Apples, pears and blenders

This gorgeous picture is not me. It's one of the coolest women I have ever known in my life... my friend...Cookie. She is actually the Mom of my friend Angela, but I claim Cookie as my friend too.

She is way too cool to be just some one's Mom. She is just about the most hilarious fantabulous woman anyone could be lucky to spend time around and her laugh makes you laugh too. And her stories....ahhh....pure gold. I mean it. From sheer hysterical to poignant to jaw dropping, there is nothing ordinary about Cookie.

Ang found this photo and Cookie told us she was 15 when this photo was taken! 15!!!!! Look how glamorous she is... now I don't know about you...but at 15....gorgeous was not a word you could use about how I looked. I was rather .... strangely shaped. Even now, I am not quite sure when the magazines say "What body shape are you? Am I an apple? A pear?" So I stood in front of the mirror.... and determined....I am refrigerator shaped. Not square... not exactly round... not exactly rectangle. I am built like the fridge with a round head.

How do you dress for that? Does Dress Barn have a section for the "Appliance Shaped" woman? I shared this theory with my girlfriend (who refuses to disclose her name) and she agrees completely and claims to be a Blender!  We went to Kohls looking for dresses and the saleslady tried to convince her to try more toward the Pears, but nothing really looked flattering. "I am not a Pear," she insisted. And later, while we were in the kitchen section, she stood next to the blenders, and you know, she was right! She was a BLENDER!

Obviously today's designers are missing the mark. Instead of creating fashion for fruit shaped women start creating fashion for industrial shaped girls. How about the telephone pole girl or the woman with piano legs (another pet peeve of mine). Try creating skirts that flatter the lampshade shape or the electric range look. Not everyone is a piece of fruit.  That's all I'm saying. That, and if I looked like Cookie did at 15....I probably wouldn't be looking for appliance shaped clothing now.

Hunting For Eggs and Mom's Sanity

My friend Bonny wanted to strangle me one Easter.

I was one of THOSE moms. Those obnoxious imaginative Moms that wanted childhood to last forever and I attached mythical charming elves and fairies to just about every holiday. I also had one of those obnoxiously charming children who believed every tale I wove and when I said there were leprechauns that lived in our air conditioning vent, there was no reason for him to doubt me. The only problem was, I never counted on meeting Bonny and her adorable daughter Michelle.

Michelle was a charmer when I met her, at the age of 4. Giant blue eyes, the sweetest smile and a mass of blond curly hair. You couldn't help but fall in love with her. Bonny was a fellow New Yorker and both of us were misplaced in Florida, both single Moms and both of us stretching a dollar so far that it looked like a beach towel. We were destined to be friends. We met at one of those free book store events. My son was thrilled with meeting Curious George and was peppering George with about a million questions while the rest of the 4 and 5 year olds stood frightened and stage-struck. Michelle stood in awe of TJ, amazed that anyone could be so self assured in front of a giant monkey, and the two of them were destined to be friends. From then on, we were a foursome: inseparable.

Bonny and I had many hilarious adventures with our children but the holidays were probably the most hysterical. Bonny adored Christmas and knew every holiday fair, Christmas sing-a-long and place to visit Santa and all the reindeer, even in Sunny Florida. she was the original GPS of holiday events.

 I was more responsible for the crafty end of things. It was my home where the kids could glitter up paper snowmen, create sticky glue ornaments and basically paint and color to their hearts content. It was also where the imaginary holiday characters were created and discussed at great length at the craft table. Unfortunately, I often forgot to clue Bonny in.

The first was Domenick the Donkey (yes, after the song). He brought all good girls and boys new pajamas for Christmas Eve and left a hoof print on the window. Bonny, though confused by a flying donkey bringing pajamas to little children, managed to distract Michelle from this tradition saying it was only given out to those of Italian descent. Fortunately, Michelle was willing to take that into consideration.

Next came Louie the Leprechaun. He left chocolate gold coins and played tricks like hiding socks or left a small present in the morning next to the cereal bowl. Since Michelle was part of our carpool in the morning, she benefited from Louie, so again, no problem.

The trouble came with the Gold Shoe Easter Bunny, brought about by the wonderful book of the same name. This was a childhood favorite story of mine that of course I shared with my child. Now, being a rather wild boy, prone to being strong-willed, the lure of the Gold Shoe Easter Bunny was the bringing of a very coveted gold egg, given only to children who had behaved the best through the year. Now, betting on my child's desire to achieve the egg, I casually mentioned the Gold Shoe Bunny had dropped by in the past but my son had yet to past the incredibly well behaved standard of the Gold Egg (I know....this is grounds for years on Dr. Phil, but he was my first, what did I know about trauma). So began the quest for the gold egg.

The night before Easter, after an egg-austing day of Easter egg hunting, of which Bonny of course knew the latitude and longitude of every hunt within 50 miles, Bonny heard the kids discussing Easter morning. In a sweet clear voice, she heard her daughter say,

"Do you think I might get the Gold Egg TJ?"

And my son responded by saying,

"I've had a pretty tough time so I'm pretty sure I won't be getting the egg, but you've been great Michelle. I'm sure you'll get the gold egg so good luck to you. Let me know when you get it." and with that, TJ left the car and ran up our drive. Bonny looked back in horror to a dreamy-eyed Michelle who clasped her hands and said,

"Did you hear that Mom? TJ doesn't think he will get the gold egg, but I know I will. I've been so good! The Easter Bunny just HAS to bring me one." Bonny smiled the loving smile of motherhood while gripping the steering wheel tightly as if it was my neck. If she could have run the car up on my lawn at the moment, I am sure she would have.

About an hour later I was just about to get TJ in the tub when the phone rang.

"I put up with flying donkeys. I put up with leprechauns who played tricks. But do you think you MIGHT HAVE TOLD ME ABOUT A FLIPPING EASTER BUNNY WHO LEAVES GOLD EGGS??"

"Bonny??"

"Who the heck else would be calling the night BEFORE EASTER IN DIRE NEED OF A GOLD EGG THANKS TO YOU!!! NOW TELL ME WHERE I CAN GET THESE FREAKING EGGS IN THE NEXT HALF HOUR OR I WILL COME OVER TO YOUR HOUSE AND TAKE YOURS!"

There is nothing more frightening than a mother on the edge of disappointing her child. I gave her instructions to the Walmart and prayed. Hours later, the phone rang. Apparently Bonny had found the snap-together gold eggs that I had purchased, and decided to bypass them to make her own bejeweled, bedazzled, be glittered gold egg. An Easter miracle had happened! The mother who had always been afraid of glitter on the rug had turned into a regular Martha Stewart overnight!

The next day Michelle couldn't wait to tell TJ how she had been given the most wonderful gold egg. It sparkled, it shined, it dazzled. TJ was suitably impressed and since he knew he was lucky to have even gotten a gold egg at all, he was not surprised that Michelle's was the grandest of them all.

And Bonny couldn't wait to tell me the next time I dreamed up a leprechaun, a monkey who gave out birthday balloons or a talking snowman, I should keep it to myself.

Happy Easter and may you find your own special gold egg this year.

Don't Mess With The Lawn Ornaments

My mom lives in a senior citizen complex that she calls "the compound." Just like everyone else on Long Island in the northeast, we just had a whopper of a storm. Trees were uprooted. I mean whole giant trees, and crime tape surrounded block after block, but go to my Mom's complex, they only lost a few pieces of siding, but that's it. Why is that strange? Because there is about a katrillion lawn ornaments throughout that complex.

We're talking everything from ceramic deers with bows around their necks to bunnies with knitted hats, kittens with sad eyes, a squirrel winking and holding an acorn, and a duck I personally gave to my mother that sits in front of her house with a series of holiday outfits (she says she hates him but personally I think she enjoys dressing him up).  Nothing was cracked, smashed or broken. Nothing even chipped.

And of course, there is the mascot of all the lawn ornaments, Old Salty, that greets people as they come into the complex. A first mate of sorts, a concrete Gorton Fishermen type of lawn ornament, that would be impressive if it's eyes didn't sort of follow you as you drove into the complex.

Now Old Salty was not the original greeter of the complex. Initially it was The Captain, a feisty old sea farin' concrete fellow that someone found at, I believe, a garage sale, and painted and set with great pride at the entrance of the compound. But as sailors will do, he went a wandering....or in this case, perhaps was spirited away or dare I say had his mainsails hoisted away.

A lawn ornament snatching causes major hysteria. Everyone was being questioned. People wringing their hands, crying, putting fliers up (all except my mother who rolled her eyes and said, Are YOU serious??" No one ever found out what happened to The Captain. It remained a mystery for most of the residents at the compound.

When it became apparent that The Captain had moved on to other ports of call, he was replaced with Old Salt. Not as attractive as The Captain to be sure, but with his rain gear, Old Salt did his best. But to ensure that he would never move from his place of dignity next to the STOP sign, he was chained, that's right chained to a wooden lighthouse and a security sign was placed threatening serious repercussions to anyone who tried to abduct another lawn ornament from this sanctioned ground.

So there, in the eye of the Nor'easter, Old Salt stood his ground (although being chained to a lighthouse, really, how much choice do you have?) But what of the bunnies, the deer, the duck and the squirrel? Do they not deserve chains? Do they not deserve protection from these elements?

Apparently not. These are tough critters---much like their owners. These lawn ornaments stood their ground despite the fierce winds and pelting rain. Fences blew past them, trees uprooted in front of them, but never, never did their little ceramic smiles waver. They continued to guard their patch of grass. Proudly, with their little knitted hats flapping in the wind, they stared Mother Nature in the face and dared her to do her worst.

After surveying such little damage to my mother's complex and theory began forming. The innocent looks of these ceramic faces. The odd circumstance that none of them had actually moved. Now my personal view is that The Captain was not spirited away by vandals as believed by the residents of the compound.

No one is speaking up but there has been speculation, rumors. You can tell the concrete geese are uneasy: the deer with the bow is trying to cover something up and the dancing resin frogs in gardening hats know something they're not telling.

All I'm saying, is that Old Salt being chained to a lighthouse might be more than just a security precaution---it may be self preservation. That's all I'm suggesting.

Alas Poor Chanel, We Barely Knew Ye....

Our fish just died. I'm not exactly sure how to break it to my son. He is currently away at school and it has fallen to us to take care of Chanel, the fish, (named after Coco Chanel the famous designer, although as far as I can tell the fish was not a fan of Coco's and was pretty much naked for most of it's life).

Chanel is one of a long line of fish in our lives. Being an apartment family, there was that NO PETS rule. Although when you have a 4 year old with big brown eyes begging you for a puppy, you will resort to just about anything to stop the waterworks, even if it's bargaining down to a fish.

Our first fish was named Harry Brucato. He was won at one of those Fireman Fairs in Northport, NY and I figured, fool that I was, he wouldn't last the ride home. He lasted 4 years. Harry was responsible for 3 tanks, several bags of gravel, all kinds of "keep your tank clear and clean" potions and lotions, a filter thing that we never got the hang of, an opening and closing treasure chest (that sadly was the cause of Harry's demise) and a rubber skeleton.

Harry, I believe got his tail caught in the open  and closing of the treasure chest and was never quite right after that.

After Harry came a succession of poor replacements until Shakespere. I had an attachment to Shakespere. The son was going through his theater phase and placed the fish on a faux stone pedestal in his room.

The fish would try and put on airs, pretending to be more than the meager feeder fish variety it was, but it had heart, I will give it that. I took Shakespere's passing rather hard. I believe the plague got him.

That brings us to Chanel. Having decided to be a fashion designer, of course the son decides to name the fish, one of those japanese fighter fish, after his favorite designer. For a while, the fish was his entire universe. Then, as these things go, Chanel and I became best buds. Then Southern Man decided he wanted a pet: a cat. Enter Gracie the cat. Now this began the end for Chanel.

Once the ruler of the kitchen, the Cinderella fish spent most of her time dialing 911. Gracie tried everything to turn Chanel into an appetizer but we managed to foil her plan and poor Chanel's place of honor went from the countertop to the top of the pantry. I think she went a little stir crazy after that. I would find the occasional hate mail. I looked past it.

Over the past few months, I sensed Chanel gave up her zest for life. There was the look in her eye, the occasional cough, the handing out of her possesions, the dressing in polyester. It's sad. I spent everyday with her but I knew so little about her. Her favorite color, her friends, her family.

And what do we tell the son when he gets home from school? We decided to come up with some planned scenarios:

#1 Chanel is on vacation--- which probably won't work because where would a 1.5 inch fish tethered to a tank go in the middle of winter without a driver's license?

#2 Chanel had a heart attack and couldn't be revived because you can't get those electric paddles in the water safely (okay, a stupid concept but Southern Man and I laughed)

#3 Chanel drowned (We figured this one would have the son confused for a while. I know Southern Man left the room a little perplexed)

Finally, I decided to use an idea from my brother who is also a comedian. He reminded me that when we lost our family dog, she mysteriously disappeared to a lush farm in upstate New York.

So when our son asks where the fish went, we are going with the farm upstate. That's where, after Chanel nearly drowned and had a minor heart attack, the doctor suggested she take a long (permanent) vacation.

Of course, he could just read this blog.

Growing up Shea: A legacy of laughter

It's never good to start a blog off with an apology, but this photo (circa 1986) requires it.

My apologies to my sisters for dressing them in these bridesmaid dresses. At the time, I thought everyone could wear them again. Apparently I wasn't wrong--- they were used for Halloween costumes as the years went by.

My apologies to Dale Evans. Apparently I thought I could pull off the western wear bridal hat, but apparently, no one but Dale has that right,

My apologies to Fran, my brother's girlfriend. One look at my brother's perm is going to have her in gales of laughter for a week and probably pull a muscle.

My apoologies to the Family Feud. Apparently we stole this pose from the t.v show. Little wonder, my mother loved Richard Dawson. Good answer, good answer.

My apologies to my nieces and nephews and my son. This was taken pre almost all of them except Christopher, the oldest grandchild. I know the colors of the 80s are a bit blinding and I should have warned you all to wear sunglasses.

My apologies to my husband Jim who is still trying to figure out why in the world I have dark hair when I swear that I am a natural red head. All I can say is, Clairol 54, and 75 gave way to Revlon Auburn Sunset. Good answer, good answer.

So what is the point of this stroll down memory lane? Well, this was the only photo with us four kids and my parents I could find. I know there are others, but I just got off the phone with my sister and this blog is fresh in my head.

At the start of it all, there's your family. And in the middle, they are the ones you count on, And in the end, they are still the ones who love you, even when you screw things up.

A lot has changed since this photo was taken. All but one of us is divorced. Babies have been born and are now adults (or at least so they think). My father has passed, but is still as much as presence as ever. But we're all still family and we are all there for each other every day. As that saying goes, We may not be all there, but we're all there for each other.

I sometimes forget when writing this blog that words that I think are funny, may be mistaken by others as taunting or unkind. Nothing could be further from the truth when I write. I try and make others laugh, but nothing is ever meant to wound. I leave that to political campaigns and the SLAM books of the 1960s.

I love my family, all of it. The inlaws, the outlaws, the nieces, nephews and the ones to be. The cousins, the aunts, the uncles, all that goes into having grown up Shea.

And here's to my folks who didn't plan on raising two comedians but ended up doing so. And to my siblings for having not only gone along with me for the journey, but letting me share these family moments with others so I can pass on a legacy of laughter.

Apparently, I'm the Cat's Meow (and jingle mouse)

5:30am. Southern Man and I are blissfully unaware that a war is about to break out. A sort of "Whose King (or in this case Queen) of the Castle" between our two cats, Gracie and Houdini. Little did I know, the territory they were claiming was me...or more accurately my head.

Let me preface this by saying before these cats came into our lives about a year ago, I was strictly a dog lovin girl. Always had dogs, loved dogs, could never see myself with a cat. EVER. Note the EVER.

Enter Southern Man into my life with his easy way, charming smile and a LOVE FOR CATS! It took him nearly a year, but he wore me down to just go and "look". We came home with Gracie Allen, a lovely grey teenage cat in need of rescuing. Life was fun, life was great and I have to say, I was learning about Gracie and she was learning about me. Then the Southern Man gets an even more brilliant idea: Let's get another cat!

Enter Houdini. I should have known the minute we brought Houdini in, trouble would follow. She was what we call a "street chick" apparently picked up the streets and is trying to redeem herself after a sketchy past of hanging out in garbage bags with dubious creatures with ill manners and bad pasts and no breeding. The result is Gracie is a lot like Julie Andrews and Houdini...well she could easily pass for Amy Winehouse. Minus the bouffant.

I had high hopes they would love one another, ah but that's a dream ship that has sailed. Now I just want to have chairs without shred marks and the ability to walk my kitchen floor without stepping on jingle mice (Gracie's) rubber balls (Houdini's) or kibble (both).

Novice cat mama that I was, I figured these ladies just needed some time together to understand that "everybody gets along" in my home. What they needed was serious cat couples counseling.

The war first broke out in the livingroom. One of my favroite chairs, aptly known as the crazy chair, became the first casualty. The battle waged on toward the kitchen. Kibble was being thrown. Cat litter was a lethal method of disposal. Things were getting worse in the trenches.

Apparently this morning the choice was to have my head at dawn. That's right, my head.

Gracie did something I used to think was adorable (key word, used to) which was waking me up with gentle pats from her paws to my face. Now it's a slap so hard my head rings.

Houdini countered it with a full body tackle and then Gracie...did something that I have no idea how to explain and maybe you cat people can: it was like she aimed a primitive blowgun in my direction, blew a dart and surrounding me with a light mist. A moment later came the most AWFUL STANK you have every known in your life.

No it was not a sneeze, or a hairball. I have already played 20 questions with my husband and I am sure that yes, it came out of her head in some capacity, but no, it was not a sneeze, it was like she "spritzed" something on me, the way you would get at MACYS. But instead of Eternity by Calvin Klein, I got spritzed with "Eternally my owner" by Cat.

The smell permeated my pores. I was out of the bed in moments, grabbing for sheets. Unfortunately, the Southern Man was still blissfully unaware and sleeping at the time I chose to yank the sheets from the bed. You haven't lived until you have seen a grown man roll off the bed like a hot dog off a bbq.

When he asked what happened, who died, and why the heck was I yanking sheets off him in 22 degree weather at 530am, I could only answer, "The cat was marking her territory,and apparently, it's my head."

I believe if you listen you can still hear the sound of my husband laughing so hard he coughed up a hairball.

In comedy, like in life, you had better bring good snacks!

I just performed the worst show of my life since my very early days of comedy.

Oh sure, there were a few polite chuckles, but for the most part, I was going down quickly in flames and for a comedian, it's not pretty. You literally start pulling out every bit you know just trying to eek out even one laugh, one smile-- if it wasn't winter, you could have heard crickets. IF I thought setting my hair on fire would have made someone laugh, I would have considered it (but again there were fire codes). What was going wrong? It was one of my favorite groups to perform to....also known as some of the toughest critics---- the senior citizens--. I did all the wonderful stories about my mom. Nothing. I moved on to my Southern Husband, more nothing. I pulled out some of my classics-- nothingness nothing.

One man actually put his head on the table. Another woman started doing a crossword puzzle. Sweat was breaking out. My husband shook his head. This was some of my classic material GTMYL (Guaranteed to Make You Laugh) and nothing was bringing a smile to these faces.

What could I do? It look liked I was making them go through gum surgery. I am a comedian. It's not supposed to be painful for the audience. I ended the act and slunk off. There was clapping and then the movement of the senior crowd as they gathered their coats. One woman came up to me and surprisingly told me how good I was.

"Let me ask you something, it just didn't seem that my humor was hitting with your group. Do you know if I was doing something that maybe was offending them?"

It was the woman's turn to look surprised. "Honey, we loved the show. Half of those people are deaf. The other half are so old they just want to head home and be in time to watch Judge Judy. And things are always slow on tapioca day."

Tapioca day?

She looked around like she was giving me the secret to World Peace. "If you ever perform here again, ask to perform on chocolate cake day. No one misses chocolate cake day. The tapioca pudding though---well---," she rolled her eyes. "The only reason people come on tapioca pudding day is because all the good shows aren't on until later and usually if they give tapioca for dessert they make the sandwich pretty decent. Today was turkey and swiss." And with that piece of advice, she patted my hand and was off.

After speaking to the Senior Center coordinator, it seems these town programs actually give lunches to lure the seniors in. Had I known it all relied on the snacks, I would have made sure I packed my pockets with a few extra boxes of Russell Stovers chocolate cremes but I went in a total babe in the woods. Next time I know better. In comedy, like life, some days you show up and its tapioca and other days it's chocolate cake. But who says you have to take what they give you? I came in and brought a whole new kind of dessert but hardly anyone was there to enjoy it, and those who were there, weren't willing to open themselves up for a new receipe.

As my husband and I walked out to the car we spied a couple who had been amongst the few who were listening and laughing. I walked up to them and apologized that apparently their group wasn't pleased with the show. The woman smiled and said, "Oh no, we enjoyed it. You can't go by that group. They've just given up on enjoying anything. And besides, you have such a sweet face."

I had to laugh. That was something my mother would say.

And speaking of my Mom, if her senior group served tapioca on one day and she didn't want it, she wouldn't eat it but it wouldn't stop her from doing what she wanted. She's her own person and thank God truly that she is.

I tease my Mom a lot and she ends up being comedy in my act more often than not because she's funny, really funny. But more than that, she's got a real firecracker personality and thank God truly that she does. She hasn't given up just because there's a 7 in her age and her friends, the posse are one of the most active bunch of ladies I ever met. You're never going to find them eating tapioca if they don't want to.

But if I ever do another senior citizen show, just to be on the safe side, I may wait for chocolate cake day....or bring my mom as my security guard.