If you sleep with dogs you'll wake up with fleas

We recently celebrated my mom's 87th birthday. The first thing my Italian (there I go again) friends say when you mention her age is "God Bless Her." It is also frequently accompanied by an eye roll towards Heaven, the sign of the cross and/or a slight head tilt. Oh the drama of us all.

At barely 4'10 Francesca is an amazing little person though, sort of a pocket-sized grandma that you want to carry around for luck. I'm thinking maybe her fluffy snow white hair might in fact just bring some if we rub it. She still drives, never leaves without perfectly applied lipstick, has skin to-die-for, a memory that an elephant would envy and has a very active social life. She also, drum roll please..........irons my sheets for me. Yes you read that correctly, heavy on the starch please. She believes you will sleep better in sheets that need a warning label that they may cause slight abrasion from her perfect ironing skills. Who am I to judge? Iron away mommmason.

My husband, son & I started recording what has become an extensive collection of her comments, quips and wisdom. Apparently when you reach a certain age according to my mom, you can remove the filter that separates your brain from your mouth and say whatever you'd like. It's up to everyone else to decipher and make sense of it.
Like her telling me she stayed up until midnight watching the Yankees & fell asleep after A-Rod made a "touchdown." Or telling us that Christie Brinkley's "slimey husband should be circumcised, I mean prostrated, oh you know what I mean." And on the day before her birthday we said "Mom you're going to be 87 tomorrow!" she replied, "I know, this is the oldest I've ever been!" One of her favorites, "If you sleep with dogs you'll wake up with fleas." She is never ending source of amusement.

God Bless You Mom, now how about those sheets?

Jersatholician

I'm not quite sure how old I was before I realized there was more to the world than Jersey. 3 or 4 years old maybe? Or was it 18? It was probably about the same time I realized not everyone was Catholic and Italian.

Yes it's all coming back to me, it definitely coincided with my realization that not everyone went to Mass on Sunday, stopped at the bakery to pick up the "bun order," went home & dunked bread in the bubbling pot of sauce that had been on since before we left, then spent the rest of the day sitting at the table with no less than a dozen people. Growing up in my house was about as typical Italian/Catholic/Jersey as it gets. You could be certain that at least 1 person on Sunday's guest roster was a priest, all the men had nicknames, the meatballs were the size of softballs and if another dozen showed up there would still be leftovers.



Anyone that wasn't of Italian descent was affectionately referred to as "The Mericanos." It wasn't a superiority issue (kind of) it just didn't seem to matter if you were "something else." The O'Malleys, the Steinbergs and the Tudor families were all fine with it the Americano thing because ultimately they knew in our house everyone was considered family and all were respected. The fact that we referred to them as The O'Malleyos, The Steinbergos & The Tudoros made them feel even more "special."

Cleaning was, and remains to be, considered a sport in our little world. You cleaned before and after the cleaning woman came, who by the way brought her kids to swim and have lunch at our house while she worked. Everyone was considered part of the family, it was just that the genetic portion didn't get paid to do anything.

My dad was generous to a fault. When we asked what happened to the wrought iron patio set he cheerfully replied "Sal liked so I gave it to him." When asked what happened to my bike, he not so cheerfully replied "you didn't put it away so I gave it to the mailman." You would think it was to teach me a lesson in taking care of my things, but 3 days later he bought me a new one. Good lesson Dad! When I got older I realized it was an excuse to not let the mailman think he needed charity. There lies the true lesson.

Times were easier then. People were kinder. You didn't need to go to excercise class every morning, you burned more calories in the daily cleaning marathon. Business deals were sealed on a handshake. Friendships lasted a lifetime and stress reduction came in the form of laughing at the dinner table. Almost makes me wish everyone was from Jersey/Catholic/Italian again.

It only works if you're from Jersey

I'm from Jersey. It's okay to forgo the "New" because I'm a Jersey Girl, not a "New Jersey" Girl, just a Jersey Girl. It sounds natural to say it like that, we're real, we're authentic. It just doesn't sound right when other 2 word states try it. I'm a York Girl, a Hampshire Girl, a Dakota Girl? Nope, it just doesn't work.

I have this thing about people who say they're from L.A. or Vegas. Why??? They're from California or Nevada. We don't say "I'm from Spring Lake," or I'm from F.L. (Franklin Lakes) we're from Jersey. Is their state name not good enough? Hey I'm not trying to make this a Jersey pride thing, just trying to make sense of it. Is it cooler, is that it? Maybe that's the answer, Jersey Girls are already cooler than most.

A Jersey Girl's Favorite 3 Little Words

My husband learned early in our relationship my favorite 3 little words. Music to my ears, guaranteed to make me smile. This Jersey Girl can't hear them enough
Down - the - Shore
Jersey Girls know you don't go to "Red Lobster" for real seafood, and while we're on the subject of fake food, um, no, Olive Garden is NOT Italian food.
And yes, we go "down the shore" not "to the beach," unless of course we are already Down - the - Shore.

O My Gawd

Pump our own gas? Oooooo my Gawd!!! If you have wandered off from the Garden State & are faced with the challenge-stay tuned ladies, we'll show you how to survive that and more Jersey Girl livin'..............

Jersey Girls Won't

It's really quite simple, we simply don't (won't) pump gas...........