An entire post written solely to use the word "monkeyshines."

The grandparents are determined to turn Henry into Little Lord Sissypants. Not that I have a problem with sissy-fying Henry’s pants—indeed, I had planned on it, but I was hoping to institute a low-key sissy-fying initiative. Like, I would suggest cooking classes instead of after-school sports. And then, instead of football, Henry would prefer baking cookies with his mom. Or, better: for his mom. Or better: veal piccata. Or, no, veal is evil. Something piccata. For his mother. And father. And several guests.

But instead of teaching Henry how to make a wine reduction, they’re ensuring that even his play outfits are smart enough for the country club; they're getting him accustomed to insisting on only the finest of juice drinks. In the local Met Food a few days back, a few rugged-looking youths behind us in line were buying Kool-aid drink mix, and Henry turned to them, pointed one soft finger at the canister with Scary Pitcher Guy on it, and observed, “Oooh— Pom.” Which in case you don’t know is insanely expensive pomegranate juice. My mother is singlehandedly supporting the “Pom Wonderful” company by filling my child’s delicate insides with it. Luckily the kids didn’t understand him, as no one but me can decode his charming jibber-jabber, so we got away that time without getting our asses kicked.

Thanks to the grandparents, every outfit Henry wears has a Polo insignia on it (and yes, I realize I could buy outfits for him myself, but you see, I am both cheap and lazy. Oh--and poor). My mother defends her choices by claiming she bought them at the Ralph Lauren outlet, but I can’t very well stick a “Bought this at a steep discount” sticker on his back; I tried that and it fell off after a few minutes. And then we go to the playground and every other kid is wearing—horrors!—Gap wear (or worse! Sometimes there’s no discernible brand at all!). I’m waiting for the day, and it will come, when Henry runs up to me in his polo shirt and pleated shorts and patent-leather taps and frilly ankle socks and weeps, “Mother, those children knocked me on my bottom with their rambunctious monkeyshines!”

Just last week I made Henry some toast—the old Henry used to love my toast!—and he looked down at it in disgust and I said, “Look, Henry—toast!” and he asked, “French toast?” Only he pronounced it “Fr-aah-nch.” The poor boy. He never had a chance.

All bets are off. Watch out!

We’re all at my sister’s house, for Father’s Day. My nice sister has a pool. A beautiful, in-ground pool, and every time I see it, I wonder why the hell we don’t live next door to her. But I digress. My mother is wading in the shallow end, while Henry splashes about with his father. I’m sitting on the edge, dangling my legs into the pool. My mother, who feels it is her duty to evaluate my appearance on a regular basis, is glaring at my toes. She considers neglect of one’s parts not only ill-advised but immoral, and here is evidence of my lapsed spirituality--bits of nail polish clinging for dear life to my neglected tootsies. She’s clutching my foot, menacing my poor toes like she could frighten them into enameled, manicured perfection.

Her [disgusted]: It’s a shitty color.

Me: Gee, thanks. I liked the color.

Her: I can’t wear pink. Pink looks terrible on me.

Me: Yeah, see, these aren’t your toes.

Her: Pink. Horrible.

Me: I know. You like to wear gold, or whatever, but’s that not me.

Her [offended]: I do not wear gold. My toes are painted pearl white.

She hoists a leg out of the water and thrusts her foot into my face, just as Henry announces that he needs me. A few minutes later, order is restored, and we’re all back to our original positions.

Her: I can’t believe you said my toes were gold.

Me: You’re upset about that? You called my toes shitty.

Her: I did not say shitty. I would not say shitty to you. I said crappy.

Yeah, I know, it’s not much of a story. It more or less sums up all that confounds me about the woman, is all, and I swore I wouldn’t use my blog to write about my family, but here I am, doing it. Anyway, rules are made to be broken, and me, I’m a rule-breaker. I am dangerous.

But what can he truly enjoy, if not the haunting notes of the fado?

A few years ago, my parents watched our dog, Charlie, while we were away. When we returned, my mother said, “We took him to work with us. He was so funny. He liked to run from window to window, like a little Italian.”

“Like a little Italian?” I said.

“You know," she said, "like a little Italian who wants to see what’s outside."

What I love about this is not only the nonsensical stereotype that my mother (who is Italian, by the way) chose to invent. It’s also the detail--who wants to see what’s outside--added for clarity. I suppose there are other reasons a little Italian might run from window to window. Perhaps to see if Giuseppe has arrived yet, his donkey cart piled high with bushels of fresh manicotti.

Since then, I’ve enjoyed inventing my own baffling non-stereotypes. I’ve been as happy, you might say, as a Portuguese deaf-mute. You know. A Portuguese deaf-mute, who enjoys things.