Life Lesson #12: I’ll be content with saggy boobs and a mustache, thank you very much.

Salute!

This can be heard, oh, I’m going to go with about fifteen times between the hours of 3 and 6 pm on a Sunday at my parents’ home in Westchester, my grandparents’ house in the Bronx or at a smattering of restaurants on City Island.

That’s because it’s dinner time for the Italians, and that means raising your glass of vino in cheer.

Being that I live in Manhattan, I’m expected to be in attendance at most, if not all, of these habitual family gatherings. This can be very taxing on me, physically and mentally. Especially if I’m hungover, and on most Sundays, the chance of that is rather high.

My mom is a gem. Being that these are my dad’s parents, and tend to drive her to the brink, she often cuts me some slack and puts little pressure on me to show up.

This past Friday, however, I was not granted such immunity.

My phone rang while at work. I saw my mom’s number on the screen.

After a few minutes of chit chat, the motive for her call was revealed.

“So, you’re grandfather called about an hour ago. He wanted me to come over and see his new sneakers. Clearly he’s lost it. But I invited them over for Sunday dinner, which I think you should come to since you missed last week. I’m going to make corned beef and cabbage since I didn’t do a Paddy’s day dinner.”

Yes, we may be giant Dagos, but my mom is also one of those crazy holiday followers. Valentine’s Day means poached eggs in the shape of hearts and strawberry milk for breakfast. Easter guarantees a basket left by The Bunny at the foot of your bed (not to be touched ‘til after church, of course). She even does Mardi Gras, in which one is required to eat jumbo while wearing beads and possibly a feathered mask.

She’s into ‘seasons’ as well. There’s a giant haystack outside our front door, a pile of shellacked gourds strategically placed on top, for most of the fall. In the winter, the haystack is replaced with a pile of fern and pinecones, a non-decorated wreath plastered to the door. Spring, my personal favorite, brings out the bunny figurines to be dotted along the stairs and in plants (to represent new birth!).

Needless to say, St. Patrick’s Day, although delayed, would not go uncelebrated.

Being as how I got out of dinner last week (I believe with the ‘So and So from out of town is going to be here for lunch - it’s the only time we can get together’ card from my Get Out of Jail hand that includes ‘I already signed up for New York Cares’, ‘My throat is killing me—everyone in this office is sick and I know I’m next’, and ‘Liberace is totally freaking out about something, I really need to be with him,’ among others), I knew I wasn’t getting out of this one.

“Of course, invite Madonna!” she added.

Being she is Irish, my mom considers Madonna a token centerpiece for the table. Madonna could take offense to this, I’m sure, and for that I apologize on behalf of the woman, but any opportunity to hang out with Grandpa Al lures many a-friend to my house.

Rather than explain Grandpa Al, I think a truly clear picture can be painted through a kaleidoscope of events. He once urged us to try and bring back fedoras and van dykes (aka, hats and goatees) as fashion staples. A few years ago, he nominated himself Poet Laureate of the Bronx. At my ex-boyfriend’s graduation party from medical school, which happened to be about three months after Grandpa Al had open-heart surgery, the man was found dancing to Usher’s Yeah! , featuring Lil Jon, while everyone was eating. At my great grandmother’s wake, he creepily hit on Madonna, then stopped when introduced to Earl, claiming “Well, aren’t you a strapping young fellow! I better watch myself!,” moving on quickly to invite Liberace to be his doubles tennis partner. The list goes on really, but I think that’s enough.

Sunday came and sadly, I was at it alone. Maybe because Madonna remembered last year’s incident. It involved Grandpa Al unbuckling his pants to show her his “Marvelous garments called Joe Boxers! I tell you, no one will mess with me if they see these!” Obviously, I don’t blame her.

My grandparents arrived right at three, as always, with my aunt. Grandpa Al is in the usual: the hat I gave him from work, a wind jacket, and brown cords. My grandma, as always, is dressed in something beautiful that she made herself (Partly because she’s an amazing seamstress, and partly because she’s so damn tiny I doubt anything would fit the lady. I guess I could piggy-back her a good ten blocks before getting a little winded.). This week it was a flowered blouse and trousers.

“Oh wonderful, the young lady is here!” Grandpa Al greeted me. He calls me young lady all the time. I think it’s because he has trouble remembering my name. “We missed you so much last week. Oh, it was a sad day!”

If you’ve never experienced guilt laid on by an Italian grandfather, I envy you. Greatly.

“Hi Grandpa, good to see you too,” I said as I brought them into the living room so we could sit down.

“Yes! A sweet vermouth, Johnny!” Grandpa Al answered my dad when asked what he’d like to drink. He is the only person I know who drinks this. They might as well call it The Al.

“Just some water, dear. I don’t drink,” Grandma said. As if they’ve just met, she reminds my dad that she hasn’t had alcohol for the past twenty some-odd years. One thing you can never call these people is inconsistent, that’s for sure.

“Well, that’s an American lady! Salute!” Grandpa Al said when handed his drink. I look at the napkin he’s referring to. I’ve actually taken the time to find the exact picture. See below.

“Well Dad, let’s see those new sneakers,” my mom said.

“Yes! I tell you, I almost feel guilty they were so inexpensive! They are just wonderful. And comfortable! I tell you, I think I could run a marathon with them on.”

“Well, just concentrate on walking for now,” my mom responded with. “Where did you get them?”

“Costco! I tell you, that place just had tables and tables of sneakers. I just had to get them! You know, there are some large women at that place. Like her!” He waved his napkin as he laughed at his joke. Which, I’ve got to give it to him, is pretty damn funny. And true.

After drinks, dinner is served.

We head into the kitchen and sit around the table, which had morphed into a tribute to the Irish. A glass bowl filled with gold and silver foil Hershey Kisses (the leprechaun’s pot of gold!), green cups for water, a heaping bowl of potatoes, plates of corned beef and string beans (they’re green!).

“Well this is just wonderful!” Grandpa Al said as he raised his glass. “Salute!”

The usual topics are discussed. The movie Grandpa Al took Grandma to see at Bay Ridge Plaza—where you can get shot by a stray bullet, at no extra charge, with your popcorn. A recent match of tennis on Fordham Road, another upstanding area where you run the risk of having your car stolen. I guess my family likes to live on the edge.

“Johnny, do you remember when I used to push you around the neighborhood in the pram? That was fun!” Grandpa Al said out of nowhere.

“A pram?” I laughed.

“You mean a baby carriage, Dad,” my mom said, shaking her head.

“I don’t remember what the hell I had for dinner last night!” my dad answered.

“Dad, were you pushed around in the pram when you were ten?” I asked. My brother and I are laughing hysterically at this point.

A roll of the eyes and swig of Heineken is my answer.

My mom decided to not even let Grandpa Al provide a reason for bringing up prams and babies.

“Do you remember the Metz’, Mom? The couple who use to live around the block? They have four boys and a girl? They moved a few months ago so we haven’t seen them in a bit. Well, I saw one of the boys in church yesterday, and I could not believe how much he grew—I think he’s taller than his dad now.”

“Oh! How good for him to be strong and big! Where did they move?” Grandma asked.

“Purchase. About ten minutes from here. Beautiful house,” my mom answered.

“Persia? Why that’s not very safe, now is it?” Grandpa Al responded. Along with being slightly off his rocker, the man has not been able to hear most of what goes on around him for at least a decade now.

“Persia? Who said anything about Persia?” my mom asked.

“Dad, Purchase. They moved to Purchase,” my dad said loudly.

“Turkey? Well, that doesn’t seem much better!” Grandpa Al said with conviction.

“Um, where’d you get Turkey from? Purchase, Grandpa, as in Purchase, Westchester,” I tried to explain to no avail.

My brother was red in the face he was laughing so hard.

My mom, in total frustration, got up and took a piece of paper from the telephone drawer and wrote PURCHASE in bold letters. She handed it to Grandpa Al.

“Yes, I see. A purchase,” he said, looking at the piece of notepaper my mom handed to him.

“For the love of God, Dad! PURCHASE, NEW YORK! IT’S TEN MINUTES FROM HERE,” my mom yelled.

“Ohhhhh!” Granpda Al started laughing. The man really knows how to crack himself up. “So now, why are we discussing Purchase? You aren‘t planning on moving there, are you?”

Water shot out of my nose clear across the table.

“You think this is funny?” my Grandma turned to me with a sigh. “He’s making me stooney!”

"Salute!" Grandpa Al yelled.

Life Lesson #12: Along with orthopedic sneakers, early bird specials and the need to go to the bathroom much more frequently, the aging process can bring on a bit of lunacy. And in some cases, such as Grandpa Al’s, a whole lot of crazy.

Thinking about my typical Sunday dinners, I get the feeling I’m in for a bit of my own loose screws in the future. I could be terrified, I guess. But I could also be like Grandpa Al and just not give it a care in the world. Stuff that comes out of his mouth, conceived from thin air, usually makes little sense, is often offensive to a particular race (basically, anyone not Italian), and will most likely make any female cringe (gender equality is a humorous concept to the man). He goes through much of life these days clueless of what’s going on around him or what people are saying. But he’s happy as a pig in shit.

And that is what I’m hoping for. Because really, when you get that old, who the hell cares what you say or do anyway?