To my mother I bequeath..

My first job out of college provided me with two great benefits, a matching 401k, and life insurance policy that paid triple my salary if I died on the job. Being I had no wife, kid, dog, or friends, I put my brother down as the beneficiary on the policy. When I told Sybil about it she had only one question:

Sybil: Why not me?

When I told her I wasn't going to bother contributing to the 401k anyway, she lost interest.

Welcome to Hillsdale

In 1975, Sybil was in her third trimester of what most would describe as a geriatric pregnancy. I was growing at a rapid rate in her belly causing her great discomfort. To combat her terrible gas, Sybil ran down to the local Medi Mart to get some antacid.

Now the story goes, she tried to walk in via the automatic door entrance, but instead of it swinging in, the door swung out, striking her and sub-sequentially me. Sybil threatened to sue claiming there was a high chance her baby was hurt. She settled on the spot for sixty bucks and the antacid she originally set out for. Sixty dollars and a bottle of milk of magnesia was the magic combo for her to forget about any damage to her unborn baby.

To this day I have never seen or heard of an automatic entrance door swinging out. I don't even think the hinges work both ways.  Even with pregnancy brain Sybil had the skill.

Can I deduct that?

Long before Sybil hand selected her accountant from the Polish People's Republic, she had her taxes done by Norman, a deaf old Jewish guy, who lived in Manhattan. My brother and I would accompany Sybil on trips to the city where she would scream at Norman that he needed to be more creative with her deductions, but alas her requests literally fell on deaf ears.

Norman was a bit of a character. While sitting in his place, the phone would ring off the hook because his phone number was one digit off from the Natural History Museum. All day people would call to ask questions and all day Norman would either answer claiming to be a porno theater or he would just tell the callers to fuck off. He was through and through a professional. During his tenure Sybil was audited twice.

Sybil once mentioned to me that back in the '70s you could deduct a child from your taxes without having an SSN number for them. Translation - on paper I have seven brothers and one sister.

Better rates than Priceline

For years my mother has been torturing me by coming to visit with open ended plane tickets. I will get a general idea of when she is leaving, then she will add three days to that, two if I'm nasty. During these trips, Sybil likes to stay at the wonderful Beverly Hills Hilton. It's where they hold Hollywood parties and I once accosted Steven Seagal for an autograph.   To your average person, paying for this hotel would be considered an extravagance, but when Sybil's pocketbook is involved it suddenly becomes quite affordable.

Here is Sybil's three step program to literally stay in the hotel for pennies a day:

Step 1:
When booking the hotel, request a government employee rate. Be as vague as possible as to what government job you have. When checking in, show them our long expired UFT (United Federation of Teachers) card. If any questions are asked, request a manager and scream at the top of your lungs you always are given that rate. 

Step 2:
Request the room next to the elevator on the first floor in the south part of the hotel. With the proper complaining a minimum of two nights will be taken off the stay due to excessive elevator noise at night.

Step 3:
Complain to your sister in law that lives by the hotel that you have no money. This will usually net a check worth a few nights of the stay.

Bonus Steps:
Complain that the food is salty when you are eating your complimentary breakfast. This will net a coupon for a free dinner.

Tell Merv that your son does PR and maybe you can work out a deal to trade nights for his services. Merv died before giving her an answer. 

With these steps your average night stay will be $49. I'd like to see Shatner do better.

Consultant on The Sopranos

Sybil bought our childhood home in 1974, mid-completion. The builder had gone bankrupt, enabling Sybil to get a deal. It also gave her the opportunity to use her personal taste to finish the home. The shag carpeting is still there to this day. When you buy quality it will last!

One thing that didn't hold up so well though, was the driveway. By the time I was in college, twenty winters had taken their toll on the pavement. Over the summers, with no regard for me getting black lung, my mother would badger me to throw a layer of tar down in a last ditch effort to save it. I would do the most half assed job you could imagine. Half the grass would be covered in tar as would my Jordans.

Finally one summer there was so little holding the driveway together that Sybil relented to have it repaved. I was shocked she was going to invest in her home. She always had the belief you never put too much money in a home, just enough so it is salable. What was next, double-paned windows?

I came home one day from my summer job as a mail man (another story), and I noticed just a small portion of the driveway had fresh pavement. It was just laid over the crumbling old driveway in a sad looking clump. I asked Sybil and she said they just began work and were figuring it out. Okay, I guess that makes sense. The next day I came home and another small section was paved over. So odd! Then the same the following day, and the following day, and the following day, until there was a patch work of new pavement covering the old driveway.

Sybil eventually told me what she did. She saw some workers paving a street a few blocks away and she worked out a deal that at the end of the day the workers would use what they had left over to repave her driveway. For a couple hundred bucks under the table they just took the pavement from the city and threw it on top of our old shitty driveway. When I went outside with Sybil to inspect the final product, Sybil looked at it, looked at my face and said "It's good enough."

Quality at its best.

The grass isn't always greener

When I was about eight I went to the bank with Sybil for one of her weekly grifter deposits. While she filled out a deposit slip, it was my pleasure to stand in line to wait her turn. As I was waiting, a man walked in and cut right in front of me like I didn't exist. I went and told Sybil this and then the following exchange occurred:

Sybil: Mister you cut in front of my son. It's my turn next.

Man: Lady, I didn't see your kid and it's my turn next.

Sybil: Mister, it's my turn next. You don't just cut in front of someone.

Man: Lady, I aint your husband. Go complain to him.

Sybil: You aint my husband? Mister you are real nasty.

Man: Lady, I aint your husband. No one cares what you say.

The guy never gave up his space in line and as he walked out of the bank, he was still muttering "I aint your husband" with a deranged smile on his face. It was as if he knew no matter what hardships he had in life, there was still someone worse off than him, and that person was my father.

If only Sybil had Tinder

When I was in college my father went out for a pack of cigarettes and never came back. Feeling abandoned, Sybil started to date. Being this was the pre-internet days, I assume she made a couple of edits to my grandmother's ad in Screw magazine or put an ad in the Want Ad Press to meet people. I never asked.

For a little while she was seeing this guy who once took me out for a steak dinner. He was nice enough but he looked like my Calculus teacher, Mr. Fallon, who threw me out of class for telling him to shut up, so I might have had some misplaced rage when I was around him. I told him he wasn't my dad when he wanted to play catch and I cried in my room until he came up and told me I wasn't mad at him, but my dad for leaving. He was right. We hugged it out. Fine after the steak dinner I went back to college and never saw him again.

Other than Mr. Fallon I only heard about what I can imagine was a long line of suitors.

The story went like this according to Sybil:

This man asked me if I wanted to go for a ride in his Porsche. We drove around for an hour. Do you know he didn't even offer me anything to eat or drink during the ride. This beauty will spend on a fancy car, but is too cheap to offer to stop and get me a drink. I never talked to him again.

I assume the guy had a few drinks after dropping Sybil off.

Thankfully after that Sybil spared me the details of her dating life which I assume is still very active.

Going Dutch

When I was a young teenager my mother told me if I ever went on a date to make sure we went Dutch.

Barry: What's Dutch?

Sybil: It's where you split the bill. There is no reason you should be paying for her.

Barry: But it's a date.

Sybil: So what.

Barry: But you always make everyone pay if they take you out.

Sybil: Everyone has more than me.

Uh huh. Even with my limited knowledge of girls, I knew that if I asked a girl to split a bill with me, there was no chance of me getting boob.

Turns out paying didn't help.

Madoff returns

Sybil recently told me she gave a local hack of a stock broker a 100k to make her rich. He had six months to impress her or she was pulling it all back. In the course of three months, every single time I talked to Sybil she mentioned that the account was down 3k and as soon as it broke even she was pulling it from that "no good crook." Well the market clearly turned because the last time we spoke she didn't mention the broker. I was a bit confused because it usually signified the middle of our conversation. It threw the timing off.

Most conversations follow the following arc:

1. I feel awful
2. The weather here is terrible
3. How is my granddaughter?
4. I'm still down in that account. As soon as it goes up I'm pulling it.
5. I hate your wife.
6. Have you seen your brother lately?

When she went right into hating my wife, I had to stop her and actually ask about the stock account.

Barry: What's up with your stock account? You haven't mentioned it.

Sybil: I'm up a lot. 

Barry: I thought you said if it broke even you were pulling it.

Sybil: Mind your business.

I guess I have to adjust the topic order accordingly in my brain.

True story: Back in the day Sybil had a huge stock account and in her greed insisted on buying on margin. I don't know all the stocks she had but Mylan labs and Canon films ring a bell. The market crashed and she had a margin call of 300k. Somehow she fought her brokerage company saying she was confused and old and they absolved her of the debt.

Recently Sybil brought up the 300k in losses. She said she writes a portion off her taxes every year. Not sure how she write off debt she was absolved of, but did I mention her accountant has no license and drove a bus in Poland before Sybil hired her?

Morning Musings

I would put this stuff in the twitter feed, but then people would accuse me of making it up. These are actual statements Sybil made to me this morning:

I interviewed a new aide yesterday. I asked her what she would do and she said watch me. What am I a dog?

I want to be able to come visit alone. What am I supposed to fly with a schwartza?

It pays to have a notebook out when talking to Sybil.

Does he bite? Yes, but only Jews.

Growing up, two things were drilled into me. Everyone was an anti-Semite, and no matter how cute or lovable a dog looked, it would bite me. Actually, three things: Don't put your shoes on the table, it's bad luck. Now let me get back to the dog thing.

Sybil's fear was legendary.  If someone was walking a dog she would have us cross the street because there is no way it wouldn't lunge at us. If she was to go to someone's house that had a dog, she would request it be locked up or she wouldn't come inside. Most people saw dog ownership as a good way to have a Sybil free safe-zone. She once had a massive fight with my father because they were going to a Christmas party and my father said in advance he wasn't going to ask the host to lock up his dog since everyone loved it and it was friendly. She thought it would be rude of the host not to offer to lock up his family pet of ten years for one out of fifty guests who was irrational.

Between the dog fear and the rampant antisemitism my mother claimed was going on, I assumed German shepherds ran the camps during the Holocaust. Of course as an adult I realize there is no correlation between dogs and gas chambers, otherwise so many Jews wouldn't own wheaten terriers.

Long before my Jewish friends bought their hypoallergenic terriers, Sybil actually broke me of my fear by being a positive person that wanted me to rise above what she was dealing with. Kidding of course. What happened was I was playing at a friend's house who happened to own a dog. The dog never bothered me so I stayed away from it as my mother taught me.

Never make eye contact or it will bite!

Anyway, we were playing outside when Sybil pulled up. She beeped the horn and my friend's dog came running out of the house to the car. Sybil immediately locked the doors. My friend and I looked at each other puzzled. Was the dog going to open the door with its paw? Did she really need the extra level of security? After laughing in her face I was never afraid again.

When I was twenty-six I got a dog of my own and Sybil went insane.

Sybil: HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME? YOU KNOW I'M AFRAID!

BARRY: Well, I live 3000 miles away and more importantly I don't live with you.

The first time Sybil visited, I put my mutt on a retractable leash and let him charge her. Just at the last second I would stop him. It was funny all fifty times I did it.  Sadly, my immersion therapy didn't help cure her.

Welsh terrier - not a pussy Wheaten

End Cut

When I was little my father would take us every Saturday night to the Coach House Diner on Route 4 in Hackensack. Based on the salad bar alone it had to be the fanciest restaurant in Bergen County. I have such fond memories of waiting at the table, guarding my mother's pocketbook, while my parents built the foundation of their perfect dinner at that salad bar. In my father's case, that foundation was made of iceberg, bacon bits and ranch dressing. After his salad, my dad would eat an end cut of prime rib while chain smoking Moore Green cigarettes. He made it to the ripe old age of 61 before dying of a stroke, but that's not the point of this story.

On our weekly trip, my father would always ask to sit in Grace's station. Grace was a sweet waitress who for some reason was really nice to my family in spite of Sybil sending half her food back every week because, well, because. Grace would always give us little extras like appetizers and free desserts to take home, and in kind, my father would leave her a decent tip. It was an understood relationship to everyone. I was a child and even I got it. Well I assumed everyone got it.

One Saturday we went to eat and Grace had the night off. We all ordered our usual and proceeded to eat our trash can salads while my mother regaled us with stories of how her first husband bought her a fur coat and treated her nice until the waitress came over to check on us.

Waitress: How is everything?

Sybil: Where are our appetizers?

Waitress: I'm sorry. You didn't order any.

Sybil: I know that. They are always given to us for free.

Waitress: I'm a bit confused. We don..

Sybil (interrupting): Send over the manager.

Manager: Hi, how are you?

Sybil: Grace always gives us free appetizers and packs us up a dessert bag to go. Where are they?

Recognizing Sybil was about to cause a huge scene, the manager offered up some potato skins. Sybil just fed Grace to the wolves for more bacon bits. Damn, my parents loved those things.

The next time we went in, Grace explained to Sybil how she got her in trouble and that she gives us the free food because she likes us and the owner doesn't know. Sybil just looked at her and said, "How was I supposed to know that?"

Two weeks later Grace had the night off again. This time the fight ended with free mozzarella sticks.. I have no memory of seeing Grace after that. Thankfully we still had Friday night dinners at Charlie Brown's.

What was it friday?

For as long as I can remember, Sybil has been playing the stock market like Gordon Gekko. When I was a child she would pace the house on the cordless AT&T phone while asking her stock broker for up to the minute quotes, writing the figures down in one of those address books a bank would give out free. She literally would do this from 9:30 to 4:00 during the summer. No clue how she kept track of this crap when she was working.  If I asked her to go anywhere it had to be after the market closed.  It wasn't like she actively trading, she just had to know how much more she was worth than my father at any given second. She had her net value down to the eighths.  Even with modern technology, Sybil still relies on the old school method of bothering some hapless twenty something all day on the phone. In between calls to brokers who aren't sick of her or haven't realized she isn't going to use them because their commission is too high, she likes to call her credit card company to see what charges have posted. It's always nice when she calls me during her downtime to tell me about the nice guy working for Bank of American she just talked to who lives in South Carolina.  "Did you know Jews live down there?" she will tell me authoritatively.

When I was a kid Sybil asked my brother and I for stock tips. I'm not sure if she did this because she wanted us to feel important (unlikely) or was looking for ways to distract us because we wanted to use the phone. My brother gave her Microsoft which she still owns to this day (God bless you inheritance) and I gave her Toys R Us. Lewis's logic was based on P/Es and yield, mine was based on the fact I wanted to go to fucking Toys R Us. 

Knowing I was directly responsible for some of my mother's money, I became obsessed with asking her what the value of the stock was at all times. There was this one time she was on the phone and I was screaming, "What was it friday", over and over again.  I did this all the time until one day the stock skyrocketed. I was pumped.  I saw the future and the future was toys! As the stock began to move, Sybil only had one thing to say.

"Shit, I should have bought it."

She never bought the stock I picked figuring I was an idiot child and there was no way it could perform well. Little did she know, Christmas was coming and toy stocks were prime for a move. She could have made some great cash if she listened to me even if my logic was based on nothing. I'm not sure why she bought the stock my brother chose. It could be that at 12 he already cultivated the look of her current hapless broker; stained khakis, mild hair loss, and a penchant for coughing as he read the newspaper, but it also could have been she liked him better.

Maybe You're Next

Growing up, everyone in town knew Sybil. Whether it was a local mom at my school that was overly religious that Sybil screamed, "Go ask Jesus!" at because of a misunderstanding at a bake sale or a cashier who defied her by not taking a Sears coupon for a new Die-Hard battery when she was trying to buy eggs, she had cultivated a solid reputation.

The police were particularly fond of her for various reasons.  Let's see, there was the time she had a fight over a ticket for parking in a handicap spot at Shop-Rite. She left my grandmother in the car, so in her mind that meant she could park there. "Look at her, she is clearly handicapped." There were the weekly calls she would make when my brother and I would have some fight about who had to get up and manually change the TV channel. There was the numerous times the police were forced to show up because our smoke alarm auto dialed them when Sybil was making her famous Sunday roast. I did love the canned potatoes. In other words, if I had grown up in a bigger city, it wouldn't haven taken long for the cops to have shot my mother and thrown a Saturday Night Special in her pocket-book.  I would testify that I saw her reach for it.

I remember this one time the police were called to our house because our house keeper was having an epileptic seizure. This happened so many times it was insane. Not to side track the story but two great times this happened:

1. My mom pulls in the driveway with Lewis and I in the car and my dad comes running out of the house screaming, "Marion's dead!" She was having a seizure and his instinct was to run out of the house. I don't even think he knew we were in the driveway. Okay, this might be the most hysterical thing my father ever did and I'm laughing my ass off as I type. He was clearly high.
2. I'm watching Falcon Crest with the house keeper, (I didn't have a lot of friends) and she starts convulsing. By the time Hillsdale PD showed up, Marion was done flopping on the shag carpeting and just lying peacefully face down. The cops propped her up in a chair and said to me she looks fine.  Just as they say it, she farts and pisses all over the chair and floor. Not going to lie, I laughed as they took her to the hospital. She was fine just forgot to take her meds.

Back to the story. When the house keeper was having this in particular seizure, the cops came and my mother was being her charming self when one of the cops says this to her:

Cop: Two of your neighbors have died recently. Maybe you're next.

I think complete hysteria would accurately describe Sybil's response. The cops got out of there so fast I don't even think they helped poor old Marion. She died fifteen years later in Jamaica. Not sure if it was related to her poor treatment that day, but I should probably tell Sybil to sue.

About two years after the incident the cop in question bought the house next to my mother.  They've been neighbors for twenty years now. Not sure how often they have dinner.

I keep side tracking this story and I must apologize, but when I was home last, this long retired cop was out mowing his lawn in a pair of umbros and nothing else. I honestly have never been more horrified looking at a man in my life. He looked like a golden yukon potato with four tooth picks sticking out of it for appendages and a smaller rustic as a head. I wanted to take a picture but I wasn't sure if he was still carrying. He did have a nice mower though. Snapper!!

Okay, final note, I just remembered another great time an ambulance came for the house keeper. She ate a pound of corn beef and drank a can of condensed milk. Damn it, I wish I remembered her symptoms for why we called the paramedics. All I can remember is she spent the night in the hospital. 

Story for another time - My mother stopped paying the house keeper in 1985, but she kept working until 1996.

The only way Sybil would behave in a museum

Recently a friend gave me the attached painting as a gift. I honestly have never been given a more thoughtful present in my life. Sybil's essence has been captured in oils perfectly. Short of her doing the painting in ranch dressing on a piece of wax paper, I don't see how there could be any improvements.  I hung the painting over my desk for inspiration as I put pen to paper writing about the Sybil I know and love.

The painting is really hanging in the garage in front of my car. I figure it will be fitting to stare at it when I leave the engine on with the door closed one cold November night.

Thank you, Laura, I truly am touched. Between this painting and the trip back east, the rage is alive!

I've already had three arguments with the painting today.

The trip is dead...long live the trip

On the day I left NJ, my mother hugged me from her stair lift chair so tightly that if she had hit the wrong button she surely would have broken my neck and dragged my body up the stairs. I imagine by the fifth stair she would have realized what had occurred and in a panic would reverse directions and run over my corpse.

Once I was safely out of her clutches and 3,000 miles away I called Sybil to thank her for the lovely visit.

Barry: I'm home. Thanks for the tickets.

Sybil: When are you coming again? I enjoyed your visit even if you yelled at me. I just found a picture from your second grade class. I never liked Miss Lolk (my second grade teacher).

Barry: Will let you know. Bye.

Within the week my brother will be visiting Sybil. I would let him guest blog, but I'm too much of a control freak. Seriously what if his writing is better than mine? Hopefully he will give me the details so I can write about his trip or I guess I could read it in the police blotter.

It puts the lotion in the basket

Among soy packets, medicine bottles, crumbs, a Time magazine about the ongoing hunt for Osama, I found a prescription hand pump full of lidocaine.

Barry: What is this?

Sybil: Can you rub that on my back? Oy. It hurts. That should help.

I should note Sybil wasn't in the kitchen when I asked. I'm pretty sure she would have given me the same response if I was holding a soy packet.

I wasn't sure what to do. Being this is my mother and she gave me life I shouldn't have hesitated to help alleviate her pain.  Forty-four minutes later I finally relented.

Barry: Fiiiiiiiiiine I'll do it.

Later that day she tried to get me to do it again. Fool me once...

Barry: Sophia, go help grandma with her special lotion.

Sophia gladly did it. She doesn't know any better and as I said, what's the point of therapy if she hasn't had anything traumatizing happen to her.

I later used the lidocaine to masturbate.

Choke on it - Dinner with mom

Is there really anything better than sharing a meal with family?

On the second night of the trip, we decided to venture out and eat dinner in Ridegwood.  It's a town a few miles from Hillsdale.  Picture Hillsdale, but the bagel store is on the left side of the street instead of the right, and there is zero parking. I circled the place we planned to eat a few times, cursing the parking situation, while simultaneously smiling at the fact there was a Ben and Jerry's walking distance from the restaurant. Finally I gave up and dropped Sybil at the front door.  I told her to get a table while Sophia and I found parking. Luckily we found a spot exactly three spaces up from Ben and Jerry's (very important fact).

Sophia and I walked in the restaurant where we found Sybil scowling.  In all of this, it's best to picture me as dynamite and Sybil as a child throwing lit matches in my direction.

Barry: What's wrong?

Sybil: You dropped me at the side door.  I had to walk past three other doors to get in.

Barry: Who cares.

With no response from Sybil, the conversation was over.

A few minutes later...

Sybil: This food is good, but it could be a touch hotter. Just a touch. (Massive steam coming off her plate)

We then fought over the check. By fought, I mean she watched as I paid and I punched her in my mind.

Barry: So I parked three spots up from Ben and Jerry's. Can you walk to the car? You want to get ice cream?

Sybil: Yes I can make it, but I don't want to go in the ice cream shop. Get me a sundae with caramel sauce. I'll wait in the car. Don't forget the cherry.

Barry: Okay see you in a few minutes.

Sophia and I walked over to get ice cream while Sybil shuffled off down the street. With ice cream in tow, I proceeded to the car. One spot, two spots, three spots. Damn where did the car go? Four spots, five spots, six spots, seven spots, eight spots. Could I have parked this far away? Nine spots, ten spots, that looks like it, but I don't see Sybil. I stare right into the windshield of Sybil's car, but I don't see her. Finally I move out of the glare and notice Sybil squinting like a one eyed pirate waving me aboard with her hook. In actuality it was a serious grimace and her using her fingers to point/wave at me.

I opened the car door and handed Sybil her two scoops. As she grabbed them with her claws, she started screaming at the top of her lungs that the car was ten spots up and not three.

BOOM GOES THE DYNAMITE!!!! "

Barry: What the fuck is the difference? Three spots? Ten? You could use the exercise. CHOKE ON YOUR ICE CREAM!"

At this point Sybil tried to twist the whole thing around and tell me that isn't how you treat your mother especially in front of your daughter. She then ate her ice cream.

Do I regret snapping in front of my five year old? Of course. Would I do it again and again and again? It's a safer bet than thinking Sybil would pay for my ticket on the next visit.

I later explained to Sophia that this isn't how you treat a parent and there are extenuating circumstances at play. She told me she understood. Pretty sure what was saved in plane tickets will be spent on therapy.


Choke on it (according to Webster's Dictionary) - When my brother was a teenager, he was fighting with my mother while she was eating and he screamed "choke on it."  In the years to follow I would take the statement and make it my own. Every time I would fight with Sybil I would say it eventually. I'm not sure if I wanted her to choke on her words or I somehow wanted Darth Vader power to spontaneously make her choke. I'm 39 now and still saying it with the venom of a stupid teenager.

The key to a happy healthy life is consistency.

All you need is a dollar and a dream

For as long as I can remember Sybil has had a weird obsession with scratch off lotto tickets. I can sorta understand the instant gratification of winning, but it just seems like such a low class form of gambling. And if there is anything my family knows about it's class. Why couldn't she be obsessed with baccarat? It would get her that much closer to being a Bond villain. But alas, she likes to buy one dollar, three dollar, and sometimes twenty dollar tickets at the local Quick Check.

Not the point of the story but a funny side note is that when she buys them she usually can't wait to get home and insists on borrowing a penny from the "give a penny, take a penny" jar and scratches them at the counter. In a pinch she will use her mauve finger nail, but rest assured either way she is taking and keeping a penny.  It is very amusing to watch her do this while the people in line behind her have to wait. She gives zero fucks.

During my visit I quickly realized that my mother and five year old daughter both shared a love of scratching. What a great way for them to spend some time together. Both like to make messes and neither know how to read to see if they won. The first night I was there my mother bought a bunch of tickets and gave some to Sophia to scratch (only the dollar ones). Shockingly, winner, winner, chicken dinner! Sophia's furious scratching netted $25! The next morning I was walking out the door when Sybil asked me to cash in the tickets for more tickets.  She gave me very specific denominations to get. One five dollar, one ten, two threes, and four ones. I obliged, and handed her the tickets upon my return and went and hid in my room.

Ten minutes later my kid came in with a sad look on her face. I asked if grandma told her she had my nose again, but as it turns out, what grandma Sybil did was much worse. She scratched all the tickets and didn't share.

I sat there for a second as a little vein started throbbing in my head. I was in Sybil's house less than 24 hours and it was go time.

I jumped on my mother's stair lift and patiently rode it to the first floor to confront her. A million scenarios ran through my head:

A. Do I kill her? Would my daughter be able to keep this quiet?
B. Do I rub the bagel and lox she was eating in her face? I did buy it after all.
C. Do I just yell like a fucking lunatic?

I chose C.

Barry: Are you fucking kidding me? You didn't share with her?  Are you a fucking animal? She is five and your grand-daughter. It was an activity to do together.

Sybil: I bought the tickets, so if I don't want to share I don't have to.

Barry: You really are an asshole.

Sybil: Don't talk to me like that. Where do you want to have lunch?

We went to the Fireplace.

Philip Roth

A good quote from Philip Roth that pretty much sums up my trip to see my mother and my life in general.

"A Jewish man with parents alive is a fifteen-year-old boy, and will remain a fifteen-year-old boy till they die"

Betting Man

For the last few months, Sybil has been hounding me to visit. Since there was no good way to spin a trip to the 25 Taylor Street pain cave, I decided the best approach would be to piggy back a vacation my brother planned back east to Sag Harbor. Something about him renting a house, having a car service pick up Sybil, blah, blah, blah. In theory it sounded like a great way to visit without really visiting.  There would be enough distractions and people that I could possibly avoid talking to Sybil the entire time.  My daughter could play with my brother's daughter and I more importantly could hide while other people dealt with Sybil requesting her tomato be sliced extra thin.  "No, that isn't thin enough. Do it again."

When I told Sybil the glorious plan she immediately said no.  She needed to see me and my brother and our collective children separately. I would like to say this had to do with her being lonely and wanting to spread out people visiting, but I think it had more to do with her driving home that my brother and I should be close but not that close. I responded by saying well I guess I'm not coming then because that's the only free time I have.

SO THEN DON'T COME!

That was the end of it until I realized I had two days off Memorial Day weekend. Hmmmm, four days off.  That's nice. What should I do? Let me think about that for a bit. Mid-day Tuesday before the weekend in question I called Sybil and told her about my four days off and if I only knew sooner I would have come for a visit.  If I had stopped there I would have been free, but I added the following, "Well, I know it's short notice but if you want to pay for the tickets, I will come visit."

I thought the empty gesture was the equivalent of me standing in an OTB with the sports almanac from Back to the Future in one hand and a dozen tickets for American Pharoah in the other. I thought I had a sure thing!

Sybil: How much are the tickets?
Barry: Let me look... $2600 plus tax on United.
Sybil: Call me in a bit and I will give you a credit card.
Barry (quietly): okay

I sat there for a moment wondering if she was serious. Would she really spend the money? A few minutes later I got a confirmation email from United. She booked the trip for me.

I truly gambled and lost.

More on the trip later.

Upon further research I see the almanac only goes up to 2000.  Clearly I can't gamble for shit.

I wish I married someone like you

I called Sybil the other day and she started the conversation with, "I wish I married someone like you." I don't know if it was meant as insult to my dead father or that she felt I was good with my kid or that she recently looked at my bank statement.  Odds are it wasn't a compliment.  After that she proceeded to ramble the following:

I had a bagel this morning and it was terrible, the Guatemalan who fixed the steps did a good job,  the guy who runs the agency who provides my aide came over with his son who has downs, I mean is autistic, and he played with himself, I told him him you don't do that in polite company, my back hurts, when are you coming again, It rained today.

Which led to the following exchange:

Barry: Hold up.  Did you just say someone played with themself in your home? How are you glossing over that? How old was he?

Sybil: He was 16 or 17.

Barry: Did he take out his penis?

Sybil: No he stuck his hands down his pants and played with it?

Barry: What did his dad say?

Sybil: Nothing.

Barry: Okay then. I'm at work. Talk to you later.

At that point Sybil just hung up with no good bye, but I know she was thinking "I love you."

Sorry for the delay in posts.  I was pretending I cared about work, life, etc.  There will be a post a day going forward until I sell this and there is a movie.