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Last night….

….I couldn’t do a blog post.

I hosted Michael’s First Communion party yesterday.

I am sharing with you my post from a few months back to refresh your memory about how this all started and then I will tell you about the party later.

Being a good Catholic is exhausting…..

No wonder the Pope quit.


Michael has his First Communion coming up.

This is a big deal.

For most good Catholics it’s because it’s an important sacrament that means something important I am sure…..

For me it’s important because I have to start thinking about the food and decor I need to have for 100 people at my house, and make sure it doesn’t conflict with the millions of other obligations that we have in the spring and summer.

I had to attend an important meeting at the church this week outlining all of the details about the ceremony and also to secure a date.

First topic of discussion was First Reconciliation.  This is when the children have to go meet with the priest and confess their sins.

I remember when I had to do this as a small child, being so afraid and nervous I  as I approached the confessional with sweaty palms and a pit in my stomach.

I told the priest that I was “sometimes mean to my mother,” and he told me that if I just said the “Our Father” three times then I would be totally forgiven.

I was so relieved.

Needless to say, in this day and age, this kind of torment is not favored by parents.

Parents were raising their hands at the meeting saying “How can we be sure that the children are comfortable and not nervous?”

“Can we be 100 percent sure that the priest will tell them they are forgiven?”

“I remember being very stressed about this, I DO NOT want that for my child.”




Then of course there was the topic of wardrobe.

Of course if you saw the picture of the Dad at my son’s baseball game then you know that this is a town filled with primarily Vineyard Vines and JCrew.  Nobody wears makeup….nobody combs their daughter’s hair….I could go on for hours.

But anyways – there comes a debate about headpieces.  A bunch of mothers said “Yes” to headpieces, and then it started.

“Well, my daughter would never wear something in her hair.”

“I don’t ever make my daughter wear something she doesn’t want to!”

“Well what should I do if she says that she won’t wear it??”

I told you I didn't want to wear this headpiece MOTHER!!  I look like a WHORE! When I grow up I am being a Scientologist....

I told you I didn’t want to wear this headpiece MOTHER!! I look like a WHORE! When I grow up I am being a Scientologist!!!


I wanted to stand up and say “Look!! If your child is Catholic they have to make a confession to a creepy priest that could possibly be a pedophile and they have to wear a creepy bride-like head-piece that means they are marrying Jesus!! Deal with it you assholes! And if you don’t like it – then go be Jewish!! And have fun with 10 hours a week of Hebrew school and if you think our headpieces our bad – good luck with those hats and barrette clips they wear!!


But I didn’t say that.

I just looked at my phone waiting for everyone to stop whining and complaining.

There were 2 available dates in May to have the First Communion ceremony and one is Mother’s Day.  Again, some nice Catholic mothers I am told, actually enjoy having this precious ceremony on Mother’s Day.

I am not that type of mother.

On Mother’s Day I would like to eat a nice brunch, (something a little more substantial than a communion wafer) and enjoy my life…not sit in a sweaty church for an hour and half and then entertain 100 people in my backyard.

It was imperative that I get my name on the list for the first weekend in May.

I was pretty much willing to do anything to get it.

As the “church lady” spoke I adjusted my chair to be at the best angle to pop up from it and sprint to the sign-up table. I envisioned elbowing people or tripping them to be sure that I could get up front in a speedy fashion.

At the end of the meeting, the Church Lady asked that we bow our heads and say a prayer.

She also asked that we allow her time to move from the table before we swarmed and knocked her over.

I don’t even think anyone said “Amen” at the end of the prayer and that bitch didn’t have a fighting chance of escaping.

People were fucking INSANE!!! There was no mercy!! No forgiveness!!

I witnessed no behaviors that Jesus likes!!!

These women ended up not getting the date they wanted because they had to be rushed to the emergency room..The cross above their heads is a symbol of Jesus’ death and resurrection. Jesus died on the cross for us. On nights like this one, I am sure he’s wondering if that was a bad move….

These women ended up not getting the date they wanted because they had to be rushed to the emergency room..The cross above their heads is a symbol of Jesus’ death and resurrection. Jesus died on the cross for us. On nights like this one, I am sure he’s wondering if that was a bad move….


I ran so fast to the table, and yet I could feel a crowd forming around me as I got to the front of the room.   People were pushing and shoving and hands were sticking into the space where the sign-up sheets were, grabbing at the pens on the table.

A pregnant friend was in front of me with a pencil ready to sign-up when we reached the table.  She was the first to get the paper, and I was behind her, I was so set.

“Give me that pencil when you are done,” I yelled in her ear above the noise of the crowd.

But as she signed her child’s name to the sheet, it was clear, that there was no way she would be able to hand me anything…..the crowd was too rough. She was jostled and pushed aside…I tried to grab for the pencil out of her hand but she got swept away.

There goes the pencil…..

I would just have to just grab the sheet myself.

A different woman had gotten control of the sheet and I pushed underneath her arms as she was writing and I quickly signed on the bottom of the sheet, in the last slot, before anyone else could think of it.

Thank you Jesus.

For understanding that it’s very important to celebrate your body in wafer-form only on specific days.

Thank you for answering my prayers and not punishing me for my sometimes less than devout behaviors…

We will be there on our desired date with bells on.




Kiss me…you’re Irish

My mother is 100% Irish and my father is 100% Italian.  Same goes for Mr. Gaga.

As luck would have it, I am 100% Italian and Mr. Gaga is 100% Irish.

Being married to an Irish person can be good and bad.

Here are some indicators that your husband and children are Irish:

They can drink you under the table: – Most stereotypes don’t come out of thin air.  These people can drink all day and night with little to no repercussions.

There’s no hangover…no throwing up.

The only people who suffer are the sober people who have to be in their company.  In my case, I learned long ago that I will never be able to keep up with the Irish in the drinking department.   While my Irish girlfriends were dancing on the bar in the Bronx, I was home vomiting.

Mr. Gaga is always the life of the party…and has yet to ever wake up one morning of his life and say “I’m never doing that again.”

Irish eyes are smiling:  It’s good to be with someone who has a smiley face, like Mr. Gaga.

I definitely have something that can certainly be described as a “frowny face.”

This has proven to be off-putting.   My neighbor told me that when she first moved to the neighborhood, some lady on my street (who I spoke two words to in my life) told her about the Gaga’s.  She said  “The husband is really nice, but stay away from the wife….she’s a total bitch.”  This is a common theme.

Thankfully, sometimes it seems that the friendliness that radiates from his Irish face, kind of cancels out my bitch face…and we become a little more approachable as a couple.

Somehow this face makes people feel better after they interact with

Somehow this face makes people feel better after they interact with…


this face…


They can fight: Yet another stereotype that just happens to be true.  Mr. Gaga is non-confrontational to a fault, but if the shit hits the fan I know he can take everyone down.  He’s very happy and nice, but if pushed too far, he can get crazy.

Don’t be fooled by his smiling eyes or his intoxication….he will fuck you up.

Their taste buds don’t work properly: I believe it is because their ancestors spent centuries gnawing on rotten potatoes in the rain or something, but both my husband and mother have taste buds that don’t function.

As a result they douse everything they eat with inappropriate seasonings and sauces.

When we all eat together my mother spends the first ten minutes of the meal “peppering her food.” While we eat, she literally sits at her seat shaking salt and pepper shakers madly.


I finished my dinner tonight right around the time my mother had just finished "salt and peppering" hers...Who wants to eat this much pepper????

I finished my dinner tonight right around the time my mother had just finished “salt and peppering” hers…Who in their right mind wants to eat this much pepper????


Mr. Gaga takes it one step further and mixes every sauce he can find together and dips his meat into it.

Needless to say, my delicious Italian food does not need this kind of treatment.  I beg him to eat food as it is prepared.  It’s heartbreaking to see him dip my chicken cutlets into this shit.

Every night he mixes all of this into a ramekin and dips food into it....Does that seem normal???

Every night he mixes all of this into a ramekin and dips food into it….Does that seem normal???

“Why are you doing this? This chicken cutlet is delicious!”

“I like it this way,” he says as he dips it into the revolting concoction.

“It’s rude to the chicken cutlet! You can’t even taste it anymore!”

I plead…to no avail.

They have blatant disregard for food:   I guess it may be due to the dysfunctional taste buds, but food is merely a means of survival for the Irish.

I could truly give my husband homemade pasta with a lobster sauce or Lucky Charms for dinner and he would be equally content either way.

It’s offensive.  However, on nights when I’m working or have had a crazy day there’s some comfort in knowing that I can offer a tunafish sandwich for supper and Mr. Gaga will be thrilled.

They are witty: In college, I lived with 7 Irish girls.  I never laughed so hard in my life.

Mr. Gaga also has been known to crack me up.

Sometimes so much so that I pee my pants.  Since I had kids….I am especially prone to having accidents.

Our first date after I had Sam, we got a babysitter and went to the movies.  When we left the theater and we were walking to the car, Mr. Gaga said something very funny.  I stopped walking, twisted my legs together to try to keep the pee in.  It didn’t work.

50 gallons of pee came pouring out in the middle of the crowds of people who were coming out of the movies, which actually just made me laugh harder.

Mr. Gaga ran away and left me.  He got his car and came back to pick me up where I stood in a pee puddle.  He found an old garbage bag in his truck and he made me wrap up in it before I sat on the seat in his truck.

We laughed the whole way home and then I snuck upstairs with my wet pants and garbage bag while he paid the babysitter.

There’s absolutely nothing better than laughter.

Because they can make people laugh, they take it too far:

Laughter is great.  The problem lies in the fact that when people think Mr. Gaga is the funniest person in the world, he starts to believe them.

When he’s out with friends or at work, he is “Mr. Personality”, shooting off one-liners and cracking jokes, and everyone thinks he’s a riot.

This was the work crowd last time he had to speak....

This was the crowd the last time he had to speak at work….

When he gets home, I am not always in the same jovial mood as his work people or his friends.  Sometimes he tries to crack the same jokes to me that worked wonderfully at work….



They are very white:  When you look like Snooki, you don’t expect to have to get involved with people who don’t like the sun.  Mr. Gaga sits out for a couple of hours on the beach before he starts crying and goes back in the house, and Michael wants to stay out but ends up roasting.

Caring for pasty-white children and husbands is super-annoying.  While Sam and I are tanning, the last thing we want to do is go back to the house because the other 2 annoying lobsters have sun poisoning.

This is Sam on playing on the beach.....

This is Sam playing on the beach…..


This is a picture of Mr. Gaga when we were in Miami...

This is a picture of Mr. Gaga when we were in Miami…

Loving the Irish can be a blessing or curse – but mostly its a blessing if you can disregard the hideous sunburns ……






Young Love

I brought Sam last week for his pre-K check-up.  A nurse came in and asked a few questions and then took him down the hall to weigh and measure him.  For some reason I remained in my chair staring blankly ahead, thinking it was just yesterday that I neurotically carried my baby down the hall to be weighed and measured, hovering over the nurses with my record book, jotting down every ounce and inch.  I would peer at the growth chart, thrilled to find that both of my children were both “off the charts” for height. 

But were they gaining enough weight?  Was their head too big? For a while there, Sam was 80 percent for height, 80 percent for weight and teetering dangerously…. and then completely fell “off the charts” for head size. 

It was bad enough he was in the 250th percentile for head size, but we were mostly sad that no hats would fit him….

Fast forward 5 years, Sam’s head is back in the “normal” range, I don’t even know where that little record book is, and the only way I know that my kids grow at all is if I have to go buy them new clothes.

I sat calmly waiting for their return.

“He’s 55 pounds!” the nurse said excitedly as Sam climbed onto the crinkly exam paper on the table.

“And he’s in the 90th percentile for height!”

Sam sat up tall, beaming with pride, wearing only underwear, with his tan little legs stretched out in front of him on the table.

The nurse promised the doctor would be in soon and left the room.

We sat in silence for a minute and Sam looked down at his legs.

He looked up at me stone-faced and sighed. “Well….I guess I am turning into a man.”

I laughed, “Why? Because you are growing?”

“Nope,” he said pointing to his legs, “it’s because of all this hair.”

I got up and peered at his legs and doubled over in laughter.  Although it was all bleached from the summer sun, the hair on his legs could potentially rival Mr. Gaga’s.

As kindergarten approaches, even the mere thought of Sam leaving on the bus gives me a lump in my throat.  At this announcement of manhood, my first instinct was throw myself on top of him and start weeping, but just then the doctor walked in.  I composed myself.

Even though in this particular instance, Sam’s just a hairy Italian boy, the fact remains that my boys are growing up before my eyes.

As the summer comes to an end, they seem so much older than they were just a few short months ago.  They have this habit of acting like teenagers now, often choosing to “hang out on the boardwalk” at our beach instead of staying with me.  Also, with this new maturity comes an interest in girls, (THEY ARE 5 and 6!)

The other day after they had been up on the boardwalk for a long time, I walked up to check on them.

“What are you guys doing?” I asked them and their friend, Adrian.

“We can’t tell you.” Michael answered quickly for the boys that were staring at me like deer in headlights.

“Why not?” I asked with my hands on my hips.

“It’s inna-poopiate,” Sam said in a hushed voice with his eyes wide open.

I turned my focus back to Michael, “Ok, then now you better tell me.”

“Mom, it’s just super-heroes,” Michael said with exasperation.


“And Sam and Adrian are Batman and Iron Man and they are pretending they are going to marry Storm and Poison Ivy,” he looked at me expectantly.

“Ok.” I answered waiting for more.

“But I am Green Lantern, and I am going to swoop in and save them from the weddings.” he said knowingly.

“Oh, because they don’t really want to get married?” I asked.

“Yes, the girls are making them.” he answered nodding his head.

“Ok, carry on then.” I said turning back to the beach.  It’s a bit early for a game about how to avoid a committed relationship, but at least they weren’t getting into any trouble.

I shrugged it off.

Then later in the week I left my notebook out on the table and Michael was doodling in it.

I found this:

Ok – maybe these boys might be a little girl crazy.

No worries though – I destroyed it just in case Mr. Gaga got any ideas……


There’s no place like home

When I was growing up, my two favorite movies were Weekend at Bernie’s and Overboard.  They are similar in that they both take place in the summer….one on a yacht and one in a huge mansion on the beach. I know every word to those movies, and it seemed perfectly logical to me that one day I too would party in a huge beach house (preferably not with a dead guy) and would some day ask my servant, “Are you going to get my lemonade or am I going to have to squeeze it from my hat?”

While these fantasies were not realistic to begin with – they were officially down the drain when I decided to have children.  The hope of one day hopping off a jet ski in a bikini and heading up to party at Bernie’s officially died after I had my first child.

What I hadn’t anticipated was that my life would take such a turn for the worse that I would actually end up attending a “family resort” in the Poconos on a lake……with my in-laws.  Mr. Gaga and his family and friends visited this “resort” every year while he was growing up, and it’s all they talk about it since I met him.

Because I am a great wife and mother – when Mr. Gaga’s sister planned a reunion of sorts at this facility I agreed to go.

If I thought they talked about it a lot before – they really wouldn’t shut up about it now. I would usually just zone out completely when they told the same stories over and over again about the delicious food and the fun nights at karaoke.

I believe it was Thanksgiving when I was hosting dinner for 30 people who my mother-in-law started talking about all of  the “delicious homemade food” that we would be eating at Central House in July.

“Well – like what?” I asked, not fully engaged in the conversation, as I frantically made gravy and stirred mashed potatoes.

“Oh – like for lunch they will serve Swedish meatballs and potatoes…” she said with joy and excitement.

I stopped stirring and stared at her closely to see if she was kidding.

She wasn’t.

I am sure everyone in America except Mr. Gaga’s relatives realizes that “Swedish Meatballs” isn’t a meal at all….let alone one that should be served during July in a “resort.” In fact are they even FDA approved?  I thought they were just something weird that they served at Ikea as a snack, but there’s no talking to these people.

“But – what will I do?  I can’t eat that!! I will starve to death!”  I answered my mother-in-law.

She laughed hysterically…”Oh, I’m sure they have salad or something.”

As we inched past November I kind of forgot about the Swedish meatball resort.  As the school year was winding down and summer was fast-approaching I realized that I was really going to Kellerman’s and I started to worry.

A couple of weeks before we went I told my best friend about it.  When I was finished describing the facility there was complete silence on the other end.

“Hello?” I spoke into the phone.

“I don’t know what to say……You will have to just pretend you are on Survivor.” she answered.

“I know, I am pretending I am going to rehab for exhaustion like Lindsay Lohan, and I am just going to read a lot.”

So that was the plan.

Because this is an anonymous blog, and you don’t all really know me, I worry sometimes that you don’t necessarily have a clear image of who I really am.  I gave you glimpse when I told you that people always compare me to Carrie from King of Queens, and at the very least if you are a regular reader you know that I am Italian and that I take food VERY seriously.  Let me now add to those details – that I am NOT a lover of nature and live in constant fear of bacterial infections and Legionnaire’s Disease, so lakes are not my friend.

So just for a quick recap – I went to an old motel in the woods resort on a lake that served old-fashioned comfort food 3 meals a day that was prepared by a man named Fred.

You do see how this could be problematic?

I decided that only way to survive was to completely go with the flow.  When Mr. Gaga demanded that we be there on Saturday in time for lunch, I agreed.  I figured I would be entering into a scene straight out of Dirty Dancing, and I was mentally prepared for it.

I’m gonna have fun and you’re gonna have fun. We’re all gonna have so much fucking fun we’ll need plastic surgery to remove our goddamn smiles. You’ll be whistling ‘Zip-A-Dee Doo-Dah’ out of your assholes!

So imagine my shock and horror when upon arrival we drove in and saw my mother-in-law waving in front of the “North Lodge” where we would be residing for the next 4 days.

I have never stayed in a motel before, but now I had the distinct pleasure of staying in one in the middle of the wilderness in an adjoining room with my in-laws!!

Who needs a yacht or a dead guy’s mansion when you can live like this?!

While I stared at the building and tried to process what happened to my life.  I heard bells ringing in the background.  I shuffled along with the crowd to the “dining hall” as the bells were to alert us that it was lunchtime.

Upon entering the dining hall I was met with this sign:

I mean – I can’t even make this stuff up. What should a human think when they read a board like this? I thought “roast beef” was a sandwich that I hate – I didn’t know it could be a dinner….and what the fuck is a “Bird of Prey?”

We sat at our assigned table and our waitress introduced herself and informed us that she would also be teaching Zumba in the mornings and wearing a poodle skirt and teaching hula hoop lessons on 50’s night.  I accepted this completely because I knew that the staff at Kellerman’s in Dirty Dancing served drinks and food when they weren’t dancing.  I ate my lunch and then made my way with the kids to the pool and hot tub.  It wasn’t fancy but the kids loved it and I figured I could lounge by the pool all week and it would be ok.  As I got settled on my lounge chair I started to read my magazines.  After I read the same page over and over again, I realized something wasn’t quite right about the hot tub.

There was a group of mothers and children in the “hot tub.”

They were all loud.

They were all fat and ugly.

They were splashing and getting water on my US Weekly.

But wait….I looked a little closer….I sat up and pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head so I could really stare at these disgusting people….could it be?

Could they be actually eating ice cream and cupcakes in a hot tub??

What kind of animals am I living in this motel with?

Disgusted, I was saved by the dinner bell.   After eating a nice dinner roll and salad it was time to go watch the “Birds of Prey”show which was basically an insane old man talking about and showing his bird collection.

The next morning, exhausted from the day before I was happily sleeping when I heard bells clanging.

It was 7:30 am.

Oh – did I not mention that there is a daily 7:30 a.m. wake-up bell on this “VACATION?”

So off we go back to the dining hell… see this:

Don’t come to the Swedish Meatball Resort if you plan on eating anything healthy or not straight out of the 1950’s. Please note the time span in between meals – you have exactly 4 hours to digest Thanksgiving dinner before you are eating again…..

After another morning at the pool in the blazing 95 degree heat, before we knew it the fucking bells were ringing again, and off we went in our bathing suits from the steamy heat of summer into the dining room to be met with turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes and stuffing.

That’s normal and appropriate right?

I will tell you right now – If I ever am lucky enough to live in my dead boss’ beach house, I am going to have fresh fruits and salads for lunch….maybe an occasional piece of grilled chicken.

NEVER will I have a full-fledged THANKSGIVING DINNER in the middle of the fucking day in the middle of a heat-wave!!

So off we waddled back to the pool and much to my chagrin – the cupcake eaters were back in the hot tub.

Apparently these people were not participating in the meal plan in the dining facility.

When I looked at them this time -I couldn’t believe my eyes.

They were eating BEEF KABOBS in the HOT TUB.

The “vacation” progressed this way the entire time.  By the last day I was ready to leave for sure.   We left at 5:30 am on the 4th of July to be sure we were back for the bike parade at the beach.

I was so happy to have survived.

The next day my sister-in-law texted me to tell me I missed the best day.

Swedish meatballs for lunch and prime rib for dinner.

As Melissa Gorga would say, “Thank you Jesus.”

It’s not a dead guy’s mansion or a freshly squeezed glass of lemonade from the servant on my yacht….but sometimes it’s the little things in life……

Linking to Only Parent Chronicles


10 Reasons Why My Kids are Lucky to Have Me as their Mother


Did you think I was going to get sentimental and mushy about how lucky I am to be a mother just because it’s Mother’s Day?

Nope, that’s not going to happen.

Of course, I absolutely love my boys more than words can say – but quite frankly that’s boring.

Who wants to hear about how great motherhood is and how blessed I am to have two gorgeous, happy, funny, sweet boys? 

I was thinking instead of talking about how great my kids are on MOTHER’S DAY I should talk about how great I AM!!!


1 – Of course – just stating the obvious here – but even though I am Italian and spent many years going tanning my kids are lucky enough that I don’t  roast them in a tanning bed.

2 – I let my children choose from refreshing beverages like milk or water and I give them Flintstones Vitamins with Extra C to build immunity!  I don’t breastfeed them until they are old enough to have one hand on a Wii controller and the other on my boob.

3 – If I did do something that could potentially scar them for life or embarrass them in front of their friends, I wouldn’t let some magazine reporter and photographer document said activity and publish it for the world to see.  I would not do that even if it was for the cover of TIME Magazine, because although I have a blog which could be seen as a touch narcissistic, I am not a complete asshole.  

*Side note: Although I would love to talk more about this – that is all I am going to say about US Weekly TIME Magazine!!  I see what you are doing MR. TIME Magazine Editor….I’ve got your number….and I am not going to give you the satisfaction of getting annoyed about it…..because that’s WHAT YOU WANT!!! You want us to all bicker and fight about who is the best MOM on MOTHER’S DAY!!! I am not going to do that.  I am just going to give a list of  why I AM THE BEST MOTHER…..for other reasons besides breastfeeding….because guess what???  BREASTFEEDING OR NOT BREASTFEEDING does not actually define MOTHERHOOD!!!


4 – I actually spend time with my kids. I take them to the park, or read books to them, or take them to the library instead of spending my time  “bullet-ing” all day like  many mothers in America.

5 – I could possibly be considered a “milf.”  This is especially noticeable when compared to the “milgamo’s” around this town.    (“Milgamo” stands for – “moms I’d like to give a make-over.) This doesn’t necessarily mean much – but when the kids are older I am sure they will take comfort in knowing that when I pick them up from school I won’t be wearing ‘mom-jeans.”

6 – Even though other mothers in town seem to “forget” to comb their children’s hair or let their hair grow to the floor because  “Johnny doesn’t like getting his hair cut,” I get my boys frequent haircuts and comb their hair regularly. 

I think it is important that they don’t look like drag queens on heroin at the bus stop – (like many young boys do these days.)

This little boy is in 1st grade with Michael and often sits next to him on the bus….

 7 – I make sure that my children are not fat and lazy.  On nice days I often send them outside and lock all the doors, keeping them out for long stretches of time. 

When they try to come inside and watch television or play video games, I yell and say “Do you want to be fat and lazy like all of your friends? Do you??” and shove them back out the door.

8 -I don’t really make them go to church.  My father made me go every living Sunday of my life.  I think my kids are pretty lucky that I am too lazy and tired and not-god-fearing enough, to make them go.  When we do go on occasion, if they laugh and act crazy, I probably join in instead of yelling at them.  (Sorry Jesus.)

9 – I keep it real.  I don’t hide the nitty-gritty facts of life.  The threat that my children might some day really end up in “bad boy school,” keeps  everyone on their toes around here.  “Bad boy school” is a place that my mother-in-law taught me about.  It is a place where boys go when they are mean and rotten and can be conveniently seen from the highway!  I drive fast enough by it that they never really get a good look. 

I always say “Oh look I see little sad faces peeking out the windows….See them??”

They always look out the window frantically with looks of horror – and say “Yes! I see them!!”

Otherwise known as the Colt Building in Hartford, it’s the “Bad Boy School” in the Gaga household. I always say as we drive by – “There it is kids! Keep it up and that’s where you will be living soon!”

10- I BLOG about my life and theirs – so they will have plenty of evidence of what a good mother I am and how much I love them!!!


We have a “Situation”

Boy you people sure do have opinions about “bullet-ing” – (as one reader called it in her comment last week.) I got lots of texts and emails regarding last week’s topic and fell off the couch laughing at the SNL skit on Shades of Grey last night….If you didn’t see it – google it ASAP!!

So – apparently in Connecticut we had a tornado/hurricane/end of the world in October, then we had a mild winter, then we went straight to summer with 88 degree days in March and then went back to cold, windy fall days – and this week we apparently live in Seattle. 

It was raining and misty all week and after a couple of days I just gave up with the hair.   Do people in London and Seattle just accept looking bad and walk around with bad hair??

Remember on Lost – we knew that Claire had completely lost her marbles when her hair started to look like a frizzy bad wig??? Yeah – that’s what I looked like at the bus stop this week…….

For a little while there before the “Seattle times”, and before the “May Autumn”, when it was “March Summer” – I actually had a decent tan going.

I am now back to being pasty white – which I hate.

I have mentioned before I have guidette tendencies because of my Italian background, and I have mentioned before that my son Sam was a born guido.  

He was actually born a little bit tan believe it or not.  He was born in May and I took him outside all summer long because I had a 9 month old to entertain (and I refuse to be anywhere but the beach in the summer.) 

I kept him out of the sun – in his infant carrier, under an umbrella.  By the end of the summer he was very dark brown.  He actually had a pacifier tan line – a perfect white circle around his mouth.  It’s one thing to be born with an olive skin tone – but this child was also born with the personality of an old Italian man. 

He had an affinity for velour Puma sweatsuits at an early age – it was all he would wear, he would fist pumps regularly, and he will only eat sausage sandwiches or pepperoni sandwiches for lunch.

When he was turning 2 – I asked him what he wanted for his birthday breakfast.  I told him he could have whatever he wanted – (expecting a request for donuts or pancakes.)

He replied – “Coffee and sausage.”

He wasn’t kidding. 

A few weeks ago – during the “March Summer” – we had a playdate at a park.  I sat on a bench with a tank top and capris on – basking in the 80 degree sun. I caught up with an old friend, while our boys played on the playground. 

We were deep in juicy conversation when Sam came running over out of breath – pulling on my arm – saying “Mommy, Mommy.”

I ignored him and kept talking for a few minutes – but he kept at it.

“Excuse me Mama, Excuse me Mama…”

Finally I had to stop talking to my friend…

“What? What do you want?” I asked exasperated.

“Am I getting tan?” he asked with a concerned look.

I just stared at him.

“Um – yes Sam – you probably are.”

“Ok – thanks.” he said and ran off.

I looked at my friend in shock. “What four-year-old stops playing to check on the status of their tan??” I asked with bewilderment.

“Well – the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” she answered.

It’s true of course.  I love a tan. I spent many years going to tanning salons and I am capable of getting frighteningly tan. 

This is me at the bus-stop with a tan.

The only sentence I know in Spanish is “No Habla Espanol” – because so many Hispanic people try to talk to me in the summer.

I love my Italian heritage – and I love that Sam is a little Jersey Shore character, especially since we live in a town where there are 2 Italians, (me and Sam.)  Even though we are all half Irish and half Italian – Mr. Gaga and Michael tend to be a little more Irish than Sam and I care for, and vice versa.

A couple of weeks ago, Mr. Gaga and I were arguing about something and he said, “Well you are absurd.”

Sam heard him and ran in from the other room to come to my defense.

“She is NOT ABSURD!!” he yelled at his father.

“Oh really? Then what is she?” Mr. Gaga said with amusement.

Sam looked at Mr. Gaga with a very serious look.

“She is ITALIAN!” he yelled indignantly.

We died laughing.

The point I am painstakingly trying to make is this.

My son was born a little “guido” that wears wife-beaters and has a New York accent and I am a guidette who likes to be tan and eat pasta.

Despite this “Situation” – it would NEVER, EVER be okay – to say – I don’t know……. TAKE HIM TANNING!

Ok I have definitely made him participate in the G and the L……..

but the T???  Really??

A woman from (where else?) Nutley, NEW JERSEY!  was arrested after being accused of bringing her 6-year-old daughter tanning! 

Now if this is not disturbing enough – I had the bad luck to watch a story about this on the news.

My eyeballs will never be the same.

If I saw this woman on the street – I would make a citizen’s arrest for disturbing the peace with her nutella-smeared leather face….and good God woman did you ever hear of blotting papers???

Apparently she has had to deal with some harsh critics lately – since she has been all over the news.  To this she replied to a TMZ reporter – “People criticize me because they are all fat and ugly.”

I am sorry – have you looked in the mirror lately Nutley, New Jersey Lady?

Do you find it all problematic that you look like Michael Jackson when he dressed up as a scarecrow in The Wiz?

Do you see your twin all the way to the right?? Are you sure you should be calling people ugly when you look like that??  At least the scarecrow has teeth and did his hair……

It’s one thing to be an idiot and go tanning incessantly – clearly we all know this is a health hazard. It can cause wrinkles and apparently make faces look like Fonzi’s leather jacket.

It’s another thing entirely – to roast your children in a tanning bed.

Excuse me Scarecrow, let me get this straight. Not only did you bring a child tanning with you – but you brought a “ginger-child?” It’s GYM, Tan, Laundry – Not GINGER, TAN, LAUNDRY!! What were you trying to do – burst her into flames???????

I love a tan like nobody’s business, but really this woman is giving tanners a bad name.

I never thought I could say this – but someone took GTL a little too far. 

I’m so glad it wasn’t me for once!





Even our Snowmen are Guidos

I am back – hope everyone had a Merry Christmas!!

The dust is settling here and I am coming out of an antipasto-induced coma and assessing how best to  return things I don’t like,

 throw the Nerf Guns in the garbage without the kids noticing, 

put things away.

I have spent a good part of the past two months complaining about how filthy my house is, how I step on little tiny LEGO pieces all over my house, and how I have to clean everything myself because my husband is too busy tailgating

Somehow – nobody cares.

None of you have offered to clean for me.

Nobody sent a cleaning service over.


Now coupled with my usual troubles of keeping a semi-clean house – I have to deal with scraps of wrapping paper, MORE toys everywhere, and the tree.

Well – somebody finally came to my rescue!!!  Just in time for pine needle season!!


I love you Bissell.

They sent me the BISSELL Perfect Sweep Turbo to help me pick up LEGOS!!! and anything else that needs a quick sweep. 

A major part of my problem is that I don’t want to go to the closet and get out my huge vacuum, so instead I just watch the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills surrounded by filth.

But now I have this Perfect Sweep Turbo- I have no excuse not to use it – this is like a modern-day dustbuster.

Mr. Gaga always says we need a dustbuster – now we just grab it from the porch and vacuum everything up – no plugging in.  And it is great at picking up those little annoying LEGOS! 

With the Perfect Sweep Turbo you can see exactly what you’re sweeping up and can easily pull it out of the container.  I mean it when I tell you –  I LOVE THIS PRODUCT. (Which you all probably already have because you are good at housekeeping.)

And now – as I tried to get organized and put things away – I got around to opening Michael’s backpack which was jam-packed with papers that I hadn’t had time to look at.

In the pile was a book that he had been working on throughout December at school.  This project entailed him writing and illustrating a book about a snowman.

When I was growing up I just wanted to listen to Cyndi Lauper or Madonna in the car and my parents would be listening to Imus or the WDRC 106.9 the Oldies station.

Mr. Gaga and I are NOT like that. WE ARE VERY COOL HIP PARENTS.  We listen to “top 40” and pop music and we know who Nicki Minaj is and are known to have dance parties with the kids.  We pretty much listen to everything – except gangsta rap.

So of course, Michael would think nothing of creating a story about a snowman that comes to life and starts to sing and dance.  I’m also sure it would seem perfectly logical for him to sing “I’m Sexy and I Know it.”

This is Michael's snowman on his way home from the Shish Lounge in West Hartford.....

So he was quite taken aback when his teacher made him change his story – because “That is not an appropriate word for a first-grader.”

He changed it to "I'm Coldy and I know it...."

Ummm….does that also mean it’s not appropriate for my kids to rip their clothes off and dance to that song in their underwear, gyrating their hips like they are Chippendales dancers?

Darn it.

I guess I will have to add to my better parenting New Year’s Resolution list – #43 – NO STRIP SHOWS TO “I’M SEXY AND I KNOW IT.”

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