Friday Musings

I see a lot of activity on this site so in case you can't find the new site, I'm at...


www.xxmattfoley.blogspot.com

The link to my new site is on the right of this page. Click on "My New Blog Location" to get there. Thanks!

The link to my new site is on the right of this page. Click on "My New Blog Site" to get there. Thanks!

Hey everyone! This blog site stinks, so I've moved to a new one. Please go to www.xxmattfoleyxx.blogspot.com for this weeks blog and future posts. Thanks and make sure to put it in favorites and pass it on!

You know you're getting old when...

1). Although you're not a smoker, every morning you manage to cough up lung cookies in the shower.

2). You get up from sitting in a chair and unconsciously, make noises from the stress of standing up. Also, while sitting in the chair, you make other disgusting noises, which can also be heard or smelled when you're in the shower, sleeping, eating dinner, watching T.V. or whenever there's an uncomfortable silence and the family needs a good laugh.

3). You've mounted a bike and truly feared for a brief moment that you might not live through this experience.

You know you're getting old when...

4). You discover your arms are too short to read a menu.

5). You are willing to clean your ears with anything...especially matches, hair pins, car keys or if you haven't had any coffee, a very small screwdriver.

6). ...wait...what was number 6? I had it a second ago...

You know you're getting old when...

7). You have to pass gas and you're really scared because you're not absolutely sure if it's going to come out in gaseous or solid form. And when you decide to "go for broke" and let loose, you literally breathe a sigh of relief when it comes out gas, as though it was some kind of accomplishment.

8). You've thought you were in the midst of having a heart attack and actually sat down at the computer and Google searched the tell-tale symptoms of a heart attack. You've also, at some point, did some research on other lumps, moles, hairs and involuntary muscle twitches that you were certain to be symptoms of a life threatening disease.

You know you're getting old when...

9). The soda induced belches, in your youth, which you so loudly expelled are now replaced with painful acid reflux burps discreetly performed with closed mouth, to keep deadly stomach acid from spewing forth and miaming friends and family, like the creature from Alien.

10). You dance at weddings and you incorporate, in your dance moves, any of the following.
-clapping
-any pointing and moving of the index finger held up in the air
-doing "the monkey"
-finding another old person to do the "can-can" with you
-any move associated with "The Charleston", especially the illusion of knocking your knees together.

11). You're cultivating eyebrow hairs as coarse as banjo strings and as curly as pubes.

And lastly, you know you're getting old when...

12). You announce to the family your intent to have a bowel movement.

"Does anyone have to get in the bathroom? I'm gonna be in there a while."

Also, other signs of aging include, taking up residence in the bathroom for more than 1 hour or you bring a newspaper in with you. Also, you know you're old if you've ever heard any of the following terms associated with a one of your visits to the bathroom.

"crippled"
"wrecked"
Or if upon entering the bathroom after you finished up, someone felt in necessary to invoke the Almighty's name in disgust,
"Good Lord!"
"Jesus!"
"Christ Almighty!"
...and followed up invocation by questioning whether or not you were human.

If you found that any of these traits applied to you, don't be embarrassed. Embrace your maturation with dignity and class. Just don't come over to my house.

Like many of you, I'll be celebrating our nation's birthday with family and friends at a barbeque, culminating with a spectacular fireworks display.  Traditions for this holiday vary from family to family.  Some people grill up simple fare consisting of hot dogs and burgers, while others challenge their culinary skills by cooking half or sometimes full beasts over an open flame.  There are those whom choose to stay at home and celebrate, while others pack up the family and head to another state, where fireworks are legal and regularly sold to minors and drunk people.  Some of the day's happenings are common to all parties.  Without fail, either an over-served uncle or an obnoxious neighbor, will eventually pull out a bag loaded with munitions and offer to put on a fireworks show that will light up the sky and accidentally ignite the hair of 1 or 2 small children.  After the last firecracker has popped, those not being attended to at the nearest burn unit or suffering from mosquito induced malaria, gather around a bonfire for s'mores and the ever-popular group sing-along.

During my childhood, our family fell into the category of the holiday nomads, seeking Fourth of July fun at my grandparents cottage in Koontz Lake, Indiana.  However, we didn't make this journey alone.  We also brought with us our best friends and neighbors, the LaBines.  Sure, friendship, children similar in age and the lure of an inexpensive vacation at a dirty lake, cramped up in a tiny cinder block bungalow, were all fine reasons for the LaBines to join us.  The most important reason we extended the annual invitation was their religious background.

We were Irish catholic.  The LaBines were of protestant beliefs, Presbyterian to be exact.  I wasn't sure what the differences were between our religions, except that their Sunday services lasted, like 9 hours or something like that and us Catholics were usually in and out of church in 45 minutes.  Also, every year they went to "Family Camp", which was a fun-filled, week long vacation with other members of the congregation, where from what I gathered, they played games, did crafts and always came home with really cool Family Camp matching T-shirts.  As Catholics, all we did every year was have a fund raiser to re-pave the church parking lot, where someone would win raffle money and be bullied, ever so nicely, into donating the prize back to the church.  Then, one of the younger priests would drink too much keg beer and it would be considered a "scandal" and whispered about after weekly mass for the next several months.  One of the "perks" to being a Protestant is all the campfire songs they have access to.  As Catholics, we only know songs somewhat macabre in nature, which contain the word "Alleluia" at least 37 times.  But man, you should hear some of the up-beat ditties those wacky Protestants sing; absolutely perfect for singing around campfires. 

We celebrated the Fourth of July similar to most other families.  We ate hot dogs and excessively, over-mayonnaised potato salad.  The kids played croquet, while my dad and Uncle Buddy LaBine pitched some horse-shoes, until without fail every year, an errant shoe would roll-up and clip one of us kids in the ankle.  Then the wives would step in to console the wailing, injured child and scream out,

"Stop playing horseshoes before you KILL someone!!"  My mom and Aunt Lynn were always concerned about our safety during the celebration...right up to the time they handed us kids white-hot sparklers and "punks", which were really thin cat-tails that served no purpose, except to have a lit, glowing-orange tip, which we used to burn holes in leaves and each other's flesh.

After wounds were properly dressed and each kid was sprayed down with a toxic dose of mosquito repellant, the entire party headed deep into the woods for a bonfire, s'mores served with warm, pink lemonade and plenty of campfire songs.  This is where the LaBine's excelled as a family singing group, taking a backseat to no one, except maybe The Osmonds or The Captain and Tenille.  They taught us timeless classics like,

"Michael Row the Boat Ashore" 

"Kumbaya"

"I Wish I Was a Fishy in a Brook"...which, by the way, utilizes one of my favorite lyrics,
             "I'd go slippy and a slidee
              Under everybody's heinie!"

"John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt"

These, along with many others, were sung every time we gathered around the fire.  However, my all-time favorite was "Three Fisherman."  I don't recall much about the majority of the song.  It was about 3 fisherman and they did something...I didn't know what and quite frankly, didn't care.  What really thrilled me about this song is that it gave us kids free license to swear at the top of our lungs, something taboo in the Foley house.  This was my chance to let loose and be a potty mouth and there was nothing the old man could do about it!  At the end of the song, these 3 guys did something that brought them to Amsterdam.  The song went something like this,

"They should have gone to Amsterdam
They should have gone to Amsterdam
Amster, amster, shh, shh, shh
Amster, amster, shh, shh, shh
They should have gone to Amsterdam

You must not say that naughty word
You must not say that naughty word
Naughty, naughty, word, word, word
Naughty, naughty, word, word, word
You must not say that naughty word

I'm going to say it anyway.."

Then, all us kids would jump up and scream,

"Amster, amster, DAMN DAMN DAMN!
 Amster, amster, DAMN DAMN DAMN!

I was cursing like a sailor, free from repercussions and spankings.  It was exhilarating, like running with scissors, buck naked in a crowd and then jumping in a swimming pool 5 minutes after eating a big, heavy sandwich!!!  I was free!!!

This surely must have been the same sense of euphoric freedom our founding fathers experienced after winning America's independence.  So go forth this Fourth, and celebrate our nation's birth in true American fashion.  Get naked, run around while eating something, swear loudly and blow something up.  Have a damn fine Fourth of July! 

I received a call from my mom this week, during which, she asked if I would be interested in possibly taking a cabinet she no longer needed and was considering putting out for next week's garbage pick-up. 

"If you don't want it, I'm sure if I put it out on the street, someone will take it before the garbage men come." she added.  In essence, mom was politely offering for me to be the first in line garbage picker and she figured potential rubbish was the decor my wife and I were going for in our home's interior design.  I accepted the offer.  Furniture is expensive, pride is cheap and vastly overrated.  So my wife and I, along with my daughter, hopped in the car and "to Grandmother's house, we go."  During the ten minute trip to my parents, I took notice of the many differences my daughter experiences compared to the hardships my sisters and I suffered on our own monthly, Sunday excursions to the Grandparents house.

As I looked in the rear view mirror at my daughter comfortably sprawled out, I got the feeling I was nothing but her chauffeur.

"Must be nice!" I sarcastically shouted back to her.  She pulled out the earplugs from her MP-3 player,

"Did you say something?" she asked. 

"I said, it must be nice, having all that space to yourself, your own music to listen to, nobody to bother you.  When I was your age..."  These were the 5 words that instantly signaled my daughter to ignore me, as I was about to embark on an old man rant.

In the late fifties, my parents' generation tired of languishing in the cramped living conditions city life had to offer.  With the same pioneering spirit of Lewis and Clark, sans a portly Indian girl as their guide and coonskin hats, they headed westward to explore and develop new lands by erecting countless strip malls and fast food restaurants.  Today, we refer to those new-found territories as "the suburbs."

Only about a half-hour trip by car, I can still hear my own grandfather complaining to my mom that she lives out in the sticks, the boonies or my personal favorite, where God lost his shoes. 

Similar to the Judeo-Christian belief that all life began after Adam and Eve cranked up the whoopee machine, the origin of all SW suburban life forms can be directly traced back to ancestors occupying an 8 block parcel of land on Chicago's south side.  My grandparents lived at 63rd and Pulaski.  I'm sure yours lived within 1000 feet of them.  And it was pronounced, sixty-terd and Crawferd.  For some reason, old people in the city had completely different names for the same road.  They also had a language all their own.  There was a mysterious place in my grandparent's house my grandma referred to as "the davenport."  What the hell is that!?!  They also felt it necessary to slip an unwarranted "R" sound in the middle of words. Example:  Wash was pronounced "warsh" and wallet became "warlet."  Regularly, my grandpa would punish us kids for "wrassling" or excessive "horseplay" by making us sit on the "front stoop", which outside the city was simply called a porch.  Since everyone lived in Chicago, the only way to distinguish territories was by church parishes.  Listen closely to your parents talk to other old people they meet at parties or wakes. 

"I went to St. Nick's."

"I'm a Little Flower graduate, myself."

"We belonged to St. John Fisher."  After parish proximities are established, next comes cross referencing old acquaintances to see if perhaps you somehow know each other.

"St. John Fisher?  Hmmmm, do you know Jimmy Kenealy?"
"No.  Do you know Agnes Polson?"
"No.  I knew a guy named Pete Tagliani who went to St. Nick's, ever hear of him?"
"Short Italian guy with a hair-lip...used to run with "Crazy" Lennie Schultz and the Taylor Street Boys?"
"Yeah! That's him!  I thought you looked familiar."

Of course they looked familiar.  They grew up 50 feet from each other!

As part of the bargain for moving out to the burbs, my parents promised to haul the entire family back into the city 1 Sunday each month, so we could sit and sweat on plastic covered furniture and eat dinner at 12:30 in the afternoon.  Like every Sunday in our house, eating before Mass services was strictly forbidden.  I guess mixing the Eucharistic bread with a bowl of Fruity Pebbles was as dangerous as washing down a pouch of Pop Rocks with a can of Coke.  This meant that after church, me and my 3 sisters, packed our hunger weary bodies into the backseat of dad's Chevy Nova for the long journey to grandma and grandpa's house.   

I painfully recall leaning my head on the closed back window, while the sun beat down on my nauseated empty stomach.  I don't know which condition brought about the feeling of impending vomit more.  It could've been the oppressive heat.  Perhaps it was the classical music from the AM station we were forced to listen to.  Opening a window was out of the question because it would drown out the opera or symphony dad was enjoying.

"Could you please turn on the air?" one of us would weakly whisper.

"No!  It burns gas.  A little heat builds character.  Now shut up and enjoy the ride!"

Slowly roasting in the backseat didn't build charcater but it did build a vile case of pre-mature, adult body odor for me and my sisters.  Eventually, blazing heat, lack of food, Mozart and 4 sweaty kids, crammed together like glistening night crawlers writhing in a Styrofoam cup produced ideal conditions for fighting and cranky behavior.  At the first sign of an uprising from us kids, dad would peer back in the rear view mirror and shout,

"If I gotta stop this car, you kids are gonna be sorry!"

This threat has been uttered by parents since the days of cavemen.

"Krog!  Stop chewing sister's leg bone!  If I stop this wheel, you kids be sorry!"

I have never seen a car stopped by the roadside with an angry dad doling out a batch of "sorry" to his unruly children.  What I have witnessed first-hand, is my dad reaching his snapping point in the car and quickly darting his arm behind him through the void between his seat and my mom's.  We learned at an early age, when dad's arm appeared in the backseat, take immediate cover.  Dad possessed a remarkable skill of maintaining complete control of the car with his left hand, while simultaneously flailing at us kids with his right hand, in search of a fleshy thigh or fanny to swat.  Maureen and Kathy, my older sisters, used an out dated contortion defense, wherein they arched their bodies together, like a couple of spoons in a drawer, and tried to conform to the shape of the back door to avoid the blind swoops of dad's open hand.  As I boasted earlier, pride is overrated.  My little sister Beth was portable and easily maneuvered.  With one hand firmly clasped around her neck and the other gripping the elastic of her underpants, I cowered behind her, using her as human shield blocking dad's attempts to spank me.  Over the years, with us kids giving him plenty of opportunity for practice, dad eventually honed his skills and refined his accuracy to blindly strike any given child he so desired and still drive.  

Although I loved seeing my grandparents, the journey to see them was nearly unbearable.  Now I look back at my daughter, singing away to the song on her MP-3 player, comfortably relaxed alone in the spacious backseat, basked in cool air-conditioning and can't help but relish one thought.  She's gonna hate the ride home with a 250 pound cabinet on her lap!  If she complains and I gotta stop my car...