string of drool dangling from his mouth and stared down to see the same clothes he had on last night. He didn’t even give himself the courtesy of lying down. He was in the exact same seated position that he was in last night.
    She stood in the doorway to the bedroom half-covering her naked body.
    "Why didn’t you come to bed last night? I woke up to your music but fell back asleep."
    "You should get dressed and go back to your apartment now. I have stuff I need to take care of."
    "What are you talking about? I haven’t been to my apartment in months. I practically live here. You can’t just tell me to leave. I even help you with rent, you mother fucker."
    He turned his head slowly, almost painfully, revealing his glaring bloodshot eyes. "Get out now!"
    "You are one fucked up dude!" She slammed the door but it popped back open and Dean could see her throw her pants on without underwear and shirt without her bra. She stuffed those into her purse, then collected some other belongings and stormed out whisper screaming that she doesn’t need his shit anymore. The front door popped back open. Dean stumbled to the bathroom.

The Son of His Father, writing | 4 Comments »

    “What? Wait. I can’t hear you. Hang on.”
“Hang on!” He said even louder. His elbow raised high in some make-believe self-important way.
“I will call you when I get to my office. I am on the elevator right now.”
Dean tucked his cell phone into his jacket pocket; too preoccupied to notice the looks of disdain in the eyes of the others taking the same trip.
The muffled, digitized ring begins again. People begin shifting uncomfortably and their clearly audible sighs do nothing to hide their disgust as Dean answers it again.
“Yeah. I know, I know. I said I will call you when I get to my desk. Jesus!” He hung up angrily, but this time his elbow nearly smashed into the woman behind him.
An elevator, and a crowded subway are perhaps the only place complete strangers can stand so awkwardly close. Standing so close, and yet trying so hard not to make eye contact; that was the dance played out a million times per day. But for now, all eyes have been released from their usual lock on the changing floor display to collectively sneer at Dean.
Floor 14, the doors open and Dean allowed himself the luxury of first exit, though there are others physically closer to the front of the elevator.
He walked past rows of cubicles, each the same, save for the pre-approved personal flair added by their occupants. He did not notice Julie’s cube looks a bit overrun with plants and other greenery. If he ever slowed down long enough, he would have noticed that bamboo plant with some purple fish inside the glass vase swimming through the roots. If he slowed down, he would see Stephanie’s desk with a disturbing number of cat paraphernalia; cat calendars, cat mug and, strangely, a cat mousepad. From golfing magazines to Hallmark cards. From Employee of the Month awards to the ubiquitous pictures of children, everyone had a story to tell. Everyone needed to put a personal mark to break the sameness of their cubicle neighborhood, cuburbia. Dean couldn’t be bothered. He stormed past them all until he got to his own cube. On the way past his boss’s office, the only space enclosed by four walls and a door, he managed a drive-by wave.
Dean turned on his computer and grabbed his emails before remembering to call his sister.
“Sorry, Jo, it is not even eight and it already is getting…”
“That’s fine, Dean. I understand. You know I wouldn’t want to bother you unless it was important.”
“Listen, Jo. I know Ma is disappointed in me for missing their fiftieth anniversary party. She already gave me an earful but you know that no matter how much planning I try to do, I am at the mercy of these customers. Just the other day…”
“Don’t! Don’t do this Dean. I don’t care about your friggin’ customers.” Audible crack in her voice shattered his ability to create a coherent thought.
Dean sat up, turned his chair to look out down to the crowded street below. It was becoming clear to Dean that this was not the normal “You really blew it this time” call.
“Sis, If Don is hurting you in any way, I…”
“This has nothing to do with anniversaries or wife beatings, you fucking moron! Just stop. This is hard enough for me without you playing the idiot detective. For once in your goddam life, listen.”
The sound of silence penetrated the next twenty seconds like a bullet.
“Your father, our dad, Papa…..He died last night!” Silence. Did you hear me? Lui e morto!” She screamed the last sentence in utter exhaustion and obvious frustration.
Dean chewed his cheek and blinked hard and fast as he came to terms with what he was told. Normally, never at a loss for words, there were no words to describe what Dean was feeling. He dropped his cell phone to his lap as he stared through the objects in his cube.
“Dean, for crap’s sake. Did you hear me?”
He picked up the phone again.
“When?” was all he could come up with.
“Yesterday. It happened so fast. By the time we got to the basement, he was already lying there in a pool of blood.”
Dean let the image of that pool of blood flood his brain. He was no longer thinking of his father. He was simply picturing the ever expanding pool of blood like a death scene in some bad movie.
“We told him every day not to play with the electricity. But of course, he had to try to re-wire the light over his workbench so that it would go on whenever he turned on the big light to the room. You remember, we even used to laugh at him for being so harebrained, and as always, he didn’t turn off the power to the light. Instead he tried to do it the usual way and just hope that the live wires wouldn’t cross. Well, you know, the guy is 79 years old. His hands shake so badly, he is blind as a bat, I am surprised he didn’t kill himself shaving. The jolt knocked him to the ground. It was the fall that killed him. His head hit the cement floor hard enough to shatter his skull. That bastard! If he wasn’t dead, we would all be laughing at this. I wish I could laugh right now.”
“How’s Mama?”
“Well you know Mama. She has been dressing in all black for the last fifteen years just because she knew he was going to kill himself someday.
That was just like Jo; never at a loss for breaking life down into the ridiculous.
Her given name was Giovanna Bruna Cedrone. At no time did anyone ever dare call her that. Giovanna was reserved only for the birth certificate and it was Jo for the rest of the planet. She had classic Italian features. Olive skin that was shiny like she bathed in the magical oil. Her hair, thick, was always out of control. A wisp of hair would find its way in front of her eyes and she would blow it back with a well-placed puff. Her eyes were buried deep inside of even deeper sockets. Not-so-skinny would be the best way to describe her body. Italian food coupled with four children will change the architecture of any body. She preferred to be called curvy. Her Sophia Loren breasts would find little use for her bra as they spilled easily over the top.
She was a loving mother to her four boys. Over-protective, of course. A parent has to be these days. Stern, without a doubt. She was not above a quick slap in the butt as a form of enforced encouragement. But, not a heartbeat later, she could drop down to the floor and play video games with them with all the genuine enthusiasm as if she were a child herself but with all the skill of a mom genuinely in love with her children. Then she had no problems springing back up once her husband came home in order to start dinner. She was tireless. A good quality to have in a small house filled with boys. To Jo, her family was her life. Without them, there would be no Jo.
She never strayed far from the town she grew up in. In fact, she never strayed from this very house in her forty-five years on this planet. She, her husband, Donato, and their four boys lived just below her parents in the same house on Lincoln Road.
“Listen. If you are interested, the wake will be Friday and the funeral will be Saturday. If my opinion matters, I think Ma will really appreciate it if you would come and pay your respects.”
Dean remained silent. Silent, stunned and hurt. His brain trying to process everything and grasping nothing. His sister’s words spilled salt into the wound. What was she saying? Of course he would come home.
“Interested? Papa is dead and all you can say is ‘if you are interested?’ Come on Jo. Cut me some slack, will ya?”
“I will cut you some slack…once again. Just don’t disappoint Ma. She really needs all of us now more than ever. But she doesn’t need any of your ‘I am too important bullshit.”
Dean put his jacket on and retraced his steps back out. This time he was stopped by Julie who needed to know how he wanted to respond to the latest report highlighting his team’s underperformance for the last quarter.
“Dean, I was just coming to see you. I am putting together the agenda for the Executive Update Meeting on Friday. I saw your slides and noticed that there was as decrease in your team’s performance over the last month. I thought it would be a good idea if we can deflect any questions about it by putting an asterisk next to the stat and a single comment from you.”
Dean caught about half of her words and tried to ignore the rest.
“I really need to get out of here. Something personal has come up.”
She heard without listening.
“That’s OK. How about a quick sentence. I’ll walk you to the elevator.”
“Um, alright. Listen. Just tell the Executive Committee that we are still reviewing the stats, but it looks like having one Rep out on maternity leave and the recall of our major player across all age groups resulted in an increase in call volume. We are confident that the next quarter we will see higher customer satisfaction as we recover from our slight downturn in call answer rates. Blah blah blah. You’ve done this a million times before, Julie! Can’t you figure it out?”
“You know they are not going to buy that. Don’t you?” They are simply going to ask why we did not forecast staffing requirements. It’s not like we didn’t know she was pregnant.”
As he handed her the report, he stopped long enough to look in her eyes.
“Just tell them to take their staffing requirements and stuff them up their ass. Let’s see them forecast that.” He said as his head cocked to the side exaggeratedly.
Julie Moretz had this ability to look right in your eye, nod her head in agreement and at the same time she could make you feel like you were standing on your head. At this moment, she perfected that look.
He threw his keys on the table next to the door; put there just for that purpose. His apartment had very little “new” furniture. In fact, one of his girlfriends called it “dorm-room chic.” The one piece that became Dean’s pride and joy was his bar. He remembered how excited he was when it was delivered to him. It even came assembled; a unique feature for Dean’s decor. Made from a warm, rich cherry wood and even came with the optional brass footrest. It had a stemware holder and a mini-fridge for precisely chilling white wine. With the bar came a free gift of the Boston Bartender’s Guide. The first thing he did was go to the liquor store and collect every bottle off the Must Have list. He sampled everything on that list and maybe concocted hundreds of drinks following the precise recipe in that book. He impressed no one but himself when he meticulously cut up limes and opened two jars of maraschino cherries to place in the special bins at one of his parties.
Tonight, that is not what he wanted. He had no use for preparing a complicated drink. He went to the fridge, dropped to his knees and moved a small collection of hot sauces out of the way. After knocking over a few, he found what he needed. He picked up the gallon wine jug. The one with the screw top. A special package from his father.
Every September, his dad would press his own grapes into wine. He would send a carefully wrapped bottle to Dean every month. The bottle came from the same stash of bottles collected over the last thirty years. His dad even learned to use the computer at seventy-five years of age, just so he could print out cute labels. The label had an image of a lion in the shade of some tree in Africa caught in a giant yawn. Inscribed on it was his father’s birthday, June 12, 1939 and the words in some Ancient Roman script, Bottled with Love By La Famiglia Cedrone. The reason for the lion was not so romantic or symbolic. It simply was one of the standard stock images that came with the labeling software.
Usually the wine just sat in the fridge with Dean taking the occasional sip or using it in some recipe. Tonight, Dean needed to drink it. It didn’t matter that the red wine was refrigerated. To his father, drinking warm wine was like drinking warm beer. He could never understand how Americans complained that the British like their beer warm and at the same time say that red wine should be never be cold. Neither made sense. Dean reached for a juice glass from the cabinet. He poured the wine into the Williams-Sonoma Picardie glass and drank most of it without tasting it. Drinking now was not about savoring. It had nothing to do with slurping and analyzing tannin, watching the “legs” or distinguishing hints of dark fruits and plums. It was about coping. Coping in the only way Dean ever really learned how to cope. This process was designed to hit him hard.
He turned on the CD player using the remote on the counter and then threw himself on the sofa. He placed the gallon jug on the floor next to him. The voice of Pavarotti filled the room but it was the images of his father that filled his mind. He took another gulp of wine. In minutes, he finished his third glass.
At 7:16 AM, the alarm had been going off for the last sixteen minutes with not even a flinch from Dean. He half-opened his eyes, rubbed the string of drool dangling from his mouth and stared down to see the same clothes he had on last night. He didn’t even give himself the courtesy of lying down. He was in the exact same seated position that he was in last night.
She stood in the doorway to the bedroom half-covering her naked body.
“Why didn’t you come to bed last night? I woke up to your music but fell back asleep.”
“You should get dressed and go back to your apartment now. I have stuff I need to take care of.”
“What are you talking about? I haven’t been to my apartment in months. I practically live here. You can’t just tell me to leave. I even help you with rent, you mother fucker.”
He turned his head slowly, almost painfully, revealing his glaring bloodshot eyes. “Get out now!”
“You are one fucked up dude!” She slammed the door but it popped back open and Dean could see her throw her pants on without underwear and shirt without her bra. She stuffed those into her purse, then collected some other belongings and stormed out whisper screaming that she doesn’t need his shit anymore. The front door popped back open. Dean stumbled to the bathroom.

The Son of His Father, writing | No Comments »

I was taking the elevator today (by the way, I walked the stairs from 1 to 10, two times today! Small victories!), and as the doors were closing a somewhat elderly gentleman, with a cane raced towards me. Being the good doobie that I am, I dove for the "Door Open" button to hold the elevator. The man thanked me and I even asked him on which floor he needed to get off. He said 4 and I dutifully pressed 4 for him as I pressed 10 for me.

He was a tad wobbly and I turned to smile at him. A few short seconds later, we arrived at his floor. The doors popped open and I once again held the "Door Open"  button as he slowly disembarked.

Just as he crossed the threshold, he turned to me to say goodbye. I smiled and said have a great day. He then proceeded to fart. That’s right. Just as the doors began to close, he left me a reminder of his visit.

I think I heard him say, "oops." Nothing else, just "oops." He simply kept walking. Now the doors are closed, trapping the sulphuric gas. I am all alone, choking on the steam rising in my enclosed space. I was just about to pass out from the fog of putridness, when the doors opened at 7.

Much to my dismay and shock, two people joined me on the elevator. Now, it is the three of us with the poison gas still permeating the fibers of my clothes. We all looked straight ahead while the sweat beaded on my forehead and the beautiful woman in front of me swayed.

I got off on 10 and for some reason they stayed on.  As the doors closed behind me, I heard the woman screech out "Holy, sh*t!" and then a ton of laughing as their voices disappeared down the shaft.

I wanted to run down the stairs and meet them as they walked to their car, to tell them it wasn’t me! But I didn’t.

So, I thought I would tell you….IT WASN’T ME!

Question for BoMR: Do you believe me?

uncategorized | 6 Comments »

20 Ways To Tell If Blogging Is Taking Over Your Life

20.    You proudly post about which demented, pornological, scatological and downright frightening terms people used last month to arrive at your site.
19.    Every few weeks, you have at least one post about why you haven’t posted in the last few weeks….and feel genuine remorse that perhaps you let your readers down.
18.    You blog about blogging
17.    Your meme collection outnumber your everyday posts
16.    You have no one left to tag that hasn’t already been tagged a thousand times before but you tag them anyway.
15.    You do the “Drive-By Hi” on cre8buzz.
14.    Blogging comments begin to replace emails as a way to communicate with anyone that really matters.
13.    You accept “Be my friend” invites on BlogCatalog from people in countries that don’t exist in the CIA Wold Factbook
12.    When you write a post, a particularly good one, you immediately work your way through your blogroll “pinging” all your friends with mediocre comments like “Great Post” or “Nice Blog!” or “Funny!”
11.    You strategically let the good posts linger for a few days, as well as push the mediocre ones “below the fold.”
10.    No one in your 3D world even knows what a blog is, let alone know that you have one.
9.      You don’t buy into it, and even feel a little cheated, when someone comments with “Great Post!” or “Nice Blog! or “Funny!”
8.      You secretly wish that your kids will fall down, throw up, say something stupid, or otherwise do something crazy, just so you can blog about it.
7.      You read blogs in order to get your daily news and you watch the news in order to blog about it.
6.      You know the difference between CSS and RSS.
5.      You purge comment spam faster than you weed your garden.
4.      You hit “Refresh” on your emails within 5 minutes of posting, “just in case.”
3.      You take advantage of your midnight pee break to see if you received any comments because you know your European counterparts are already awake.
2.       You struggle with the camera timer so you can photograph yourself in an insightful, but oh so candid,  pose in order to create THE BEST AVATAR EVER…all 100X100 pixels of it.

…and the number 1 way to tell that blogging has become a huge part of your life…..

1.        You write a “You know you are a blogaholic when…” post.

blogging, funny | 20 Comments »

This is the third time I have posted chapter 1 of my novel. I do this to give the illusion that I am writing and that there is a chapter 2.

This story is not a memoir, but does build on the memories I had growing up in The Lake, a real place, sans water. The Italian village of San Donato is where my father comes from. Interestingly, or not, my dad’s name is also Donato. Even less interesting, or not, my real name is Donato too. But I guess both of you already know that. Clearly, creativity was not the forte of my ancestors….and neither is it mine.

Chapter 1 - The Lake

The bumper sticker said it all; a white background, an Italian flag and in large red font, the words The Lake. Dean had seen a million of them affixed to screen doors, telephone poles, shop windows and sometimes even on a bumper. The announcement so worthy of a bumper sticker was that you were from The Lake; not the lake, no caps, or that you lived around some body of water larger than a pond. But from The Lake; capital T, capital L and all its ramifications.

Dean grew up in the Nonantum section of Newton as every Cedrone did. Nonantum was named after the Algonquin Indian word for “place of rejoicing” following a conversion to Christianity of a band of Indians by the Rev John Eliot. This is the end of the history lesson. That was all Dean ever knew about the story of this small village. But to anyone this side of the Mass Pike, this will forever be The Lake.

If the image painted in your head is one of a body of water; if your mind’s eye pictures boys fishing along the banks or launching themselves off a rope swing, you would easily be forgiven. You see, in The Lake, there was no lake. Few people even knew why it was called The Lake. The assumption was that a longer time ago than anyone living could remember, there was in fact a lake to be jumped into or fished from.

The inescapable fact was that this was not your typical “village” of Newton. Newton had a reputation, and only because it deserved it, of being a moneyed suburb of Boston. With its stately homes and SUVs; old money and the nouveau riche; boutiques and soccer moms, Newton stank with money and the stench of entitlement permeated each blade of professionally coiffed grass. This exclusiveness was everywhere in Newton; everywhere except The Lake. Here, you could drive down Washington Street and once you took the right onto Adams Street you would be instantly transported to Not Newton Massachusetts. Here, the homes were smaller and packed more closely together. Lawns were replaced by vegetable gardens and automatic sprinklers firing off precisely at four in the morning replaced by statues of the Virgin Mary protected by a half bathtub surrounded with perennial Christmas lights; large wooden Doric columns replaced by fancy brick work.

These bricks were placed one at a time, by the irreversibly calloused hands and eternally bruised nailbeds of the men of San Donato, Italy. No conversation of The Lake can exist without mentioning San Donato; a mountain-side village usually described without description as being “South of Rome.” But somehow the migration began. Somehow, there was a pioneer Sandonatese that left the village to seek that better life in America that everyone talks about. Perhaps he lied and told everyone that the streets of America were paved with gold and this enticed subsequent immigrants or more likely they were lured by the fact that the streets were paved at all. After all, post-war Italy was no one’s idea of a fantasy.

Why Newton? Who knows? Herd mentality or some deep sociological need for like to remain with like. Dean didn’t care. All he knew is that he hated this place.

The Son of His Father, writing | 5 Comments »

Now that I am on the mend, I thought it would be a good idea to begin writing again. For both of my readers, you know that I am pretending to be in the process of writing a novel. I have been in a holding pattern for over a year now, but I do return to it from time to time.

One scene that I am having trouble with is a flashback scene where my protagonist is on “lover’s lane” making out with his girlfriend. The setting for this scene is a real place that I have been to on more than one occasion in my history. My lover’s lane was a parking lot along the Charles River and I wanted this scene to take place there.

There is a lot I remember about my glory days along the river. One thing in particular that stands out is that for every one car that had a couple making out in it, there were at least 4 cars filled with creepy old men driving around looking for shadows and foggy windows. If they were lucky enough, they could pull up right next to the couple and linger for a few disturbing seconds until the couple looked up and frantically pulled away, usually with pants still wrapped around ankles.

One day last week, I wanted to commit myself to writing this scene as I have had many false starts and really wanted to get it right. I decided that I would visit lover’s lane late one night and write while parked along the river.

Armed with only a Circa notebook and a fountain pen, I drove to the river around 8PM, after the Baby Goats were asleep. The parking lot is rather large and I positioned myself far from the action, but close enough to find the inspiration I needed. There were only two or three cars parked and I honestly have no idea whether anything interesting was happening in them. Frankly, I did not care. I just wanted to find the inspiration to write….not peep. But then again, I have a feeling that all writers are by definition, a tad voyeuristic.

I began putting words on paper and found myself quickly lost in the world I was creating. In fact, I really felt like this was a good, if a tad awkward, decision to write “on location.” The creative juices were flowing as Coltrane blared in my ears.

I filled about four pages with a scene of a couple of teens awkwardly groping at each other. I found myself smiling, laughing and even becoming melancholic for those innocent days of yore…many yores ago.

I was so engrossed in my words, that I did not notice the state trooper pull up behind me. I was so frantically taking advantage of a moment of inspiration, that I did not notice the trooper getting out of his car and approach my window. I was so in love with what I was creating, that I nearly jumped out of my skin when the trooper tapped his flashlight against my windshield.

“Hey, there is no parking here after sunset.” He bellowed

Rolling down my window and beginning to speak before the window was really opened.

“I am sorry sir. I will move right now.”

“Not so easy.” Officer Friendly said. “What are you doing here?”

I had no idea what to say. “Uh….well, believe it or not, I am writing” I said stupidly.

He told me in no uncertain terms to get out of the car. I did so without hesitation as I really had nothing to worry about. I wasn’t drunk, naked and I TRULY was doing exactly what I told him I was doing.

He asked me a series of questions, clearly designed to check if I was intoxicated or fabricating the story. I explained to him exactly what I am telling you; I was trying to find some inspiration to finish writing a scene in my book.

Once he realized I was serious, he asked me if I would be comfortable showing him what I wrote. I said sure and I opened the notebook on the hood of my car as he shined his spotlight on it. He laughed that my writing was utterly illegible. He proceeded to ask me questions about the book and when I told him that it has to do with growing up in Newton, he began telling me that he grew up in the same neighborhood and he knew many of the people I grew up with. He even relayed a story about the local carnival that I may use in the book.

We must have chatted for over 45 minutes. He even went so far as to say that he always thought someone should write a book about the neighborhood and was surprised no one has done that yet.

I now have his email address and his permission to come back to the river as often as I wanted as long as he was on patrol. I told him thanks but no thanks.

Which brings me to the bigger point. On more than a few occasions while writing this novel, I have found myself needing to be physically located in the scene in order to write about it. I remember driving to four different cafes in the area, trying to find the one that felt like the image in my head. I have driven up and down the streets of my old neighborhood and pulled over at random spots and began writing trying to absorb and then write what I see. I went to South Station in Boston and sat on a bench and watched people come and go. Sometimes, I do not even bring a notebook. It is not that I need to be writing at that exact moment, but it is more that I NEED to use all my senses in order to begin writing. Writing is such a sensory experience for me, that if I just sat in a home office waiting for words to be thought of, I would never think them. But, by immersing myself in the experience, I find inspiration.

Question for BoMR (Both of My Readers): Does any of this make sense WITHOUT creeping you out? 

funny, uncategorized, writing | 10 Comments »

Over the last month, and on a couple of other occasions over the last year and a half, I have been struggling with an extremely painful condition, called pyoderma gangrenosum. As I have already said previously, DO NOT look this up without being forewarned that images are quite graphic (actually there is a picture of me in Google Images also..and that is of my face and that is the most hideous of all!).

During this time, I was essentially immobilized. Confined to bed, where pain was constant, not touched by Ibuprofen, Oxycodone, Percocets or Vicodin. The pain in my leg ranged from local wound pain, to general malaise to outright VIOLENT spasms where my entire leg felt as if it was set aflame. I had to sleep on my back, with my leg practically in a vertical position. This would help a little, except at some point, I needed to put my leg below my heart and the searing pain would begin again as any sign of healing was quickly negated by the curse of gravity.

I could handle the pain, somewhat, but managing the wound itself was an endlessly nasty endeavor that required a TON of dressings that need to be painfully changed a few times per day. Each dressing change lasting more than 20 minutes. On more than one occasion, my doctor wanted to admit me because the problem was only getting worse.

The other problem is having to subject my family to all this. The Baby Goats have seen me at my worst. I know that has caused a lot of stress for them and I have missed out on some big events over the last month.

In case you are missing it, I am using the past tense in my words above. I am on some insane drugs that are essentially trying to reboot my immune system and the wound is virtually healed. I AM OFFICIALLY FEELING MUCH BETTER! Who knows, I am even considering going for a (quick) jog tomorrow morning.

I am writing this post, not to make you sick to your stomach. I do that with my other posts.

During this extremely difficult time, the one constant ray of sunshine that beamed into my days and nights was your well wishes. On more than one occasion, I would receive a perfectly timed comment or email asking if I was OK. I simply want you all to know that those comments and check-ins meant the world to me. I wasn’t dying from this horrible condition, but I certainly wished for it and your words helped me more than you will ever know.

This condition is subsiding now. My leg has yet another scar on it that looks like I sat on a scalding hot radiator. I am being treated rather vigorously with heavy meds but this damned condition can flare up at any point again, in weeks, months or years. But as I sit here, reflecting on the last month, I quite simply need to thank all of you for your kind words and friendship. I am forever stunned at the relationships that can develop while blogging.

I admit to being very selfish. The posts I write are nothing more than a ploy; a ploy to get you to come back.  I write in order to be with you and I write in order to read your words.

Thank you, my friends.

blogging, health, uncategorized | 9 Comments »

Daddy: How was your day at school, Coco (my 4 year old daughter; aka Coca Cola, CooCoo for Cocoa Puffs, Cocarena Nicoco, Coconut, Satana)?

Coco: Samuel kissed me.

Daddy: What?!

Coco: He kissed me on the lips.

Daddy: What?!

Coco:  He’s my boyfriend.

Daddy: What?!

Coco: We are going to get married.

Daddy: What?!

Coco: He kissed my lunch box and I kissed his.

Daddy: What?!

I am on my way to Samuel’s house so I can punch him in the neck. Film at 11.

funny, parenting | 11 Comments »