Posts Tagged Short Stories
With permission, I'm posting Steven Ormosi's story about his "Goulash" experience:
Your videos and stories remind me of my own Grandmother. She was always Grandma to me, not Nagymama, though naggy might describe her well:
"Where is your girlfriend?"
"I don't have one."
"Here is more chicken."
"I've already had two helpings!"
"You have to love your brother."
"...What? I do."
"Ok",
"...").
My Grandmother would dote on us, which was great because mom wouldn't let us drink soda or eat unhealthy cereal at home. She once gave me so much food while I was over there that I puked...ugh, I still can't eat sour cream and onion potato chips. I think I gained about 100 lbs as a direct result of them moving to NJ.
She was just as anal about everything being in the right place as your Nagymama is. She would constantly rove the living room and kitchen, fixing any little inconsistency, picking up bits of lint or string or what have you. Clearing dishes, as soon as the last morsel was picked off the plate. She was a whirling dervish.
“I tink it’s a girl dis time,” my aunt, "Nagynéni", said, closing one eye and framing my cousin’s pregnant belly with her finger like a movie director. Anyu, Nagynéni, my cousin Erin, and I were sitting in the living room, watching Erin’s two boys play with dozens of dinosaur toys.
“Yes, yes, that’s what your sister keeps saying, too,” Erin replied, only half paying attention as her youngest boy tried to reach for a large box of toys on a tall shelf.
“You’re carrying high. You’ll be surprised. It’ll be a girl,” said Anyu.
Erin rolled her eyes. “Yes, well, explain the penis in the sonogram then.” She stood up carefully, holding the precious cargo of her 9-month pregnant belly as she lifted herself from the couch.
“Eeeeeeeeeeh, dat doesn’t mean anyting,” Nagynéni said, waving her hand dismissively. “Ignore the penis. It could still
turn into a girl, you know.”
“So, are you a little nervous about going in for the C-Section next week?” I asked to the back of Erin's head as she walked towards her children.
“I really try not to think about it,” Erin said, effortlessly ...
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Earlier this week, I was invited to one of those obligatory holiday office party by a pharmaceutical consulting company that hires me for graphic design work. Since I know everyone at this company on a professional level, I was really surprised when one of these techies asked me about my "
Sexmas Calendar". Of course, those two little words caught the entire room's attention, so the casual holiday conversation went right into the gutter and evolved into a game of "Name the Hottest Hairy-Chested Guy". I was half-flattered, half-disturbed that fifteen pharmaceutical professionals were wracking their brains to find a way to turn on my mother, but I figured they could write it all off as "Clinical Research" for a more potent female Viagra drug or something.
By the end of the night, I received a list of about 50 people, but the name that really caught my attention was Marlon Brando. I totally forgot about Mr. Brando, probably because I've never seen any of his films (yes, that include "The Godfather" - try not to look so shocked). Fortunately, I've watched enough parodies to know that it would be funny to have a shirtless, hairy, tubby, Italian guy with cotton balls stuffed in his word hole as my Mr. March.
I googled Marlon Brando and was surprised and the amount handsome photos...
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"I can't belief you vould drag me up dis early for a stupid trip," my mother said as we walked towards the main entrance of the Middlesex Mall.
Even the security guard looked sleepy as he unlocked the doors and ushered us into the empty corridor. I however, was wide-eyed and bushy-tailed. I was going to go to New York! I imagined the smell of roasted peanuts and the sound of taxi cabs and newspaper boys. I smiled at the thought of walking through a city, arm-in-arm with my first love. For one day in my young adult life, I could stand tall without the sound of Anyu and Nagymama criticizing my outfit behind me.
We assumed that we could pick up some pepper spray at the K-Mart, but we were out of luck. The K-Mart directed us to the 99 Cent store. 99 Cent store directed us to the Hardware store. The Hardware store looked promising - I walked up to the counter and saw the empty peg for pepper spray.
"I'm afraid we're out of pepper spray, dear," the attendant said. "There's been...
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Growing up, bathing was always an issue. Nagymama felt that excessive baths led to:
-Red Hair
(which makes you look like a whore)
-All your hair falling out
(well, at least it won't be red anymore)
-Kidney infections
(resulting in death)
I was allowed to take a bath once a week, but showering was forbidden. Nagymama claimed that standing in shower would expose my organs and give me pneumonia. "Ve don't have insurance, so you'll die."
Once I became a teenager and aware of hygiene, this became a huge issue. I had to wait until Nagymama fell asleep and quietly wriggle out of bed, which was difficult since she tied the corner of the blanket to the mattress with shoelaces and surrounded the bed with high-backed chairs to prevent me from rolling out of bed
(see also: The Movie).
If Nagymama woke up and noticed I was missing, she would start screaming and banging on the bathroom door. I had about 2 minutes to finish the shower until she was able to pick the door lock, barge in, and physically pull me out of the shower, regardless of the fact that I was naked, soapy, and really pissed...
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With permission, I'm posting Steven Ormosi's story about his "Goulash" experience:
