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| cricket, truth, mymother/my self : the daughter's search for identity, newspapers, rodneydangerfield, sociology, chicago alternative newsweeklies, blonde, sex while pregnant, fetish, nifty, travel, asianthumbs, | Over the period of six months, he slapped together: … plywood from a tree in our backyard struck by lightning… … an old Toyota bumper screening room he snatched from the town junkyard… … paint my brother swiped from his elementary school custodial closet while the janitor was sipping ten-year old scotch out of a filthy old tennis shoe under the basketball bleachers… … screening room some Plexiglas from the top of our screening room neighbor’s broken foosball table… … nails my sister stole from the Hardware Store she worked in while her manager was looking up the skirt of a woman reaching for a toilet brush on a top shelf… … and hundreds of Guinness bottle caps that my father had been collecting since he was five. It wasn’t before long that my father, with the aid of his collapse-prone bar, managed to turn his rare, infrequent, occasional drunken stupors into full-blown, intervention-requiring alcoholism. |
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| "So, it’s like, a double nifty raise?" my mother asked. "Yes, dear," my father replied, "Now, nifty go do a temperature adjustment on that turkey and macaroni casserole." A few years and a few equity adjustments later, my High School drop-out parents with varying addictions (including a penchant for gambling) quickly became typical New Jersey yuppies in a modest, slightly new five bedroom house in the suburbs. It wasn’t long before my grumbling father and increasingly tan mother were forced into feeding an additional mouth in the form nifty of a whiny, four-eyed brother; paying a below minimum wage salary to a stuttering, kleptomaniac, big-breasted immigrant from Costa Rica named Rena Pepé; and picking up football-sized piles of crap from a gigantic female Saint Bernard named Margo with a nasty little habit of slobbering on my parents’ bed like a jimmied open NYC fire hydrant on a hot day. In our basement – which quickly became the dumping ground for a twice-played-on Ping Pong table, broken Christmas ornaments from three decades ago, and treadmill Mom used when she was going through her I-wonder-if-men-still-fantasize-about-me phase – my father constructed a crude and rickety bar for himself. |
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