Auntie teaching Lynn to make fried Cauliflower

They are having conceptual differences. She's wearing him down.

8 Famous Last Words to my Aunt from the Album of the same name

Also from the Play "Throw Away your Wigs" (the Lost Recordings)

"You realize I've never done this before, right?"


Before:

I didn't ask her to make this face, she did it all on her own. Hire her for your next film. Or commercial. Just come by, take her to WalMart. (Don't touch the shopping-cart if you do. It's hers. Trust me I learned the hard way).



After (again, no coaching. I think she looks fabulous).


Author's note: No Aunts were harmed in the making of this blog post. Views and opinions expressed on this blog are solely those of the catholic-guilt conflicted-Buddhist-Italian niece of Angelina Masullo Girtell. Mrs. Girtell declined to be interviewed for this comment.

Stories about My Husband: Another Way of Looking at it Altogether

Aunt Angie has reminded my husband, who teases her incessantly, that:

A: She is Italian

B: Since she moved in two months ago, he has almost lost two fingers

C: She knows how to get bloodstains out of everything

It's been very quiet here this evening. Very quiet.

Carmela Continues to Enthrall her Audience

See, Carmela was a little uppity, you know, she thought she was better than everyone else.

Why Carmela lived in Philadelphia

Turns out, 'cause her husband was from there, and that's where the work was in WWII.

Now We're also writing a song

Called, "You Keep your Broom on your Porch, and I'll Keep my Broom on Mine."

Aunt Angie's hoping for a Grammy.

You'll Want to Dress

Set stage:

Sunday morning, 6:30 AM.

I wake, drink coffee, and shower by 7:30 because I have promised my husband that I will drop my husband off at the golf course by 8 AM for an 8:15 tee-time, and I must drop my husband off because his truck has a trailer, and his work equipment is on that trailer, and he does not prefer to drive this trailer-married vehicle to the golf course as it may die a slow and agonizing death at any speed above 35 mph.

I am not, in the least, envious that he is playing and I am not. I have a promise to keep. “A promise made is a promise kept.” That’s what my husband says, and he got that from his mama, and she was as fine a woman as there was until cancer took her when my husband was 19, but that’s another story for another day.

In this one going on now, I have promised my 84-year-old Italian, Roman Catholic Aunt that I will play golf every-other-Sunday until I find someone, of whom we both approve, to take her to church - a church that is ten-minutes away - and that until we do indeed find someone, I will not enter nor pray in a Catholic way, but will heartily and happily deliver her only - every other Sunday as agreed.

This agreement was made by my Aunt, only after searching, observing, and somewhat-hesitantly agreeing to go to the church we identified, among others, as being acceptable, with an out-clause just in case.

I set everything up so that after I deliver her to God, I can return home, fix the dryer, vacuum my bedroom, fold the towels and return in time to redeliver her home after Mass has concluded, and look “nice” doing it.

I take all of this into consideration as I dress; I have a lovely blue and teal tie-died dress I bought at the market, I am covering it with a stylish jersey deep blue overtop, and am wearing teal and black casual sandals. I tie my hair up. I apply mascara. I wear a bra.

I look OK in my opinion as I drop Lynn at the course. People see me. They do not gasp, they wave. I feel confident in my choices.

I kiss my husband goodbye, I visit the store at his request to buy ingredients for dinner, I make sure I have mimosa-makings because I am here, I am a realist , and I understand, in a deep, soul-spiritual way, that this will be a three-mimosa day.

I return home, empty the dishwasher, waken my Aunt, trim her hair, give her a mini-facial so she feels pretty at church, send her off to dress while I smoke a cigarette on the front porch because we do not smoke in the house anymore, and she joins me. She sits on one of our comfortable porch chairs.

She sighs.

I say, “What time do you want to walk in to the front church doors.”
She says, “Well, Mass starts at 10:30, and if I’m early, I could say the Rosary, so ten o’clock.”
I say, “Check your cell-phone that you refuse to learn how to use, and tell me what time it is.”
She say, “Oh it’s ten to ten, we can’t make it.”
I say “Why?”

“Well," she says, "because you’ll want to dress.”