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." 

 

I wish I had a picture of my daughter's face when I was done telling the story.

 

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.

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!

The Presidential Race Heats Up

As we get closer to Trump taking office, I'm reminded of the time my mother went up to a gentleman at a Bar Mitzvah and told him he looked like Chris Christie.  Not surprisingly he walked away in a huff. Later my cousin (host of the party) screamed at Sybil for insulting the man. When I heard the recap, Sybil assured me that she was only talking about how the two men had similar faces. The fact that they were both morbidly obese had nothing to do with it. Since she assured me, I have to believe her. My cousin on the other hand has not spoken to her since. My cousin clearly needs thicker skin, like as my mother would point out, Governor Christie has.

Subconscious Rage - A love story between a child and his mother

My brother likes to joke that I'm a powder keg of rage, ready to explode at any moment. I'm not arguing with the statement, but I don't really see the need to bring it up all the time.  Why poke the bear? With that said I do believe there is a bit of the pot calling the kettle black on this one.

This is a text I received from my brother a few hours ago:

Just woke from a rage dream. Sybil had a lesbian lover. I told her I couldn't wait for her to die from AIDS, and that I would dump her ashes in the latrine at Auschwitz.

I also went nuts in the dream because she selected Barry to walk her down the aisle. This all happened in our Toyota Corolla.

Every sentence of that text is amazing but let's dissect it line by line:

Sybil had a lesbian lover. - Terrifying on so many levels.  I'm picturing her with someone who looks just like her.  A dopplegangbanger.  Why am I picturing this?

I couldn't wait for her to die from AIDS - Sure I might tell her to drop dead daily, but of AIDS? Come on.  That is really some backwards thinking.  I would like to think as a society we have progressed beyond thinking AIDS kills gay people.  He probably should have said I can't wait till you get HPV and die of throat cancer.  Much more plausible.

I would dump her ashes in the latrine at Auschwitz. - This might be the statement I use to get my brother institutionalized.  At the very least I could get him put under psychiatric hold for 72 hours. Then again, going to Poland this time of year might be nice.

I also went nuts in the dream because she selected Barry to walk her down the aisle. - I love the fact, my brother is upset by our mother picking me to walk her down the aisle instead of him. His insecurity with regard to our mother liking me more than him is comical.  Let me assure him, she hates us both equally. On that note, I'm still hopeful my mother remarries.  Would be nice to curse at some 80 year old man/woman and say don't tell me what to do you're not my father/mother.

This all happened in our Toyota Corolla. - I have such fond memories of that car.  It was a rolling trash can with a carburetor. My father called it the Lamumba wagon. I have no clue why but it was such an awesome and fitting name.

On that note maybe this rage dream was just what I needed to start posting again.

Rage = mental fuel

Dreamscape

Sybil is back in New Jersey but the nightmares haven't stopped.

This is a text I got from Lewis yesterday:

Just had a nightmare that after having paid off DISCOVER, Sybil told me I owed them $9,360. I demanded to see the statement. I was at 25 Taylor and our father was in the kitchen, shirtless, eating dinner. I demanded to see the statement and said: "Give it to me, you fucking cunt." Our father said he was calling the police. I put him in a headlock and made him look at Barry and Sybil while I said: "Look at them! They think you're a bum! I can talk convincingly. I'll have the police take YOU away."

As funny as Lewis's nightmare was nothing can top my dream last night:

Lews, Sybil and I were at a restaurant owned by David Hasselhoff.  He was going table to table greeting the customers.  When he got to our table, I couldn't get over how much he looked like Sybil, right down to the rouge on his cheeks.  He looked at Sybil and the dish she was eating and asked if she liked it.  She complained it was too spicy. David responded by saying that both his wife and girlfriend liked it.  His wife then came to the table, all jealous, sat next to Sybil and started pushing her around. I then kicked this huge bowl of caesar salad off the table. It flipped and landed on David Hasselhoff's head, causing him to flip backwards on the ground.  I looked at Lewis and said now that is a fucking blog post!

I woke up and typed notes so I wouldn't forget this glorious dream.  

You either die a hero or live long enough to enough to see yourself become a villain 

The Whitney Houston Suite

During this glorious visit, Sybil decided to stay at the Beverly Hilton.  It is just far enough away to be a complete pain in the ass to see her.  With no regard for the fact I have to drive back and forth she has regaled me with tales of how the trip is costing her $6,000 and as soon as she gets home she is calling corporate because her room is shit.  Her words, not mine.

Being the invalid that she is, she needed a handicap room.  I let her know months in advance that she should put a request in for one. Her response was I should mind my business and she took care of it.  When Sybil checked in, the first thing I noticed was her room had a tub shower. Unless the room had a hidden crane in the closet, there was no way she was getting in that tub to wash herself.  At best she might be able to wash her hoof by dipping it in the toilet. When I asked her about the room, she told me she complained to the front desk, but they told her there were other people in the hotel that needed the handicap rooms more than her. Again her words not mine.

After further probing I discovered management offered Sybil another room, but she refused it because she claimed it was too much trouble. Translation, if she takes the other room she can't go home and protest the charges on her credit card based on elder abuse.

Sybil also told me that she was faint so the hotel sent a sandwich to her room.  When she checked her bill (does it daily) she saw they billed her for said sandwich.  She complained until they removed the charge. The sandwich was also shit (again her words) and she didn't finish it (left a piece of crust) so why should she pay for it. Why indeed.

Even the finest graduates of Cornell's School of Hotel Administration are not prepared for this.