I just wanted to take a moment to show my respect for the boys in blue. Every day you go out there and put your lives on the line to help others. All people do is focus on the bad. What about the good?
They need and deserve all the good press they can get. That's why I wanted to send a special shout out to the police of Hillsdale, New Jersey. On Sunday they saved my mother's life. At approximately 11:45am, Sybil accidentally sat on the TV remote, causing the picture to go black. Knowing that she would surely die if she had to wait for the cable company to come out, (first available appointment was Tuesday) she did what any sane person would do and called the police.
Twenty minutes later, a very nice officer pressed the input button three times and Sybil was back to watching her stocks float across the bottom of the screen.
For this, I thank you.
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
Monday, May 16, 2016
98.6
Sometimes I marvel at how far we have come in the last thirty years, black people in country clubs, the white house, electric cars, Amazon Fresh! It can all be summed up in the fact that I am writing this post on my phone while taking a shit. My daughter doesn't know how good she has it. What is she going to do, grow up and complain about how when she was little, her Ipad was a gen 3 and her dad was too lazy to hang her flat screen on the wall so it sat on her dresser. When I was little the dresser was the TV! She doesn't know the struggle.
I think about just how good she has it anytime she feels sick. If she appears to have a fever, I pull out a device, stick it in her ear for 10 seconds, and her temp appears on an LCD screen. No complaints, just exact numbers in a nonivasive way.
Now let me tell you how it went when I was little:
Picture me having the chills, due to Sybil not cooking a roast properly, or because my father blew smoke rings directly into my lungs. Sybil proceeds to pull an oral thermometer from the bottom of her pocket book that inexplicably has no case. She sticks it under my tongue for three seconds, notices I'm not holding it in place and screams that she needs a more accurate reading that she can only get rectally. My pupils dilate and I dart off to hide in the closet. Meanwhile Sybil goes to the hall bathroom, where she dips a rectal thermometer, that she also had loose in her purse, into a huge tub of A&D ointment that for some reason has no lid, but plenty of lint. She then proceeds to rip me out of the closet, throw me on the bed and treat me like Abner Louima, only this time there is no payoff for the victim. Five minutes later, the thermometer would be removed with the same care as it was inserted. After a quick wipe of the thermometer, it would be tossed back in the pocket book. As I was left there, pants down, ointment all over my cheeks, Sybil would mutter my temperature was 98.6.
No cleanup, no sorry, no day off from school due to a fever!!
The struggle was real indeed.
I think about just how good she has it anytime she feels sick. If she appears to have a fever, I pull out a device, stick it in her ear for 10 seconds, and her temp appears on an LCD screen. No complaints, just exact numbers in a nonivasive way.
Now let me tell you how it went when I was little:
Picture me having the chills, due to Sybil not cooking a roast properly, or because my father blew smoke rings directly into my lungs. Sybil proceeds to pull an oral thermometer from the bottom of her pocket book that inexplicably has no case. She sticks it under my tongue for three seconds, notices I'm not holding it in place and screams that she needs a more accurate reading that she can only get rectally. My pupils dilate and I dart off to hide in the closet. Meanwhile Sybil goes to the hall bathroom, where she dips a rectal thermometer, that she also had loose in her purse, into a huge tub of A&D ointment that for some reason has no lid, but plenty of lint. She then proceeds to rip me out of the closet, throw me on the bed and treat me like Abner Louima, only this time there is no payoff for the victim. Five minutes later, the thermometer would be removed with the same care as it was inserted. After a quick wipe of the thermometer, it would be tossed back in the pocket book. As I was left there, pants down, ointment all over my cheeks, Sybil would mutter my temperature was 98.6.
No cleanup, no sorry, no day off from school due to a fever!!
The struggle was real indeed.
Thursday, May 12, 2016
Never forget, I had a father too.
My daughter recently learned to ride a bike. I would say I was proud, but I really have no reason to be. You see I failed at teaching her to ride and I had to pay a stranger to teach her the one thing as a man I should have done myself. No reason to dwell on that though. Yesterday my kid was taking her bike out of the garage and I told her to be careful not to scratch my car. At that very moment I remembered the little tale of my brother scratching my dad's car with his bicycle and for some demented reason I felt my six year had to hear the story. Something about those who don't hear about my childhood are condemned to repeat it.
The story:
Lewis and I went on a bike ride around the neighborhood. Picture me bunny hopping through flames while Lewis exhibits retard strength by being able to ride uphill without needing to stand on his BMX bike. Quads of steel! After ripping it up we had to put our trusty steeds away for the night so they wouldn't get stolen by the local adopted kids (total joke, please don't sue or steal my current bike). Not shockingly, our two car garage had a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde feel to it. One side housed my father's pristine 1982 Mercedes 240D, the other, mounds of disintegrating cardboard boxes filled with stuff from when my parents moved into the house from the old country (the Bronx). In order for us to get our bikes to the trash side, we had to carefully roll them passed the only thing my father cared about. On this day, Lewis went first. I can still remember the sound of his rusty handlebar scraping the rear corner of that Benz. He turned and looked at me. I smirked and darted for the house.
I ran into the living room to find my father, shirtless, smoking a Moore Green, while watching Sanford and Son. In my most tattle-taling voice, I screamed "Lewis scratched your car with his bike." I might have added in that he did it on purpose. My father always seemed like he was tired and out of shape but at that moment he moved like a gazelle. He leaped from the sofa, grabbed a broom, and darted for the door. Now think about this for a moment. Before he even assessed the damage, he grabbed something to what, beat my brother with? No consideration for the fact that, one, my brother was a child or the fact that it was an accident. My father was on a mission to beat my brother and I LOVED IT! My father chased my brother down the street screaming how he was a terrible kid, swinging that broom, as the neighbors watched in disbelief. Finally Lewis darted for the front door hoping to find shelter hiding behind my mother, who by the way did nothing to stop any of this. My father out of breath had no choice but to throw the broom at my brother like a javelin. He needed to be punished!! As the door slammed behind Lewis, the broom missile sailed right through the glass that made up 50% of that door. Shards flew everywhere. At that moment my father realized justice would not be served that day. He sulked off to the garage where I can remember him using a tiny bottle of touch up paint to fix the 1 cm scratch.
As I finished telling the story, I said to my daughter, "And this is why, when you want to take your bike out, you ask an adult to help."
The story:
Lewis and I went on a bike ride around the neighborhood. Picture me bunny hopping through flames while Lewis exhibits retard strength by being able to ride uphill without needing to stand on his BMX bike. Quads of steel! After ripping it up we had to put our trusty steeds away for the night so they wouldn't get stolen by the local adopted kids (total joke, please don't sue or steal my current bike). Not shockingly, our two car garage had a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde feel to it. One side housed my father's pristine 1982 Mercedes 240D, the other, mounds of disintegrating cardboard boxes filled with stuff from when my parents moved into the house from the old country (the Bronx). In order for us to get our bikes to the trash side, we had to carefully roll them passed the only thing my father cared about. On this day, Lewis went first. I can still remember the sound of his rusty handlebar scraping the rear corner of that Benz. He turned and looked at me. I smirked and darted for the house.
I ran into the living room to find my father, shirtless, smoking a Moore Green, while watching Sanford and Son. In my most tattle-taling voice, I screamed "Lewis scratched your car with his bike." I might have added in that he did it on purpose. My father always seemed like he was tired and out of shape but at that moment he moved like a gazelle. He leaped from the sofa, grabbed a broom, and darted for the door. Now think about this for a moment. Before he even assessed the damage, he grabbed something to what, beat my brother with? No consideration for the fact that, one, my brother was a child or the fact that it was an accident. My father was on a mission to beat my brother and I LOVED IT! My father chased my brother down the street screaming how he was a terrible kid, swinging that broom, as the neighbors watched in disbelief. Finally Lewis darted for the front door hoping to find shelter hiding behind my mother, who by the way did nothing to stop any of this. My father out of breath had no choice but to throw the broom at my brother like a javelin. He needed to be punished!! As the door slammed behind Lewis, the broom missile sailed right through the glass that made up 50% of that door. Shards flew everywhere. At that moment my father realized justice would not be served that day. He sulked off to the garage where I can remember him using a tiny bottle of touch up paint to fix the 1 cm scratch.
As I finished telling the story, I said to my daughter, "And this is why, when you want to take your bike out, you ask an adult to help."
I wish I had a picture of my daughter's face when I was done telling the story.
Wednesday, May 11, 2016
The Jew Gardener
If you talked to Sybil, you would think she lived in a remote village, on a remote island, inhabited by herself and three chickens, that currently aren't talking to her. She gives you this impression anytime she says the following, "I can't find anyone to do ..." This statement is used multiple times a day for everything from why she doesn't have a good aide to why her driveway is covered in snow. What it really means is I don't want to pay a professional and the butcher at King's refuses to paint my living room. Case in point, for years, Sybil's lawn has looked like Bernie Sander's hair after he had marathon sex with his constituents, dry, covered in bald spots and sticking up in all directions.
Over the last week though Sybil has been commenting on how the lawn looks great because she found a nice man to take care of it. He mowed it, put down some fertilizer, and now has moved on to cleaning out the house.
What??
Why is the gardener in the house?
Apparently this lawn man is a jack of all trades. After mowing the lawn, Sybil invited him in to help her dispose of her papers. I don't really know what that means. She is either talking about the tower of Shop-rite circulars that I think is a load bearing wall in the kitchen or she is talking about her tax returns going back to 1978 (when she didn't have to show SSN numbers to deduct children she was planing to have.)
I felt as her only son it was my duty to ask a few questions about her new employee. Before I was able to dive too deep, Sybil assured me it was all good because he's Jewish and has a real estate license. He also told her she didn't have to paint the wood paneling in the living room before she lists the house. Decorating advice from the guy who cuts your lawn, what could go wrong.
So to recap, the gardener is Jewish, has a real estate license, and now has access to Sybil's tax returns. How long until I go visit and this man greets me at the door in a Sybil wig? Hopefully he will also tell me to show my mother some respect.
Over the last week though Sybil has been commenting on how the lawn looks great because she found a nice man to take care of it. He mowed it, put down some fertilizer, and now has moved on to cleaning out the house.
What??
Why is the gardener in the house?
Apparently this lawn man is a jack of all trades. After mowing the lawn, Sybil invited him in to help her dispose of her papers. I don't really know what that means. She is either talking about the tower of Shop-rite circulars that I think is a load bearing wall in the kitchen or she is talking about her tax returns going back to 1978 (when she didn't have to show SSN numbers to deduct children she was planing to have.)
I felt as her only son it was my duty to ask a few questions about her new employee. Before I was able to dive too deep, Sybil assured me it was all good because he's Jewish and has a real estate license. He also told her she didn't have to paint the wood paneling in the living room before she lists the house. Decorating advice from the guy who cuts your lawn, what could go wrong.
So to recap, the gardener is Jewish, has a real estate license, and now has access to Sybil's tax returns. How long until I go visit and this man greets me at the door in a Sybil wig? Hopefully he will also tell me to show my mother some respect.
Monday, May 2, 2016
Mindy's a piece of shit
Sybil has this frenemy named Mindy. I want to say she looks like Grimace of McDonald's fame, but I feel that is an insult to a very lovable character. Maybe Jabba the Hut is a more accurate description: ugly, overbearing and hard to understand (heavy Jewish/Brooklyn accent).
Sybil has never had a nice thing to say about her. Every conversation they have ends in fighting, which is why it is no surprise that when I called Sybil today she started with, "Mindy is a piece of shit!"
Sybil: Mindy came over this weekend and wanted to buy some jewelry I had from when I was in the business. She didn't like my current price and told me I should sell it cheaper because when I die, Barry is just going to come in and sell it for scrap.
Maybe a little back story is in order. My father owned a jewelry store in the '80s. Actually, that's probably not true. He hung out in his friend's jewelry store for much of his 30s as way of escaping my mother and having access to free weed. This ended up translating into Sybil selling jewelry to school teachers and cashiers at Shop Rite. This was thirty years ago so it's amazing Sybil is pulling the "new old stock" card out. Also, not sure anyone noticed, but Sybil used the term "current price." Did she offer this item for less before? My guess is yes.
Lastly, everyone knows, I'm too savvy to sell her treasures for scrap. I'm going to have the greatest estate sale Hillsdale has ever had. Look for the notice in the Want Ad Press!
Sybil has never had a nice thing to say about her. Every conversation they have ends in fighting, which is why it is no surprise that when I called Sybil today she started with, "Mindy is a piece of shit!"
Sybil: Mindy came over this weekend and wanted to buy some jewelry I had from when I was in the business. She didn't like my current price and told me I should sell it cheaper because when I die, Barry is just going to come in and sell it for scrap.
Maybe a little back story is in order. My father owned a jewelry store in the '80s. Actually, that's probably not true. He hung out in his friend's jewelry store for much of his 30s as way of escaping my mother and having access to free weed. This ended up translating into Sybil selling jewelry to school teachers and cashiers at Shop Rite. This was thirty years ago so it's amazing Sybil is pulling the "new old stock" card out. Also, not sure anyone noticed, but Sybil used the term "current price." Did she offer this item for less before? My guess is yes.
Lastly, everyone knows, I'm too savvy to sell her treasures for scrap. I'm going to have the greatest estate sale Hillsdale has ever had. Look for the notice in the Want Ad Press!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)