My mother has taught me many things over the years. Maybe not how to properly apply makeup (and as a result, neither she or I wear any . . . and we look at my sister in amazement, wondering where on earth she learned how to brush on just the right hint of blush without looking like a circus clown). It’s okay—I don’t feel my life is lacking due to my inability to use a mascara wand without poking myself in the eye. She taught me more important stuff, like:

People will judge you by the company you keep. 
I wish this wasn’t true, but it is. This is why I had to stop hanging out with trolls. They’re not good for my karma. And pimps. I’m sorry, if you’re a pimp, we can’t be friends. Mom says no.

If you don’t like how something tastes, you don’t have to eat it. But taste it first. 
This was quite a change from my youth, when Mom’s general rule was “You’ll choke down what I cooked, and I'd better hear a 'thank you' for it!” (Also a rule in my house to this day.) Believe me, it was quite a revelation when I discovered that my mother had stopped eating black jellybeans. “I don’t like them,” she said. (Neither do I, but the genetics behind why my mother and I have the exact same preferences in both food and shoes is a conversation for another time.)
I parroted back her mantra from long ago. “But—but—that’s wasteful!”
 “Jellybeans are cheap enough. Try every flavor, of course. But if you don’t like  ’em, toss ’em. Or leave them for your father.” 
Wise words.

Stop complaining that you’re turning into your mother. 
It’s when you look in the mirror and see Grandma looking back that panic is warranted.

If you want something done, learn how to do it. 
I should point out that this is something both Mom and Dad have advocated all my life. Because of their guidance, I have in my lifetime: soldered a pipe to fix a leak; changed a car battery; applied for, cut through red tape for, and received a waiver to both install a septic system and drill a well on a 1200-square-foot piece of property in an ecologically protected area; sewn pillows, made my own pants, and patched a couch; and laid down new flooring. Piece of cake!

If you can’t do it yourself, ask your father. 
But only if you’re really, really sure you can’t do it yourself. I had to turn to Dad when my water heater gave up the ghost (all over my basement). But I was able to watch and help him install the new one, so I still learned a little bit.

Express yourself with words. 
Mom says she’s not a writer, but she sure does have a fabulous way with words. One of my favorite family expressions comes right from Mom: “Move your face closer so I can slap you.” It’s a joke in our family, but when I want to express my displeasure with someone, these are exactly the right words to use. Complaining because you’ve lost ten pounds and now you’re too thin? Sad that the BMW you just bought doesn’t have butt massagers installed in the seats? Is life just too darn good to you? Move your face closer.

Don’t feed the mogwai after midnight. 
I think Mom taught me this. Nope, wait, that was Gremlins. Mom said, “Don’t talk to that scruffy guy in the trench coat—he's a flasher.” Also a good rule to follow.

Speak softly, and in Connecticut, you know you can get a permit to carry a concealed weapon, right, dear? Ah, Mom. You don’t mess around with her.

There are other women, of course, who have also had a part in raising me: my Aunt Joanne (“The company of cats is often preferable to the company of people”), my Aunt Bea (“Why have one cat when seven will do?”) and my Aunt Joan (“Don’t look at me like that—all of your aunts are cat people, apparently”), for instance. Even my sister (“You’re putting on too much blush! Stop! Sto—fine, if you want to go out looking like a clown, go ahead.”) Happy Mother’s Day to all of the wise women in my life.

Often when I’m hard at work, my mind will wander. “What shall I have for lunch?” I’ll sometimes think. Or, “Didn’t Mia Farrow say not that long ago that her son might be Frank Sinatra’s kid? Why haven’t I heard more about that?” I decided to investigate. (Also, I decided on Taco Bell.)

I found this picture online,  comparing Ronan Farrow to both Frank Sinatra and Woody Allen, the man who raised him. I don’t know. He does have Sinatra’s face, but Woody’s shirt collar. I think it could go either way here. Ronan himself was pretty funny about the whole situation, tweeting “Listen, we’re all *possibly* Frank Sinatra’s son.” This got me thinking: Could I be Frank Sinatra’s kid?

Let’s look at the evidence: First off, my mother not only has never met Frank Sinatra, she actively hates his guts. Honestly, Sinatra is her kryptonite. If you want to see my mother shoot actual green balls of smoking venom out of her eye sockets, just mention what a nice guy you thought Ol’ Blue Eyes was. She despises him. Plus, and maybe this should have been my first point, she loves my dad and would never risk her marriage for a fling. Finally, let’s turn to the photographic evidence.

This is me and my father. I have his hair color (before his went white, but don’t tell him that—he thinks he’s still a blonde), his eye color, his ridiculously overly-sensitive skin, his high cholesterol, his love for sour cream  . . . yup, there was no denying it: Dad was most definitely my biological father. 
But I do have one parent that I don’t resemble AT ALL. That’s right: my mother, with her Greek features and olive skin, looks nothing like me. Was it possible that Mom wasn’t really my biological mother?

I thought about this for a while over crunchy tacos. Mom  loves math and science, whereas I am a creative writing and arts-and-crafts kind of gal. Mom would never turn down the opportunity to visit the city—any city—whereas the thought of riding a subway makes me break out in hives (thanks again for that sensitive skin, Dad). Okay, maybe that could be explained away by the fact that she grew up in Hartford whereas I grew up on a farm in the middle of nowhere. But then I looked down at my fast-food tray and realized that Mom never would’ve ordered crunchy tacos. She is a soft taco woman all the way. And that, my friends, is biology. I called Mom immediately.

“Mom? If that’s your real name,” I muttered. “Do you actually have any proof that I’m your daughter? Or is it possible that you did, in fact, adopt me, and I’m really the long-lost Princess Anastasia?”

“What?” Mom said. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

I tried to question her further, but she was losing her temper, and fast. I never lose my temper that quickly. She was just making my case for me.

Mom is also the no-nonsense sort (whereas I am the high-nonsense sort, you see) and she immediately produced what she considered photographic evidence: a picture of her, quite pregnant, in the month and year of my birth.

Wow, I thought. I’d had no idea Photoshop was even around in the 1970s, but Mom had done a great job of making it look like she’d been nine months pregnant right before I was born.

“That’s all well and good, but how do you explain your aversion to crunchy tacos? Dad doesn’t like them either, so clearly, the only explanation is that I am a Russian princess,” I insisted.

“How about because I don’t like it when the taco shell breaks and dumps its contents in my lap?” she asked. She said a few other things, but I didn’t catch much beyond “nuttier than a pecan log.”

Mom can deny it all she wants. I know the truth. See? Just look at us:

Except for the fact that I have her forehead, nose, face, smile, and neck, we look nothing alike.  Plus, you can't see it here, but I also have her body shape, hips, hands, and feet. And I guess it's a little odd that we went out to buy new frames for our glasses at separate times, and picked out the exact same frames. (I am not making that up. We have also gone on separate shoe-shopping excursions and bought the exact same sandals. Twice.)

The good news is, it turns out my parents really are my biological parents. I am not a long-lost Russian princess, which is also good news, because that would've made me 113 years old. The bad news? I’m pretty sure Mom is thinking about disowning me now.

Many thanks to my mother, who let me use that nine-months-pregnant picture of her without even questioning what I’d be writing about this week or using the picture for. THAT’s a mother’s love, folks.

We all have our list of things we’d like to do before we die. Mine’s pretty short: see the Violent Femmes in concert; visit Greece (ancient Greece would be preferable); leave as little clutter as possible behind when I die so my nephews don’t have to rent a dumpster to clean out my house. See? Short. However, my anti-Bucket List, things I never, ever, want to do, is much longer. Let’s take a gander:

1.    Climb Mount Everest. As tempting as this might be, what with all of the dead bodies scattering the pathway up and down, I hope to never accomplish this feat. Everest is in the Himalayas. The Himalayas are cold, and precipitous. They have glaciers, another thing I hope  to never see in my lifetime. Every stinkin’ picture I see of Everest shows snow and crags. No thank you. I like my vacations to be warm and to require very little physical effort on my part. I’d rather sit in my warm bed with a hot cup of coffee and read Into Thin Air.

2.    Learn a new language. Listen, I’ve done this. I learned English as a toddler, and that was pretty tough. Then I studied French for seven years in high school and college—also a lot of work. Here’s what I remember: learning a new language is hard. I didn’t enjoy it. Plus, my grandmother taught me a few choice words in Greek, so I think I’m good. I’m already practically trilingual.

3.    Run a marathon. There are two words in that sentence that immediately turn me off: “run” and “marathon.” Run implies physical exertion on my part, and I think we’ve already established that I don’t care to do that. Marathon implies a long distance (I don’t know how long, exactly. My Greek solely consists of swear words and words that sound like swear words but aren’t. Λεμόνι!) I will not be running anywhere unless there are free Double Stuf Oreos at the end of that sprint.

4.    Do an extreme sport. There are actually people (or, as I like to call them, lunatics) who seek out experiences like paragliding, bungee jumping, and skydiving. Nope, no, and nuh-uh. I don’t like heights. Also, I value my life. Pass.

5.    Sing to an audience. A fun little fact about me: the last time I sang out loud, in the privacy of my own living room, the neighbor called to ask if my cat was in heat. I cannot identify nor can I match a note or tone in any song I hear. I would not put myself nor an audience through that kind of torture.

6.    Volunteer at a hospice. Yecch. Sounds depressing. No thanks.

7.    Befriend a stranger. When I was a young girl, my mother used to scold me for talking to strangers, but in my defense, the toothless winos wearing trench coats (and nothing else) that I’d greet on the streets of Hartford seemed really friendly. As I got older, my amazing lack of judgment only got worse. I remember looking at a picture of Ted Bundy and thinking “Ooh, cute. Who’s he?” For my own personal safety, I’m going to pass on this one.

8.    Try out vegetarianism for a month. There are certain things in this world that I not only shouldn’t give up, but have never had the desire to. Animal fat is one of these things. It’s good for your brain and good for your soul. I thought a bucket list was for things you wanted to do before you die, not things that make you want to die.

9.    Have dinner with someone you’ve always wanted to meet. I have a happy reason for not wanting to do this: I’ve met most everyone I’ve ever wanted to meet. And a sad one: the other people I’ve always wanted to meet are all dead. Not that I would turn down dinner with, say, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, but if I actively try to achieve this, there could be trouble. California has some pretty strict stalker laws. It wouldn’t end well.

10.  Conquer your biggest fear. Without a doubt, my biggest fear is needles. I can’t even see a picture of one without getting queasy. Writing about them right now is actually making me uncomfortable and weepy. According to experts like the producers of Fear Factor, the best way to conquer a fear is to immerse yourself in the thing that scares you most. Since a tub full of hypodermics is out of the question, probably the best way to do this would be to get a tattoo. My mother would never forgive me. I try to make it a point to not disappoint my mother. Shame on you all for suggesting that I break my mother’s heart like this!

I could go on and on, but sharing this list with you all has made me realize what’s really important in life, and life is short. I think I’ll grab my copy of Into Thin Air, go to my mother’s house, and eat all of her bacon and Oreos.

Why do I have such a dysfunctional relationship with food? No, seriously, God, why?

Some people are stress eaters; others eat when they're bored. Some reward themselves with food; others punish themselves by eating a rice cake when there is chocolate cake to be enjoyed. Personally, I eat when I'm feeling hungry, tired, happy, bored, sad, vaguely irritated, irrationally ecstatic, sluggish, manic, and/or completely satiated. Yup, I'm an eater.

Who do I blame for this? Who do you think? Of course it's my mother's fault, and she will indignantly tell you that it's her mother's fault, and she's probably right. I remember going on trips with Grandma during which she took pictures of waiters, buffet tables, dessert trays, and deli platters. Never mind that we were at the Grand Canyon; it was the sparkling glaze on the honey ham that attracted Grandma's eye. And, I'll admit, I found this not completely insane, but kind of endearing. Thus, a lifelong weight battle was born.

In our family, we defined our vacations by what we ate on the trip. In California, Mom and I found a fabulous candy shop hidden midway through the wax museum. (Plymouth, Massachusetts and Orlando, Florida also have some lovely candy stores.) There were sugar cookies in Maine, cinnamon sticks in Virginia, and sticky buns in Pennsylvania that all still bring back fond memories. Not all of these trips were winners, though. My mother and I remember a vegetable lasagna on one trip to D.C. that still brings about a shudder when it's mentioned (in hushed, somber tones).

Having someone else in the family who understands what it's like to get a stomach bug and still gain four pounds is nice, particularly since my father and sister have no such woes. It's a Longo gene or something, because I also have a cousin on my father's side, Tina, who eats whatever she likes and never gains an ounce. My father and sister only eat when they're hungry, simply eat until they're full, and get on with their day. It's like my mother and I lived in a house with two aliens. I remember how bizarre lunchtime always was in our house. Dad would eat a sandwich, and then shake his head when Mom would gesture towards him with an open bag of Doritos®. "Nope, I'm full. I think I'll go chop several hundred cords of wood now," Dad would say, waving off the chips. (Apparently, in another life, my father was Abraham Lincoln.) Mom would look across the table towards me, eyes filled with puzzlement. I'd smile, and, looking at the Dorito® crumb stuck to her cheek, ask her if she was going to eat that. Hey, it's not my fault she married a weirdo.

This is no doubt why all of the women on my mother's side of the family (except, of course, my sister Kim, who doesn't even own a scale) are experienced dieters. For every diet out there, someone in my maternal line has tried it. Atkins, South Beach, the Cabbage Soup Diet, eDiets, the Carbohydrates Addict's Diet, Scarsdale, the Grapefruit Diet, Jenny Craig, the 3-Hour Diet, the Blood Type Diet . . . you get the picture. A family portrait of my mom's side will reveal no less than eighteen Weight Watchers lifetime members (of which I am one). The same picture will show all of us beaming as we stand around a perfectly glazed honey ham, with a side of rice pilaf to add texture to the portrait. I'm going to chalk it up to genetics.

You know how they say that you should never judge a person until you've walked in their shoes? In our family, you'll inevitably find those shoes are hiking it to the Hickory Farms kiosk, where free samples are known to abound.

I asked my mother this week if she wanted to write a guest blog post for me, mostly because I didn't feel like writing one. Her response was "Gaah!*"
My mother doesn't feel she can write spur-of-the-moment, witty blog posts. A retired science teacher, she actually has nightmares about substitute teaching for English writing classes**. So instead, I decided to write a post on what I think my mother would say if so inclined. Here goes:

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading my daughter's weekly blog posts. While I have always known that she is brilliant and funny, it's nice to know that the rest of you have caught on to that fact as well. Personally, I think she should focus more on humor and less on writing horror, but I also know that she's actually getting paid to write horror, so that's okay, too. 

I want you to know that she had a perfectly normal childhood. Where she gets these ideas to kill people off and turn them into zombies, I have no idea. She did once throw a tap shoe at her sister when she was about six; let me assure you that she was properly punished and grounded for a week with no TV privileges after this incident. What inspired her to throw that tap shoe in the first place is a mystery. She must get those aberrant tendencies from her father's side of the family.

Stacey has always been the cut-up in the family. I remember one time how she made a loud burping noise in church, right when the priest was saying the holy blessing for communion. Oh, how she and her sister laughed! They were both grounded for a week after that little incident. Also, I stopped letting her watch Carol Burnett & Friends after that, in case that's where she got the idea that burps were funny. Boy, that Carol Burnett sure is a card. I love those old re-runs when she and Harvey Korman would struggle to keep a straight face during the skits! Now that I think of it, I don't recall any excessive burping on the show. Again, I'll blame Stacey's father's side of the family for that kind of juvenile humor.

As she got older, I'm happy to say that Stacey's sense of humor became more developed and sophisticated. She graduated from jokes about bodily noises to jokes about her teachers, classmates, and friends. While she was often right on the money and showed a natural gift for mimicry, it did result in both a lack of close friends and the occasional detention. I can't even blame her father for this. Who wants to be friends with someone who makes fun of you? That's when I put her in therapy. Oh, how she'd have us roaring at the dinner table when she would imitate her psychiatrist. A true card, that's my daughter.

Now that she's grown up, she is less inclined to pick on others and more likely to write about things like dieting, hairballs, and gardening. I find her to be insightful, funny, and charming ... as should you. She often has me laughing so hard I have tears running down my face. Finally, she's developed a sense of inspired witticism and natural wisdom ... clearly inherited from my side of the family. 

So thank you again for reading my daughter's blog faithfully every week. Should you decide to stop, please let me know. I will then hunt you down and slap you with a tap shoe.

Sincerely,

Stacey's Mom

*Actual sound effect Mom made.
**Totally true. She told me this today. Of course, after today, she may never confide in me again.

After last year's Hurricane Irene debacle, I was less than thrilled (read: frothing at the mouth in anger at God) to hear that Hurricane Sandy was heading our way. "The Perfect Storm," meteorologists were calling it, trying to fool me into thinking that George Clooney and Mark Wahlberg were going to wash up on my front step. Not so. A bad storm was a-comin'.
We drove to BJ's to stock up. Once we had a cart full of candy bars, soda, Doritos (two kinds!) and sour cream, I began to feel better. Apparently I associate hurricanes with a license to eat as much crap as possible. I called my mother, who had picked up cheesy poofs, brownie mix, and a pound of Italian cookies from the bakery. Clearly, eating junk food during stormy weather is a genetic thing.
Monday, the storm hit. The black clouds opened forth and poured rain. The wind blew, rattling the windows. We lost power twenty minutes in. I munched on a Butterfinger bar and watched Creepshow on the iPad.
The storm ended. We fired up the generator (finally, we had smartened up enough to purchase one of those bad boys) and turned on the television. Our house was still in one piece. I didn't have to brush my teeth with toilet water. I called my parents and my sister, who were all safe and sound and bored out of their minds. George Clooney had not appeared at anyone's house (stupid @!!*! meteorologists!) The worst thing that happened all night was that "Criminal Minds" was a rerun.
We had power again within 48 hours, which was a commendable feat by Connecticut Light & Power. The temperature outside never dropped below 60, so we hadn't needed to turn on the heat. Overall, it was a survivable hurricane.
However, I now have 35 more Butterfingers to eat and four pounds of Doritos to consume (which I've been dipping straight into the tubs of sour cream). Clearly, hurricanes are dangerous...to my arteries.
Hope everyone else made it through safe and sound!

This Mother’s Day, I’d like to reflect on some of the valuable lessons my mother taught me. For instance, just the other day, I was stopped for speeding. Mind you, I generally drive about 5 miles below the speed limit, and I brake for dead squirrels (as my mother taught me to do). However, I was polite enough not to argue with the officer of the law about how he was too stupid to operate a radar gun properly and clearly wouldn’t know a reckless driver if one drove up to him and bit him on the nose. See, my mother instilled that aversion to rudeness in me. I took my ticket, sweetly told the officer that we would meet again, in court, and went on my merry way.

That same day, I finally made it in to work and poured myself a cup of coffee to calm my nerves. Within two minutes, while reaching for a post-it note, I managed to dump said coffee all over my sweater and pants. However, it was Mom who first told me what a flattering (and sensible) color mocha is on me, and lo and behold, the coffee blended right in. Although my bra was damp and uncomfortable for the rest of the day, nobody could even see the giant stain down the front of my shirt. A couple of people asked me what perfume I was wearing, but I just told them “Nantucket Blend” with a sly wink, like it was some fancy aroma that only Nantucketers and klutzes are allowed to wear.

By 10 AM, there was a yellow jacket in our office, so I left work for the day, insisting that I was allergic to bee stings and that yellow jackets buzzing around the ceiling lights constituted a hostile work environment. Something else I learned from Mom—if you don’t like something, stop doing it. And I don’t like sharing my office space with stinging insects, which is what my argument will be when I get written up for abandoning my job.

 I drove over to the mall now that I had the day off, and found that Sears had wine glass sets in their clearance bin for only $1.50 a set. That came out to less than 38 cents a glass, so I bought them. Sure, much like Mom, I don’t ever drink wine, and I’m pretty sure they’re not crystal, but let me repeat: 38 cents a glass. If there is one thing my mother has taught me, it’s to never pass up a great bargain.

So today, I would like to say Thank You, Mom. Your life lessons helped me turn what was essentially a rotten day into a fabulous one. I made a new friend that I get to see again when I’m fighting my ticket in court; I now own a custom-stained coffee-colored  bra; and best of all, my Mother’s Day shopping is done. Hope you like your new wine glasses!

244.

I nearly slapped my doctor when she told me my cholesterol was 244. Luckily for her, the fat in my blood slowed my killer reflexes, and all I managed was a limp wave. She thought I was trying to be friendly.
  
I honestly don’t understand how this has happened. I try very hard to eat healthy things. Why, just take a look at my meal plan during a typical day:

Breakfast: Oatmeal topped with bacon.
Lunch: Salad topped with ranch dressing, cheese, and bacon.
Dinner: Grilled tilapia wrapped in bacon, with a side of cheese smothered in sour cream.
 
See? Oatmeal, salad, fish … these are all healthy foods!

Since clearly my high cholesterol couldn’t possibly have been caused by something I ate, I decided it must be the result of genetics. I called my parents to yell at them for hardening my arteries.

My mother was sympathetic, until I noticed the way the conversation was heading. Wait a minute—was she actually bragging about her HDL levels? Show off! Although she did have a point—with numbers like that (I have to admit, she impressed me) it became abundantly clear that my father was the culprit.
 
“Hi, Dad. I’ve got a teeny, tiny bone to pick with you,” I seethed when he came to the phone.
 
My father admitted that my cholesterol woes were probably a direct result of being his child. He gave me some good advice, mostly on how to beat the cholesterol screening the next time I had to have one. It was kind of hard to hear him, though.

“Wait a minute! Dad, you’re eating potato chips right now!”

“No, I’m not,” he mumbled through a mouth full of potato chips.

“Yes you are! Those are Cape Cod chips, too. I can tell by the sound of their crunch!”

Dad was busted, so he gave the phone back to Mom. She assured me that there are a couple of light cheeses out on the market that tasted better than, say, boiled socks or dinosaur dung, but not much. I hung up the phone, heart sinking. I had to face the truth: my love affair with cheese was over.
 
I kissed my hunk of Gouda goodbye, and carved the block of cheddar in to the shape of a heart before throwing it out. I’ll admit, it was an emotional breakup. I chewed on a slab of raw bacon to soothe my broken soul. That helped a little.
 
I’m determined to control this thing without medication. I’ve decided to shed a few pounds, so I’m starting the Atkins diet tomorrow. I can’t wait to see my doctor’s face at my next cholesterol screening!