Your kids are not your friends

Sybil had this massive problem when I was little of talking to me like I was adult or worse her friend. Mostly it was typical stuff like your father's a bum, I have a weird discharge from my left breast, etc, etc. I remember this one time when my mother's friend confided in her that her husband got a blow job from a prostitute at a bachelor party. I'm not sure why, but Sybil felt it necessary to tell me and my brother the story. Maybe she was telling my dad, who I'm sure was jealous, but she had no regard for whether or not her ten year old child was in ear shot.  The best part of the story was the fact that I was friends with the son of the blow job recipient. You can imagine what happened next.

"Hey Jason, I heard your dad got a blow job from a prostitute in front of your uncle at a bachelor party. Want to play with our G.I.Joes? Why are you crying? Knowing is half the battle!"

Soon after Jason's parents divorced. I would like to blame the blow job, but it's more enjoyable to blame Sybil's big mouth.

I just wanted to wish you a happy new year

I know I'm a terrible self hating Jew, but I didn't realize yesterday was Rosh Hashanah until Sybil left me a few messages.

Message 1:

I just wanted to wish you a healthy........and happy.......new year. Call me back.

Message 2:

Why haven't you called me back? You know it's the Jewish new year. You could be a little nicer.

On that note, Sybil wishes you all a happy new year. That is unless you have more money than her, or your children are nice. In that case you don't want to know what she wishes.

The escalator

Sometimes I worry Sybil will become too old and frail to care for herself three thousand glorious miles away. That is a lot to think about. Do I kill her there or do I bother moving her out here and then kill her? Luckily I don't have to decide right now. Sybil recently made some provisions so she can stay in her mansion for many years to come. She added an Acorn chair lift to her house. Now she glides up and down her stairs with the ease and grace of an 80 year old. When I asked her how it was she informed me that for $300 more she could have had a model with a cushion on the seat. I asked her why she didn't spring for it and this was the response:

"I don't need a plush chair. I'm not going on a bus ride."

Always a pleasure.

I lost a good stock broker today - 9/11 post

Don't feel too bad for the stock broker Sybil lost today. All she did was fire him. She told me he had to go because he only made her $4,000 in the last three months. I was given no details on how much was invested or what the rate of return was, just he had to go. On today of all days.

I really feel for him. Being a stock broker in Paramus, New Jersey, this isn't the worst tragedy to happen to him.

Don't judge me

So I'm sitting on my couch on Saturday when I get a text from my mother. Now this is shocking for many reasons. My mother doesn't text because she doesn't know how and if she did, she wouldn't do it because it costs money. That wasn't even the strange part. The text consisted of nothing but the following picture:

No message, no smiley faces, nothing. Just a picture of Sybil judging me from her couch in New Jersey. Her face says it all. I've wronged her but she isn't going to tell me why. When I talked to her the next day, there was no mention of the picture. Clearly it was sent to let me know, she knows! Granted I don't know what she knows, but she knows.

R.I.P. Joan

The one I really feel sorry for is Edgar. I don't think you can kill yourself twice.

You didn't want a girl?

Yesterday was my daughter's birthday. I have such fond memories of telling my mother I was having a child, especially when I let her know we found out it was a girl. Her response, "You didn't want a boy?" I didn't know I had a choice. To honor the momentous occasion of my child turning 5, Sybil sent flowers. Sybil asked me last week if I thought flowers were a good gift for her. I said no, so she sent them anyway.

Happy Birthday Sophia!

Life is like a free box of chocolates

Back in the late '90s, Chase credit card sent out a box of Godiva chocolates to some of their premier customers. I'm not sure how, but Sybil somehow was on the list. I wouldn't have known about the chocolates, but I came home one day to see my mother's face smeared in what I can only assume was dark cocoa. I literally had to beg her to share one measly piece from the assortment box. She explained that they were sent to her because she was that good of a customer. No big deal. I ate the piece she gave me (probably fell on the floor) and went on with my day. Later I could hear her in the other room talking on the phone, but the only words I could make out were "came melted."

The next day the UPS man came and dropped off another box of Godiva chocolates. I asked my mom why a second box showed up and she played dumb. All she said was "THEY'RE NOT FOR YOU!!" That night Sybil asked me to go with her to Barnes and Noble with her. I will never turn down a chance to read magazines for free so off I went. While I read the latest issue of People I noticed my mother was at the front register talking to a sales clerk about returning the box of Godiva she told them she got as a "gift." The sales clerk said no problem and gave Sybil a store credit.

Over the next few weeks no less than ten boxes of chocolates were delivered to our house. Each box was then driven over to Barnes and Noble for a store credit. Being the great detective that I am, I assume Sybil would call Chase and complain that the Godiva came melted or didn't come at all so they kept sending her new boxes until they finally realized she was a chocolate thief. I would be ashamed of how there was no scam too petty for Sybil, but she did buy me an issue of Maxim on one of those returning trips. She wasn't all bad.

Heh

It's been awhile since I wrote about Sybil. My brother offered me a dollar for the URL.  I assume that was an attempt at a taunt to get me to write. I don't know what to tell him or anyone else. In the last month, Sybil has become a warm loving person who only tries to do right by me. I mean why else would she leave me fourteen messages a day with varied irritability in her voice?

I should mention that yesterday's messages all dealt with the possibility that I might have stolen her handicap placard when I was in town. What kind of a person does she think I am? I know she needs that for parking as close as possible to the door of 7-11 when she goes to get her scratch off lottery tickets. Steal I would not do. Use it to park by the entrance of BevMo when I ran in for Coors light? That I did. And that one time for a slice. Oh, and I guess when I didn't want to pay a meter.

Just because I have a picture of it doesn't mean I took it. Posts to resume on a regular basis.

Vig

Not sure if I mentioned this before, but my mother has been a loan shark for approximately 35 years. Well, I'm not sure loan shark is the correct term. She gives short term loans to people at insane interest rates. Is that a loan shark? It's not as bad as it sounds. She only has one client that I know of. His name is Dean Lebowitz. Actually I changed his name to protect him. Fine, I'm lying that is his real name. He was the gym teacher at the school my mother worked at. I'm not sure what his problem was or how he found my mother, but for some reason he would constantly borrow money from Sybil at interest rates that would make people with the worst credit blush. I assume he had an insane OTB habit. There was no other reason he would borrow like he did. To his credit he did always pay on time or I should pays on time because even though he is retired, as is my mother, he still appears from time to  time to borrow a hundo here or there. The best part about this is my mother would make him sign a hand scribbled note that he was borrowing the money and that he was okay with paying the absurd interest. Now I'm no police officer but something tells me this whole transaction could land Sybil in the slammer. Hell what do I know. Here is a picture of Sybil at her desk.

Only a true baller wears sunglasses inside.

Tired

Over the last couple of days I have been so exhausted from Sybil calling me fifty times a day, trying to explain to me why she should be allowed to go home from therapy after two days that I've had no energy to write about how my mother screamed that she should have whipped the shit out of me in front of her neurologist when I told her to calm down. I should have some energy tomorrow. In the meantime check out this picture I found of my mom. It looks like the type of picture hung up on a police bulletin board, at the top of course to show her importance to the investigation.

Get me a body bag

So my time in Hillsdale is coming to a close. My mother has a new knee and for the most part has her wits about her again. She only thinks the nurses in the hospital are in a cult and they took her outside to shit in the bushes, but besides that she is doing great. Spending this much time with Sybil might cause some people to fall apart, but not me. I'm strong. With that I will break down everything I ate and drank over the last week by the numbers:

• 6 slices of pizza
• 3 cheeseburgers
• 1 hamburger
• 1 hotdog
• 2 mini cheeseburgers
• 6 White Castle burgers
• 1 order of onion rings
• 5 orders of fries
• 1 egg roll
• 1 order of egg foo young
• 1 order of shrimp and lobster sauce
• 2 taylor ham, egg, and cheese sandwiches (possibly a third if I can tell the future)
• 1 malted milkshake
• 3 scoops of ice-cream in a sundae from Friendly's
• 5 cheese sticks
• 1 lobster roll
• 2 bagels with lox spread
• 1 bag of honey roasted peanuts
• 3 granola bars
• 1 ice cream bar
• 1 blueberry cobbler
• 16 beers

At least I don't have to worry about getting old.

Editor's note - Forgot to mention some terrible sushi, Japanese potato salad, a bottle of sake, and two more beers in Pearl River.

This is how you got shit done before email.

I could explain this letter, but I think it speaks for itself.

It's all going to be alright

Over the last few days, things got pretty hairy with Sybil. She had her knee replaced and I don't know if it was the combo of drugs or what, but she got it into her head that she was kidnapped and being held prisoner at the hospital. Of course I somehow was to blame for this. When things really went nuts they had her strapped down. It was like a dream come true. She would call my brother and ask him to call the police. To be honest I was pretty worried that this was permanent. I am ill equipped to have to care for her. Her doctors told me not to worry. The technical term for what she was experiencing was 'bat shit crazy.' Actually I think it was the mixing of drugs that set her off and it was supposedly going to pass. Hell just as I was about to clear out her bank account, she called me and asked me to visit. I went up to see her and she seemed okay. Finally I knew she was back to normal when we had the following conversation:

Sybil: Did you use the credit card I left on the counter?
Barry: Yeah once or twice. I think I got a bagel.
Sybil: How much did you spend?
Barry: I don't know.
Sybil: I need a total for when I pay the bill on the phone.
Barry: Won't they just give you your balance when you call?
Sybil: No it doesn't work that way. They just ask how much I want to pay.
Barry: Okay.
Sybil: You didn't use the credit card to take out your friends did you????

At that moment I knew she was going to be alright.

This picture was shockingly not taken recently.

Rough Day

Today was a bit of a hard day.  Sybil was confused to say the least. Her pain drugs have sent her on a weird trip. I don't want to get to into it, so instead I've decided to lighten the mood by posting a picture of my brother dressed as my mother. Enjoy.

So...

It looks like the blog will live. Sybil pulled through her surgery with flying colors.  It is actually amazing. She just had one of the most painful surgeries you could think of and she hasn't complained once about her knee. This is even after they made her walk on it. She has however complained about the following:

• The room is too hot
• No one calls her
• I don't stay long enough
• I'm fresh
• She's nauseous 
• She has Parkinson's
• Her chest hurts - made them check to see if she had a heart attack. She was eating Jello when she asked.
• She can't stop peeing
• Nothing tastes good
• The mattress doesn't feel good

After complaining for 24 hours straight, Sybil's roommate in a full back brace looked like she was going to lose her mind. Suddenly Sybil was moved to her own room. I sat with her for an hour while she counted everyone else's money that she had ever met. I screamed why don't we count yours. She then proceeded to rattle off numbers at me that were clearly lies. At this point I got up and walked out with her screaming my name behind me. I went to DairyQueen and got a vanilla malt. All in all not a bad day.

Figured this was a fitting picture. It was my mother yelling at me for wasting film.

Yup this happened.

Since Sybil didn't want to go to the Kosher Nosh for dinner I suggested Chinese. She told me she hated Chinese, but wanted to know anyway what I would get. I said why would it matter if we aren't getting it with which she responded okay let's get Chinese. We went to a take out place and I insisted she wait in the car since her knee hurts. Well from inside the Chinese place I could see the car and the following transpire:

Sybil flings car door open.

Random woman walks over to the car.

Sybil starts handing her trash, used napkins, empty soda cans, etc.

The woman stands there for five minutes talking to Sybil.

I walk out of the Chinese place and the woman tells me she had two knee replacements too. She wished Sybil luck and walked away.  I asked Sybil why she was holding all her trash. "Well she was walking by so I asked her to throw some things away."

Okay I guess that makes total sense.

For some reason my head hurts

So being that Sybil is 76 year old and about to have major surgery I figured it would be a good time to ask about her having things in order. Now I could go into how she of course thinks I want her dead to spend her money on action figures, but that is too easy. When asked, she basically accused me of killing my father because after two strokes, a heart attack and being unresponsive for a month I took him off life support.  Actually her exact words were I did that "real fast." She also mentioned that she knows I don't like her and I will do the same to her. When pressed about her will she produced a shopping bag filled with Bed, Bath & Beyond coupons and her last will and testament. Not being able to hold my temper in check, I started screaming how the fuck would I have found that if I didn't ask. Well, it was in the other room.  Of course, clearly I need to open my eyes. After going back and forth a bit, she told me each grand child gets $50k. Louise get's some money and the first thing I'm to do upon her death is identify her body and use her money to buy a mausoleum as she doesn't want to be in the ground. I'm picturing burning her like Darth Vader.

At that point in the conversation I ran away to my bedroom where she followed me and argued about not wanting to eat at the Kosher Nosh for dinner.

Actual bag that holds her Will.

Onto a forth set

I just walked in on my mom watching Wimbledon topless. I really don't deserve this.

I've arrived

So I woke up at 3am to make my flight. Other than a baby coughing on me it was pretty uneventful. I got to Sybil's around 12 hours minus a time change later and immediately requested a nap. Sybil wanted me to sit and talk instead. Oh goody! After hearing that her house is a mess because I have my childhood toys in a box in my room and that her legs hurt from being dehydrated and not Parkinson's, I passed out. Thankfully I was able to get her some Gatorade to restore her electrolytes before it was too late. It is going to be a long long visit. Did I mention I have Simpson (Bart not OJ) sheets on my bed and when I'm done with my computer I plan to look at a Playboy from 1989?

Two days till surgery.

Almost that time

Next Saturday I will be in New Jersey for Sybil's knee replacement. To prepare myself I've been ignoring all phone calls from my mother. After nine messages on Saturday and four on Sunday I finally called her this morning. There was no mention of the thirteen messages. When pressed for what was so important all Sybil could say was she forgot.

On another note, Sybil has been arranging my ride to her house from the airport by bargaining with a local taxi driver/ex mayor of Hillsdale.

This is the actual text the taxi driver sent my brother about the bargaining:

I hope mom gets through her surgery to attend my funeral. She is killing me with her bargaining!!!


This is going to be an amazing trip.

Did I mention I take off at 6 AM because Sybil bought me my ticket with mileage and a coupon for peaches.

Yes my mom bought me my ticket. It was the only way I would go.

Dangerous Minds

Recently there was a stabbing outside a school in the Bronx that Sybil worked in when she was eight months pregnant with me. Today Sybil reminisced about when she started working there, one rambunctious student took one look at her and said, "Lady, you have no business being in this school in your condition." I would like to believe that he was referring to her mental state, but more than likely he was referring to me kicking my way out.

My late brother, I mean sister

In 1977 tragedy struck. Sybil miscarried her third child. Forget the fact that Sybil was 40 back when 40 was considered a 100 and an absurd age to even think about having a kid, or the fact that she smoked, or even the fact that she didn't take any prenatal vitamins. The real reason she miscarried according to her was that our father made her work. If she was just able to stay at home with her children like all mothers should, she would have had a healthy third child. I like to pretend it was all my dad's fault because he threw her down the stairs.

I always wonder what that third child would have been like. I would have been relegated to being the middle child, but it might have been worth it to have a little brother to start fires with. Then again, it could have been a girl. All I picture is a miniature Sybil with half the fro and twice the lunacy. Maybe this happening was for the best. Obviously I mean my dad throwing my mom down the stairs.

You can't find good help these days

Sybil: There is snow everywhere. I need the driveway shoveled.
Barry: I doubt you will have a heart attack if you do it yourself. Kidding, why don't you hire someone?
Sybil: Where am I going to find someone who plows driveways?

I've had this conversation with Sybil regarding every topic under the sun; snow removal, house cleaning, plumbing, murder, you name it. I don't know if it's her aversion to paying people or she literally thinks there is no one who would do these things for money. I'm guessing it's the paying people to do things that she has a problem with. She wasn't always like this. At once point we had a housekeeper/live in maid/aid to my grandmother. Then again here's some information on some of those past housekeepers.

Eileen - Black Housekeeper that I would constantly ask if she showered. When she said yes I would ask her why she was still black. Due to my brother's racial insensitivity I thought a pumpernickel bagel was called an Eileen bagel. She quit.

Woman I can't remember her name - Cooked a chicken in it's plastic wrapper. She lasted one day. Apparently she was just released from a mental institution and wasn't ready for work.

Doloris - I think she was Haitian. When I was a baby my head stunk anytime she held me. My brother caught her kissing a minister from her church in our garage. She quit.

Marion - Nice woman from Jamaica, but she wasn't much younger than my grandmother. Used to make us Barbie cakes. I always ate the dress first. She had epilepsy and would occasionally have seizures in front of me. My mother kept her on after my grandmother died but didn't pay her. She lived with us for free. She has since retired to heaven.

Spanish Housekeeper - Stole my mom's jewelry and called Puerto Rico from our house phone. You know how Sybil feels about long distance. She was fired.

And the best of all:

Pat - White trash from neighboring town. My mother told me she was my dad's girlfriend. Very confusing. She stole my grandmother's social security check. Only gave it back when my mom told her if she cashed it she would be arrested. Shockingly wasn't fired. Fucked her boyfriend in my parents bed when they were out of town. Don't think the boyfriend was my dad. Used to beat my ass with a metal spatula (another story). Quit after my dad refused to buy her a Pinto.

I can't wait until Sybil starts interviewing aids for her knee replacement.

Flushing Q-Tips

This may seem minor but my mother flushes q-tips down the toilet. She cleans her ears and just tosses the waxy stick into the bowl. If you figure she uses two a day and has lived in her house 38 years, that is 27,740 q-tips for her alone. That doesn't factor in leap year, or the fact she told me and my brother to do the same thing. Now I would like to know how in all this time she has never had a plumbing issue? I actually thought this was totally normal until my early 20's when a roommate of mine caught me doing it and totally freaked out. I tried to explain what I learned to Sybil, but she just cocked her head and said I think that only applies to the generic brand of q-tips. I dropped it after that.

Father's Day?

It was just brought to my attention that today is Father's Day. I've never heard of this holiday. Growing up we celebrated Mother's Day and Your Father's A Bum And If Anyone Is Getting A Gift It's Me Day. I don't know why she was so hostile. I can make ash trays for both of them.

Because you're blek

In the late '70's when inflation was at an all time high Sybil was looking for some absurd places to park her money. Toyota Dealerships, Ostrich Farms, Gold bars. Out of all these ideas, gold seemed to be the one that made the most sense regardless of the fact gold was already at an all time high. It can never end right? So where do you actually find gold to buy? Do you go to a bank? Do you go to Zales and ask them to melt some chains down? I actually have no clue. Sybil though had a brilliant idea. She found someone selling krugerrands. For those of you that do not know, a krugerrand is a South African gold coin that at one time accounted for 90% of the global gold coin market. Thank you Wikipedia. Here's the problem. At the time, most western countries were banning the import of these coins because of South Africa's Apartheid government. The investment was seen in bad taste. I've made some poor investment choices (Tesla options), so I really can't fault Sybil for wanting to buy standardized gold coins regardless of their political association, but I can fault her for what she did with one of them. Now remember these coins symbolize a government that feels Blacks and Whites should be separated. Sybil took one of the coins and had it fixed so she could wear it on a chain. She worked in a predominately black school and she was going to wear a necklace that said Fuck You Black People to work.  I never actually saw her wear it but the whole idea is insane. She had some balls. When I asked her about it. She claimed it was because the coin was pretty. Makes sense.


Editor's Note - Sybil recently found two canceled checks for the krugerrands from 1978. Both checks had notes that they were for eleven coins and the amounts were the same. Sybil took this as she double paid for the coins. She actually called the place up and asked for her missing eleven coins. It's only been 35 years so I don't see any problem with her logic. Amazingly the company still had the records and said to Sybil "Nice try, the first check was canceled." So close!

Spring Cleaning

As documented here and in random pictures at the police department it has been proven that Sybil has legendary hoarding skills. I always like to reference the box of classical music CDs that NatWest Bank was giving out to customers. Most customers took one CD, Sybil took a case. This hoarding is not just limited to nonperishable items, the kitchen at her house has a collection of food that is insane. There are at least 500 soy packets laying around from Chinese dinners throughout the years and let's not forget the long expired box of Franken Berry still in the cereal cabinet from my childhood. 

I guess there is a limit for everyone because Sybil did clean out the freezer once in the last twenty years. This is how she did it. My brother had this heavy set friend visiting from college that mentioned he was hungry and Sybil jumped up and said, "Let me make you something." She suddenly was all motherly. 

Sybil then proceeded to take every item out of the freezer that had expired ten years ago and offered them up to this poor boy. I sat there as my mother microwaved Howard Johnson's Clams and Ronzoni lasagna, followed by a Saralee pound cake. This kid just plowed through all this expired crap. At one point I saw him drinking a glass of chocolate milk. There was no chocolate sauce in our house!

After about an hour the freezer was bare, the microwave was hot, and this kid was full. I expected him to vomit on the steps, but instead he just dropped his glass of milk, sending glass and chocolate everywhere. I assume this happened because he was woozy from eating poison. I asked Lewis later if he ever got sick and the only response I got was, "I never asked."

Do you know who my brother in law is?

My mother had a sister who was for all intents and purposes, estranged from our family. It was mostly out of her embarrassment about being related to Sybil, and Sybil's ill behaved off spring. This aunt lived a very luxurious lifestyle in the suburbs of Philadelphia. She had married a fairly intelligent man who was a Vice President at Bamberger's/Macy's. They had a fancy life of tennis clubs, european vacations, and not one but two gay children. They were true one percenters.

Even with very little contact (they did fight over my grandmother's jewelry), my mother still took full advantage of who her sister was married to when it was time to return something to Bamberger's. There was one instance in particular when she was returning Lewis's torn Mighty Mac jacket. Lewis had got it caught on something or it was just worn out causing the asbestos like filling to pour out of a sleeve. Since his OCD could never stand for having a leaking jacket and Sybil refusing to spend on a new one, the only solution was to return it. When the sales clerk saw the jacket and deemed it not returnable, Sybil did the only thing she could think of. She screamed at the top of her lungs, "Do you know who my brother in law is?!" Obviously the clerk did not. So then Sybil explained he was the Vice President of the store and that she was going to get him on the phone right that instance. These were the days before cell phones so personally I think the store clerk should have called her bluff. Instead the lady who wished she took the day off, caved.

Sybil left with a new jacket, one size up of course. She used the "Do you know who my brother in law is." line at least three more times. I even think she used it in Nordstrom once.

Pajamas are for sick people

Last year I wasn't sure what to get my mother for her birthday so I decided a pair of pajamas would do the trick. After deciding against a snuggie, I ordered something nice and sent it out fedex.

Your average person would have received the pajamas and regardless of liking them or not, thanked me and called it a day.  Sybil instead called me up and told me my gift was shit and you send pajamas to sick people.

Next year I will just send a check.

Live Blogging from Sybil's bedside

In less than a month I will be traveling alone to New Jersey to spend a week with Sybil. I'm hoping we go to Jones Beach, eat ice cream from Friendlys', see movies, and just enjoy each other's company. If that doesn't work out, my back up plan is to accompany my mother to the hospital where she will have her left knee replaced with styrofoam and wood. She has an HMO and that is the best they can do. In all seriousness this will be a trying time for me. I will be spending a week alone with my mother and if the surgery goes well my source for new material will be dead and buried. If the surgery isn't a success, figure this blog can run at least ten more years.

On the street

It's funny how two people growing up in the same house can have such varied experiences. For instance the reasons I hate my mother are totally different than the reasons my brother hates her. Obviously neither of us hate her because she is a Saint, but we did get treated differently. For example, growing up, Sybil chose to tell Lewis daily that we would soon run out of money and be on the street and that no one would care, especially not our paternal grandmother who was rich. Sybil told this to Lewis so many times that his fear of running out of money is even strong today. He hides money in his mattress. I, on the other hand, was never told this, so for every five dollars I have I try to spend seven.

Then again when she was done badgering Lewis she did like to tell me I had a face just like my father's side of the family. Now that I think about it, I don't think she meant it as a compliment. I should call her and ask.

Grandma

I've mentioned in a few posts that my maternal grandmother lived with us when I was a child. The mother of the mother. She was a special lady. I wrote my college essay about her.  It detailed how she had a dirt floor as a child in Russia, came to America alone when she was nine, and worked in a factory to save to bring her family over. She had all the makings of a great immigration story that should be on the wall at Ellis Island. I think a man with a pencil mustache tried to steal her money on the ship ride over from the old country.

By the time I knew my grandmother she was in her late 70's/early 80's. This was in the early 80's when old people seemed really old. By the time I was five my grandmother already had had a series of strokes and was in the late stages of dementia/Alzheimer's. With that, some strange things happened in my house. In no particular order here are a few:

• In Yiddish she asked my mother if she found me in the street.
• Also in Yiddish she said I was a pretty girl (shayna maiden)
• She gave me a screw driver to play with in my crib.
• She wandered out in the middle of the night and my neighbors had her returned via the police.
• She sometimes would wear a skull ring from a gum ball machine.
• When I was five my mother left me to watch her. Sybil came back to a dark house. I was asleep with my grandmother sitting next to me.
• My mother kept my grandmother's long red braid that was cut off 50 years ago in a drawer in the basement.
• On multiple occasions she tried to cook using plastic bowls as pots. They melted like crayons all over the stove.

And the strangest of them all:

• She took a shit on a plate in her bedroom and put it in a drawer. The house keeper waited until I got home from school to show me.

I wish I was making some of this up.

Family Business

"In 1976 I could have bought a Toyota dealership for $60,000." This is a statement I've heard many times from my mother growing up. Other than the guaranteed free long distance phone calls that she would have made all day I can't see how this would have been a money maker. It is like someone giving me a full ride to medical school. Just because I got a deal isn't going to make me a good brain surgeon. John Stossel would have had a field day with that dealership. I can see him now busting Sybil for selling a fake undercoat job to a minority family.

Sybil was also offered a McDonald's franchise for similar money. I could have inherited both businesses after she burned them down.


Side Note - My father's business did burn down when it was doing poorly.

Actual Conversation

I just called Sybil and here is a breakdown of how the conversation went:

Barry - Hi, how are you?
Sybil - I just went to the Lexus dealer. Can you do me a favor?
Barry - Uhh what?
Sybil - Go online to the Lexus site and sign me up for a $75 gift card.
Barry - Uhh sure. Later. I'm driving.
Sybil - Well let me know when you are home so you can do it right away. It must happen today.
Barry - I will try to call you later.
Sybil - So I was just driving down Washington Blvd and I saw a naked 2 year old standing on the side of the street. I pulled over and tried to get him to come to my car. He wouldn't and I didn't know what house he came out of so I called the police.
Barry - I have to go. I will call you later.

The thought of Sybil screaming at a naked 2 year old to come to her car is amazing. As a parent it is totally what I would want to see going on if I looked out the window. I wonder if she waited for the police to arrive.

It's because you're chubby

There aren't many things to do when a parent comes to visit you from out of town. In my case, when Sybil comes to visit, we either argue or go out to eat, or in most cases do both. Because I always know there is going to be a scene I try to only take Sybil to restaurants that I have no problem never going back to again. This includes your Cheesecake Factories, your McCormick and Schmicks, and of course your Maggiano's. Basically I equate Sybil visiting me to a bad work trip where I only eat in chain restaurants. We have fought all over Southern California. There was the time I told her to save her money for a nursing home because I wouldn't be taking care of her when she argued about who was paying in Houston's. There was the time when I was five that my mother screamed at me in Charlie Brown's that I was going to marry a shiksa. I was five and just wanted to know if I could get dessert. I guess that one doesn't count as a visit but it was a chain restaurant.

Anyway one memorable story involves Sybil visiting and Maggaino's at the Grove. Lewis and I figured Sybil would like how the furnishing made it seem like we were in a true authentic Italian chain restaurant or home. And she could eat a trough of meatballs. Of course as soon as we got there, we had to hear the complaints. This table is too close to the bathroom, the prices are expensive, why are there so many black people here? You get the idea. So halfway through the meal, Sybil complains to the waitress that the restaurant is too cold and she wants the air conditioning turned down. The waitress responds by saying, I didn't notice it was cold but it could be that I've been running around. Sybil looks her up and down and says, "No, you aren't cold because you're chubby."

With that I crossed Maggaino's off the list.

Technical Difficulties

Sorry for no post today. My computer screen mysteriously cracked while talking to Sybil. It should be fixed by tomorrow.

Puerto Rican

This is a story I've blogged about before, but I would be doing Puerto Ricans everywhere a grave injustice if I didn't include it here. Back in the day when I was dating the girl who escorted Sybil to T.J. Maxx she used to occasionally sleep over. She lived about an hour away and since we were so in love she wanted to stay at my house despite the fact that I lived with Sybil and Lewis. In fact my brother once walked in on her topless and yet she still stayed. That's foolish college love for you. Anyway, when the girl in question would sleep over she would sleep in my bed. We were in college, super mature, and my bed was a full, so it just made sense. This happened many times and Sybil never asked where the girl was sleeping. She knew she was in my room, but never put much thought into what we were doing in there. That was until one morning she walked into my room and saw me and my girlfriend both asleep in the bed. She immediately turned around and went downstairs to our living room and screamed for me to come down as she needed to talk to me.

I went downstairs and Sybil screamed at the top of her lungs that she didn't approve of me sleeping in the same bed as my girlfriend and that we weren't Puerto Rican. I'm not sure what the correlation between sleeping in bed with your girlfriend and being Puerto Rican is, but Sybil has been alive for a lot longer than me so I would assume she knows.

It was awesome when I went back upstairs and my girlfriend said to me, "Did your mom just call me Puerto Rican? I'm a Jew from the North Shore."

The children shall inherit the earth

It's a sad state of affairs that I didn't learn that littering was wrong until I was 18 when I received a ticket for throwing a tissue covered in snot out of my car window. It was actually a gauze pad. I didn't have any tissues and some how had gauze and medical tape handy. It relates to a girl I was dating but that is another story.

As a child I had the "I learned it by watching you motto" and with that I actually thought littering was totally normal. For example, Sybil would take us to McDonald's. We would eat in the car and then when finished, roll down the windows of the corolla and just toss the styrofoam and cups and remnants of fries onto route 17.

This was just how we did things. Sybil used to love to tell the story of how when Lewis was a baby she changed him in the car and threw his shit filled diaper onto the windshield of a parked car as she drove away.

So many Indians shed a tear as Sybil drove around discarding whatever she felt like into oncoming traffic. The funny thing is you would think Sybil would have had a clean car considering, but actually there was just as much trash on the floor as there was thrown out the window.

I need to ask her what her system was for what stayed and what went.

Sorry for the extra typos. This post was done on my phone.

Officer Sybil reporting for duty

When I was in first grade, elementary school was a scary place. I have vivid memories of the sixth graders smoking cigarettes, porking on the tire playground and there might have been a kid who drove a Trans-Am. These kids scared the shit out of me as well as my brother. Mostly because they looked like extras from Escape From New York. I was smart enough to stay away from these delinquents. My brother not so much. There was one day in particular when the sixth graders were pistol whipping some smaller kid and Lewis decided to intervene.  He begged this one kid Peter to stop. Peter wanted to know what Lewis would do for him. Lewis offered to bribe him, but this is the kicker, he had no money on him. He suggested Peter come to our house after school and ask my mother for the money. Now either Lewis is a genius or this kid is a retard because he agreed. Now under the best circumstances, a kid going to a house and requesting money so he doesn't beat someone up is never going to go well, but on top of that you throw Sybil in the mix and you have a recipe for disaster.

So Peter showed up to the house, but Sybil wasn't home so the house keeper relayed the story to her. In disbelief Sybil asked Lewis for full details and for Peter's address. This is where I come in. Sybil grabbed me and brought me along for the ride to teach Peter a lesson. Sybil banged on his door with me standing next to her. Peter's mom came to the door and out of nowhere Sybil pulled out a NYC Truancy Badge and announced that she was a Truancy Officer and was there because Peter tried to extort money from Lewis. Peter's mom was disgusted with the situation and told Sybil she could beat her son if she wanted. Sybil declined shockingly, but requested Peter leave Lewis alone from that point on.

I know this is a long winded story but the key take away is my mother carried a Truancy Badge. I to this day have no idea where she got it or how many times she pulled it out. For that matter she may still carry it.

Editor's Note - I was just reminded that when Sybil went to Peter's door, she asked him how old he was and his response was old enough.  The kid was maybe 12.  Such huge balls.

The Fence

My feelings for dogs have certainly evolved over the years. At first I was deathly afraid, then indifferent, and finally a dog loving retard that has to stop and pet everything. My initial fear was instilled in me by my mom of course. Sybil has an irrational fear of dogs. She is convinced they all have been trained to bite her. I would like to say she grew up in a concentration camp where the guards taunted her with german shepherds, but really according to legend she had a dog as a child. I don't know the source of Sybil's trauma, but I do know that when she moved to the suburbs of New Jersey and saw that a neighbor had a Irish Setter her fear went into overdrive and she decided she needed to turn her new house into a fortress.

This post really isn't about dogs. There is plenty of time for me to discuss how I've tortured my mom with my dog on a retractable leash, or the time she locked the car door thinking it being closed wasn't enough to keep a friend's dog from getting to her or how she refers to all dogs as "Her." This post is about the fence she built around her house. I'm not sure I can describe this accurately, but you know how a wood fence has a front side and a back side?

When most normal people put up a fence, they put the finished side out so that people not in the house see the nicer side. It seems like the logical choice. Sybil on the other hand felt if she was paying for a fence and going to be in the yard, she should have the privilege of seeing the nice side. So our entire fence was built with the nice side facing in. When you approached our home it just looked bizarre, not to mention with the back side facing out it made it very easy for less desirables to just climb the fence and come in the yard. Not great when I was being a wise ass and tried to run away from a neighborhood bully. Even the Irish Setter laughed at the fence.

Over time Sybil refused to pay anyone to weather treat the wood so let's just say the fence had a very Grey Gardens look to it. There were entire sections that just fell down. The city eventually made her remove it because it became an eye sore. Thankfully it was after the Irish Setter had gone to dog heaven.

Memorial Day

Memorial Day is a federal holiday in the United States for remembering the men and women who died while serving in the country's armed forces. I would be remiss if I didn't ask you, the readers of this site, to take a moment to honor and remember my mother's first husband. He proudly served in the Navy and was killed in combat. By combat, I mean he died of a heart attack at 35 while arguing with Sybil. Somehow his service in the armed forces helped Sybil secure USAA insurance thirty years after his death and two months after she lost Prudential for insurance fraud.

His contribution will not be forgotten.

God Bless America.

Reason to have a Will

Since my grandmother lived with us and wasn't born in America I guess it's no surprise she didn't have a last will and testament. All she had was a bunch of really nice jewelry that either came from my grandfather lavishing her with gifts or according to my father, my grandparents were neighborhood loan sharks who amassed a collection of jewelry as collateral over the years. Either story sounds very romantic.

My mother took care of my grandmother in her declining years and made the executive decision that all of the jewelry was now hers. It would have been a fine theory if my mother didn't have siblings. Specifically a sister who felt she was entitled to some of the baubles. The two of them fought for years over the collection. Finally my mother appeased my aunt by giving her some of the less desirable stuff that claimed to not care about.

Flash forward ten years to when not only is my grandmother dead but so is my aunt. While mourning the loss (telling police I drive too fast as a coping mechanism), my mother asked me the following:

"Do you think it would be wrong to ask my sister's kids for my mother's jewelry back?

I responded with, "I bet that will go over well."

Shockingly she didn't do it.  I bet she regrets it though.

Just like Wolverine

Last night I had a dream I was at Sybil's with a friend. We were sitting in my room when Sybil started to scream what do we want for dinner. I answered "nothing" like five times, but she kept asking anyway. Next thing you know I'm running down the stairs to choke her.  I woke up sitting up in bed with my arms out in front of as if I was choking the air. I would say I'm batshit crazy, but I have two lines of defense for my rage:

1. Tone - It was the way she kept asking what we wanted for dinner that was annoying.

2. Yesterday I saw X-Men Days of Future Past and without going into a bunch of nerd talk I will just mention there is a scene where Wolverine is in a trance while Ellen Page is all up in his brain and he just starts violently slashing the air.

Long story short, Ellen Page is fifty percent responsible for my bad dream.

Happy Birthday Dad

Since today is my father's birthday, I was thinking of switching focus and writing a post about him.  I could do one about the time back in high school he got really high and had me drive him to the bagel store only to yell at me the whole time to slow down because the THC made everything appear to be moving lightening fast, but since this is a Sybil specific blog, I will instead write about the time he died and Sybil requested ten death certificates.

Roughly eight years ago my father took the easy way out by having a massive stroke in the shower down in Florida. When I called Sybil to tell her the news and that she might want to hop on a plane to come down to say her goodbyes, all she said was, "The important thing now is for him to get better." I liked her optimism and her refusal to come visit. It warmed the heart. So after her "get well soon" dance didn't work, good old dad died. I was making the funeral arrangements when the funeral director told me that he would soon have copies of the death certificate and that it's customary to print a few out for filing various papers. I got a couple, but I gave Sybil a call to ask if she wanted a copy. She requested I get her ten copies.

Now either she was framing them and giving them out as gifts or she had insurance policies all over town that she needed to hand in death certificates to redeem. To this day I have no idea why she needed so many. All I know is, she has no copies left but she did buy me a new Mac right after the funeral. I wonder if Apple's death discount is better than their student one.

Valet Parking at Season's

There is this restaurant in Washington Township called Season's. Growing up it provided me with some great memories. There was the time my dad was robbed at gun point in our driveway and the get away car was abandoned there. There was the time I burned my mom on purpose by slowly pushing a hot pot of coffee across the table until the side touched her arm and she smacked the shit out of me in front of everyone in the restaurant. There was the time my friend Rebecca got married there. I've never had better steak or was it fish?

With so many great memories it's hard to pick out my favorite, but if a gun was put to my head like it was my dad's, I would say it was the way my mom handled the Valet. Sybil would pull in the lot, speed passed the sixteen year old in the red vest and park the car herself. The poor Valet would just stand there astonished and happy that Sybil didn't take off his foot when she swerved into a spot. It was also fun when the meal was over and we would go collect our car.  The Valet would come over for our ticket as we walked out and remember who Sybil was and just cower away. The $2.50 service charge she saved ensured that I got my own desert so who am I to complain.

The greatest teacher of all time

When Sybil began her teaching career she really cared.  She put the time in to get a Masters in Biology and she really wanted to make a difference. Maybe it was all those white faces staring back at her, but she just couldn't let the kids down.  She explained everything in detail and made sure everyone understood.

Fast forward twenty years and the joys of the job start to wear off for everyone. The average age of a seventh grader was suddenly 16. No one was listening to her lectures anymore and Sybil's interest began to wane. I think it was 1987 when Sybil gave her class the now infamous mid-term. After the last student handed in his test, Sybil was left alone in her classroom to grade this horrid test. She had a choice.  Does she spend the next two hours painstakingly going through the exams or does she toss them in the trash and just write grades indiscriminately in her grade book so she can leave early?  I'm pretty sure you know what her choice was.

Sadly, someone found the tests in the trash and reported Sybil.  She was brought up on disciplinary charges, but eventually let off because of a lack of evidence.

I commend her no child left behind attitude.

Speeding Away from Cancer

When my mother asked me to drive her to my cousin's for some stupid party you can understand why I immediately said no. She pulled the "I don't drive at night card", so of course guilt got the better of me. Off we went to the suburbs of Philadelphia for a few hours of torture. Being that I was twenty years old and needed the day to end as quickly as possible, I decided to drive Sybil's burgundy Honda as fast as possible down the NJ turnpike. The harder I pressed the gas pedal the more the engine screamed which also helped to drown out Sybil telling me cousins weren't nice. When I hit about 105,  I caught the attention of a NJ State Trooper. Sitting on the side of the road I waited for the trooper to walk over. This was clearly all Sybil's fault. Before the cop could get a word out Sybil screamed the following in a hysterical voice:

"My sister died of cancer six months ago.  I haven't gotten over the loss."

The trooper just looked at her and asked me for my license and registration.

That ticket was like three hundred bucks!

Ma'am, please use the tongs

King's Supermarket circa 1985 - Hillsdale's answer to Whole Foods.

The new fruit salad bar just opens for the first time. Strawberries, Blueberries, Watermelon, Pineapple, Papaya, as far as the eye can see.

Sybil cuts the line and reaches in with her mitt and grabs some pineapple. She shoves piece after piece into her mouth.  

Out of nowhere the produce man screams, "Ma'am please use the tongs!" 

How rude.  He just lost a sale and three pieces of pineapple. 

No tip

I used to get my haircut at this little salon in Hillsdale called Rendition. It was in the town's flood zone and the owner also worked at UPS, so obviously it was upscale. The owner, Joe, used to cut my hair. Nothing fancy, mow the Jew sides down and trim the top a bit. The biggest problem I had with the haircut was my mom would only give me enough money for the actual cut and nothing to tip Joe.  When I questioned this, she said Joe owns the place so he gets all the money, there is no need for a tip. I don't know, it just seemed wrong to me. With every lopsided haircut I got I bet it seemed wrong to Joe too.

Pretty sure that's assault

When my brother and I were being brats my mom would tell us the story about my cousin being "fresh" to my aunt in front of her. My mother was an innocent bystander as a mother and teenage daughter argued about nonsense. Feeling my cousin went over the line with what she was saying, Sybil opened a safety pin and stabbed her with it. There were some tears and suddenly the mom and daughter were hugging, the fight a distant memory. Of course now the focus of the room was what to do with the lunatic with the safety pin. I think Sybil liked to tell us the story as a warning that she wasn't going to take crap from us. Nothing like having the threat of your mom stabbing you to make you fall in line.

\\

My grandmother's Ad in the back of Screw magazine

In 1985 my maternal grandmother passed away. It was a sad time for all of us. I lost a grandmother, my mother lost a person to fight with in broken Yiddish. Then again, there now was a vacant bedroom in the house. More on that later. About a month after my grandmother was laid to rest, the house phone rang and the call went something like this:

Caller: Is Katie there?
Sybil: She passed away. Can I ask who's calling?
Caller: That's too bad. From her ad it sounded like she liked to fuck.
Click!

So that was a bit odd.  Did someone see my grandmother's obituary and think it would be funny to make a prank call? My mother slammed the phone down and screamed about the animal on the other end.  I sat there clueless. Then it happened again.

Caller: Is this Katie?
Sybil: Heh?
Caller: So how are we going to do this?  Meet at the Coach House Diner?  I have an 11 inch dick.
Sybil: How dare you.  My mother is dead!
Click!

Then it happened again. And again. And again. Finally my mother was able to put her hysteria away long enough to ask a caller where they got her mother's information. Apparently there was an Ad in a Screw magazine detailing how a woman named Katie that liked to fuck, could be reached at our home phone number.

My mother called Screw and tried to get the info on who placed the Ad. They wouldn't give it up, but we did get a free subscription for our trouble.

Picture on file

As I've mentioned before, my mother had a colorful past returning items: clothes, soda, a week old pork chop that was cooked. She was a legend at the Garden State Plaza. Babbage's actually changed their return policy because of her. There will be a post dedicated to them shortly. I will give a teaser, it involves my mother returning a video game that my brother put down his pants.

This post is about how Nordstrom security used to follow my mom around when she came in the store. Sybil abused their return policy so badly that they kept an eye on her when she was browsing. She was returning more than she was buying, so something didn't add up. I have a feeling she was buying items at cheaper stores and returning them to Nordstrom for the profit. I can't prove it though.

I got the scoop from my friend (NAME REMOVED). Her mom, worked in the Nordstrom shoe department. I guess there was a team meeting about Sybil. (NAME REMOVED) told me as a warning.  "Dude, your mom is going to go to jail if she keeps it up." Now you probably think I was embarrassed when (NAME REMOVED) tried to scare Sybil straight through me. I wasn't.  It could be that (NAME REMOVED) had once told me her father was arrested in Shop Rite for shop lifting groceries. Somehow I felt my family was classier than hers.


Side Note - My father was arrested not far from Shop Rite.  Much more upscale crime than shop lifting though, so I still think we come out on top.

Air Conditioning the Street

When I was little, my mother forced her in-laws to buy central air conditioning for our house. She claimed it was the least they could do. During the installation process, for some reason the bathrooms were over looked.  If I had to guess, I would think the contractors figured the bathrooms were small and if you leave the doors open when not in use, the rooms will always be cooled. Sybil saw the lack of vents as a sign that the bathrooms were not meant to have the precious cool air and insisted that the bathroom doors be closed at all times.  She literally felt that by leaving a door inside the house open we were wasting the air meant for that room. Sybil would normally scream, "I'm not air conditioning the street.," if she caught me leaving my bathroom door open.

Picture summer in New Jersey, mid afternoon,  and I have to take a shit but the bathroom is 95 degrees. By the time I was done, I would be so covered in sweat that when I walked back into the cool part of the house I would get chills.

To this day she lives like every room is part of a vacuum lock on a space ship.

Making money off your children

When I was younger, I was a bit of a retard behind the wheel, speeding tickets, an accident with an ambulance, an accident with a fat person, more speeding tickets. There was even a time I was pulled over twice in ten minutes, different cops, same crime. With such a stellar driving record it makes perfect sense that I wasn't able to get insurance in my own name. Being that I really wanted a new Jetta (mistake one), I decided to ask Sybil if I could add my car to her insurance policy (mistake two).

Sure, no problem, $2,000 a year sounds fair. I said okay and started paying my mom monthly to keep my car on the road. After about a year I had to call the insurance company to ask for a duplicate card when I decided in passing to ask the company how much my yearly premium was. The number they gave me was $800. Wait this makes no sense. They are saying $800, but I'm paying my mom $2,000.  Could she have made a mistake? There is no way my mom could be making a profit on me is there?

When confronted, Sybil first denied it but then in a fit of rage responded by saying she was taking all the risk so why shouldn't she make a little something. I would like to say Sybil saved the $1200 a year in a special account for me to teach me a lesson about savings and responsibility. I would like to say that, but I can't.

Side Note: I got pulled over in the Jetta leaving the dealership.

The three liter bottle of soda

The three liter bottle of soda, not since New Coke has the soda industry made such a huge mistake. Sure it showed a lot of promise. Who doesn't want 50% more soda. The problem is the soda companies didn't do market testing with my mother. You see Sybil saw the flaw right away and exploited it as best she could. If you didn't drink the bottle in one day, you were typically left with one to two liters of flat soda. I for one am not an animal so there was no way I was going to drink flat Coke. Sybil realizing how wasteful this was had to think of something. That something was to return the flat soda.  She would keep an empty bottle on the counter and whenever a bottle went flat she would dump it into the empty bottle.  When it was full, she would march into the supermarket and complain that the three liter bottle clearly had a design flaw and she kept getting flat bottles. Her store credits were of course used to buy more three liter bottles of soda.  

I think the supermarket finally caught on when Sybil put a bit too much Sprite in with the Coke. The 16 year old working customer service just wasn't buying the soda came diarrhea color.  

Coke and Pepsi both agreed the three liter bottle was a marketing failure. To this day I wonder if it was because of all the returns in the north east.

The time Sybil was shot

Many people don't know that Sybil was a 7th grade biology teacher in the Bronx for 33 years. She had a very storied career. There was the time a kid jerked off into his desk while Sybil lectured about circulatory system and the time I came to school as a 5 year old and in the middle of my mom's lesson wrote "black boys" on the chalk board. For now we can focus on the time my mother was shot walking into work.  

Sybil pulled up in front of P.S. 142, hopped out of her Corolla in a chipper mood, ready to educate tomorrow's doctors, lawyers, and car thieves when all of a sudden she felt an insane pain in her left arm.  Convinced that the high cholesterol her children gave her finally made her heart explode, she fell against her car. That's when Sybil noticed an enormous barbed dart stuck in her arm. She stumbled into the building screaming she'd been shot. The school nurse yanked the dart out and told Sybil to go get a tetanus shot.  Apparently one of her students was on the roof of the building with a blow gun.  He saw Sybil get out of her car and decided he couldn't pass up the opportunity.  Good for him.  

Sybil took the rest of the day off.  

The three dollar polo shirt

I have to give credit where credit is due. Growing up, my brother and I had really nice clothes. Lots and lots of Polo and izod (pre lacoste crap). My mother had no problem buying us tons of really nice things, and here's why. Sybil invented her own exchange policy for clothes to make them last forever.  I get my new rugby caught on a tire swing ripping the back to shreds, no problem. Sybil will just bring it back and say it came that way. Lewis drops a meatball on his khakis, again, not a problem. Sybil will just march right into Macy's and say the pants came that way and she didn't notice at the time of purchase. If you did the math on how many times she would return the same item of clothing for a new version or in some cases the next size (we were growing), the average price she paid for a polo shirt was at best three dollars.

Thanks to my mom, I'm still wearing this shirt.

Editor's note:

As good as Sybil was at returning things, she did once fail. When my brother was maybe nineteen ten, my mother bought him a yellow polo bathing suit with a blue horse on it. I'm not sure if a string became loose or what, but my brother in an OCD rant insisted Sybil go return it for a new one. This suit came from Bloomingdales back when fancier people than you shopped there. The sales staff was not prepared for my mother's antics. Sybil marched into the plus size children's section and insisted the store clerk give her a new suit because this one was defective.  I remember the exchange like it was yesterday:

Sybil: Look at this suit.  It is falling apart and my son hasn't even worn it yet.

Store Clerk: Ma'am it looks like the suit has been worn and washed multiple times.

Sybil: I don't know what you are talking about.  This is exactly how it came. Are you calling me a liar?  

Store Clerk: You don't have any tags or a receipt. Let me get my manager.

Sybil: Yes, I think you should.  

The sales clerk disappeared for a second and returned with an impeccably dressed black man (no relevance to the story). The black manager picked up the suit and examined it.  His eye immediately brought to a shit stain in the mesh liner.  He looks at it.  He looks at Sybil.  She looks at it. She accepts defeat.

I think I eventually got the suit as a hand me down.  

Furniture Money

Growing up I shared a prison cell bedroom with my brother. My therapist says it's best that I try to suppress those memories, so for now we can just discuss the actual room: two dressers from my dad's childhood, a dresser from my mom's house in the Bronx, a couple of desks from a dumpster/Caldor, and the finest blue shag carpeting money could buy. My brother's bed was missing a leg so we used books to hold it up. My bed had a spring sticking out of it that would stab me nightly.  Let's not forget my mother's collection of fur coats hanging in the closet in case I wanted to question my sexuality.  With such a lovely menagerie of items it makes perfect sense that my mother would bitch nonstop to her mother in law about how she needed to buy us new furniture.  At first Sybil mentioned it at a family meal, then it was every five minutes while on vacation at my grandmother's place in Florida. Finally, it was every single time my grandmother called the house.  My grandmother couldn't take it anymore so she mailed Sybil a check for $500 with a note saying I hope you buy the boys something nice.  A month after getting the check my grandmother called and asked Sybil what she bought with the money.  Sybil's response, "You can't buy anything with five hundred dollars."

She kept the money and I got a tetanus shot.

Happy Mother's Day!

Your gift is shit!

I don't steal for a living!

When I was little and I wanted a new toy or a replacement for a toy I just set on fire, I would just go to my mom and start nagging. My method was to whine in a horrible tone until Sybil gave in and bought me the piece of crap I had to have. Part of the process consisted of Sybil going insane and screaming at the top of her lungs about how "She didn't steal for a living."

I think I was 13 when I responded with "Well based on a lot of stuff I've observed, I would say you kinda do."

No new Cobra Commander that day.

Lifetime subscription to Time magazine

I can remember a time when the daily mail always contained a plethora of different magazines: Time, People, National Geographic, even Playboy. The funny thing about these magazines were the address labels all contained names of dead relatives of mine. My recently deceased aunt, my mother's first husband, hell I think there were a couple of magazines coming in names of people my mother just wished were dead.  Back then magazine companies would send at least three to four issues before demanding payment. At that point my mother would just pick a new name so that she wouldn't miss an issue.

The life lesson here:

When I was in high school I really wanted some CDs from Columbia House.  Alas, I didn't have any cash, so I figured ordering them in our Jamaican house keeper's name was totally fine.  I got the Doors greatest hits and an R.E.M CD before the collection notices started.

To my son I bequeath enough money to get divorced

In roughly 1976 my paternal grandfather succumbed to lung cancer.  It was a sad time for my father's family as grandpa Irving was genuinely liked by friends and family alike.  Being that my grandmother was from a generation where the women stayed home to take care of the families and the men went off to work, it could be assumed that any money my grandfather had would of course be left to provide for my grandmother.  My father assumed it.  My aunt assumed it.  My mother not so much.  After my grandfather was laid to rest and the whole family was back at my grandparent's house, my mother with bagel and whitefish in hand, looked around the room and loudly said the following:

"SO, WHEN IS THE READING OF THE WILL?"

Sybil was escorted out of the house.

For the next twenty years, Sybil reminded us daily how my grandmother was rich because she didn't go to work after my grandfather died.  It was 1976 and my grandmother was in her late sixties.  I'm sure she could have gotten a job anywhere.  She just must have been lazy.

Now with audio!

Shiksas - Destroying Judaism, one weak Jew at a time

When I was a little boy there was a girl in my class named Heather Fishbein. She was a typical little Jewish girl with one massive flaw according to my mother. Heather's mom was goyim!! She was Catholic or Christian, maybe Hindu. I don't know, and to this day I don't care. For some reason the fact that Heather's dad (a complete stranger to Sybil) married a woman who believed in Jesus killed her.  Every time my mother would bump into Heather's mother at the super market or God forbid, picking me up from Hebrew school there would be rage for hours.

"That Heather Fishbein's father married a big shiksa! She isn't even pretty with her blonde hair and nonsecular features!"
"I bet he treats her nice because she isn't Jewish."
"Did you see her new car?  Where does she get the nerve?"
"If I wasn't Jewish I bet your father would show me some respect!"

At about this point in the ranting,  Sybil would look at me and suddenly tear into me about how I will probably do the same thing.  I will marry a big shiksa and treat her much better than I treat my mother.

Not to sound racist, but have you ever seen one of those black movies where there are a bunch of pissed off black women because they see a black man with a blonde girl?  My mother would have made an amazing black woman.

Is that long distance?!

Up until around 2005, Sybil knew nothing of cell phones.  She was totally oblivious to the fact that people could make unlimited long distance phone calls for one low monthly rate.  To her, long distance was something you only used in an emergency or if someone else was paying.  Back in her day, she would pick up some old timey phone, spin a knob and ask the operator to connect her to extension 452.  This would then cost roughly $84 for three minutes of talking.  With prices sky high it only made sense that Sybil needed to devise a plan to make phones calls as cheaply as possible.  Here are some of the best:

The Brokerage Firm - Sybil would dial operator and say that she was making a business to business call.  She would give the operator the number she was trying to reach, and the number to which the call should be billed.  The number she was billing belonged to a local stock brokerage firm that she once drove by.  Backed then, operators took you at your word.  This worked for a little while until the brokerage house audited their books.  They called my mother and told her if she continued they would prosecute.  

The Toyota Dealer  - Sybil would drive to the local Toyota dealership where she would request a test drive in a new Corolla.  After a quick spin around the block,  she would ask the salesman if she could use his desk phone to call her husband to see if he was okay with her completing the deal right there and then.  For the next half hour she would call every long distance number she knew.  Finally she would tell the salesman that she couldn't make such an important decision without her husband coming with her so she would be back. 

The Ring Back - If God forbid Sybil did have to make a long distance call she had a special method to save a few bucks.  After the call was over she would call the operator to complain there was a bad connection.  The operator would profusely apologize and then give my mother a credit for one minute of the call.  After hanging up, the operator would run a test on the phone number Sybil had dialed.  This meant a one ring call back with no one there.  I received these daily while I was in college.  After each one, I would call my mother back and scream at her to stop doing it.  She was only saving twenty five cents!!  She would then claim to not know what I was talking about.  

The make the person call back at a certain time - When I was home on break from college, I would occasionally get a call from friends in other parts of the country.  If for some reason I was not home to take the call and my mother answered the following would happen:

Friend: Hi, is Barry there?

Sybil: No. Can you call back at exactly 5:30 pm.  I will make sure he is here.

Friend: Ugh, I'm not sure.  How about you just have him call me when he is home.

Sybil: No, no.  This is much easier.  Just call at 5:30 pm.

Friend: Okay

Sybil: So how are you?  Do you know Barry from school?

Friend: Yeah I really need to go if Barry isn't there.  I will call later.

Knowing all of the above, there were still times I felt it necessary to make a long distance phone call from my house.  I would try to do it in the middle of the night behind a closed door. Sure enough as soon as I said hello, my mother would come screaming, "Is that long distance?!"  After about two minutes, Sybil would then scream, "It's been an hour.  I'm not made out of money!"  At this point I would give up since I couldn't hear the other person talking anyway.  

Hysteria at T.J. Maxx

During one of my summer breaks from college, I was shockingly blessed with having a girlfriend.  Being young, I wanted this girl around all the time.  Being stupid, I once had her come over to my house knowing I had to go to work.  This left the girl with two options: she could either get back in her car and curse my name as she drove an hour home, or she could take my mom up on her offer to go to T.J. Maxx.  Being the girl was young and stupid as well, I think you know what she chose.

The shopping trip was semi normal at first.  My mother running through the aisles, grabbing clothes at random and muttering how fancier people than her shop at discount stores.  Next thing you know, Sybil leads this poor helpless girl into the housewares department.  A glass bowl catches Sybil's eye.  She grabs it with the grace of an elephant stamping out a fire.  The bowl shatters in her hands.  Blood gushes everywhere.  Hysterics ensue.  Sybil crying, screaming for help, while her blood dumps on the floor.  The girlfriend frozen like a deer in headlights.  Out of nowhere Sybil sees a pair of shorts sitting on a shelf.  She picks them up and calmly says, "Don't these shorts look nice?" A second ago this woman was crying like a baby and now she is pointing out some denim shorts she might want to purchase.  Before the girlfriend could even respond, Sybil started crying again and wiped the blood on the shorts.  

Sybil managed to extort some money from T.J. Maxx for her trouble that day.   I never could find out how much.  My girlfriend never wanted to be alone with my mother again.  

The art of the deal

When I was twenty-five I finally had enough credit cards to buy my dream TV,  the Sony Wega.  It was like a regular TV only heavier and painted silver, which meant it was awesome.  I felt like such a bad ass being able to afford one in fifty payments or less.  Hell, I knew if I played my cards right I could go as big as 32 inches. It wasn't just a TV, it was a symbol of how stupid I would be with money for years to come.  I wanted that television so bad I was willing to do anything.  I just needed a good deal.  You can imagine where this is going.

Before we even got through the door at PC Richards, Sybil saw her mark.  He was an middle aged salesman with a bad haircut and a cane, pondering where his life went wrong.  Sybil screamed "sonny" in his direction and told me to go look at vacuums.  I'm my own man, so instead of hiding behind the uprights,  I hid behind the VCRs and listened to their exchange:

Salesman: Hi ma'am, how may I help you today?
Sybil: I want this TV. (points vaguely in the direction of the one I want).
Salesman: That's a fine choice.  Let me see if we have it in stock.
Sybil: I was just in Crazy Eddy's and they have it for two hundred dollars less. (Crazy Eddy's long out of business).
Salesman: Do you have it in writing?
Sybil: Look, that is the deal they offered me, if you aren't going to beat it, then I will just go there.
Salesman: Let me talk to my manager.
Sybil: Wrap this up. I don't have all day.  You don't want me to beat you with your cane do you?
Salesman: I.. I.. will be right back.

I left there with the TV and an extra two hundred in my pocket.

Who wants to know?

When I was a little boy my maternal grandmother lived with us.  An arrangement that I'm sure made for a great marriage between my parents.  Back in those days my grandmother just so happened to own a building in the South Bronx that at some point was an income generator for her family.  It was a piece of pride for my grandmother knowing she did well enough in life to not only own her own home but have enough to own other buildings.  According to Sybil, in the late '70s, times got tough when the schwartzas (it's not racist the way Sybil mispronounces it) moved in, and ruined everything.  At about this point my grandmother was in the later stages of dementia and my mother was making all the decisions related to the building.  No sooner than my mother took over the management was there an invent that involved a brick through her windshield on the 1st of the month.  Something about having the nerve to show up to collect rent but refusing to turn the heat on.  Now most people would say, let's cut our losses and sell the place.  We can't deal with the tenants or the maintenance and we are certainly too cheap to hire a management company.  But who is going to buy the building? There are black people inside.  Not an easy sell, even now.  I'm kidding.   A better idea according to Sybil was to just abandon the property.  Stop collecting rent, stop pretending to fix things, stop answering the phone.  This idea in theory was great until the city got wind of it and decided to sue my grandmother for being a slum lord.

Now's the part where I come in.  One day I'm in the front yard playing with some G.I.Joes, when a man walks on the property and asks if Katie Fox lives there.  Being a five year old and not alarmed by the stranger, I point to my grandmother sitting in the window staring off into space.  The man proceeds to hand me an envelope and walk away.  Later that afternoon my mother came home and I went running to give her the envelope.  I took pretty good care of it considering I was in the yard the whole time.  I informed her that a man asked if Katie Fox lived there, and I said yes.  I was all proud of my basic knowledge regarding my home and my ability not to lose the letter.  Sybil looked at the piece of paper, looked at me, looked at the piece of paper, looked at me, then stated to scream that she had been served a subpoena and it was all my fault.  Never mind she abandoned the building and the city was looking out for the tenants.  It was the five year old's fault for letting the process server know that my grandmother lived there.  How dare I tell the process server anything.  What business was it of mine??  Before the yelling was done I was blamed for the brick through the windshield, too.  If I didn't want so many toys she wouldn't have had to go there to collect the rent.  I didn't really know how to respond so I just backed out of the room and hid under my bed for a few hours.

I think my mother got the case dismissed by claiming my grandmother had Alzheimer's and she had no knowledge that her mother owned the building.  The city took ownership shortly after.

For years I was reminded of how my careless action caused them to get sued.  Foolish five year old, when will you learn?