“I’LL SPEAK TO YOU FURTHER”: This means the meeting is over and Maggie is done discussing the subject, at least for now . . .
“YOU COULD EAT OFF THE FLOOR”: Highest praise, the ultimate sanitary compliment for a homeowner or restaurateur.
“I WOULD GIVE MY EYETEETH”: Used to describe something Maggie really wants. “I would give my eyeteeth to have dinner with that handsome Bill O’Reilly.”
“NEVER CARRY A BALANCE”: Great financial wisdom that has kept her flush all these years, and has obviously gone unheeded by millions of people.
“DID YOU SEE THE ONE . . . ?”: Used to describe a person, show, book, or movie that Maggie can’t recall the name of at the moment.
“TOUGH AS NAILS”: Judge Judy, who else?
“DREGS OF SOCIETY”: Avoid these people at all costs, they will only drag you down.
“I ALMOST DIED!”: An expression of momentary surprise, not a grave, near-fatal medical condition requiring life-saving techniques.
“GIVE THEM WHAT’S WHAT”: If someone offends or wrongs someone else, this policy is put into effect.
“TEENAGERS SHOULD START OUT EVERY DAY WITH A COUPLE GOOD WHACKS, NOT FOR WHAT THEY’VE DONE, BUT FOR WHAT THEY MIGHT DO”: More excellent advice. Self-explanatory.
“I CAN TAKE A SHOWER OUT OF A TEACUP”: Water conservation to the nth degree.
“THEY DON’T HAVE A POT OR A WINDOW”: Used to describe a situation for poor people who can’t afford a convenient receptacle in which to empty their urine, or even a portal with a view, for the same purpose.
“YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT FROM SHINOLA”: Used to let someone know that they are clueless and, specifically, that they can’t tell the difference between excrement and shoe polish.
Childhood
My kids always like to tease me about my childhood, as I described it to them.
“You always sound like you were such a goody-goody,” they’ll say.
Well, I was, kind of! I loved to laugh, and I loved to talk, and I never had a desire to cause any trouble. Probably because I was scared of my dad. I loved him, and he was a great, wonderful man. But you know that old saying “My father will kill me”? All of us said that in our family. Michael Corbally ran a tight ship, and you didn’t want to get on his bad side! There was always my mother, Agnes, though, to thankfully see the gray where my dad saw only black and white.
She was the heart of that partnership, too, the one with the sense of humor. When you wanted something, you could go to Mom, and she’d say, “I’ll go talk to the old man.” Then she’d soften him up so you could get your way.
My wonderful parents, Agnes and Michael Corbally, parents of sixteen!
But when you’re the youngest of sixteen, you also get the benefit of a father who’s had plenty of know-how seeing what works and doesn’t work in raising kids, so he’d mellowed some. By the time I came along, the neighborhood grocery store that my dad started in Chicago after he emigrated from Ireland was doing great. We were a solidly middle-class family when I got to grammar school. It was my oldest brothers and sisters who knew tougher times and who had to work in the store after school. We younger kids didn’t have to when we were coming up. Of course, we were called spoiled by the older kids, and it sometimes seemed as if there were two families separated by experience and hardship, but everyone loved one another and fully supported one another through good times and bad.
I’m first-generation American. My father was a married millworker back in the old country (Ireland) until mill closings forced him to look for a better life in America. He had an aunt here who offered to sponsor his coming over, because you needed someone to help prove that you weren’t going to be a drag on the economy. Not a bad idea when you think about it. So he borrowed money from his aunt to start a store, and then Mom came over with—I think, because my memory of these stories isn’t the best—eight kids, including a baby no more than seven months old. Can you imagine that? She had only one niece to help her, too, and of course, they had to travel steerage, meaning they were in the bowels of the ship with hardly any privacy and little comfort. They were sick as dogs the whole way. In fact, if you’ve seen Titanic, you know how badly they were treated. And just like in that movie, some of the kids went up top to dance for the wealthier passengers, and got coins thrown at their feet. It sounds terrible, I know, but it was money.
My parents lost their first four children, two in Ireland and two in America. One died from burns because of an overturned pot of boiling water, the others to illness. The greatest number of children at any one time was twelve: Mary, Anne, Francis, Agnes, George, Pat, Angeline, Joe, John, Irene, Jimmy, and me. It meant I had quite a few siblings who felt like they could lord it over me. My oldest sib, Mary, was old enough to be my mother, and she often acted like one. I remember once on a slushy winter day heading over to see one of my girlfriends and running into Mary as she was heading home. As soon as she noticed I didn’t have galoshes on she grabbed me by the coat and said, “You’re not going out like that!” She dragged me home—my shoes and socks by this point were soaking wet—and I was yelling, “Leave me alone, you’re not my mother!” At that age, I saw it as being bossed around. Now I think she was looking out for me when my mother couldn’t.
There’s one sibling I don’t remember very well, Angeline. What I do remember is that she had tuberculosis, and she was in a sanitarium. She died when she was twenty-one. When I was really young, we used to go see her once or twice a week. But we could never go upstairs, because TB is so contagious, so we would wait till she came outside to the third-floor balcony and we’d talk to her from below. TB was a real concern in my day, and the Corballys didn’t have great lungs, so my brother Jimmy—the next oldest—and I were always getting tested at the county hospital. Thankfully I never got it, but my sister Irene contracted it and had to drop out of high school.
I got along great with my four closest-in-age siblings: Jimmy, Irene, Johnny, and Joe. Although for a while I did hate my brother John because he used to tease me about my red hair. He had this teacher with a hideous red wig, Mrs. Burns, and he called her Wiggy Burns. Well, he called me that, too, just to get my goat. “Ooooh, I hate him!” I’d go around saying. Then he ended up being my favorite brother. He’d call me “Wig” later in life, and I just loved it. But as a kid, I was ready to kill him.
Interviewed about my hair. They published home addresses for the men reading!
As you can guess, I wasn’t too crazy about my red hair, which I got from my dad. I always used to say it was auburn, but it certainly wasn’t that light, pretty red they call titian. I had freckles, too, and it just meant that when I was out, guys would yell, “Hey Red, how you doing?” Everyone thought it was pretty, but I couldn’t hear it. It’s true that you never like anything about yourself.
In fact, you know when I liked my red hair? When it turned gray.
My best friends growing up were my sister Irene, who was four years older than me, and Rae, an Italian girl I immediately took a liking to, who lived in our neighborhood, which was Presentation parish. Neighborhoods were really parishes then, and the name of the parish was where you said you lived. I would have said, “I’m in Presentation.” Or even, “I’m in Prez.” If you attended Resurrection church, you were in “Rez.” St. Thomas Aquinas was just “Aquinas.” Our Lady of Sorrows was just “Sorrows.” Although, “I live in Sorrows” sounds kinda unhappy, doesn’t it?
Anyway, Rae lived right down the street from me, and she was one of those friends you make where you click instantly. You say, “I don’t know why. I just like her!”
It was evident for anyone to see, though, why the three of us enjoyed one another’s company. We could see the humor in everything, and we always had one another in hysterics. Put the three of us together, and we didn’t need anyone else to have a good time. In church, if somebody was singing really off-key and close to us, it would be dangerous for any of us to catch the other’s eyes. Then we’d have to leave the pew to st
op from laughing. Somebody with an atrocious outfit was another trigger. That wouldn’t even need eye contact. Just an elbow, and an “Oh my God” was enough. Another time it was a misprint in the prayer book: “Thanks be to God” instead read “Tanks be to God.”
My daughter has called it “the church giggles” in her act. Well, Irene and Rae and I could turn any situation into the church convulsions without any prodding.
Irene was particularly foxy about getting us to laugh. She could get Rae and me to make fools of ourselves, and then keep her composure while we were losing it. When she’d do this at the soda shop, they’d have to kick Rae and me out for laughing so much, while Irene got to stay! Then Rae and I would wait outside for Irene. “You always do this!” I’d say to her, still laughing, of course. [My getting banned from talk shows is genetic. Mom was banned first, from the soda shop!]
It’s like that to this day with my best girlfriends. We’re all still alive, and when any of us are on the phone with one of the others, we eventually have to hang up because it just sinks into hysterical laughter. Often over the stupidest things, stuff we’ve been laughing at for years. “When the three of you get together, you act like you’re twelve years old!” my kids will say. But I tell ya, what good is a friendship if you can’t still laugh at the same things?
Of course, when we all got married and raised children, then we’d usually be laughing about the trouble our kids were giving us! The way it would usually go is, each would defend the other’s children. “Oh really, Irene, your kid’s a bad one, huh? Did he stab someone?” But we always made sure never to end a conversation without a problem turning into a cause for laughter.
We also had our own secret language, which was helpful when we’d want to point out someone in the soda shop and make fun of them. [Hmm, it seems like something else I do is genetic, as well.] The problem was, it was all too obvious what we were doing, because we’d shift our eyes and lower our heads and speak under our breath, and it’s not as if we went to a lot of trouble to disguise the words. “Looksela at that onesela with the hatsela.” Or “Thatsela onesela at churchsela was a real bitchsela.” My gosh, do I even need to translate it for you? [And you want me to apologize to the people I trash? I’m now going to apologize to everyone that YOU have offended, Mom, like that poorsela bitchsela.]
Rae’s mom said it best about us. She was a sweet woman who spoke very little English—Rae, short for Raffaella, was first generation like myself—and would cook for us when we were hungry. (It’s how I found out about my favorite dish, spaghetti!) Anyway, Rae’s mom’d sit with us and listen to us talk, not understanding much, but knowing we were having fun. And when we’d start laughing, she’d look at us and repeat this song title that was popular then: “Cr-r-r-r-azy people!”
Laughing too much was about as bad as Margie Corbally got as a kid. I was never really rebellious, like some of my older brothers and sisters were, who reacted more strongly to my dad’s strictness. See, I loved school. I liked most of my nuns. What kind of nerd was I? I loved learning, and I loved sports. I was good at learning, but not so good at sports. I was short and uncoordinated, so as much as I loved basketball and volleyball, I was always picked last, or I’d beg for the teams to take pity on me and let me play. I might not have been good, but I played my heart out!
Me at twenty-one. I wish I had this thin waist again.
But while I never wanted to get in trouble, I did do one wrong thing in high school. Actually, it wasn’t in high school, technically, and that’s kinda the point.
Irene, sister and dear friend, before having her large family (nine kids)!
My other dear friend Rae, with her thin waist also.
I’ll only say I’m in the middle girls’ row, with ugly bangs.
I ditched one day.
I don’t know what I was thinking, but these two girls convinced me to, and they were pretty daring kids. It sounded like a good idea at the time. The three of us went into downtown Chicago, saw a movie, grabbed a bite to eat, and got milkshakes. [Maggie Griffin, the original Ferris Bueller.] And I would have enjoyed it if I hadn’t the whole time been thinking, “When I get home, if the school called my parents, I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life.”
I could barely pay attention to the movie. I didn’t taste any of the meal we ate. The milkshakes could have been chalk for all I knew. That Catholic guilt’s a killer.
Then we got home, and nothing happened. My parents didn’t know. They never found out, actually. I was safe. I realized that doing something like that wasn’t for me.
But did I brag about it the next day at school?
Maybe!
Mom, Manager, Momager
People ask me if I knew my daughter was going to be in show business, and I say, “Would you think just because your kid likes to sing Barbra Streisand songs and dance around the house that she was going to be famous?” [It sounds like you’re talking about your gay son, Mom . . . Oh.]
As a mother, you just don’t know at that stage what’s in store for your child. [Especially with an “accident baby.”] Johnny and I never took Kathy to acting lessons or singing lessons. Never even thought of it. Not that we didn’t enjoy her performing for us at home. [By performing at home, she means hovering over Hamburger Helper while I sang something from Carousel, and her shouting “This pah-sta’s getting cold, Kathleen.”] But the idea that she’d be onstage doing it for a living was beyond our thinking. She was just this cute kid doing what cute kids do. [Keeping us from eating our food.] Think about it. If you have boys, they’re probably interested in sports. But do you assume they’re going to play football in the big leagues one day? [There are days I do think I missed my calling as a running back.]
Johnny and me with Kathy. Our first Christmas in Los Angeles.
“She’s sure having fun!” we’d say whenever Kathy put on little shows for us.
Did You Know You Were Crushing My Dream?
KATHY: All right, hold on, Mom. You saw my feverish attempts to entertain people. Why didn’t you put me in pageants?
MAGGIE: Well, first of all, Kathy, they didn’t have the elaborate ones then like you see now. So you wouldn’t have liked them. You would like what’s on now a lot more.
K: Excuse me, but you’re reading my future mind? How does that work? Mom, I would have loved any pageant of any kind. Did you know you were crushing my dream?
M: No, I didn’t, Kathy. [Rolling eyes.] I’m very sorry.
K: Thank you. I’ve been waiting for that apology for thirty-nine years, or whatever my real age is.
M: Add ten at least. Anyway, I’m very, very sorry about that. But . . .
K: Now, have we discussed the Sears and Roebuck charm school? I want to confront you about that.
M: Oh, okay.
K: It’s something that is hurtful to me. And once again it’s your fault.
M: Oh dear Lord . . .
K: When I was a student at St. Bernardine’s, I believe it was about third grade, there was a speaker who came, which was always a big deal to have at assembly, because my class was only about . . . how many kids?
M: Small, twenty in a class perhaps. It was a small school.
K: So they gathered all the girls, the whole class, and we were introduced to a representative from Sears, which I believe still had the Roebuck. They offered charm school once a week, and they were going to teach us how to eat properly, behave, and walk with a book on our head.
M: Which was great. I thought it was a great idea.
K: So I then went home and told you I wanted to do it. I believe the fee was twenty dollars a class, and what did you say?
M: It was . . . I didn’t have the money. It was too expensive.
K: Too expensive! Twenty dollars a week . . . to make me a lady. I can barely get the words out.
M: Well, Kathy, you have to understand, twenty dollars at that time was a lot of money.
K: Mother, I don’t know how to walk with a book on my head to this day.
>
M: Well, I don’t either, but somehow I survived.
K: Don’t you get it? When you think “charm,” you think Sears and Roebuck.
M: I know. That comes to my mind, first thing.
K: And you loved Sears, too. I don’t get it.
M: I did love Sears. I bought all the kids’ clothes there. I bought mine. I loved the catalogue.
K: Now, do you remember a certain item that we did get from Sears that maybe caused you a little embarrassment?
M: Oh yes I do. [Laughing] The wig.
K: If you recall, my dream was to be Barbara Hershey, who then went as Barbara Seagull because she was like a beautiful bird in touch with nature. My dream was to not be me, but to be dark-skinned with very long stick-straight hair like a Manson family member.
M: Yes, I remember.
K: Now, there was a wig in the Sears catalogue that was going to help make my dream come true. It was going to be part of my pre-op for turning into Barbara Seagull. Did you get me that wig from the catalogue, or did I get it?
M: No, no, I got it. Boy, did I get it.
K: Do you remember how much it was?
M: It was . . . I don’t think it was more than ten bucks.
K: It was four. Four dollars.
M: Four dollars? Oh my gosh.
K: What I discovered was that it was called a fall, which means it would cover only part of your hair. I didn’t know this.
M: Really, it was pathetic. But you thought it was beautiful. It was kind of okay from the front. But the back, there was hardly any hair . . .
K: The front was wiry red hair, and the back was long straight brown hair.
M: It was . . . look, you thought it was beautiful. Well, one Sunday, Johnny and I got up and Kathy wasn’t around. We wondered, where is she? Now, in those days you didn’t think too much about kids. Then you came home and walked in the door and I almost died. You had that wig on, you had put a little makeup on . . .
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