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Holiday Shopping Madness

Published December 23, 2011 by monicastangledweb

Every year it’s the same. You’d think, by now, I would have learned, but no. I say to myself, this is the year I’m not going to break the bank. Just get gifts for my kids and that’s it. After all, I’m not made of money.

That’s the intention, and it lasts about 24 hours. Which is when, I realize my plan is not going to work. Okay, then. Just my kids, and my brother who lives in Chicago because he always remembers me this time of year and sends me something that he knows will be meaningful to me. But, how can I get him anything without getting my brother in Florida a gift, too? And isn’t my sister going to be in Florida with our brother, like she is every year at Christmas? I can’t forget about her.

Just a little gift to remind him of home. That's all Henry wants this year.

Then, I remember the two Secret Santa groups I’m in. At work we draw names every year. And the ladies I met one year at a gym for women, also do Secret Santa, though by now Santa is no secret. Each has a $25 cap, and already I can hear the cash register bell going, “Cha-ching!”

There’s also my neighbor and friend who used to take walks with Henry and me before she got sidelined with a foot injury. Cha-ching. Oh, and my handy friend, Gale, who stops by everyday at lunch time, when I’m at work, just so that Henry can take his mid-day stroll through the neighborhood. And, what about my cousins who moved here last year, and my niece who’s stopping by on her way to spend Christmas with her partner’s family? I can’t forget any of them. Cha-ching, cha-ching!

Then, there’s the woman who does my hair and who gave me a small tin of butter cookies the last time I was in, as a hint that she wants a big tip. I don’t even like butter cookies, but I got the hint just the same. There’s also the woman who waxes my eyebrows, once a month, so that I don’t end up looking like Frida Kahlo. Not to mention, the guy who delivers my water, so I don’t die of thirst. There’s the one who protects me from ant infestations and came to my rescue when I was confronted by a rat in my garage. There’s the UPS guy, who wears spiffy, brown shorts all year long, looking quite dapper as he delivers all my packages from Amazon, without suffering any breakage. He’s been looking at me as if he expects somethin., After all, he more than meets his delivery quota with me. And, while I’m at it, I can’t overlook the team of women who arrive like kamikaze cleaners to spit shine my home every other Thursday. I know they’re expecting a little something. Cha-ching, cha-ching, cha-ching, goes the cash register, as I watch the dollar bills flying out the door.

Even Henry gets miffed if I don’t bring him home a new toy or biscuit. “Something to remind me of home,” he says, looking forlorn. And by home, I know he means England. I don’t dare tell him he was actually born west of the Mississippi. Instead, I bring him a box of crumpets from the bakery, and a DVD titled, The Lost Prince.  This makes him deliriously happy.

Then, there’s my son’s new girlfriend. This is her first Chrismukkah with him—and us (yes, we celebrate both). Already, she feels like part of the family, and I couldn’t be happier. So I have to get something for her and of course it can’t be just one thing because I have so many ideas on what she’d like! Cha-ching!

And what about myself?  I can’t see a Black Friday sale or any other sale, for that matter, without getting something for me. Which is why I buy two of everything! CHA-CHING, CHA-CHING, CHA-CHING!!!

Oh yes, every year it’s the same. But next year, it’s going to be different, I am certain of that. Next year, I’m going to keep it simple. Which is why, next year I’m planning to sleep through December, and not wake up until the strike of midnight, January 1st.

So how about you? How did your holiday shopping fare this year? Were you good, or did you go overboard like someone I know, whose name I’d rather not mention, ahem.

Key West Redux

Published October 25, 2011 by monicastangledweb

This photo was taken on our first day in Key West, before the rains hit. Simply spectacular, if you ask me.

Ordinarily, today I would post the next installment of The Road Taken series.  But, after my Rick saga, I’ve decided to take a break as I’m not quite sure where my story should go next. Blame it on a brain freeze, or on one too many rum punches imbibed while on vacation. Either way, I’ve hit a wall. If you have any suggestions on how to get past it, I’d love to hear from you.

In the meantime, since you have been so encouraging about my photos from Key West, I thought I’d share a few more today. After all, the ones I’ve already posted, in Key West, Rain & All, largely focused on the lousy weather we had while there.  It’s only right that I also show you some photos that capture Key West at its best.

If you ask me, Key West is an idyllic locale, and the perfect place for anyone who enjoys a good walk. I didn’t let the rain stop me from clocking in a lot of steps on my pedometer as I wandered around, taking in the lush beauty and flavor of Florida’s magnificent coastal community. As a writer, I found Key West to be very inspiring. I can’t think of a more fitting place in which to lose yourself, if only for a short time.

So, please indulge me as I reflect on my favorite moments visiting the southernmost point of the continental U.S.   I’m hoping, that those of you who commented last week and said you’d never been there, will be motivated to start planning your own trip to the Keys.

Let me know what you think!

I put together this collage as a reminder of all that Key West has to offer. Balmy days, and some good, old-fashioned R&R.

This alley looked like a prime spot for basking in the atmosphere.

What's the story behind this structure, located at the southernmost point? Wish I knew.

One of the many spots where you can stock up on cigars.

I love signage. For some reason, this one reminded me of one of my favorite films.

No doubt, this is the Number One photo-op spot in Key West, a mere 90 miles from Cuba, after all.

Anyone watching the new "Pan Am" series, might be interested in reading this sign. (This photo was taken by my sister.)

Intriguing front yard, don't you think? I wonder what they do inside, when not "Closed," that is.

I'm a sucker for statues.

This dog, on Duval Street, is waiting for his pirate booty.

Chickens and roosters roam freely in this laid-back town.

When I came across this whimsical yard, I felt a yearning to sit down and have a tall glass of refreshing lemonade. Or should I, more appropriately, Key Lime-ade?

This house, with its purple bicycle, green foliage and blue shutters, spoke to me. I wouldn't mind spending half the year here, writing away, and getting around town on my bike, as most of the locals do.

The Banana Cafe is a little French restaurant open for breakfast and lunch. The Key Lime Crepes are mouth-watering divine!

This may look like a dive, but it happens to be Virgilio's, one of the hottest places on Duval Street, for live music and dancing. We had a blast here. It's beautiful inside and an enormous tree growing in the middle of the roofless bar adds to its charm.

I love taking snapshots of flowers. This photo was taken while standing on a small bridge over a pond on the Hemingway house property, looking directly down at a lily pad.

Papa's Hideaway is a bed & breakfast, just a few blocks from Hemingway's house. Maybe next time, I'll stay here.

Hemingway must have spent a lot of time in the bathroom because his bathrooms were absolutely stunning! I love the tile on this bathroom floor. So art deco!

Check out the vanity in this bathroom. Look closely and you'll see my reflection.

My Mother’s Memory

Published December 3, 2010 by monicastangledweb

The night before my mother, Mary, died, she was packing for an impromptu trip to Caracas to visit her mother. My brother, Cesar, tried to talk her out of it. She should stay home where she was needed, he said. He even tried to call me to see if I could talk sense into her, but I wasn’t home and this was at a time when most folks still didn’t own a cell phone.

Cesar kept trying to rationalize with her but it was to no avail. For my mother had a bee in her bonnet and nothing could dissuade her. She was a woman on a mission and the fact that her mother was long dead simply went over her head.

Blame it on Alzheimer’s. We were sure she had it, though 16 years ago, the only way to officially detect it was through an autopsy. So, without a definitive diagnosis, no doctor could tell us for certain. But we just knew. Here’s why:

Florida, 1992: My mother poses with Sarah, despite not remembering she is her granddaughter.

1) She was forgetful. Two years earlier, I’d gone to Florida with my daughter, Sarah, to visit my parents in their new home. My mother took one look at my 18-month old and asked me why I had brought this strange child with me. This, from the woman who cried with joy at the sight of her infant granddaughter, and who sat with me in the hospital hours after her birth.

Later, while at the kitchen window that looked out to the backyard, we watched my father push Sarah on a swing. My mother turned to me and asked,

“In what year did your father die?”

Startled, I had to think for a second. Random thoughts began to whirl in my head. Was my father dead? Who, then, was this impostor outside with Sarah? How did it come to this and where did my mother go? My mother, who never forgot a birthday and who always remembered to serve up my favorite dishes when I visited. Why couldn’t she see that the man she’d been married to for over 40 years was still alive—and just a few feet away?

2) She lost her bearings. After the move to Florida, my mother was no longer in the comfort of her Long Island home and all that had been familiar. She was instead like a planet spinning out of control, without the gravitational pull that had once kept her firmly connected to us. As far as she was concerned, Florida was alien turf and light years away from New York, where she had spent most of her life. She might as well be living on Mars.

During our visit, I took my mother and Sarah to a nearby playground. I strategically positioned my mother on a bench, where I could keep an eye on her while playing with Sarah on a jungle gym, just a few yards away. My mother seemed relaxed at first, like her old self and for a moment I could pretend there was nothing wrong. As long as she didn’t utter a word, she was the mother I remembered. But a second later, Sarah said something, causing me to look away. Then, I heard a cry, and just like that, my mother was in a state of panic, anxiously searching for a way out of the park and nearly in tears because she could not find one. I picked up Sarah, did my best to calm my mother, and quickly guided them both out of the park. I wondered whether we could ever have a normal outing again.

3) She was mean and disorganized. Naively, I thought I would help my mother organize her closet, which looked very helter-skelterish, if you ask me. But instead of helping, I made things worse. Her eyes bored into me as she vehemently admonished me for touching her things. Alarmed and slightly shaken, all I could think was, this is not my mother. My real mother clearly had been kidnapped, replaced by mysterious pod people, and was now starring in her own movie—“Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” Alzheimers, 3; Mary, 0. The disease was winning and gaining in on my mother.

So the night that Mary tried to return to Venezuela to see her own mother, she packed her suitcase as best she could and went to bed. Perhaps exhausted from arguing with Cesar or frustrated that she wasn’t able to embark on her journey. Or maybe she just forgot she wanted to go. I don’t know. I wasn’t home when my brother called. It was Memorial Day weekend and I was out at a barbeque with friends.

The next morning, my sister called with the news. Brain dead, she said, which to me sounded hopeful in some off-kilter way. Not completely dead, just brain dead. Later, it would fall on to us, her children, to pull the proverbial plug.

My mother. Somehow I believe she knew the end was near. Which is why she spent the night before, packing her bags to see her mother. As for the autopsy report, it gave us the confirmation we needed: Alzheimer’s Disease.

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Father Knew Best, Sometimes

Published November 12, 2010 by monicastangledweb

My world in Queens, circa 1960, revolved around my mother. To me, she was the end all. The bee’s knees. The most beautiful mother who was always there for me. My father, on the other hand, was of a different ilk. He wasn’t around much and didn’t go with us on family outings to the city. But that’s probably because he was spending his time downtown, getting an education.

My father, Enrique

It seems that when he came to the United States, my father decided that if he was going to make a decent life for himself and for his family, he first needed to get a degree.  He enrolled at New York University and he must have been there day and night, attending classes and studying late in the library, because his presence in our lives was minuscule at best.

And when he was around, he would yell and throw fits about anything and everything which absolutely terrified me.  He also enjoyed a good scare.  Like when he crept up on me when I was by myself in the basement, sent there to fetch the laundry basket for my mother.  Pouncing, he began to make strangling motions around my neck.  I cried in horror, which made him keel over with crazed laughter. I was only five.

Yet, despite this, my father had his “Father Knows Best” moments. At least when he wasn’t in his hyper Latin machismo mode. Like when I was 18 and about to go on an interview for a summer job. I had applied to be a live-in nanny for the Pellicane family’s four children (three boys and a girl).  My father insisted that he come along for the interview so that he could meet the family with whom I might be spending the summer.  He poured on his Latin charm for Mrs. Pellicane, taking her hand gently in his, admiring her well appointed Manhasset home. A regular Desi Arnaz meets Ricardo Montalban. During the interview, he asked questions and offered anecdotal information about his daughter (“She’s shy,” “A picky eater,” “Very impatient.”). I sat meekly beside him, silently mortified, and willed myself to disappear into the furnishings of the Pellicane home. I wanted to forget this interview ever happened. But the next day, when Mrs. Pellicane offered me the job, she cited as the key reason the fact that my father cared enough about me to take part in the interview.

Over the years, my first inclination would be to seek out my mother when I needed advice. Not my father. I considered him bull-headed and demanding. Yet, he was always there in the background, trying to be as invaluable to me as my mother.  I resisted. That is, until my marriage began to fall apart.

My mother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Confiding in her was out of the question. I needed to talk, to get her insight, but since that wasn’t going to happen, I found myself turning to my father. He was 81 years old now and didn’t seem so macho anymore. During this time, my parents had moved to Florida and my father was receiving regular kidney dialysis. His legs were swollen, his body drained and he was just plumb tired of living. But his mind was intact.

The first time I called to tell him the news about my marriage, as a reflex, I braced myself for a scolding. I expected angry outbursts. I expected accusations that it was my fault, that I could have done more.  I anticipated unequivocal fury.  In its place, I got empathy and love. He listened as I cried and poured out my story. He quietly listened and when I could cry no more, he told me what I needed to hear. That he loved me with all his heart and that I would be ok.

Suddenly, with my mother in her own world, my father was there for me in a way I’d never seen before. It was as if my mother’s pre-Alzheimer’s spirit had taken over his body and, in a surprising twist of fate, it was now my father listening to me and sharing his wisdom.  I knew he was in pain from the dialysis, but during our conversations, he never let on.  It was the closest we’d ever been.  My mother now in la-la land and my father a beacon of hope and compassion.  The world was upside down and the impossible had come true.

Within the year, we buried my mother.  A few months after that, my father.  Hot headed and super macho, my father transcended all that he was, in order to give me what was there all along: his love. And maybe he didn’t always know best, but in the moments I needed him, he came through.

Disney Trippin’

Published September 2, 2010 by monicastangledweb

Disney Mania just hit the Medina household big time. Let’s just say, if you have stock in Disney, you can thank me and my 19-year-old daughter, Sarah, for the increase in value you saw last week. Yes, that was us, spending money hand over fist, as if we’d just received the inside scoop that the world was ending and the only way to save it was to go crazy in Disney World. Our “Lost Weekend” had nothing to do with alcohol, heroin or cocaine and had everything to do with our love for The Mouse.

Mother and Daughter Go Disney!


But I blame Disney. I also blame my parents who’d let me sit in front of the old black and white console, day after day, watching “The Mickey Mouse Show. “ Thanks to watching, “Mickey” and “Mouse” were the first words I learned to spell—and this was way before “Sesame Street.” Who can forget the immortal words from the show’s poignant closing song, which would bring tears to my eyes every time?

“M-i-c (C ya real soon!)-k-e-y (Y? Because we like you!), M-o-u-s-e!”

I’d sob when the show was over and no assurances that it would be back again the following day could stop my wailing. I needed my Mickey fix and I needed it NOW!

Psychedelic Mickey's for sale!


So Sarah and I went on vacation to Walt Disney World in Orlando, Florida. Our first visit and I’m here to tell you that the folks at Disney sure know how to pull out all the stops. They work feverishly to take the “hassle” out of vacations by seeing to your every whim so that you love it so much you want to come back even before you leave. For six days we never forgot for one moment that we were in the land of Mickey.

The indoctrination began at the Orlando International Airport which, if you ask me, should be renamed Disney International. From the moment we arrived the Disney staff, I mean cast members, went into hyper-drive to ensure we had a very Disney experience. We were picked up from the airport by Disney’s Magical Express and whisked to our Disney resort.

The magical fun begins on this bus!

No need to wait for luggage at baggage claim! Disney dealt with that trivial matter and delivered our suitcases straight to our room. At check-in we were given a portfolio that contained all we needed for our stay: brochures and maps for each of the Disney theme parks, and a handy dandy key card that not only unlocked our hotel room door, it also contained all our passes to the theme parks, our Disney dining plan and my credit card information that could be used anywhere in Disney World. One tiny card packing a lot of punch!

For better, for worse, the Disney touch was everywhere. Disney songs were piped in wherever we went. The first 10 channels of the in-room TV sets were all Disney-—including a channel on making the most of each day in the parks and another on the weather in the parks (hot and hotter with extreme humidity and a thunderstorm thrown in). Mickey-shaped waffles were served for breakfast. The pool in our resort looked like it came out of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, and our hotel room décor was “Finding Nemo.” (We could’ve had a room with a pirate motif but that would’ve cost extra. Arrrrgh.)

Still, my daughter and I were over the moon, ready to embrace it all. We wanted to find the hidden Mickey’s that we were told were secretly placed throughout the parks and resorts. We wanted to go on all the rides, and see the 3-D movies and shows. But mostly we wanted to shop. Some people wait until the end of their visit to shop for souvenirs. My daughter and I are of a different mindset and that’s why I love travelling with her. We say, why wait? Let’s shop now! If the world ends we’ll be fully stocked in our Disney regalia—decked out from head to toe!

My daughter and I having a Disney moment.


Yes, we wore our devotion to Disney on our sleeves. And on our heads and feet. Minnie Mouse ears, Tinker Bell tees, Grumpy sweat pants and Mickey Mouse flip flops. It rained during our trip but that was no problem. We just put on our newly purchased Mickey Mouse ponchos and took out our Dumbo umbrellas, replacing our Minnie Mouse ears with Mickey Mouse baseball caps. Thank heavens for our Disney credit card!

And we were not alone in our Disney fashion. As we walked through each of the theme parks, we noticed young and old dressed as their favorite Disney character–Cinderella, Jasmine, Woody, Belle and the Donald. Duck, that is.

Decked out Disney fans meet Snow White.

Nobody thought twice about the countless newlywed couples spending their honeymoons at Disney World, wearing their matching bride and groom Minnie and Mickey ears.

Whether Republican or Democrat, Liberal or Tea Partier, whether Christian, Jew or Muslim, whether American or just visiting from abroad, we were all there for one reason: to experience the Mouse. There is no Red State or Blue State here. There is only the state of Disney and no one cared about the death-grip heat or the endless waiting on lines. Our end goal was far greater than the sum of these parts.

Us Disneyphiles, we know who we are and any other time of year, we blend in with the rest of you. But at Disney World, we become Mickey and Minnie Mouse wannabees, or Cinderellas or Buzz Lightyears. You get the picture.

So how about you? How do you feel about your Disney experience?

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