OUT OF FOCUS

No, Your Honor, I do not brush my dog's teeth

ADD Symptom: The inability to lie.  And get away with it.

I recently got caught lying to my dog's veterinarian. The worse part about it was that there really was no reason for me to lie to him.  To his face.  A bold face lie.

And so the story goes...

I take my Wheaten Terrier to the vet last week for his yearly check up.  Because I consider his health of  the utmost importance, I take him to one of Manhattan's most noteworthy veterinarians, the most sought after by B-celebrities gracing the upper west side.

The door jingles our arrival and all smiles are upon us: the three receptionists seated behind the front counter, the pet owners all proud of their offspring.

Receptionist 1:  "Hi, how can I help you?

Kali: "Hi, Fozzy's got an appointment for his yearly check-up?"

Receptionist 1: "Great, have a seat and we'll call you when we're ready"

I turn away from the counter grabbing a dog bone from the treat jar, and take a seat on a futon next to a glammed-up Senior dripping in diamonds stroking h er puffed-out Bichon Frise.  I look  at her dog and its making me hungry. Bichon Frise  sounds like a thick French flaky dessert that would  probably taste  fantastic with a scoop of cappuccino  ice cream.

Senior: (talking to her Bichon) "Yes, Rugula, that's a big scary puppy, isn't he, Rugula..."

Kali: "He's really not that scary."

Senior: "What's her name?"

Kali: "His name's Fozzy."

Senior:  "Rugula, like the Jewish rolled-up cookie".

Kali:  "Yum. I guess your dog makes you hungry, too."

Senior: "Beg your pardon".

Kali: "No need. This is Fozzy, like the muppet."

Senior: "You should bathe him more often."

Kali: "We bathe together."

Senior:  How often do you bathe?

Kali:  "More often than the French. How often do you bathe?"

Senior:  "I beg your pardon?"

Receptionist 1:  "The  doctor is ready to see you, Fozzy"

Kali: (to Senior) "Stay clean." 

Fozzy and I are escorted into a small colorful private room.  Minutes later, Dr. Vet Extraordinaire, a handsome, wondering-why-you're-not-married-are-you-another-Clooney-handsome, walks into the room. 

He gives me a well-rehearsed Colgate smile. I turn my wedding ring around.

Dr. Vet Extraordinaire:  "Hi Guys, good to see you!"

Kali: "Good to see you!" 

Dr. Vet Extraordinaire:  "So you're here for Fozzy's yearly?  Fantastic. Lets get on the table."

Kali: "I really shouldn't.  Just kidding."

Ignoring my sexual innuendo, Dr. Vet Extraordinaire lifts a scruffy fifty pounds onto the table and runs his hands down his spine.

Dr. Vet Extraordinaire: (Fondling his privates.  Well, not His privates but Fozzy's)  "Everything feels good!"

Kali:  "I think Im up for my yearly?"

He looks at me like I insulted his mother.

Kali: "Im just kidding...you know, you were fondl-"

Dr. Vet Extraordinaire: (Cutting me off) "Let's look at those choppers, huh?" he says lifting my dog's gums.  "Kali, how often do you brush you teeth?"

Kali: " Twice a day? Why?"

Dr. Vet Extraordinaire:  "And how often do you brush Fozzy's teeth?"

Kali:  "Ugh...same?"

Dr. Vet Extraordinaire: "Are you asking me or telling me?"

Kali: "Telling you?"

Dr. "OK, then you're not telling me the truth-"

Kali: "Huh?"

Dr. Vet Extraordinaire: "That' not the truth. You don't brush them twice a week.  How often?"

Kali:  "Ugh...OK, maybe more like ever other day?"

Dr.  Vet Extraordinaire: "OK, see again. You're not telling me the truth and this is becoming uncomfortable for all of us, including Fozzy."

Kali: "Well-"

Dr. Vet Extraordinaire: "OK, this is what I think is happening.  You're brushing your teeth twice a day.  You're brush his teeth maybe once every two weeks, if that.  I can tell because of the plaque build up.

Kali:  "I give him marrow bones?"

Dr.  Vet Extraordinaire:  "Do you eat pork chops?"

Kali: "No-"

Dr Vet Extraordinaire: "Well, I do and I still brush my teeth.  Do you see what Im getting at?"

I felt like a reprimanded small child.

Kali: "Yes."

Dr Vet Extraordinaire: "You don't need to lie. Just brush his teeth."

Kali:  "I just thought you might sue me for neglect or something...I mean, no one ever told me to brush his teeth."

Dr Vet Extraordinaire: "Here's a new toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste"

I look down at the tube.

Kali: "It says Chicken Flavor-"

Dr Vet Extraordinaire: "What are you a vegetarian?

I leave with brush and paste in hand. My personal hygiene insulted.

Jackass of the Year; Stuart Russell from Parramatta, Australia

ADD Symptom: The desire to threaten someone without thinking of the dire consequences involved.

So now that this pregnancy has sunk in, now that the summer is just about over, and now that I have used up all my Get Out Of Jail Free Cards, I can go back to dealing with all the drama that ensues in life on a daily basis.   

The latest and greatest drama comes from some Aussie-put-a-shrimp-on-the-babie clown who has stolen my domain name KaliKaragias.  Herein lies the truth:

Below is a screen shot image of the info that is displayed on Go Daddy's site when I search for my Domain Name, Kali Karagias.

Here's how it happened.  

One sunny Sunday afternoon, March 8th to be exact, I was happily celebrating my mother's birthday when all of a sudden Go Daddy sent me an email notifying me that my domain name would be expiring on the 10th. Well, with all the bells and whistles that comes with a birthday party, I clearly forgot.  But there's one person that had it marked in his greasy little calendar:

And that's Jackass of the Year; Stuart Russell from Parramatta, Australia.   

Aside from drinking brewskies in his two-bit home town of Parramatta, Stuart Russell spends his days stalking me.  Strange? A bit I would say considering he lives 10,000 miles away and has plenty of tatoo'd Maori warriors to choose from that are only a tenth of the distance. 

Here's a guy I bet Gooey Stuey get along with famously:

But for some reason Stuart Little decides to snag my Domain Name and what can Little Stu possibly do with my Domain Name? I suppose he can start an anonymous website starring his sister whom he has captured on film, scantily clothed.  

Or perhaps Gooey Stuey is going through some "life changes" and once the operation is finalized he would like to use my name for his new female persona.

One only wonders.  

In the mean time, since my emails have gone unanswered and there's no sign of Stuey responding, I have boycotted anything and everything from Australia.  

Please join me in the fun.

Here are five popular Australian goods that the beloved US imports:

1. Meat Products: 

If I want real beef, I'll support my local rancher in Nebraska.  Stuart Little is all the Mad Cow I need.

2. Wine:

It's called Napa Valley.  Keep your swill to yourselves.

3. Iron & Steel: 

I'm sure I can get a hold of a tile iron here if Stuart Little's next attempt is to steal my blog.

4. Medical Equipment:

If I need an MRI, I'll ask the Chinese for one.

5. Medicinal, Dental & Pharmaceutical Preparations

Next time I go on Wellbutrin, I'd rather buy it from some kid who's brewing home made crank in his Step Dad's garage.

Go ahead. Give Stuey a shout out at stuartrade74@gmail.com.

Send him some porn.  I'm sure he'll like that. 

The Lobotomization of a Brat Kid and it's Mother

A.D.D Symptom:  Having the uncontrollable desire to slaps people's children.

Today's post was intended as an explanation to my disappearance the last month and two days but when I rarely find myself seated, like I am today, in an Upper West Side health club cafe, I can't help but comment on...

All the retards. 

That's right. I said it.  The retards.  Ooh, she said retard-she's so un-PC. Borderline Racist.  Why is Kali so angry?" 

The anger stems from watching some overfed bitch-of-a-mother ignoring her spoiled-also-overfed-brat-of-a-son juggle the health club fruit, drop it, slam it back in a basket and watch his defunct mother smile down at him as if her precious five year old just spelled the word deplorable.  At first glance, some may say this mutinous monster may be ADD symptomatic, I say this mutinous monster is simply 

a product of people who should not procreate. 

The impudent child has a devil counterpart; equally as fat, equally as ugly.  After a brief game of Bachi Ball with club fruit they did not pay for, the terrible eight-eyed twosome begin singing in a tone only tolerable in a Thailand prison:

"Thwinkle, thwinkle, little thtar!  How I wonder what you are! UP ABOVE THE WORLD THO HIGH, LIKE A DIAMOND IN THE THKY...thwinkle, thwinkle litlle thtar, how I wonder what uuuuuu..oooo..RRRRRRR..!!"

As a mother myself, I should be able to cock my head to the side, smile and sigh, "Oh, look, how cute, their both wearing glasses so they could see their ass from their elbow!"  as the little urchins sprint laps around cafe tables sadly avoiding a slip-and-fall at every turn.

But I cannot.

I feel nothing but disgust for the whole prehistoric clan because to me, there are the people:

These are the people who should be animal-tested on.

These are the people who should only be let out on a day-pass.

These are the people who should have been lobotomized in the fifties.

These are the people who should be financially raped by Bernie Madoff.

Or are these the people that are related to Bernie Madoff. I could bet my life savings that those four-eyed monsters are the bruised fruit of his loins.

Be Careful What You Blog For...

I recently read in a literary magazine, "be careful what you blog".  Point being?  The article stated if you wish to be gainfully employed, you best be careful what you write about yourself. Someone may judge you.  Oooooow.

I beg to differ.  I find that honesty is the best policy in this case.  In fact, If a future employer is Googling me right now, allow me to save you some time:

Here are 25 things you should know about me:

1. I got caught shoplifting.

2. I got caught underage drinking.

3. College made me gay for a night.  Or two.

4. I dropped out of college, lied on all resumes for about ten years, and then finished my degree.

5. I have quit numerous jobs on a moments notice.

6. Im not afraid of a rejection letter.

7. I love animals more than I love people.

8. Im not a Democrat.

9. Im likely to fly off the handle.

10. I smoked pot.

11. I smoked pot while driving in my twenties.

12. I prefer the comradeship of men over the cattiness of women.

13. I don't conform for anyone.

14. My strong work ethic began at eleven years old. 

15. If your 25 and still living at home, you're a p*ssy.

16. If you are a parent with a 25 year old living at home, you're an even bigger p*ssy.

17. I am a fan of pharmaceuticals.

18. If a militia's purpose is protecting the 2nd Amendment, then I should join one.

19. I will never join a cult.

20. The less government, the better.

21.  Im an existentialist with an altruistic heart. 

22.  I can only focus when I multi-task.

23. I pray only when I need something.

24. I cannot manage money.

25. I will most likely be fired before I quit.

How's that for The Truth? 

 

ON A SPIRITUAL QUEST...

TEMPORARILY AWAY FROM MY DESK.

ON A SPIRITUAL QUEST TO FIND MY INNER DAN SMITH.

Walk Tall, Carry A Big Stick. And Use It.

In 1993, I lived in a rathole of an apartment in Long Island City Queens.  It was my first apartment in the city and back then, as long as I lived in swimming proximity to Manhattan, I was happy.  I had three roommates, dozens of cockroaches and a code of ethics I lived by, posted proudly on the outside of my bedroom door.  

Words of Wisdom...from an angst-ridden teen

(Here are some of my favorites)

1. Tape phone conversations and use them later for revenge

2. Brag about your new fur in a pet store

3. If there is going to be a fight, make sure you start it

4. Exaggerate on your resume

5. Use sexual inuendos to get more attention

6. Turn on your brights for oncoming traffic

7.  Fake your orgasms

8. If you make a mistake in your favor, don't correct it

9. Develop a truly tasteless foul mouth

10. Don't leave a message at the beep

11. Smoke in Bed

12. Touch Strangers

13. Put salt in sugar containers 

14. Accuse, confuse and refuse

15. Walk tall, carry a big stick and use it

16. Call your lover by the name of ann old flame

17. Put off until tomorrow whatever you can do the day after tomorrow

18. If you cant think of something nice to say, say something nasty

19. Change the rules to suit your needs 

20. Take the biggest piece

21. Blame the victim

...Good times...

Please feel free to add to my list.

Sonny Peterson; Debt Collector.

I once made the innocent mistake of lending a 20 year-old professional athlete my identity for a day. The muscled chap didn't speak a lick of English and needed someone to buy him a cell phone plan. What's a Russian foreign boy to do when you have to call home to Mom whom I, in my cozy warm Manhattan bubble, pictured her living in a remote Siberian town shivering in a cold bread line.

I should have stopped after the first Vodka. 

Months later, as he was long forgotten, I received a phone call from an abusive debt collector working at a collection agency for one of the major cell phone carriers who's name I shall not disclose.  Let's just call them Verizon.  He called himself Sonny Peterson, a cheap imitation of a badass Brooklyn cop from the 70’s. He spoke in choppy, unfinished thoughts and used witty verbal scare tactics and called religiously every Monday between the hours of 3 and 5 PM. 

I got to know Sonny better through our passive/aggressive relationship over the months he menaced me, and quite frankly, there was something so Lifetime Movie about the situation, that I started enjoying his badly-rehearsed threatening phone calls.

Movie Trailer Voice: 

She was making a living.  He was trying to destroy it. 

A victim who wouldn't pay.  A culprit who tried to make her. 

One woman's courage.  Another man's obsession.  

I STILL REMEMBER OUR FIRST PHONE CALL:

KALI: Hello?

(long beat)

SONNY: Gonna pay?

KALI: Who's calling?

SONNY: I should be asking you that-

KALI: Excuse me?

SONNY: Kaliopy. Is that what they call you?

KALI: Yes? Who is this?

SONNY:  Or should I call you jalopy?

KALI: Dad, is that you?

SONNY: This is Sonny Peterson.  You don't know me but I know you-

KALI HANGS UP.  PHONE RINGS AGAIN.

KALI: Hello?

SONNY:  I got ya numba, lady.  When you gonna pay your debt?  

KALI: Grandpa?

SONNY:  So you got a real cast of funny characters in ya family, huh? Well this ain’t a movie, Jelopy.  You own Verizon six hundred and fifty dollahs...

KALI: OH! Is this regarding the outstanding phone bill?  Well, that’s not my phone-

SONNY: It’s got ya finga prints on it.

KALI:  Yeah, but Im not responsible for that-

SONNY: Just like the Hitler aint responsible for killing 6 million Jews.  I got ya numba, Jelopy....

And the phone calls went on.  In fact, I wish I could transcribe half of them, bound them as a book and gift them for the holidays.

********

I was hoping Sonny and I would get to know each other well enough where he would be open to sharing some personal photos with me.  I picture him a cross between Juan Epstein and Gabe Kaplan from Welcome Back Kotter. 

I still owe "Verizon" Six hundred and fifty bucks but it was worth the three shots of horseradish vodka.

Shoplifting Arrests Linked to Attention Deficit

I almost got arrested for shoplifting from Century 21 tonight. No, I didn't try to steal anything but I did.  Absent-mindedly.

As I sit here replaying the evening in my head, in between sniffs of Rosemary oil, supposedly a "memory enhancer", I am once again reminded of the ramifications of unmedicated A.D.D.

My cousin, the fasionista, and I had roughly forty three minutes to comb through three floors and 872 racks.  We were shot up with shopping adrenaline.   So we find the Vintage Havana, the line that she designs, and I continue to buy out the whole line in my size. 

Eight minutes to closing, we head to the counter to pay for my goods.  Since I do my best to avoid using plastic bags, I hand the friendly cashier my reusable cloth grocery bag.  

She says, "Sorry, Miss but I cannot put your items in that bag because I gotta staple the receipt to the bag so I'll have to put them in a plastic one".  Feeling reluctant and less green, I resigned to the plastic.  

"Besides" she added, "It'll look like you were stealing those clothes if you stuff 'em in your bag".

"I always put my groceries in there," I defended.  "No one thinks Im stealin the Lipton?".

She hands me the bad and asks me to take a three-question survey online in exchange for a "free gift".  Since there were stacks of Godiva at the register, I knew what prize I was heading for and answered on all three Q's "exceeded my expectations" and won a miniature boxing glove keychain instead. I stuff them in my purse, coat and bags in hand, and head towards the exit.

Three feet in front of two starched security guards, I go to put my heavy winter coat on and underneath I see I am still carrying a black Century 21 sweater.  My first thought was, Ah, sh*t, I was talking so much, the cashier forgot to put the sweater in the bag but I continue to walk towards the guards.

It wasn't until the sensors went off when I thought to myself, "maybe I blindly scooped the sweater up as I lifted my coat off the counter while I was swiping my credit card?"

And at that moment, I pause in front of the guards and said to my cousin, "I feel like I've forgotten something"?

Alarms ring.  Sensors buzz.

"Excuse me, ma'am.  Can you please step to the side?" one of the guards asked.

"Was that me?" I innocently asked.  "Ah, it was me. Look I still have a sweater of yours on my coat", I say as I proudly raise the lifted item up to the guard. 

"I know that", he retorted, handling the sweater and pointing out the sensor.  "This sweater was under your coat."

"I know, but my mind was on Yogurt Land", I explained.  "Can you do me a favor?  Can you open my shopping bag and see how many items I have? The cashier must have forgotten to place it in the bag".  

"No, I can't. How come there's no tag on the item?" the guard asks. 

I look down at the sweater.  "Oh, that really sucks. It must have fallen off.  Can I still buy it if I haven't already?"

As he motions me to wait and informs me that he is calling over a cop to get some "information from me" the only thought in my head was, "Do I really need another short black sweater?  Wait...but this one has really fun buttons".Meanwhile, the guards are looking at my like I'm wearing two heads and my cousin is turning red muttering under her breath, "Oh my God, we're in trouble".  With all this chaos going on right in front of me, I was still so foggy-brained that it didn't officially register that maybe, just maybe, they think I SHOPLIFTED the sweater.

As we wait eagerly, my cousin sees one security mouth to the other security guard, "It was under her coat". 

Meanwhile, again, I am growing impatiently and I say to my cousin, "Are they gonna find out the price?" She looks at me and says in slow motion, "They-think-you-stole-the sweat-er".

Ahhh....

Next thing I know, a veteran New Yawk policeman walks up to me and ushers me to a corner.  "Aw right" he says, "tell me what's goin on?"

"Nothing Officer, I was walking out with the sweater.  I thought I bought it but I guess I didn't and my cousin wants to take me to Yogurt Land-"

He gives me a pat on the arm and spoke gently, "Just be more careful next time".

More careful? 

What the hell did that mean? More careful paying attention or more careful shoplifting?  Either way, I was mildly insulted but managed to shrug it off because I really did want the cotton-knit, giant-buttoned black sweater.

"Can I still buy the sweater?" I asked the guard.

"The stores closed now," he said tired of us by now.

"I know but I'm still in the store so I might as well buy it, right?" I ask.

"Fine", he says and ushers me towards the cashier.

I hand the sweater to the cashier, a flamboyantly well-dressed gay.

"There's no price tag on this?" Sally tells me.  "We're closing up now so I can put it on layaway-"

"I can't" I interrupted.  "I live all the way uptown. Can my cousin go upstairs and find one with a price tag?"

She did.  With a police escort.

"Sorry, I get a little light-headed sometimes", I apologized to the guard as all eyes were on us as we were leaving. He smiled back at me, realizing at that moment that it was probably true. I was a little light-headed.

We walked outside, sweater in bag.  

I turned to my cousin and asked, "Did it look like I tried to steal that 

sweater?"

"Don't worry" she said as we headed off to Yogurt Land. "It'll look great with jeans or a jumper. In prison."

The New Mexican in my Life

I haven't posted in quite sometime because there is a New Mexican in my life.

The first five minutes we met in Colorado, he was all over me. I, being married seven long, long, long years, initially made me revel in the attention. But an hour later, I diagnosed him as annoyingly codependent.

Since I met him through family friends who came over for a backyard BBQ, I couldn't criticize his constant shadowing of me. While everyone was choking down hot dogs and hamburgers, I went upstairs to use the lavatory. I was about to walk in when all of a sudden I felt him trailing me again. I politely informed him that I needed to relieve myself in private, and rather than pivot off a long pier, he walked into the bathroom with me.

Maybe it was a language barrier but after four sangria's I had to go even with the Mexican staring and smiling anxiously at me.

He trailed me once again down the stairs and into the back yard.

Every family BBQ, it is my job to carve the watermelon into a basket as entertainment for everyone under the age of thirty. I gutted the melon and poured half a bottle of tequila in it which I planned to later drink in a frozen melon margarita. I turned to sharpen my knife and, to my surprise, I caught the Mexican leaving giant bite marks on one side of the melon. He had eaten the left handle! If it was the tequila he wanted, I offered him the bottle for a leisurely drive home.

And then the afternoon got worse.

His mother caught me off guard and said, "Kali, can you please take Rico, the Mexican, back to New York with you?".

What?

Since there has been a long history of built-up resentment and anger amongst family members, I thought it was probably better not to overreact.

"What! Are you f%cking nuts!?" I responded.

 She took a deep long breath and said reassuringly, "I know, I know. its not as bad as you think. We can't fly him back on Frontier. He's just not allowed on the aircraft". Since you are flying United, I thought they might let you fly with him. And when you get there, we can have someone pick him up".

I was blown away be the imposition.

First of all, what the hell did he do on Frontier that would not not allow him to board the plane?

Did he have a panic attack triggering massive hysteria?

Did he smuggle fireworks onto the aircraft and set them off during License to Wed starring Mandy Moore?

 "You know, Joan" I said with the most fake smile I could muster, "I just don't want the responsibility. I mean, if something happens...like, he dies, I can't be held responsible".

I thought that would scare her away.

 "You don't work. You have no responsibility", she retorted. "He won't die. Oh, pleeease," she said, flapping her hands like a gay man at a martini bar.

I, not being one for confrontation, obliged.

That night, Rico slept in bed with me. He kept licking my face and I, being the softy that I am, reciprocated by rubbing his hairy chest.   How do I get sucked into these issues?

 The following day, he insisted on climbing up Ute Trail with me. Being one of the world's worst listeners, I contemplated putting him on a leash but in a liberal town like Aspen, Colorado, I don't think that would have gone over very well.

After ninety minutes of hiking uphill, I felt like I had sucked down a pack of Kool's while Rico showed off his skills prancing up and down the trail like a true pansy.

We stopped and had a burger after our workout and he proceeded to eat off my plate as if it were common practice where he came from. I paid the check, we headed back home where Rico was anxious to shower with me. I couldn't get a moment alone. At this point, it was easier to just let him hang out and watch than argue with him.

The morning of my flight I knew there was going to be no way I could have him sitting quietly next to me for the next five hours.

As soon as we got to the airport, Rico was jumping on other people's luggage and running around maniacally like a meth addict. Even with the cute, eager smile on his face, the airline attendant refused to let Rico aboard the flight.

I explained to my husband that this was just NOT going to work out.

I don't care if this is family. I can't be held responsible.

 So as I sit in the comfort of my own home this Labor Day, sans Rico, I am glad that I did not compromise my sanity for a crazy Mexican I barely knew.

My husband, on the other hand, will be wrestling off Rico's affection for the next twenty-two hours as he drives him from Colorado to New York City.

I mean, we are both dog lovers. Even if its a crazy Mexican Chihuahua.

An All-Clad American Family

We drove around in well-worn, rust-colored Chevrolet New Yorker in the late seventies; the perfect car I always envisioned us showing up as studio audience members of The Price Is Right.  As a kid I remember my mother always complaining about money and I couldn’t understand why she would repeatedly refuse to write in for free show tickets.   “Mom, why don’t you try out for the Price Is Right?” I would question as we stood in the check out lane at a happy, suburban Shop Right supermarket.  She would always frown at the cashier after she announced our total grocery bill and my mother would repeat the amount as if the teenage cashier was a shady car salesman. My mother would discretely reach into her purse that was as tight as Fort Knox and out of it would appear the crispiest twenty-dollar bill and in her thick Greek accent she would announce, “Because the price you pay on The Price is Right is never the price you think you will pay”.  I never understood what that meant until I had the opportunity to dissect her prophetic words years later when one of the prize models sued Bob Barker for sexual harassment and I got the long-awaited ‘ah-ha!’ “See, ah-ha! I told you”, my mother said as she held the newspaper in one hand and poked through Bob Barkers face with a pencil in the other. “The price is not right. Ha!”

I once asked my Dad if he thought Mom had had an illicit affair with Bob Barker at some point in their marriage since she had so much distain for the good-looking game show host and my non-English speaking father would simply ask, “Elisat affair?  Who is Elisat?”  This was the same Dad who would answer to any three-lettered name because they all sounded alike to him. It remains a mystery why I was able to speak English by the fifth grade.

For weeks I went on fantasizing what was behind door number two.  I envisioned myself on stage, not as a prize girl but as a Price is Right contestant, repeatedly nodding yes not because I was asked a question but because that’s what contestants seemed to do when they were nervous.  Bob would lean in with his long lollipop mike and prod, “Kali, do you want to know what’s in your showcase?”  I would uncontrollably nod yes.  “Kali”, he would lean in again, almost drunk this time, “Do you wanna know what’s in your showcase?” The uncontrollable nods would be followed by a sharp and nasty ‘what’ on my part and then Bob would finally broadcast, “Kali, here is your showcase!” 
Curtains pullback.   On stage would be the gleaming All-Clad American Family I could have only hoped for as a ten year old.  The announcer would introduce, “It’s a new… All-Clad American Family equipped with two English speaking parents, a Disney family vacation and a lifetime guarantee of embarrassment free living with your new family!” and they would cue the closing music and cut to commercial while I would be usher back stage to greet my new family.

“Open your menu and stop day dreaming!” My mother’s words jolted me back to the sad reality of a Big Boy’s Restaurant on a Sunday afternoon after church.  My older brother would kick me in the shin under the table and tease, “Yeah, wake up! She probably still thinks she’s gonna get on the Price is Right. Idiot”. I didn’t mind much my brother’s teasing words since I knew they always came with an ensured backhand to the head by my Dad telling him to wise up.  
To continue this predictable pattern, my mother, the martyr, would then chime in saying, “When I grew up, there was no free dishwasher let alone dishes.” My older sister who was the stone cold fixture in the family would often respond to my mother’s lamenting with a “that’s sucks” or an “oh, well” while reading at the table the latest Jackie Collins novel.

A dining experience with my family was more chaotic than the race riots of the seventies. Sadly, the person that would always fall victim to our arrival would be the poor waitress who found us sitting in her wait station.  My father was never happy with the food while my mother would make abiding accusations that the restaurant looked like they failed their health inspection. Again. The waitress would come over for an initial meet and greet and fifteen minutes into the meal, we would never see her again.  It would typically start off with a drink order and within seconds spark an argument at the table. “You drink too much soda”, my mother would say to my sister,  “that’s why you have the zits”.  And my sister would mockingly counterattack with, “No, I have a-the-zits-because its genetics” and then turn to the waitress requesting, “I’ll have the largest Coke with ice on the side, please.”

My brother would always have the bicker-free healthy glass of milk and I, knowing that I was in for the long haul, would play it safe with a glass of ice water.  My father would always order a coffee but never had anything good to say about it and my mother would steer clear of beverages since she would often reveal to us like an inside trader, “The dishwasher is always dirty. They don’t change the water”. These snide comments would drive my sister crazy and she seemed to always have the last word while blaming it on me. “Kali seems to think that if you at least slept with Bob Barker, you’d have a dishwasher by now and you could bring your own glass”. My mother’s only defense to that was an unpatriotic comment like, “I should never have come as a slave to this country.”
“Then that must have made you the only white person on the Amistad”, my brother, with the genius IQ level, would always seem to punctuate the Sunday brunch with a historical reference, never allowing my mother to get the last word.

The Price is Right music would fade up as I envisioned myself spinning The Big Wheel one more time. I mean, I was ten and the show was heading into its third decade. I still had time, years really, to win that All-Clad American Family.

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