Latin for "it does not follow"

We just got back from two less than relaxing nights in Procida. I learned that it is perhaps true that I would go stark raving mad if I lived on an island and that La Bimba needs her naps and to get to bed at a reasonable hour. She is a-changin'!

La Bimba's mega birthday bash was a success. I held it together for three parties, Neapolitan relatives who never leave (they are lovely, but I was so so tired) and a baby girl not willing to go to bed before 10pm. My parents arrived in tact, but without their luggage. It came the next day, giving my father just enough time to panic and pace and ask every 20 seconds, "Is it time to check with the airport again?" La Bimba smeared (or maybe schmeared) white and pink cake cream all over her face and I observed the effects of giving a baby (not mine!) coke in his bottle. Not pretty.

The other day at the park a bald father walked up to a trash can to throw out his empty Pall Mall cigarette pack. He tossed the pack and missed the can. He looked down at his debris, walked back to his wife, and scolded his kid for crying. I was sitting on a nearby bench feeding La Bimba, fuming and scheming, trying to figure out what to do. Littering is one disgusting thing; littering in the park where your own kid plays is another foul thing; littering in the park where your kid plays and where there is a trash can a wrist flick's distance from you is disgusting, foul and causes witnesses to have homicidal thoughts. I wiped La Bimba's face, picked up the empty pack of cigs, brought it over to the asshole and said, "Excuse me, but I believe this is yours." The wife immediately thanked me, not realizing it was her husband's trash, and as I walked away I overheard the husband say, "No, no, it's empty." I did not turn around to see if the pack made it into the can or rather fell like a coy damsel's hankie back to the earth.

I want to reflect on my first year as a mom. But as Totò said in one of his films that I catch parts of but never the whole on TV, "Voglio ma non posso." I am in a blogging holding pattern, catching moments like this one when my folks are out eating chinese (don't tell The Husband!). My aunt and uncle arrive on Saturday, German friends on Wednesday, California friends on Thursday, so it's going to be hard to get my blogger brain in order.

Writing "German friends" reminds me of a anti-prejudice ad that was on TV in the 70s (this was before we starting saying "racism"). There was a boy and his grandfather in a boat fishing. The grandfather was wearing one of those fishing hats, the one with holes in it to hold hooks and bait and stuff. The boy is talking about his friend and says, "Tommy's my Jewish friend." The grandfather kindly but sternly replies, "That's prejudice."

Does anyone else remember that ad? That ad really fucked me up. It left me thinking having a Jewish friend was a problem, maybe even a sin (I was watching "Davy and Goliath" too, you know). Had the boy said, "Tommy's my Jewish friend" and the grandfather said, "How do you know he's Jewish?" and the boy said, "Because he has a huge schnoz, is tight with his candy money, and his penis has no place to hide from the cold," that would be prejudice.

I was reminiscing about TV shows and commercials with a woman from Queens the other day. We sang the pill song ("This is serious, serious, we can make you delirious, delirious, you should have a healthy fear of us, fear of us, too much of us can be dangerous...) and waxed nostalgic over various Little House on the Prairie episodes. She still has a crush on Almanzo. I still get teary over the old Jew who died after scaring Nellie with his fake horns. Prejudice conquered on Little House! Who needs public service ads!

Wow, it's after 9pm. I should lie down with Yehoshua. "A Woman in Jerusalem." It took me a while to get into it, but now I'm hooked. "The Liberated Bride" is better. Good night!