This Full House Archive

Tag: this full house

  • Social Media for Good: Blood, Sweat & Brinner!

    Heather blood type = A for AwesomeI started blogging back in 2003 and, thinking back on it now, there weren’t many people in my real life who knew or understood why in the heck I would even consider sharing personal stories, “on the internet”.

    Flash-forward 10 years:  nearly everyone I know is “on the internet” (including my own father, hey Apu!) doing pretty much the same thing — connecting with each other and sharing information through social media channels like Facebook, Instagram and Pinterest — not to mention, sharing stuff about their kids.

    My kids have grown accustomed to hearing me go on…and on…and on…really, I could go on…fuh-evuh…about using their social media powers for good.

    Aaaaaand, then my middle girl (she’s 17) tells me her classmates are organizing an evening blood drive at a local community church over spring break and, well, how cool would it be if we help serve the folks donating blood breakfast for dinner (or brinner)?!?

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  • Sleeping Quadruple in a Sofa Bed

    CONFESSION:  I have this thing about sleeping, in the dark.  I know, considering humans are not generally classified as being nocturnal, sucks for me, right?!?

    It's like my internal clock crossed wires (or something) because, at the end of the day, no matter how physically tired or mentally exhausted I may be (and let me tell you, raising 3 teens and my youngest a teen by default, I totally be!) as soon as the light goes out…[sound of a pin, dropping]…my senses automatically kick into…HOLY CRAP!!!!…WHAT THE HECK WAS THAT?!?

    No, my husband is NOT very happy about it.

    In fact, we adopted our first cat (a few months after we were married) because Garth (not his real name) was leaving on a business trip for several days; thinking that a pet would, at the very least, keep me company and, well, he was a very affectionate cat.

    Still, old ghosts can be REAL hard to kill (right?!?) and we were both a little surprised to find that it worked:  along with the butcher knife I accidentally left under my husband's pillow, which he discovered on his first night back.

    Thankfully, with his hand (not his head) and by its handle.  True story.

    [sound of crickets, chirping]

    Aaaaaanywaaaaay, I've been traveling out-of-state and staying in a two-bedroom condo, with two separate floors, for a few nights:  which, in my mind, is tantamount to broadcasting fresh meat to every zombie within earshot.

    The first night, I slept in the living room:  without bothering to open the sleeper sofa, because jumping off and out is…you know…THAT much quicker.

    The second night, I opened the sleeper sofa:  because I actually didn't really realize it opened, until now…don't judge.

    By the third night, I was absolutely exhausted:  because sleeper sofas can be super-uncomfortable (especially, when you are up all night, with a bad back and stacking cushions high enough to be able to watch The Golden Girls marathon on television) and keeping an ear out for zombies is hard work…YO!!!

    Sleepover

    From left to right: my sorry ass, Corine, Carol and Jen

    Last night:  lucky for me, I also happened to be traveling with 3 very good friends who did NOT think twice about babysitting my sorry ass AND calling it a pajama party…instead.

    With friends like this, who needs a butcher knife?!?

    ©2003 – 2013 This Full House

    P.S.  Did YOU know that Blanche got married?!?  

    P.P.S.  Never mind.

  • Out of the Picture

    This is a post that I have written AND deleted many, many times and for very different reasons, mostly because it is not a very nice story and, honestly, unlike our house (IRL) I do prefer to keep my blogging world as light (and airy) as possible.

    Also, it is not my story to tell (not all of it, anyway) and, although very few childhood images remain as clear in my mind, some memories are best left forgotten, right?!?

    Truth be told, I was more concerned with my children inheriting the same self-perpetuating fear that I've had to live with for the last 40+ years:  questioning myself, over and over again, whether or not there was anything I could have done or said to prevent it from happening to me, this is the legacy of domestic violence.

    In other words, what they don't know can't hurt them…and won't, if I have anything to do with it…DAMMIT! 

    Mama, Kerestzmama and Anyu

    Nagy Mama, Aunt Theresa and my Mom (standing) c. 1956

    Then I recently came across this picture of women I have loved and admired all my life.  I pinned it to the bulletin board, right above my desk.  I adore and cherish this picture on so many levels, but most of all because they are all smiling.

    Also, there is a reason why it seems slightly off-center:  I had cut out the image of my grandfather, long ago.

    Still, I felt a wave of nausea and had to fight to keep from getting sick.

    I did not invite my grandfather to my wedding and he's never met my children.  In fact, the man has been dead (figuratively and literally) to my (and my aunt's) family for years now, but I was suprised how just the simple thought of him could STILL hold such power over me.

    I turned the picture over in my hand, found writing on the back (it was grandmother's) and then I cursed myself for not translating it first.

    What I could make out:  it was taken in the small village where they lived, right before the Hungarian Revolution broke out, and judging by my mother's and aunt's age (at the time) probably right before they immigrated to the U.S.

    Without my grandfather.  Yes, my grandmother left her husband behind, on purpose.

    Back-story:  he followed them here, lying about their separation to a social worker, who gave him the address of their foster family, so that he could reunite with his wife and children.

    This is the part of the story that is not ALL mine to tell:  suffice it to say, he was the type of man to hide food from his starving children. True story. 

    I can tell you:  my earliest memory is of him, hitting my grandmother hard enough to knock her into the next room…right in front of me.

    Thinking on it some more, I probably should have asked my mother's permission, before cutting his image from the picture, but deep down inside I know she most likely would agree:  my heart was in the right place; we are ALL in a much better place.

    If only I could cut away the pain he's caused our family, just as easily — most especially, now that both my grandmother and aunt have passed.

    On the other hand, my children's memories of their grandfather ARE very, very different; they WILL be better wives, husbands, mothers and fathers in spite of it.  

    I win!

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House

    Are you a victim of domestic violence?  Call or text the National Domestic Violance Hotline:  Peer Advocates are available for assistance and support 24/7. Text “loveis” to 77054 or call 1-866-331-9474 or 1-866-331-8453 TTY or chat live online.

  • It’s Not The Years, HONEY – It’s the Mileage!

    My husband, Garth (not his real name) and Wayne (also not his real name, see what I did there?) met sometime around 1st grade.  They lived a couple of blocks away from each other and, throughout their elementary, middle school and high school years, remained the best of friends.

    Then Garth (NHRN) asked Wayne (NHRN) to help him move into his college dorm, inviting a mutual friend along (Tia, not her real name either) knowing that his friend Wayne (NHRN) had a secret crush on her and that the feeling was mutual.

    Note:  I feel it safe to say, having successfully conveyed the fact that no one in this story would willingly care to be associated with my blogging (no, I can't say as I blame them), I feel it unnecessary and quite cumbersome in my continuing to use the (NHRN) acronym (you're welcome!)

    Wayne and Tia were married a few years later and asked Garth to be their best man.  Garth and I were dating for about a month when he asked me to attend the christening of Wayne and Tia's first born son.

    Garth and I were engaged a few months later (he had me at, so you want to go out to dinner or something?) asked Wayne to be the best man at our wedding and then, a few years after that, we asked both Wayne and Tia to be Godparents to our middle girl.

    Wayne and Tia moved back to the old neighborhood to raise their kids, into a house down the street from my in-laws, while Garth and I had two more children, catching up to Wayne and Tia in requesting a table for six (or twelve, on those rare occasions we would eat out, all together).

    At this point in time, we started referring to our pregnancy time lines to keep track of each other's milestones or whenever we'd share stories about the summers our families spent vacationing together.

    Then, one day, something changed and we did not speak or see each other for the next ten years.

    What the hell happened?  Honestly, I couldn't tell you.  Garth and I still don't really know and would be hard-pressed to come up with an answer that would make any sense.  

    The only thing I can tell you, for sure, is that Wayne and Tia had disconnected themselves from most everyone, at that time (especially, family) and, as awful as this is going to sound, Garth and I took some solace in wondering (more like, hoping) maybe it wasn't "just us".

    Still, all was NOT lost, as we continued to exchange Christmas cards and then leave our happy birthday wishes for each of their kids…on the answering machine.  

    Then we stopped calling.

    Garth and I would see Wayne, from time to time, while driving past his and Tia's house (considering they still live down the corner from my in-law's) and catch glimpses of their kids, who would wave at us and perhaps wonder if we had moved or where we had gone.

    Then they stopped waving.

    Even longer story, shorter (seriously, I'm almost done) Garth and I received an invitation to Wayne's suprise 50th birthday party with a note:  although there has been distance in our relationship, you are both forever in our hearts and the boys and I know Wayne would love to have you at his party — hope you will join us!

    Garth and I were both silent on the drive to the restaurant on Saturday night, wondering if we would know any of the people attending the surprise party, whether or not anyone would recognize us and just what in the hell WAS it that robbed these two best friends of the last ten years, anyways?!?

    We walked into the restaurant, were greeted with a roomful of blank faces and, as terribly awful as this is going to sound, again took solace in knowing (or, at least, we were pretty sure) nope, it wasn't "just us".

    Garth hugged his Godson and asked if there would be any family attending the party?

    "You're it, Uncle Garth."

    [lump meet throat]

    Then it hit me, like a well-deserved bitchslap upside the head:  years after moving out of the house I grew up in, I never quite understood why my parents insisted on visiting "the old house" and then call to tell me just how bad it really looks.

    Until, the day the kids and I took a quick detour, were stunned into silence and then spent the rest of the drive home…remembering.

    It's sort of the same with Wayne and Tia:  no matter how broken, battered or beaten-up life gets us (seriously, a lot can happen in ten years, yes?) our friendship has good bones.

    Aaaaaand, yes, they happen to be getting older and more fragile by the minute (our bones, I mean, and us too, I guess) but, we STILL look good….DAMMIT!!!

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House

  • Taking a Backseat

    Traveling with younger kids is hard, trust me, I know.  Our minivan has plenty of battle scars — not to mention, unidentifiable stains, which will stay that way, because, seriously, I don't even WANT to know!

    I am STILL finding petrified food, circa 2006.  

    My husband, Garth (not his real name) refers to the minivan as the S.S. Movable Feast, ever since the ant infestation…that ONE time…and who knew ants have a very keen sense for fishy crackers, right?!?

    [sound of crickets, chirping]

    I have clocked in a lot of miles, driving kids to and from…well…everywhere and spent countless number of hours…sitting in traffic…or fighting my way through parking lots, sometimes ALL in the same day.

    I grew accustomed to it, pretty quickly, and often times would steal a brief glimpse of my kids in the rear view mirror, staring at the back of my head or slumped in their car seats, fast asleep.  

    I also became quite adept at back-handing them their juice boxes (fishy crackers, not so much) while we discussed real meaning of life sort of stuff.

    Like, what happens when you hold your nose, fart and sneeze at the same time?  Would your brain ooze out of your ears or your eyes bleed boogers?

    The answer, by the way, is:  not yet.

    My kids grew up in our minivan (me too!) and, now that my oldest is driving and with the middle girl applying for her learner's permit this spring (HOLD ME!), I am slowly beginning to get used to the idea of not having to drive…especially, if I really don't want to…sort of.

    View from the backseat

    Today, I feel it safe to say:  traveling with grown kids is even harder, because this is what happens when your 14 year-old reaches 6 feet on the measuring wall.

    Guess I should start getting used to this view, eh?

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House

  • A Girls Night, Inside Out!

    We attended a family get-together a few years ago, to commemorate the passing of Garth’s (not his real name) Uncle, and — although we very rarely get the chance to visit with Buzz and Lucy — we saw it as an opportunity to introduce our kids to another branch of their family.

    All in all, considering the circumstances and even though I managed to back our minivan into a decorative boulder (I swear, the size of my youngest, dammit!)  it turned out to be a really lovely late-summer day and we were all a little sad to go.

    Until, my Cousin-in-Law insisted that we come back for Christmas (yes, even AFTER my breaking their driveway!) and, well, one or more of us may or may not have volunteered to help clean up and perhaps stay…you know…until then, or maybe even for forever.

    Her home is a beauty to behold and I say that without a speck of jealousy.

    Envy, YES!    Still, for as expansive as the house really is (their wine cellar is bigger than my bedroom, no joke!) warmth and joy, not to mention their ability to make family and friends feel very, very special, emit from every square inch of their home.

    Cousins Weekend Table

    All this for a girls night in, see what I mean?!?

    My sister-in-law and I were invited back up for a girls-night-in, last weekend.  We had a really great time, got our toes done, did a little window-shopping afterward, got into our pajamas (guess whose idea THAT was, go ahead, I’ll wait) and then we ALL settled in for the night with two of my MOST favorite things:  tapas and wine.

    Later, we retreated into her gourmet kitchen, making sure to keep as far away from the pretties and breakables as possible (okay, mostly me) and then we whipped up Aunt Lucy’s recipe for homemade cauliflower mac and cheese.

    Aaaaaand, I was feeling all sorts of warm and cozy, until…rumble…gurgle…blurp…OH NO!!!

    “Excuse me, but I’m going to have to say goodnight.”

    [eyes go wide]

    “I seemed to have hit a wall.” 

    However, I managed to make it upstairs, before my insides decided to turn our girls-night-in…inside out.

    I was sick for the rest of the night and you would NEVER have known it (I mean, seriously, you can hear the dog pass gas from the other side of our house) until the next morning.

    Even longer story, short (you’re welcome) my Cousin-in-Law was all sorts of gracious, feeding me antacids and pain-relievers for breakfast, helping me feel less and less like a dork by the minute, and even invited me back for another sleepover.

    “Why don’t you bring the kids, next time, too.”

    Because, you know, they have a much pickier pallet and maybe then I would think twice before over-indulging…like a dumbass.

    Note to Self:  Never…EVER…mix goat cheese, cauliflower and smoked artichoke hearts with Pinot Grigio.

    Well, at least I did NOT break anything…right?!?

    [sound of crickets, chirping]

    Stupid smoked artichoke hearts, dumbass Pinot Grigio.

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House

  • Sometimes at night, I can still hear Karma laughing

    I have a pretty good sense of humor about stuff, to the point of annoying other folks (or possibly even scaring a couple of children)  into silence while thinking, "What IS that woman grinning about?!?"

    Then again, I live in Jersey, it's probably more like, "Wha'chew lookin' at?!?"

    [one beat, two beats]

    Willis.

    [sound of crickets, chirping]

    Aaaaanyway, I can't help it, it's like there is a sitcom playing in an infinite loop, in my head.

    Frankly, with 3 teens, 1 pretty much teen, and sometimes even other people's kids hanging around, there is almost ALWAYS stuff going on and, well, I would much rather consider all my maniacial laughing as an effective defense mechanism.

    For example, this morning.  Long story, short (you're welcome):

    • Middle girl missed her bus
    • Her school is at least a 30 minute drive
    • Because, in Jersey, we calculate the time it takes to get somewhere, rather than mileage
    • Oldest needed my car and leave for work by 8:00 a.m.
    • My husband needed his car back to leave for work by 8:15 a.m.
    • It is now 7:15 a.m.

    [cue maniacial laughing]

    Aaaaand, apparently, it's hereditary, as we drove past a broken down school bus on the highway.

    Daughter:  You know what would be REAL funny?
    Me:  If that was YOUR bus?
    Daughter:  EXACTLY!!!!
    Both: Bwahahahahahahahaha!!!

    [blank stare]

    Wha'chew lookin' at, Willis?!?  I mean, really, this IS the part of my story, where you begin to feel really, really lucky, about your NOT being able to see inside my head.

    "You left your purse in my car, I saw it when I got to work."

    See what I mean?!?  Seriously, you could ALMOST hear the "sad trombone" AND Karma laughing, right?!?

    "Guess I'm stuck here at home…all by myself…oh darn (grin!)"

    My husband still hasn't texted me back.  Poor guy, must have left his sense of humor at home.

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House 

  • Good Night, Miss Gracie

    Miss Grace

    A view of Miss Grace, outside my kitchen window.

    Our next door neighbor passed away, last week.  She was 104 years-old.  Although everyone who knew Miss Grace would agree that she had indeed lived a full life and perhaps not be at all surprised by her passing, I can't help but feel sad, knowing that her house sits empty and looks even more abandoned than usual.

    I still remember meeting Miss Grace for the first time.  It was a few days after we moved in, I was pregnant with our oldest, I waddled down the small hill that separated our properties and asked if her dog bites.

    She leaned forward in her lawn chair and answered, "Not if I don't go and tell her to."

    It's then I learned that her dog Sheba was very old, probably had less teeth than Miss Grace (according to Miss Grace) and that she would be the last dog that Miss Grace would ever have to bury.

    Needless to say, Miss Grace was indeed "a font of interesting anecdotes," to quote my friend Donna via Facebook.

    So, forgive me if I begin to burp up a few stories and Miss Grace-isms, here and there, like the time she chased a couple of hooligans, who were bombing her house with pears, away from her pear tree…with her favorite rake.

    Stories of Miss Grace are known to nearly every family to have settled in our town, having lived here all her life and the scourge of the neighborhood children…some 50 or so years earlier.

    "I never did take no nevermind, to no youngins."

    She raised her children and countless numbers of others of the families she worked for and, well, even my kids learned pretty early:  you best be on your best behavior around Miss Grace, or risk a phone call home to your mother.

    Most of all, Miss Grace will always be remembered as enjoying working in her yard.  She mowed her own lawn up until her knees "turned bad" around the time she turned 100.  True story.  Still, it was ding-danged difficult to keep up with the woman.

    Lawnmower Mom was my first published article, outside of this blog, back in 2004 and it too was inspired by Miss Grace, along with many more blog posts, some of my favorites being:

    All that's left now is the house next door, which I am afraid will be razed to make room for many more (her property is even larger than ours) and I can't help but feel…well…sort of like I have just finished the last chapter of a very good novel.

    Which reminds me, I once asked Miss Grace if she remembered the famous shark attacks, here in town!  She did.  I then questioned whether she knew that they also inspired Peter Benchley to write "Jaws".

    Her response:  "I never had me no time, for no books!"

    She was too busy, living one.  I wonder if I will ever stop looking for her, outside my kitchen window.  Bless you, and your rake, Miss Grace.

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House

  • Holidazed by the Chalkboard Project: I blame Pinterest AND @TheNextMartha

    In this house (full as it is)  DIY projects are gauged by three very important factors:

    1.  My husband's analytical mind:  I'd mention something about this or that getting done and then he would agree with me, using graphs and/or spread sheets and then submitting a final paper in nothing less than 1,000 words.

    2.  My patience level:  I have none.  That is to say, with stuff that doesn't work right, after the 17th time and my aversion to reading directions doesn't help any…either.

    3.  Calculating the time it takes to get the job done:  before my husband gets home.

    Needless to say, we're a little behind on our DIY projects (not for the lack of wanting, either)  and, trust me when I tell you, ability has absolutely NOTHING to do with our ever-growing to do list…either.

    Last year…I re-did our bathroom…during Thanksgiving week.

    Okay, I just thought of a 4th import DIY factor:  if it is a holiday week, or not.

    This week, I walked by the garage door and noticed the wallpaper was ripped (DAMMIT!) and who wallpapers a garage door, anyways?!?

    [raises hand]


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  • Pushing Buttons, On The Facebook

    It's official, my parents are now on the internet. Or, at least, the 20 minutes of what I was able to show them Sunday night, because it took my husband Garth (not his real name) 2+ hours to actually get them online, which (to folks older than 20) is 2 hours, too long.

    Apu on Facebook

    A few weeks back, after introducing my father to Facebook, Apu immediately began sending messages to family in Hungary.

    It was not the introduction to the internet my parents were expecting — especially, after everyone and my brother insisted that my parents really need to be on the internet — and my father also suffers from "Let's see what happens when I push THIS button" (he's a criminal in elevators) which is pretty much never a good thing, especially on the internet.

    First I showed them how email works, although my mother was the director of the purchasing department for a large packaging corporation (a.k.a. my cosmetic hook-up) pre-retirement, so Anyu was already pretty familiar with it.

    "What's that button do?"

    As far as I know, short of sitting on one's hands, there is no cure for LSWHWIPTB and, combined with the distraction of shiny, pretty, blinkies on sidebars, it can be downright debilitating.

    "What else would you like me to show you?"

    My father is now on "the Facebook" and, as far as I know, he hasn't broken the internet, which really shows a LOT of restraint on Apu's part and, well, I'm pretty proud of him for that, too.

    "Did you show Papa how to leave a comment, or respond and *like* a wall post, on Facebook?"

    [blank stare]

    Aaaaaand, that is why I don't teach people how to use the internet…for a living.

    "Papa also mentioned something about starting a blog, like you, too."

    Although, I do suspect it may have been a defense mechanism on my part.

    "He said, to tell people when they're not doing stuff right."

    I'm not quite sure if the internet is ready for Apu.  Then again, it will certainly keep him occupied — especially, with winter and cabin fever just around the corner — and perhaps even keep my father from pushing my mother's buttons, or vise versa, right?!?

    I'm sitting on my hands, just in case.

     © 2003 – 2012 This Full House