Sigi-licious

I'm Back!

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 01:23:00 +0000

Yes, It's been since February since I last posted but in that time so much has been going on in my life- all awesome- and I have been beyond busy. My school year was super busy as usual plus I had a steady stream of translation and web design clients right through the summer.

I did get to relax, though. I made 3 trips to Florida since the spring, plus a trip to a Dude Ranch in the Catskills, NY followed by a visit to the amazing waterfalls in Bushkill Falls. After my second trip to Florida in July, my family and I made a brief but 7 hour trip to the PA Grand Canyon. I had hoped this would hold me over until my trip out west next spring but it didn't. I also got to see the Philadelphia Eagles and the Miami Dolphins at their training camps- in the same week. For a football fan, let me tell you, this was the coolest!

In the interim, thanks to my brother-in-law, I taught myself how to use a DSLR camera as well as Photo Shop Elements and Lightroom.

I went on a few photo shoots including a fantastic one in Philly, my hometown. I also saw "Jersey Boys" on Broadway with my daughter on her birthday and had an unbelievably awesome time.

I did not abandon my culinary enjoyment, however, and cooked up stuffed artichokes, pasta e fagioli, pasta bolognese and many insalatas capreses, among other favorites. At the request of my friend Mike, I am posting my tortellini salad recipe. Note that you can substitute any pasta for the tortellini and even the most inept cook can prepare it.

This has all the ingredients of a full meal and it is quick to prepare.

Two packages of refrigerated tortellini (like Buitoni) (I like the tri color kind)
1 can black pitted olives
5 plum tomatoes- slicked then cut in quarters)
1/2 vidalia onion, diced
1 green pepper, cut in small slices
1 can of black beans
1 cucumber (peeled and cut into slices then quarters)
8 ounces of provolone cheese, cubed
1 package of Purdue cuts roasted chicken (already prepared)
1 bottle of Italian salad dressing
4 tablespoons of grated Locatelli (or a pecorino/romano blend) cheese

Cook pasta per instructions. Rinse pasta in cold water until cool.
Add other ingredients except Locatelli cheese. Blend well.
Pour bottle of Italian dressing onto salad. Mix very well and sprinkle grated cheese on top.

Enjoy!

Happy Birthday Fuzzy

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Wed, 04 Feb 2009 03:57:00 +0000

Eight years ago on February 6th my youngest daughter was born. I wasn't there for her birth. I didn't get to hold her when she was born. In fact, the first time I saw her was in a photo when she was 2 weeks old. But none of that makes her any less my daughter.

My daughter, whose name at birth was coincidentally was both my grandmother's and grandfather's names, was born in Guatemala in 2001. She was given up for adoption at birth by her mother, a generous and selfless woman, and chosen by us from among three babies. She became our daughter on paper in July, but in our hearts on the day we were sent her photo.

She is an adorable, bubbly little girl who has a great memory and is a natural gymnast and soccer player. She's very petite and very determined and you can't put anything past her-- she is sharp! She's a tomboy but she is very sensitive and has a keen sense of right and wrong. She knows where she was born and how she came to be our daughter-- she has known since she could talk.

Today I not only wish my daughter a happy birthday, but I pray for her birth mother and thank her silently for choosing to give her baby a life that she herself could not give to her. She gave me a daughter and her daughter, a mother. There is no greater gift than that.

Happy Birthday Fuzz!
We love you!

The Maloik (Malocchio) or the "Evil Eye"

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Sat, 17 Jan 2009 03:19:00 +0000

While not Italian in origin, many Italians believe in il malocchio (often pronounced "maloik.") Part superstition, part tradition, it is the belief in the evil eye, placed on someone when someone else is jealous or envious of the other's good luck. The malocchio then manifests itself in some sort of misfortune onto the cursed person, usually some physical ailment.

It can also be done involuntarily, like when you see a beautiful baby and you compliment the parent. That could be construed as envy and the parent must then say something like "God bless her" right after it to ward off a possible malocchio, many believing that even though the compliment may have sounded sincere, its real motive was envy. That's why my cousin made me put a red ribbon over the threshold of my new home and told me to throw salt out of all the doors- to protect us from envious people. The person who gives the evil eye is not necessarily evil, but does indeed harbour jealousy.

One can also ward it off by wearing a horn (cornuto) around the neck
or making a gesture with your hand (mano cornuta-which you may know from heavy metal concerts). It is said that Italian men wear the cornuto to protect their genitalia from the malocchio, as the curse is said to harm sperm.

I can't say that I believe or disbelieve the malocchio and I only have one indirect experience with it...

When my mom was in her twenties, she got a great job with the government. Soon after, she began getting terrible headaches that aspirin would not relieve. She suffered with them intermittently for a few weeks when it dawned on my litte Sigi grandmother what the problem was.

"Someone gave you the maloik. (malocchio).""You're crazy. Who would do that?" my mom responded, not telling her she was crazy for believing in "stregheria" or Italian witchcraft, but, rather, for thinking someone would put the curse on her. (The irony that my grandmother was a devout Catholic whose church forbids belief in witchcraft is not lost on me.)
"Who knows? You have that nice job now- someone is jealous and put it on you."
"Nobody is jealous of me."
"I want you to go see the strega down the street." The local strega, or Italian witch, was known to be capable of removing the horrible malocchio that afflicted unassuming Italians in the South Philadelphia neighborhood where they lived.
"I'm not going to the strega. Forget about it. The headaches will go away."
My grandmother never mentioned the malocchio again to my mother.

About a week after the strega conversation, my mom could not find her watch when she was getting ready for work. She asked my grandmother if she had seen it but she had not. My mom, a very organized and detail-oriented individual (you say anal, I say detail-oriented) who never misplaces anything, was disturbed by the missing watch. She looked everywhere for it and finally resigned herself to the fact that it must have slipped off to or from work. The stress only contributed to her constant headaches. (Knowing my mom like I do, I don't for a minute believe that she accepted that her watch was gone, and she probably continued to search for it for at least 24 hours more.)

A few days later my mom woke up and found her watch on her bureau. She put it on and asked my grandmother how it got there. My grandmother told her she didn't know. When she got home from work she grilled my grandmother about the watch.

"Are you sure you didn't borrow it and not put it back?"
"Bah, why do I need a watch? I don't go anywhere!"
"Did Daddy find it and put it in my room?"
"I don't think so. So... how are your headaches?"
"Funny, I didn't get one today."
My sigi grandmother smiled but did not say anything.
"Why are you smiling?"
"I took your watch to the strega since you wouldn't go yourself. She took off the malocchio."
"Mom!" she yelled
"It worked, didn't it?" My mom didn't know what to say to that. It was more troubling to her that someone had put the malocchio on her then the fact that there was a Sicilian witch living on their street who claimed to be able to both curse and remove curses.

How did the strega allegedly remove the malocchio. Probably by inserting the tip of a needle into the eye of another needle while saying: “Occhi e contro e perticelli agli occhi, crepa la invida e schiattono gli occhi." That means “Eyes against eyes and the holes of the eyes, envy cracks and eyes burst.” She then dropped the needles on top of three drops of olive oil in water and sprinkled three pinches of salt into the water. The strega would then jab scissors into the water through the oil three times and cut the air above the bowl three times and POOF! The spell was FINITO!

...or the aspirin finally kicked in.

Broken-hearted

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 03:02:00 +0000

Today my heart breaks. My aunt and godmother, Carole, died suddenly, a victim of apparent complications caused by Lyme disease. My aunt was only 68 years old and was a vivacious, vibrant, beautiful woman who loved to cook, travel and she loved her 11 grandchildren. She was a great source of support and comfort to me during a difficult time in my life and I loved talking to her and making her laugh, because she found me very entertaining. I liked that.

Today my beloved aunt gave up the fight. She died in her sleep this morning. It was unexpected, as just yesterday she seemed ok, that is, no worse than usual. If my heart is broken because my aunt is gone, it aches for my cousins and uncle as well- they have lost their mother, their children a grandmother, my uncle his love. My uncle once told me he had only a precious few years with my aunt, and it hardly seems fair that it took them so long to find each other, only to be separated so soon. Perhaps I feel saddest for my cousin John, whose baby daughter will never know her grandmother as we all knew her before she became sick.

I am conflicted as to why this wonderful woman was made to suffer for so long when other people who should have to suffer, do not. I try not to dwell on this as it will surely drive me insane if I do.

I am comforted by only two things- that my dear Mom Mom Santa was in heaven welcoming my aunt this morning, and that now freed from the broken body that imprisoned her, she is once again a vibrant, vivacious woman who will dance the Mummer's Strut on New Year's Day.

Rest in peace Aunt Carole. I love you.

Below is the link to the post I wrote on her 68th birthday.

Happy Birthday Aunt

The Dreaded Christmas Eve Tradition

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Wed, 24 Dec 2008 04:09:00 +0000

The following is my Christmas Eve post from last year. Nothing has changed except that now we go to my inlaws' house and for some reason, instead of serving fish, they serve cold cuts for dinner. Odd, but not much of a problem for me.

There are fewer rituals that my family performs that I dread more than Christmas Eve dinner. It should be re-named "Torture Claudia Night." No, it's not the Christmas carols that my husband and kids and I sing to far away family and friends in operatic voices over the phone- I like that part. It's not the anticipation of seeing the kids wake up and see what "Santa" brought them the next day. It's not even the exhaustion I feel every December 24th at about 1:00 in the morning, having wrapped all the gifts when the kids finally have fallen asleep. Nope. It's CHRISTMAS EVE DINNER.

What could be so dreadful about a Christmas Eve dinner? Well, my medagon friends, a typical Italian dinner on December 24th involves a long-standing and for me, unappealling traditional meal- SEAFOOD. It's the one night a year when I, myself, wear the title of "Medagon," given to me by my parents.

I don't eat seafood. Non mi piace. It never has appealed to me, with the exception of flounder. So, the meal to which I was subjected for every year of my life until I was 33 and moved far away enough from my family to not go back on Christmas Eve, just Christmas Day, is an array of "Seven Fish(es)." This does not have to be actual fish- any seafood will do. The offending fare can include (but is not limited to) the following:
-flounder or another kind of fish (in my family it was breaded flounder, the only kind I would eat, to make me feel included and loved)
-crabmeat
-shrimp
-mussels
-clams
-lobster
-calamari (I think this appeared on the table once or twice at my grandparents house where we would spend Christmas Eve until 1986 when they moved to Florida)
-tuna (in the marinara sauce)
and the one dish that my mom opted out of making and left it to my dad and grandmother: bacala (as in dried codfish, not "Bobby."). It gets soaked a long time before preparation to remove the heavy salt taste and is served with a red sauce. You'd have to rip out my tastebuds to get it to taste good to me.

The seafood was always served with linguini (I prefer capellini, but I took what I could get) with the tuna sauce and I would get a "medagon special," a dish of linguini with melted butter and cheese. Nope, I wouldn't even eat the sauce if it had fish in it.

Now some people ask why the number seven? It's debatable- the number of days to create the universe, some say, others say the number is 13- one for each apostle plus Jesus (keep me out of THOSE houses) and my mom's version- any odd number under seven. So when I got married, I made that number become ONE. Well, I started off with 3(odd number) fish the first few years of marriage thinking my Italian/Sicilian husband would expect such a meal, but after the second year while he was eating a crab cake and I was eating linguini with marinara sauce, he said "I don't really like seafood all that much, you don't have to make it." ARGHHHHHH.

The next few years we started a new tradition of flying in the face of tradition and, allegedly, Canon Law (this proved untrue- I could find nothing that says you cannot eat meat on Christmas Eve) and going out to an Italian restaurant on Christmas Eve and ordering anything but fish. For me, that means veal. On the way home from dinner we'd sing to anyone who would answer the phone while we drove, and then swear to them that we were not drunk and neither were the children. The kids sang in celebration of Christmas. I sang in celebration of not having to eat fish.

So, go ahead, take away my Italian membership card, but before you do that, you should know that this Italian-American does not drink wine, either. Good God, a 7 fish dinner with only wine to drink- what a terrible thought. blechhhh

You Know You're Italian When...

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Sat, 13 Dec 2008 06:23:00 +0000

Are you unsure of your Italian-ness? Have you been living among medagons so long that you think you may have lost your identity? Well here is a "simple" check list to prove that you are Italian.

You know you are Italian if, during your childhood, at least 30 of these things ocurred:

1.You called pasta "macaroni."

2.You spent your entire childhood thinking what you ate for lunch was pronounced "sangwich."

3.Your family dog understood Italian.

4.Every Sunday afternoon of your childhood was spent visiting your grandparents and extended family.

5.You've experienced the phenomena of 150 people fitting into 50 square feet of yard during a family cookout.

6.You were surprised to discover the FDA recommends you eat three meals a day, not seven.

7.You thought the pig each year and having salami, capacollo, pancetta and prosciutto hanging out to dry from your shed ceiling was absolutely normal.

8.You ate pasta for dinner at least three times a week, and every Sunday.

9.You grew up thinking no fruit or vegetable had a fixed price and that the price of everything was negotiable through haggling.

10.You were as tall as your grandmother by the age of seven.

11.You thought everyone's last name ended in a vowel.

12.You thought nylons were supposed to be worn rolled to the ankles.

13.Your Mom's main hobby is cleaning.

14.You were surprised to find out that wine was actually sold in stores.

15.You thought that everyone made their own bottled tomato sauce.

16.You never knew what to expect when you opened the margarine, after all you thought washing out and reusing margarine containers was normal.

17.You never ate meat on Christmas Eve or any Friday for that matter.

18.You ate your salad after the main course.

19.You thought Catholic was the only religion in the world.

20.Your were beaten at least once with a wooden spoon or broom.

21.You thought every meal had to be eaten with a hunk of bread in your left hand.

22.Your grandmother never threw anything away, you thought seeing washed plastic bags hanging on the clothes line was normal.

23. You dreaded taking out your lunch at school, you would pray that you didn't have melanzane again.

24.You can understand Italian but you can't speak it.

25.You have at least one relative who came over on the boat.

26.All of your uncles fought in a World War.

27.You have at least six male relatives named Tony, Frank, Joe or Louie.

28.You have relatives who aren't really your relatives.

29.You have relatives you don't speak to.

30.You drank wine before you were a teenager.

31.You relate on some level, admit it, to the Godfather and the Sopranos.

32.You grew up in a house with a yard that didn't have one patch of dirt that didn't have a flower or a vegetable growing out of it.

33.Your grandparent's furniture was as comfortable as sitting on plastic. Wait!!!! You were sitting on plastic!

34.You thought that talking loud was normal.

35.You thought sugared almonds and the Tarantella were common at all weddings.

36.You thought everyone got pinched on the cheeks and money stuffed in their pockets by their relatives.

37.Your mother is overly protective of the males in the family no matter what their age.

38.There was a crucifix in every room of the house, including the cellar.

39.Boys didn't do house work because it was women's work.

40.You couldn't date a boy without getting approval from your father. (Oh, and he had to be Italian)

41. February 14th is VALENTIMES Day

42.Your Christmas tree was silver.

43.You have at least one irrational fear or phobia that can be attributed to your mother.

44.Every condition, ailment, misfortune, memory loss and was attributed to the fact that you didn't eat something.

MMMMMMM MEATBALLS!

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 01:32:00 +0000

Meatballs. I love them- well, not just any meatballs, there are only a few people's whose I will eat. Part of that is the skeeve factor- I won't eat them in restaurants, houses where cats are allowed to roam the counters, or people who have questionable hygiene- nose pickers, ear pickers, people who rinse instead of use soap after using the bathroom. I'm not exactly a germophobe but since you make meatballs with your bare hands, you don't want to worry about the cleanliness of the chef. And I really hate picking hair out of my food. You get the idea.

I don't really have a preference as to the degree of softness of the meatballs, although my husband prefers them soft. Mine tend to be a little hard but I make them a little mushy for him.

My meatballs are delicious. I say that completely immodestly because even my fussy children stand next to me while I am cooking them to eat them right out of the pan, blowing on them so they don't burn their mouths. Plus my mom said they are good and to me, that's the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.

So here is my recipe for meatballs.

One pound of ground triple meat mix (also called meatloaf mix- veal, pork and beef)
two eggs
two cups of cubed bread (bakery section) OR stale Italian bread, coarsely ground in blender (not too fine)
1/2 to 3/4 cup of Locatelli cheese (if you don't have that, get a pecorino/romano blend, I'm serious, the secret is in the cheese) Do not, I repeat, DO NOT BUY THE CHEESE IN THE GREEN CAN- THIS IS NOT ACTUAL CHEESE! I highly recommend you try some Locatelli if you have not tasted it- you will never go back. You can order it here right from Philly. All you have to do is grate it.
2 cloves of fresh chopped garlic OR if you are desperate and cannot get fresh garlic, use about 6 teaspoons of garlic powder (NOT garlic salt)
2 tablespoons of dried parsley
1 teaspoon of dried basil
1/2 half to 3/4 cups of water to moisten bread
1/4 tsp. of salt
1/4 tsp of black pepper
olive oil for frying

Add the water to the cubed bread, slowly, and mix it together until the bread sticks into a ball. If you use too much water the bread won't form a ball. (If you are using bread crumbs instead of cubed bread, skip this step until later)
Mix the meat with the eggs. You have to use your hands, not utensils, it's just easier.
Add the garlic, parsley, cheese, basil, salt and pepper
Mix the meat well to blend everything.
Mix the wet bread mixture with the meat thoroughly.
**If you are using bread crumbs, mix them into the meat mixture and add the water to the mixture slowly. The meat should stick together. If it falls apart, you used too much water- add more bread)

Roll the meat into balls.
Heat the olive oil until fragrant. **If the oil is not hot when you place the meatballs in the pan, the bottom of the meatballs will stick to the pan and come apart. I learned this the hard way!

Place meatballs in frying pan, don't crowd them, they need their space, and cook until the meatball is brown and the outside is a little crispy. You'll need to repeat this step two or three times unless you want to use multiple frying pans.

Again, give "Lucatell" a try. If you can't find it in your grocery store (depends on where you live- I spent 6 years without it when I lived in Lancaster, PA!!) You can order a big wedge from DiBruno Brothers, located in Philly's Italian Market and have it shipped to you. You will not be sorry!

Postscript: Avid reader Joe Gabagool wrote me to say that under no circumstances should garlic powder be used in place of fresh garlic and that anyone who would use garlic powder has no business making meatballs. I disagree with this- if you're stuck, as I have been with ground meat in a bowl and oil heating when I realized the garlic was shriveled, garlic powder can substitute fine. And to prove it, when Joe Gabagool comes ovah for dinner in a few weeks, I'll make him try both kinds of meatballs. I'll even serve them in a cup.

The Maloik (Malocchio)

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 03:43:00 +0000

While not Italian in origin, many Italians believe in il malocchio (often pronounced "maloik." Part superstition, part tradition, it is the belief in the evil eye, placed on someone when someone else is jealous or envious of their good luck. The malocchio then manifests itself in some sort of misfortune onto the cursed person.

It can also be done involuntarily, like when you see a beautiful baby and you compliment the parent. That could be construed as envy and the parent must then say something like "God bless her" right after it to ward off a possible malocchio, many believing that even though the compliment may have sounded sincere, its real motive was envy. That's why my cousin made me put a red ribbon over the threshold of my new home and told me to throw salt out of all the doors- to protect us from envious people. The person who gives the evil eye is not necessarily, but does indeed harbour jealousy.

One can also ward it off by wearing a horn (cornuto) around the neck

or making a gesture with your hand (mano cornuta)(which you may know from heavy metal concerts.) It is said that Italian men wear the cornuto to protect their genitalia form the malocchio, as the curse is said to harm sperm.

I can't say that I believe or disbelieve the malocchio and I only have one indirect experience with it...

When my mom was in her twenties, she got a great job with the government. Soon after, she began getting terrible headaches that aspirin would not relieve. She suffered with them intermittently for a few weeks when it dawned on my litte Sigi grandmother what the problem was.

"Someone gave you the maloik. (malocchio)."
"You're crazy. Who would do that?" my mom responded, not telling her she was crazy for believing in it, but, rather, for thinking someone would put the curse on her.
"Who knows? You have that nice job now- someone is jealous and put it on you."
"Nobody is jealous of me."
"I want you to go see the strega down the street."
The local strega, or witch, was known to be capable of removing the horrible malocchio.
"I'm not going to the strega. Forget about it. The headaches will go away."
My grandmother never mentioned the malocchio again to my mother.

About a week after the strega conversation, my mom could not find her watch when she was getting readsy for work. She asked my grandmother if she had seen it but she had not. My mom, a very organized and detail-oriented individual (you say anal, I say detail-oriented) who never misplaces anything, was disturbed by the missing watch. She looked everywhere for it and finally resigned herself to the fact that it must have slipped off to or from work. The stress only contributed to her constant headaches. (Knowing my mom like I do, I don't for a minute believe that she accepted that her watch was gone, and she probably continued to search for it for at least 24 hours more.)

A few days later my mom woke up and found her watch on her bureau. She put it on and asked my grandmother how it got there. My grandmother told her she didn't know.
When she got home from work she grilled my grandmother about the watch.

"Are you sure you didn't borrow it and not put it back?"
"Bah, why do I need a watch? I don't go anywhere!"
"Did Daddy find it and put it in my room."
"I don't think so. So... how are your headaches?"
"Funny, I didn't get one today?"
My sigi grandmother smiled but did not say anything.
"Why are you smiling?"
"I took your watch to the strega since you wouldn't go yourself. She took off the malocchio."
"Mom!" she yelled
"It worked, didn't it?"
My mom didn't know what to say to that. It was more troubling to her that someone had put the malocchio on her then the fact that there was a Sicilian witch living on their street who claimed to be able to both curse and remove curses.

How did the strega allegedly remove the malocchio. Probably by inserting the tip of a needle into the eye of another needle while saying: “Occhi e contro e perticelli agli occhi, crepa la invida e schiattono gli occhi." That means “Eyes against eyes and the holes of the eyes, envy cracks and eyes burst.” She then dropped the needles on top of three drops of olive oil in water and sprinkled three pinches of salt into the water. The strega would then jab scissors into the water through the oil three times and cut the air above the bowl three times and POOF! The spell was FINITO!

Word of the Day- Moondondies

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 03:06:00 +0000

Well, it's going down to 22 degrees tonight here in PA and on my way past a department store it ocurred to me that I had not bought the kids their "moondondies" for the season.

Moondondies are necessary for living here in the North. If you have to shovel snow, they are indespensable and I always make sure the kids have theirs on before they go out to play in the snow. Since we try not to rack up a $300 monthly heating bill, we keep the heat at 69 or 70 degrees at night, which for some people is still pretty high, but I can't sleep when my nose is cold. The master bedroom has a tray ceiling and the heat goes up there so it's chilly. That makes moondondies very important, if not very, very sexy.

Moondondies, if you have not figured it out yet, are long johns. I remember growing up when my parents would announce the impending cold snap just by saying "Better go put your moondondies on!" It was a while until I actually knew the correct word, and I'll admit, until tonight I was unaware of the correct spelling- mutandoni. (Moo-tahn-doan-ee)

So now my kids have their moondondies and I have unpacked mine from the attic (Cuddlduds work very nicely) so we are officially ready to freeze our coolies off. Bring it on!

Lucky Me

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Wed, 12 Nov 2008 21:20:00 +0000

Yesterday my mom underwent surgery to remove an aortic abdominal anuerysm, which she came out of successfully. An anuerysm is potentially fatal; the fatality occurs when the anuerysm ruptures. If you don't remember your biology, the aorta is the largest artery in your body, and it carries oxygen-rich blood pumped out of, or away from, your heart. Your aorta runs through your chest, where it is called the thoracic aorta. When it reaches your abdomen, it is called the abdominal aorta. An anuerysm under 2 inches is monitored to see if it grows. When it gets larger, it must be removed. My mom's was 4 inches.

So I am lucky today because my mom was not taken from me because of the AAA and also because seven years ago, God also gave my dad a second chance when doctors accidentally found his AAA and removed it. He was only the 29th person in the country to undergo a new procedure to remove the anuerysm.

Others are not that lucky. Some 200,000 people in the US have an AAA and 15,000 people have a life-threatening AAA. Now I have to be monitored for one, because my chances increased with one immediate relative and now I have two.

How do you know if you have an AAA?

--A pulsing feeling in your abdomen, similar to a heartbeat
--Severe, sudden pain in your abdomen or lower back. If this is the case, your aneurysm may be about to burst. Get to a hospital immediately.

Factors that increase risk of having an AAA

--Being a man older than 60 years
--Having an immediate relative, such as a mother or brother, who has had AAA
--Having high blood pressure
--Smoking

Both of my parents smoked. My dad smoked for 21 years and my mom smoked for 55. Both quit cold turkey for health reasons- my mom quit on the day she found out about her AAA. Is it any wonder I am so rabidly anti-smoker, especially towards those I care about? No, you may not get cancer, which although it ravages the body and is painful to endure and watch someone endure, it at least allows you time to say goodbye to your loved ones. But from smoking you could get an AAA which most people have no symptoms of until it bursts, and then die immediately. That leaves your children, your family and friends no time to say goodbye to you nor you to them.

The surgery involves a stent which replaces the damaged part of the aorta. Both of my parents had an endovascular stent graft which goes through two small incisions in the groin instead of the more invasive surgery through the abdomen. Recovery is 2 to 3 days.

So with Thanksgiving a few weeks away, I have a lot to be thankful for- two parents who had good doctors who saved their lives and friends who prayed for my mom this week and who called and emailed me to check on her. I wish everyone with an AAA could recognize early symptoms or catch it by accident like my parents did (they both had other complaints when the AAA was found) and survive.

I Got the Fever

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Thu, 30 Oct 2008 00:37:00 +0000

It's the second half of game 5 of the World Series, and the Phillies are up to bat. I gotta say, I got the fever- Phillies fever. I haven't had it since 1981, when they made the playoffs. (I don't want to talk about 1993.) In 1980-that's TWENTY-EIGHT years ago, I was a 7th grader who tried to stay awake for the last game against the Kansas City Royals and I fell asleep. When I heard the horns honking outside I woke up and turned on the tv and saw men jumping on each other. Two days later we were allowed to wear Philies gear over our uniforms at school and we had our own Phillies parade in the parking lot during school and I was Phillie-fied from head to toe. I even won the most spirited Phanatic award. I was so excited that my home team won- and I have been a baseball fan since 3rd grade, thanks to my grandfather, a former baseball player and Phanatic himself.

So this year I'm excited. Really excited. I have butterflies in my stomach. I told my students to wear red t-shirts tomorrow if the Phils win and we'd have a "celebration" on Friday, just to see a sea of Phillie phans in red. They feel sorry for me that it's been 28 years so they all agreed, even the Mets fans I teach feel bad for me. I actually think they just want to see me spray paint my hair red, as I promised.

Well Charlie, I'm ready. Thousands of us are ready. I wish I were there right now, it looks like an amazing time and I'd love to be a part of it. But I'll cheer from here, and I'll be hoarse tomorrow, but if they win, I'll consider it worth it.

GO PHILLIES!

Make Sure You Find Out

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 03:53:00 +0000

Don't Believe the HYPE. Check out this website before you vote:

www.neverfindout.org

Local Puppy Mill Busted- a Dog Mom's Sadness

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Wed, 01 Oct 2008 22:14:00 +0000

They say every dog has its day. Well, today hundreds of dogs in Lehigh County in Pennsylvania had their day- they were rescued by SPCA officials from a fate worse than death- living in deplorable conditions in a puppy mill.

Not just any puppy mill, news reports say that this could be the biggest puppy mill in Pennsylvania state history, and one report I saw on tv said there were over 800 animals on the property. Animals, as in, not only dogs- monkeys, horses, and who knows what else. I saw the monkeys and the horses myself, but I never saw the dogs. Let me explain.

I have been to this kennel many, many times. Why would I go to such a place? Well, when I first moved to this county seven years ago we needed a groomer for our dog (who no longer lives with us after viciously attacking our then-toddler daughter, but that's another story). This kennel/groomer was close by and the owner was very nice. When we adopted our second dog, a older, scruffy looking Pomeranian mix who had lost most of his teeth, saving him from death row one week before his date with the Creator, we took him there, too. I had always heard barking from my house, about a mile away, but never made the connection. Oddly, I didn't hear a lot of barking when I was there. I also didn't ever see a dog on the premises, because everything was fenced in and on the other side of the grooming site.
This is a picture from the kennel.

When our rescued dog, Zorro, died of liver failure after we had him for six months, I was devastated. Four days later I went to this kennel to try to replace my poor old Zorro with another dog... as if he could ever be replaced. But I went. I went to our groomer, who I knew bred many different types of dogs, especially "poos" and "doodles" (that should have been my first red flag) and I asked the owner, who by now I had known for about a year, for a furry dog about 10 pounds. I thought he would let me take a walk around and see what kind of dogs he had. Instead, he brought the first dog, a "rescue" out to me. I didn't feel anything for it. Then he brought out what he called a "Cockapoo." (Three vets who have seen Rico have concurred that he is a Poodle-Bichon mix, not a Cockapoo.) My daughter and I fell in love right away- he looked like Benji. He was very inexpensive by breeder standards and I asked him why. He told me that he was small and was the last one in the litter and had been there for so long that he could give him to me for $200. I didn't ask the right questions. After all, this guy was our groomer, he wouldn't steer us wrong, right?

These are the dead dogs being taken out of a freezer at the kennel- 65 total.

We brought our newly christened Rico Brogna (yes, we named him after the Phillies player) home and then endured months of him pooping and peeing in his cage. I called the owner of kennel twice to tell him he was doing this and he told me to not give him food or drink after 7 pm. Well, duh. Meanwhile, the other problem was that the dog ran from people who came into the house. He was fine with me but ducked away from my husband. When someone else tried to pet him, he cowered. It just didn't sit right but as I put the pieces together it was to late in the game to do anything. In my heart I have always believed that Rico had been abused in some way. He definitely was not socialized, and it was obvious he had lived his life in a cage, or why else would he poop and pee where he slept... for months after we took him home? When we took him out to do his business, he didn't seem to know what to do.

Needless to say we did not go back there for grooming or another dog. (Our next dog was rescued from Mississippi in March after hurricane Katrina, when someone from work went down there to bring about ten homeless dogs to PA for waiting families.)

Flash forward to today, October 1st. My mom calls me to say there was a puppy mill bust in a nearby town. I immediately said the name of the kennel. She thought I had seen the news but no, I just knew. I went home and turned on the news and wanted to get sick. Reports say it is possibly the biggest puppy mill in the history of Pennsylvania. (And that says a lot since Lancaster, PA is infamous for their puppy mills!) Over 800 animals, multiple dogs in cages, 1000 counts of abuse and neglect, dogs covered in feces.... and my dog lived there for 10 months. My sister, a rabid anti-puppy mill proponent, told me that I truly rescued Rico, because he was not in a shelter, but living in horrific conditions in a puppy mill.

When I drove home today I passed by the kennel. It was an animal SWAT team scene. Red SPCA trucks parked all over the kennel's lawn and driveway, all the Philly news crews, news choppers hovering overhead, reporters on both sides of the street, police cars, gawkers and traffic a mile long. In one report I saw, the owner (there are three) deny that they had that many animals there and then he pushed the camera tripod out of the woman's hands. He could actually stay in business after all of this. How is that possible???

Out of the estimated 800 to 1,200 animals in this shelter, the SPCA could only remove 100 of the sickest today to send to area shelters. What will happen to the rest?

If you don't know much about puppy mills, consider this: dogs crammed in cages with other dogs, water with feces floating in it, not replaced regularly, no exercise... the list of horrors goes on.These dogs are then sold to pet stores. When you buy a pet store dog, you may be saving that particular dog, but you're leaving room for a new puppy mill dog to replace it. Reputable breeders do not sell to pet stores. It's hard to accept that your dog may have come from a puppy mill, but don't repeat the mistake, and tell others. The best place to find a dog is on petfinder.com, which lists dogs from shelters all across the country, and which is how we located Zorro. PETFINDER

Allow me to give you a few links, one of which includes this site: Write To Legilsators to write to your congressman in PA to get the USDA to enforce the Animal Welfare Act and stop breeders from being allowed to shoot their dogs when they are too old or useless to breed anymore. You can also read about how PA farmers kill the dogs and use their remains as fertilizer for crops.

PACASHCROP
Mainline Animal Rescue

Click HERE for the video.

My Pal Al Becomes a Teenager Today

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Sat, 30 Aug 2008 04:30:00 +0000

Thirteen years ago today I became a mother at the age of 26. It is hands down the single-most amazing day of my life, that day I gave birth to my daughter. Not even the recollection of 41 hours in labor and complications can taint the memory of the moment I held my baby girl for the first time and realized that astoundingly deep, special, love that other moms had told me about but that I had never experienced until then. There is no other love in the world like that of a mother and her child.

There are people who tell me to "cut the cord." I want to know why I have to? If my daughter likes to be around me but has a normal social life and friends, why should she not want to turn to me when she needs advice or help or just to snuggle? Why should she not want to be with me when she is somewhere where she does not feel comfortable? Why must a cord be cut at this crucial age when kids get involved with illicit substances, irresponsable peers, boyfriends who may pressure them to have sex and bring unexpected children in to the world only to dash the dreams of two youngsters with a future? Our society has become a bunch of cord-cutters way before the cord should be cut. Drop-outs, teen pregnancies, drug users, absentee parents, permissive parenting, emotionally unavailable parents... these are all good reasons for parents to keep that cord intact until the child indicates he or she is ready to cut loose. When I was a kid it was called "having a strong relationship with your parent."

So, today my baby girl becomes a teenager and I find it so hard to come to terms with. Wasn't it just the other day I carried her in the Snugli and danced with her to get her back to sleep at 3:00 AM? Wasn't it just yesterday when she was playing dress-up? Where are the years going? My beautiful little baby is now a beautiful little woman in whom I see many of my own traits- some good and some not so much and so many more that I only wish I possessed. She is artistic, creative and musically talented- playing drums, keyboard and singing soprano in the competitively selected choral group at school. She is sensitive, intuitive and feisty. She is athletic-- playing basketball, soccer and cheerleading all since she was seven years old. She is writing a book, she writes songs and poetry and she loves to learn. While at times her adolescent moods interfere with some (or all) of these activities, I know that they will pass. (They will pass, right?) For the past 3 years, my "little" girl (who is now 5'2") has been setting her alarm to wake up at 5:50 AM, the exact time she was born, in order to wake me up and thank me for giving her life. She then goes back to bed and I fall back to sleep thinking about what a sweet child I have and how lucky I am.

So to the teenager I call "My Pal Al" (after a favorite kids' book of ours) I say

HAPPY 13th BIRTHDAY!!

I love you the whole wide world and the universe!

The Olympic Gymnastics Routines Have Me

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 03:06:00 +0000

I don't usually watch the Olympics. I do enjoy the gymnastics competitions, especially for men because I am amazed that a man can contort and move his body and demostrate such strength in such a graceful way. So this year I have watched almost all of the gymnastics competitions and I have found myself staying up late with my daughter cheering for Jonathan Horton (her favorite)
and Alexander Artemev (my favorite).

When I coached cheerleading I was always in awe of the girls who could do standing tucks, back tucks, roundoff back handsprings and rted combinations. When I see the USA girls do this and more on the bars, the vaults, the beam, or their floor routines I watch, mesmerized, knowing that under no circumstances could my body ever be trained to imitate that. Watching Alicia Sacramone fall attempting her mount on the bar broke my heart, but not as much as it did when she fell later in the floor exercise. She was the one I was rooting for the most. Here she is at Olympic Trials doing a great job- no falls.

My favorite event this year is the pommel horse, and only because I saw Alexander "Sasha" Artemev turn his body into a machine atop that horse. In and out, side to side, up, then down and finally a complicated combination of twists and turns with his lower body in the air gave me the chills. His dismounts were excellent and he was proud of his bronze medal.

But remember when a bronze medal counted for something? These young men who earned the bronze medals for gymnastics were so visibly excited to have that medal, with one even saying he would tattoo the bronze on his back when he got home, are what the Olympics are about-- the pure love for your sport, the spirit of competition whether you win one or not- the most momentous occasion of one's life.

And then there is the grumpy Swede. Ara Abrahamian does not consider a bronze medal to be anything more than a failure in his quest for gold in Greco-Roman wrestling. So when he got his medal, he stormed off the stage and threw it away. Boo hoo. Only a bronze. I hope the next person was awarded it. If he didn't want the bronze medal, he should have performed to the standard of gold!
Here you can see this sore loser get his medal, high five the guy next to him, step down from the stage and throw his medal on the floor and leave. What a baby.

A final note, even before Bela Karolyi mentioned how young the Chinese women's team looked, as in, not the minimum age of 16, we sat here and noticed that some of those girls looked younger than my almost 13 year old daughter! There's a big secret newspaper article about it that was pulled and is not spoken about so the mystery will remain unless China fesses up.

Wuddya tawkin abou? The Philly Accent

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 04:46:00 +0000

For 38 years of my life I spoke with a Philly accent and never realized how heavy it was. I had never paid attention to the way I chop the ends of my words off, or slur some words together. That was until I did an internet radio show early in 2007 and a friend of mine in Florida harrassed me about my thick Philly accent. So I started paying attention to how I speak and it's a wonder people know what I am saying! I'm way in the suburbs of Philly now and not many people speak like I do. But most of the people here are from New York or Joisey so they don't really notice. So now I catch myself saying words that other people pronounce correctly and I mangle. That's "cuz" I'm originally from "Sowfilly" (that would be South Philly, but to me, it's all one word).

I never realized that instead of saying "leg" I say "leyg." I do remember being teased by friends in high school because I couldn't (and still can't) pronounce "mirror." I say "mir-eh" and of course it's not "window" for me, it's "windeh." I say "anutheh" not "another" and "aready" not "already." My dad always corrected my pronunciation of "crayon" which was (and still is) "crown"' as if I had a speech impediment. Come to find out, it is no such thing! It's a product of my upbringing ovah deh! "Didn't" is "Dint" and "nothing" to me has neither an "o" nor an "ing." (Nuthin) If you bother me while I'm "writin" I'll say "whadyawan?"

For vacation, I just go "Downehshur" which means the Jersey Shore, and by the way, you don't go to the shore, you're not "at" or "on" the shore, you go down the shore and you are then down the shore. I pay the lectric bill, (it's a cuppela hundred dollahs but I wish it were only a cuppela corders) and I don't know what happens to the "E." I dry off with a tal after I showeh with wuhduh.

I never say "youse" or even "yiz" but I do call everyone "you guys."

There's a more complete list I found for more Philly pronunciations. I don't committ all of the crimes on the list but I have some not on there!. Check it out!
Amd here is a great link for more detailed reasons as to why we tawk funny- at University of PA they actually study this phenomenon!

So, YO, next time you hear someone with a funny Philly accent speak, take a look at your own regional accent ovah deh.

Have You Seen This Man?

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 21:37:00 +0000

Last seen near Philly, June, 1986.

If you have seen him, please call Chong, he misses him.

Is She Your Daughter?

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 20:49:00 +0000

Today I had to take my oldest daughter to the hospital for some bloodwork. Between registration and going in to have blood drawn, my daughters and I waited with the crowd to be called back again. Gabriela, my seven-year old, sat down at a play table and Allie and I opened books to read. I couldn't concentrate, however, because I felt like people were staring at me. And whispering. I knew exactly why. I looked to my right and there was a couple staring at me, then Gabriela, then Allie, and whispering. Again, I knew why. I didn't need to hear their conversation to know what they were saying. "The older one looks just like her but the other one must be from China." Gabriela was oblivious to the stares but I wasn't. After a few seconds I heard the dreaded words:
"Excuse me." I knew it was meant for me. I looked up, ready to answer.
"Yes?" I asked.
"Is she your daughter?"
Well duh, of course she is, didn't she hear her call me MOMMY a second ago?

"Yes."
"Is she Chinese?"
"No," I answered, not offering any other information.
"Where is she from?" the woman was not giving up. This was my chance. This time I had a smart-ass answer that my husband and I had always joked about using when people are rude enough to ask me how my family was formed.
"My uterus." I replied.
The woman looked startled, confused.
"You mean she isn't adopted?"
Now I'm mad. What nerve! Didn't I just say the word UTERUS? I am floored. Gabriela is not listening, she's playing happily.
"No, she is not."
"Oh. Well, no offense, but she looks Chinese."
"None taken. My mother is Chinese."
Now the woman has no idea what is going on.
"Really? You don't look Chinese."
Here was the coup de grace that I had dreamed of using.
"I know. My mom was adopted."
I got the girls together and walked to the other side of the waiting room and left the woman and her husband to ponder how my mother is Chinese but I'm not and how Gabriela looks Chinese but is not adopted.

This was not a young couple that perhaps was asking about Gabriela because they wanted to adopt. I've met parents like that and they know how to approach adoptive parents for the most part. I've also met other adoptive parents who will come up to me and say something like "She is so cute. Is she from _____." Parents of Chinese children know Gabriela is not Chinese. (She is Guatemalan, by the way.)

These people are rarely people interested in adopting. I am more than happy to help those people. These are tehe people that have asked me how much Gabriela "cost," why she was given up for adoption, couldn't we have children of our own, and asked if I met her "real" mother.

I used to take these opportunities to educate the rude and the curious about international adoption and adoption-sensitive language but I'm getting tired. I'm not ashamed of how Gabriela came to be my daughter, on the contrary, I am grateful and proud. I am an advocate of adoption. However, people need to think before they approach a stranger and just let things fly out of their mouths, especially when the child is right there.

Happy Birthday Lauren!!

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Sun, 03 Aug 2008 03:27:00 +0000

Today is my cousin Lauren's birthday. She is older than I but I will refrain from mentioning her age. She doesn't look it, regardless. Lauren is beautiful-- so beautiful that when she had her senior portraits taken in high school, the photographer asked to use her face as his advertisement photo. She is also one of the most caring individuals I know, using her common sense and her nurse's training to care for my aunt who is sick with Lyme's disease (See July 1st post). And that is on top of raising her 4 children.

About the time I started college, Lauren became more like an older sister to me-- something I always wanted as a kid since I was the older sister and had nobody to confide in or teach me about makeup and boys and girl stuff. She always had great advice, and while together we are quite the judgemental duo, she has never judged me for a decision I have made and vice versa. I guess you could say our support for each other is unconditional, like love.

Happy Birthday Lauren, and Many More!

Love,
Claudia

The Throne

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Sun, 03 Aug 2008 02:57:00 +0000

When I was a kid, and I mean as far back as I can remember, my grandparents had a clear toilet seat with real coins inlaid in the plastic. As a very young child I thought this was the coolest thing ever and always tried to count the coins and see how much money was in there, but would lose my place and give up. I knew there were Kennedy half dollars in there, maybe five. As a teenager I just thought it was freakishly odd. Nobody else I knew had a toilet seat like this and I always thought it was some special Italian item for some reason. It turns out that they bought it on a trip to where else? Las Vegas.

When my grandparents moved to Florida in 1986 they took the seat with them. On my first trip to visit them I recall saying "Oh My Gawd it followed them here." And to make matters worse, in their new home they put the seat in the bathroom that had a solid wall of mirrors and great big Hollywood vanity lights. It was what I pictured a Vegas casino bathroom to look like.

My grandmother died in 1996 and my grandfather moved back to Philadelphia to live with my parents. My dad had flown to West Palm Beach to pack up what he could for my grandfather and shipped it to Pennsylvania. He said he was mainly shipping items of sentimental or monetary value and having an estate sale for the rest. So, imagine my disgust when that coin-laden toilet seat showed up- IN MY PARENTS' POWDER ROOM!! I know when I walked into that room I actually screamed. "WHY WON'T THIS SEAT DIE?" My mother said "That's a very valuable seat." (To whom, I wondered, to the collectors of coin-encrusted toilet seats??) I responded "That is a very TACKY seat." Not to mention it did not match the décor in the powder room at all. Well, my mother must have agreed because on my next visit there, it had been replaced.

Fast forward about four years later when I was at their house after my grandfather died, throwing away some stuff I had stored there years earlier. Out of the corner of my eye I saw it, something bright and shiny under a box and some newspapers, like it had fallen out of the trash and then a box fell on top of it. I dug into the pile and to my utter horror there it was-- THAT FREAKING GAUDY COIN TOILET SEAT. I yanked on it to pull it out the pile and when I had freed it, I dumped it right into the garbage can. I smacked my hands together to dust them off and walked away proudly. That seat would be no more.

About an hour later my father came home from a fishing trip and I heard him open the garage door. He spent a few minutes in there putting his gear away and then he came into the house... HOLDING THAT @!(@*#)(# TOILET SEAT. "DAD! What is that a boomerang? I just threw it out." "Hey, you leave this be," he said waiving it in the air. "This is expensive." "Dad,look, let's get the axe. We'll bust it open and you can have all the coins, ok?" My father gave me one of those patented "Don't mess with me" looks and returned that eyesore to the garage. I appealed to my mother. "Mom, is Dad just going to keep that coin seat in there like Fred Sanford?" "He still has it?" ooops. "Yes, I threw it away and he fished it out." "Well, you know, it wasn't cheap."

Yes, I know. But it's a 25 year old, used, gaudy, cheesey, tacky COIN-FILLED TOILET SEAT!!!

It's 2008 and the seat remains in the garage. Not being used, of course, just saved. 'Cuz it's expensive.

Feel my pain.

Waiting for 50 Years For True Love

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Mon, 28 Jul 2008 01:24:00 +0000

Who says you can never find your way back to your one true love?

Loni Anderson, who is 62 years old and has been married three times, most famously to Burt Reynolds who shocked her with divorce papers out of the blue, has been reunited with her first boyfriend and true love, Bob Flick. She met him when she was a teenage model and was hired to pose for pictures at one of his folk music concerts. They dated for seven months. Now, almost 50 years later, they got married, after Loni got back in touch with him and they had a long-distance relationship for a year.

How sweet is this story? It's even sweeter knowing what Loni went through with her divorce to Burt Reynolds, but rekindling a romance 50 years after it started and falling in love gives me goosebumps! She found her soulmate after all. "Never give up on true love," she was quoted as saying.

Good for Loni!

From the WHAT THE HELL? Department

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 17:08:00 +0000

When it comes to naming children, I'm pretty traditional. I'm big into maintaining one's ethnic heritage or choosing a name that won't get a kid beaten up at school. However, as this is a free country, I do respect the right to name your child whatever you want, even if it makes you look like a weed-smoking idiot.

That said, an article popped on my yahoo screen about a poor nine year-old child in New Zealand who was cursed with the name "Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii." Yes, you read correctly. Talula Does the Hula... From Hawaii. I suppose it could have been worse, because other nutty New Zealanders have also tried to name their children Fish and Chips, Yeah Detroit, Stallion, Twisty Poi, Keenan Got Lucy and Sex Fruit, only to be blocked when they tried to register the names. "New Zealand law does not allow names that would cause offense to a reasonable person, that are 100 characters or more long, that include titles or military rank or that include punctuation marks or numerals."

I want to laugh at the thought of someone being named "Fish and Chips," really, I do, but it's too tragic. I mean, come on. Sex Fruit? How much crack does one have to be doing to want to burden their child with this name, which is not even a name? What is wrong with people?

Why stop at these names, though? I have some I think should be considered:

Fonzie
Rumplestiltskin
Female Pajama (Pronounced: Fe malay- Pee-jah-may)
Hibachi
Lemon Pledge
Ink Jet Printer
Earwig
Beetlejuice
Awopbabaloobobawopbamboom
Nostril Hair
Go Eagles! (exclamation point must be included)
The Tonight Show with Jay Leno
Library Card
Penicillin
Horshack
Epidermis

I thought Michael Jackson had lost it when I found out he calls his youngest child "Blanket," and Gwyenth Paltrow named her kid "Apple." That's nothing after reading this.

Picture it, Sicily, 1923...

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 03:00:00 +0000

She was not really Sicilian but she did a lot of things that reminded me of my Sicilian grandmother. I loved the character of Sophia Petrillo on the Golden Girls, played by Estelle Getty, who died at 84 today. I know, she looked 84 when she was on the show in the 1980's but she was actually younger than Bea Arthur, who played her daughter! I never missed that show as a teenager and I still watch the re-runs on my little treadmill television at the gym. Very uncool, I realize, but the only reason I go to the gym is to pick up octagenarians.

I crack up when I hear her crazy "picture it, Sicily" stories, like the one when she was friends with Mama Celeste, or she slept with Pablo Picasso. I found the clip on YouTube:

Her character's sarcasm was unparalleled. Here are some of my favorite lines of Sophia's:

Sophia: Make way for the victors.
Rose: You won the big game?
Sophia: No, Rose. We lost and we all changed our names to Victor.

Rose: Penny for your thoughts Sophia?
Sophia: You’re and idiot and that’s on the house.

Rose; Did they have chores in Sicily?
Sophia: Are you kidding? They invented chores in Sicily. Crossing the street without getting pregnant was a chore in Sicily

Estelle Getty was Jewish and she played a Sicilian immigrant. She's not the only one, though. (Allow me to digress from my tribute to Estelle...) It always struck me as odd how Hollywood casts so many Jewish people to play Italians. Case in point:

- Sophia Petrullo- "Golden Girls-" Estelle Getty
- Dorothy Zbornak-"Golden Girls-" Bea Arthur
- The Fonz- "Happy Days-" Henry Winkler
- Frank DeFazio- Laverne's father on "Laverne and Shirley"- Phil Defazio(born Arthur Cohen)
Paul Muni, Edward G. Robinson- played Italian gangsters in movies.

I know there has never been a shortage of Italian actors so what gives?

Supposedly, real Italians don't look as Italian as Jews. I don't know what that means or who the Italians are that the casting agents saw but they need to visit my family and cast a few of us.

But, I've also heard that Italians look more like native Americans.
Remember this guy?

He was known as Iron Eyes Cody but his real name was Espera DeCorti, and he was Sicilian-American born in the US of Sicilian immigrants! (However, he did live his life as a native American, marrying a Native American woman, adopting Native American sons and dedicating his life to native American causes.)

So it is a sad day for Estelle Getty's fans. Looking on the internet for a video of her I found a huge amount of tributes and comments from fans, so I know I an not alone. The poor thing died from dementia, a really terrible way to go, and to picture her dying like that is the total opposite of how many of us remember her in real life, both on the show and off. Rest in Peace, Estelle.

Can't Wait For This Book! "Drop Dead, Neighbor"

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 00:38:00 +0000

I'm a book dork. By that I mean that several times when I finished a book I really loved, I wrote to the author. I figure that if my book ever gets published (or finished) one day, I'd like to hear from someone who read it and was moved to either laugh or cry.

So a few years ago I wrote to Saralee Rosenberg. It was the first time I wrote to an author and I didn't expect to get a response, but I really loved her book "Claire Voyant," which I just happened to pick up at Wegman's supermarket. The cover caught my eye so yes, I judged a book by its cover. Bad book dork, bad! I laughed so hard in some parts that I remember having tears streaming down my face-- especially a part about spam emails. I also got misty-eyed at another part, but that was because it was so sad.

So, not only did Saralee respond, we exchanged a number of emails over the following weeks. In fact, I almost got her to come to the high school where I teach and give a presentation but I think it fell through on my school's end because she was definitely willing- in fact, it was her idea.

So, after reading "A Little Help from Above," which I also loved, and then "Fate and Ms. Fortune: A Novel," the trifecta sealed my place as a confirmed fan. When I found out two weeks ago that Saralee has a new novel coming out on 7/22, I cheered a little. 'Cause I'm a book dork, remember? It's called "Drop Dead, Neighbor," and here is the summary:

In Mindy's yoga-obsessed, thirty-is-the-new-wife neighborhood, every day is a battle between Dunkin' Donuts, her jaws-of-life jeans, and Beth Diamond, the self-absorbed sancti-mommy next door who looks sixteen from the back. So much for sharing the chores, the stores, and the occasional mischief to rival Wisteria Lane.

It's another day, another dilemma until Beth's marriage becomes fodder on Facebook. Suddenly the Ivy League blonde needs to be “friended,” and Mindy is the last mom standing. Together they take on hormones and hunger, family feuds and fidelity, and a harrowing journey that spills the truth about an unplanned pregnancy and a seventy-year-old miracle that altered their fates forever.

Dear Neighbor, Drop Dead is a hilarious, stirring romp over fences and defenses that begs the question, what did you do to deserve living next door to a crazy woman? Sometimes it's worth finding out.

If you are looking for a great book to read, check out any one of these, if you like chick lit, you'll love them!

P.S. I am not being paid by Saralee Rosenberg to plug her books.

Remembering Rosie

noreply@blogger.com (Sigi Me) — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 01:02:00 +0000

Two years ago today my mentor and dear friend passed away from breast cancer. Dr. Rosario Caminero was my graduate school Spanish professor whom I had met two years before starting grad school when I worked in the Foreign Languages Department as an assistant. I got to know her very well working there and by the time I got my B.A. and signed up for her grad courses, I already had a tremendous respect for her. Her knowledge of Spanish linguistics and composition was vast and her classes were always upbeat and interesting. I looked forward to those intensive graduate classes-five days a week- and even the compositions, because she was the professor. I learned more from her in two years than I had in the four previous years- she was that incredible.

Dr. Rosie, as I called her because I respected her too much to call her by her first name as she asked, dressed with panache. She always wore a brightly colored dress or skirt to teach or a beautiful pantsuit, and never without stylish shoes. She walked with a clip and always seemed to be in motion, talking with her hands- her Spanish and English coming out rapid fire. She smelled of Giorgio perfume, a scent I liked so much I bought it myself but it didn't smell the same on me. Simply put, she was my guru, my mentor, my inspiration to become a teacher, for when I first met her I was not a teaching major- I was set to graduate with a B.A. in Spanish which did not qualify me to teach- I needed a B.S.Ed.

I began the graduate program immediately after I graduated so I could become certified to teach. Still unsure of my decision after many mornings full of pedagogy classes, my future as a Spanish teacher eventually fell into place in the afternoons in her classroom. Her love for teaching, her patience and her passion were all qualities I wanted to emulate. She made teaching look fun, enjoyable and dare I saw... rewarding! I wanted my students to enjoy my classes as much as I enjoyed hers. She counseled me on boyfriend troubles, family situations and taught me what it took to be a great teacher. She was my surrogate mom.

Rosie lost her battle with breast cancer on July 17, 2006. The only time I have felt as sad as I did that day was when my grandparents passed away. I am grateful for having had her in my life to inspire me, to guide me and to be there for me to try to emulate. Her stylish pumps are way too big to fill but she is always present for me to look to as an example. And I will never forget the advice she gave me on my wedding day, which I am so happy was caught on videotape: "Claudia, acuérdate quién es la jefa." ("Claudia, remember who is the boss"- she used the feminine form to mean me.)

Rest In Peace, Dr. Rosie