Do Vampires Exist?

I started babysitting when I was 12 years old.  I was a mature kid and this was 1982.  It was OK to leave your children with a child back then.  I babysat for one family regularly, the Jeans.  They had one of the old, historic stone houses in uptown Kingston, New York.  In all the time I babysat for their daughter, I never saw all the rooms in that house.   It was great to babysit for the Jeans because they had Channel Z.  This was the box that sat atop their television and granted access to a lot of movies, the later the time got, the harder the ratings of the movies played.  It was October, and Channel Z was focusing on scary movies.  After I put my charge to bed, I stumbled upon a Stephen King marathon. 

The first up was Cujo.  I watched from beginning to end, mesmerized by the odd characters and large, froth-mouthed St. Bernard.  Next was Christine.  It didn’t seem too plausible that a car could do so much damage, but I was captivated.  By this time I was in the zone.  The Jean’s daughter was sound asleep, I had eaten my share of snacks from the fridge, and I was on the TV chair, ready for the next film, Salem’s Lot. 

From the age of seven, I was scared of vampires.  I made my mother buy me a silver cross that I did not remove from the chain around my neck for three years.  I figured Salem’s Lot would not be worse than a deranged automobile or a sick dog.  I was wrong.

Thirty minutes into Salem’s Lot I realized I was facing a vampire film.  How bad could it be?  Hutch was one of the main characters and I figured nothing bad would happen to the blond guy from Starsky & Hutch.

The pipes in the Jean’s house started to rattle and hiss as the steam coursed through the old heating system.  I was frozen.  I was too terrified to move for fear of running into a life-less blood-sucker emerging from the basement.  I couldn’t look to my left, where the window was placed for fear of seeing the floating, pale face of a vampire begging to enter the house.  To turn the channel I had to get up and I couldn’t.  I watched the entire movie and anxiously awaited the Jean’s return.

At long last, they arrived home and in turn delivered me home.  It was 1:30am and I immediately went upstairs.  Not only to let my mom know I was home but to ask her a burning question.

“Mom, mom, wake up.  I’m home.  I need to ask you a question.  Mom, are vampires real?  Do they really exist?  They are just made up right? ” 

I was desperate for reassurance that vampires were fictional creatures and I did not need to pull out my old cross and wear it for the duration of my life.  

My mother, now awake replied, “Do vampires exist?  Well, not that I am aware of.  Good night.”

Top that Mom.    

 

Passports

It has been a while.  Sorry.

On Monday night at 8:30, my mother called and told me we must get my father to Rome.  As a brief background, my father lived in Rome for about 10 years.  He met my mother on a crowded bus there.  Before he met my mother, he was married to an Italian actress and they had a son, my half brother.  My half brother is a successful stage actor.  He has the lead role in a performance which debuts on October 14th and if you read Italian, you can see for yourself:  http://www.teatroeliseo.it/eliseo/spettacolo_eliseo_1.asp.  So at 8:30 on Monday night my mother decided it was terribly important for my father to be there for the debut.  

Given my prowess with Expedia I was charged with the task of booking a flight and a hotel near my brother's apartment.  I spooled up on Tuesday morning and put an itinerary on hold.  In one of many phone relays, I spent Tuesday convincing my parents it was in fact a good deal and by Wednesday my mother and father were ready to commit.  

Wednesday afternoon, I pulled up the itinerary and called my parents.  We walked through the booking.  When we got to the section in which a passport number may be entered my father put the phone down to get his passport out of the car.  What it was doing there, I don't know.  He got back on the phone and we proceeded.  For the record any phone call that is conducted with my parents is on speaker phone because they are both challenged in the hearing department.  So I can hear my mother chirping in the background as Dad and I work on details.

"What is the expiration date, Dad?" 

"Oh hell, it expired May 2008.  Well that is going to make this trip impossible," he said.  And I hear him throw the passport aside.

My mother pipes up, "Are you sure, let me see, is it expired?"

I can hear my mother retrieving the tossed aside, government issued document, and then she says quite seriously, "Well, we’ll just doctor the expiration year ourselves."

Top that mom.

More Relationships

A few years ago my older sister got married for the second time. She made a bit of a production over the wedding. She wore a big poufy white dress, had bridesmaids, and a wedding on a beach in Lake Tahoe. I flew out with my Mom and Dad for a week of wedding-palooza.

Before leaving, I was in Woodstock with my folks packing up and getting ready as we travelled together for the event. In the depths of one of my drawers, I pulled out the hideous, satin, lime green dress I wore for my sister’s first wedding in 1987. Ever the family comic, I squeezed my 30-something year old body into it and while parading around the living room said, “Well one down and on to number two in the husband department.”

My mother gave me the stink eye and said, “Your sister may have more marriages than you, but you've had more relationships.”

Top that mom.

Dogs Are Children Too?

I have a big brown dog. I got her when I lived in Brooklyn and she is a mix of assorted breeds. I brought her home to my apartment in Brooklyn as a puppy over eight years ago. She is a great dog, but she has had more than her share medical woes: ACL surgery on both of her rear knees, Lyme disease, ehrlichia, removal of gross fatty cysts, and most recently auto-immune hemoglobin anemia. I share the fascinating medical history of Poppy, the brown dog, as the cost of her ailments has been significant. What can I say, when you have a dog you commit to a few things and as luck would have it, I ended up with a dog that gets expensive illnesses.

Yesterday was mother’s day and I naturally called my mother to wish her a happy day and to tell her (as promised in Friday’s post) that I love her. I did both and our exchange then proceeded as follows:

Mom: “Happy Mother’s Day to you too.”
Me: “I don’t have children Mom.”
Mom: “Well you have Poppy.”
Me: “Uh, I didn’t birth Poppy.”
Mom: “Well you spend enough money on that dog; she might as well be your child.”

Top that mom.

What I'll Do For Mother's Day

Mother's Day is this Sunday, don't forget. Growing up there were a few classic orders I received from my mom. I am pretty sure this one is universal:

"Wear clean underwear because you never know when you might be in an accident and need to go to the hospital."

Based on some of the dos and don'ts I have received from my mother over the years, to honor her on Sunday I will:

Wear clean underwear
Vacuum my apartment
Brush my teeth
Tell my mother I love her

I will not:

Run away to New York City as I will likely get beaten by a pimp with a tire iron
Talk with my mouth full
Go to bed angry

Top that mom

Be Kind to Your Colon

Meals in my family are and have always been a big deal. When I was a kid we generally ate at least a sit down dinner together. My mother is whiz in the kitchen and given the fact that she is from New Zealand and that my Dad spent a large part of his life outside of the US, we ended up with a lot of European eating habits in our house. For example, salad was always served after the meal, not before or during. Wine with dinner? Well that was a given.

One night after a full meal, my sister and I cleared the dinner plates, and brought the salad plates to the table. My mother started piling on the roughage, of which she was a big fan. I said, “I don’t want salad tonight.”

My mother replied, “You must have salad, you need your roughage.”

“But Mom, I don’t want salad.”

“Kassandra, be kind to your colon. Eat your salad.”

Over the years, any of my friends who came over for dinner and dared to pass on the salad course were told in no uncertain terms to “be kind to their colons.”

Top that mom.

Poetry in the Garage

This from Aaron:

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze -W. Wordsworth

Nice right? Lovely. That's my mom. Spaced out on Wordsworth and loving life. But she keeps wrecking her car... fuck. I fixed it once, I fixed it twice, I'll fix it twice again. She drives her car out of the garage without sense of space. Happy Mother's day Mom, I love you to death. Watch your mirror.