Vinnie vs. Vinnie

Sure, I’ll embrace the term “artist.”

Here’s five reasons it sucks to be one:

1. Uncomfortable way to introduce yourself at a party.

2. All the cute girls I know have better senses of humor than me.

3. It’s hard to date someone with a better sense of humor than me.

4. All this performing and still not famous.

5. Can’t buy shit.

Yesterday made me realize something.

Dog owners and their handlers are essentially stage moms.  You know what I mean when I say “stage mom?”  Those hyper, industry-minded wonders that see commercial success hinging on every…well, in this case, on every bag of Kibbles and Bits?  Except their “children” all have a bad case of ADD, lots of fur and can’t reply “Mooooom!” when stage mom totally embarrasses them.

Nutty.

I was scolded for telling one of my new canine friends (in my most precious baby voice) that he was going to pee everywhere.  “Don’t tell him to do that!” shouted the Dogmother queen, as if Mr.  Wiggles can understand me.  I hate to break it to you, crazy dog handler lady, but dogs only respond to the tone of your voice.  I could implore Dr. Chewsnout to pee in every corner of your large suburban home, but he’s not liken to listen.  Which doesn’t make him any more or less of, well, a dog.

I get that doggy performance is these ladies’ business.  I just don’t get the point of being so high strung when animals don’t do exactly what you want.  Seems like that impacts their attitude more than anything else.

I really admire the crew.  It takes a lot of patience, and apparently they do a lot of work with animals.  They were the coolest production people I’ve ever worked with.  Really relaxed and professional.

Definitely the most fun I ever had on a shoot.  I mean, when’s the last time you got peanut butter smeared on your body and had someone lick at you over and over and over again?

Umm, I mean…nevermind.

I did a photo shoot yesterday with dogs.  So cute.  In case you need a visual:

Yeah–that cute. Six little Norwich Terriers jumping around my feet, making a noise closer to squealing than barking.

What could be more amusing, right?

Answer: The things  their owners say when they think no one is listening.

“She’s got a great top line.”

“You can throw her in a crate.”

“Joy joy got a bone bone, that’s right yesshedid.”

Woman 1: “She thought Susie was a poor sport.  She said…don’t worry, it will be a good specimen but she just won’t be a show dog.  She just wouldn’t shut up about it.  I hate that woman.”
Woman 2: “Well, I don’t hate her, but I find her irritating.”
Woman 1: “I hate her.”

“Casey’s coat isn’t blown out yet.”

“Lay down, Mackie, you’re done.”

“They didn’t like Max cause he didn’t have his tongue out.  I’m sorry, he’s not a panter.”

“Lisa, Liiisa!  We have tongue now.”

“Ugh, if you don’t like my dog, just tell me to go home already.  I took a day off for this.”

“I think he’s going to grow into his head.”
Classic. Makes the time waiting for your puppy cuddling go that much faster.

Bianca Terracciano, my little grandma, passed this morning at 6:43 AM.  We circled her bed as her breathing became more shallow.  It was without pain, quiet and peaceful.

The nickname “little grandma” came from me, back when size was the only  distinction I could make between my two grandmothers.  So big and little grandma got their respective names.

Big grandma isn’t exactly big, but little grandma fits her name exactly. And she never looked tinier than today, barely filling out half the bed that held her.

It seems to me she was a woman who had made up her mind to leave this world and embrace the next. I am glad she was able to see and recognize me in this life before the transition.  And I do believe God and Turando, her husband and my grandfather, are welcoming her to a different and better life.

Rest in peace, little grandma.

I have a white undershirt with felt lettering stitched onto it that reads (screams?) “VINCE!”

Some college friends made it for me. We all had these silly t-shirts made up with nicknames for ourselves emblazoned on the front. I can’t even recall why we made them.

My particular shirt was created after an impression I used to do of my little Italian grandmother. Whenever I visited home during college, she would shove money on me and say, “VINCE (pronounced Veence) take the money, Vince.” I’ve never been particular about what version of “Vincent” people choose to call me, except for Vince. I never liked it. But coming from her, it seemed just right. VINCE! I supposed it worked because the way she said it was a shortened version of the way my name is pronounced in Italian: Vincenzo. Shoving money on me and saying “I love you” in a sort of sing-songy voice was pat of the standard Christmas/Easter/random home visit routine. She’d get upset if I tried to refuse her offer. I guess you really can’t refuse an Italian’s offer.

Back on campus, that’s the impression I used to joke with to my friends, and they picked it up. Walking into my neighbor’s dorm room, I was almost always greeted with a poorly accented “VINCE!” It stuck for four years.

Completely by accident, that same t-shirt made its way out of my hamper and into my luggage. I found it tonight, crisply folded by my mom, among my other clean whites. If there is one thing my grandma appreciates, it is crisp, clean and folded laundry.

My grandmother is dying.

Cancer has come without warning or hesitation, spreading through all parts of her body. The news from the oncologist was compassionately delivered, but blunt: Too weak for chemo, she has weeks, maybe days. Naturally everyone has many questions. But it seems to contradict the need to do what’s necessary: attend to her needs, make her as comfortable as possible, pray.

I’m glad I am here. Her decline has been rapid. According to my mom and dad, she was responsive yesterday, even getting up to move around. In the few hours I’ve been here, however, it’s been quite the opposite. She seems to recognize the sound of our voices–she even managed an “I love you” when I first spoke to her. But she rarely opens her eyes, drifting in and out of sleep. She eats little, if anything at all. Within the confines of her bed, we try to move her where she wants to go, and give her medication for the pain.

I’m glad I am here. Until I arrived, the only emotion I could access was anger. Built up from the frustration of not knowing what I can or should do. Having to hear accounts of the situation over the phone. Not knowing when to come, what would happen, what–if any–options existed for treatment. Anger. So I yelled at the people I love, lashing out when I couldn’t get them to tell me what they needed, what they wanted. Of course, they couldn’t tell me because they didn’t know. This is a nasty waiting game.

Death, I think, makes no space for logic. We–my family–have had a great outpouring of help and affection from family and friends. This is my mother’s mother, and my aunt and uncle are here from that side of the family. Their children, my cousins, will be here tomorrow. People keep visiting. All the well-worn phrases. “She doesn’t seem to be in pain.” “She is surrounded by loved ones.” Logic logic logic.

Even as I sit here typing in the dark with the 24-hour nurse and the bed in the living room and whirr of the oxygen machine and the occasional moans…you want to feel ok. You say you are doing everything you can. Talking quietly, even as close as the adjoining room, this works. But standing next to her bed, looking over her fragile little body, watching her twist and turn restlessly in a sudden moment of consciousness. There is no logic. I just cry.

It occurs to me I have never held my grandmother this way. Held her hand, stroked her head.

Waiting is hard.

Since I apparently never have time for my own blog, let me at least entertain you with one of the most terrifying things I have ever seen:

Whoever said there were drawbacks to user-created media is wrong. Dead wrong.

Yo soy La Pequena Amy Winehouse. Me encanta la droga.

No, no, no.

Last night I went to see a concert at The Double Door.  I go to concerts about as often as I go to large outlet stores to shop. (Which is to say, not frequently.) But the question I ask myself in both situations is always the same: “Why don’t I do this more often?”

Here, let me do you a favor. Check out the band I saw: Ra Ra Riot.  Be their friend.

Incredible energy, incredible music, and they clearly love every second of playing together. I am not afraid to say I am in love with the violinist.  It was a delight. 

When these guys play for a crowd of 200,000 rather than 200, you will know that they deserved it.  I called it.

So things can get weird on the ol’ web.

Not long after I posted about Fr. Joseph Sica commenting on my blog, I got a little forwarded information from a friend of mine. Apparently a google search will turn up some pretty interesting things on Father Sica. Who apparently HAS been googling himself, you little scoundrel! Not that it would take much, in this particular instance. When national news sources begin reporting on your case, it becomes difficult to avoid the long, invasive arm of the internet. If you are really interested in the story, you can research it yourself and draw your own conclusions. As a Catholic, I’m relieved that it at least doesn’t involve child molestation.

Ultimately, I don’t know what to say. At first, I felt weird about it. Accusations and arrests have been made. The law is doing its thing; the case is relatively new. I probably would not have even mentioned the whole thing at all, except for the fact that the guy publicly commented on my blog. He certainly didn’t seem to have an agenda, aside from wishing me a happy Lent…and maybe not mentioning his arraignment. Strange. All around. Strange.

And even stranger that perhaps millions of Catholics are reading his pamphlet this Lent.

The friend who brought this to my attention sits on my Church’s committee for liturgical literature. In all fairness, Lent only began a month after this thing hit, but still. Let’s keep an eye on this in the future, eh Catholics. I got enough problems dealing with silly references to mob ties. You know, being Eye-talian and all.

Lenten update: I’m doing pretty well with the not complaining thing.  Even other people have given me commendations. The rubber band really does help.

Two observations:

1.  When I find myself complaining, it comes in a wave. Make that a typhoon. One negative thought leads to another. If the Chicago weather is shitty and I give negativity time to fester, forget about it.  There’s a lesson somewhere in there about the power of the mind.  I find if I can catch it early, there’s less likelihood that I’ll sit on it.

2. Complaining–or at least the sound of it–must be ingrained into the Italian psyche.  My recent trip home reminded me of this. First, you should know a discussion in my household follows no established pattern. Topics of conversation are piled on top of one another, frequently morphing and changing, until it’s hard to remember how topic A led to B led to C, D, and E. Voices escalate. The kitchen is our personal marketplace of shared ideas, debates, and one-liners. And someone is bound to be cooking, eating, cleaning or doing all three. Underneath it all is the undercurrent of Italian-American passion. We want you–no, we need you to understand what we trying to tell you. It’s crucial that you are emotionally connected when we talk–after all, we aren’t saying this for our sake! The least you can do is pay attention. You can imagine, if this is wrapped around negative sentiments, all hell can break loose. Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t an episode of The Sopranos. You just have to make sure to walk that fine line of not turning passion into a bitchfest. And that, as they say, is that.

Hey–I got a comment on my blog from Joseph Sica, aforementioned mysterious writer of the pamphlet I am following for Lent! Seriously! Check out the post on Lent and complaining. (PS - Are you googling yourself, Fr. Sica, you sly dog?)I felt slightly embarrassed at first, hoping he didn’t think I was insulting his work. But I think I’m ok–in reality, I’m only poking fun at my crusty old self. Anyway, turns out Fr. Sica (up till then I didn’t know he was a priest, either) works as a hospital chaplain. Man, what a challenging job. No wonder he’s writing about inspiration. I bet he sees more heartache and existential crises than most of us experience in a lifetime.

Happy weekend, go go go Springtime!