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  Copyright © 2001 by Amy Borkowsky

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN-10: 0-7434-4457-4

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-4457-6

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  To my sweet, loving mother

  for making my life possible.

  And at times, impossible.

  Thanks for your care, your kindness,

  and your inspiration.

  THE MESSAGE BEFORE THE MESSAGES

  A lot of people who are driven to the point of insanity report hearing voices—voices commanding them to stalk, maim, or even kill.

  Then there are people like you and me. We also hear voices that leave us at the brink of our sanity, only these voices are commanding us to zip up our jackets or eat enough roughage.

  The voiceswehear don't come from God but from someone much more powerful.

  Our mothers.

  The only difference between any other adult who's being driven nuts by her mother and me is that I just happened to have saved my mother's voice on the microcassettes from my answering machine.

  In fact, I've been saving almostallmy answering machine messages for well over a decade.

  Recently, I released a CD of my mother's messages through my Website at sendamy.com. Judging by the flood of email I've been getting, I'm not alone in having a mother who uses the phone lines to stay waytooconnected—a mother who offers constant advice on what to eat, how to dress, and who to date.

  It doesn't help that the phone companies have been fighting a rate war, resulting in long-distance charges as low as five cents a minute and local calling plans with unlimited usage. As in any war, who suffers the most? It's the children—people like you and me whose mothers now havenothingholding them back whenever The Urge to Call strikes.

  With all the advances in telecommunications— from answering machines that our mothers “commandeer” to cell phones that let them track us wherever we go—it's not Big Brother watching over us.

  It's Big Mother.

  So allow me to take you on a journey to the land of Overprotection, as I share messages from a mother who seems to think the phone cord is an umbilical cord.

  You'll notice that I make liberal use of phrases such as “I love my mother, but,” “As much as we love our parents,” and “I know my mother means well, but.” Basically, these are road signs indicating Sharp Criticism Ahead, and I use them because I don't want to feel guilty.

  And even though it's hard to remember sometimes, I use these phrases because they're true. I do know how lucky I am to have a mother who cares so much. Friends who've lost their mothers tell me how difficult it is when they realize that they'll never again find another person so totally focused on their well-being.

  The most devoted friend, lover, or even husband would never call you in a panic to warn you of the dangers of nylon-crotched panties. And they wouldn'tdreamof advising you to alternate which side you wear your purse on so your shoulders don't get uneven.

  As you flip through this book, smiling and maybe even laughing yourtuchasoff at my existence under Mom's Rule, a few questions may come up.

  First, you may wonder why my mother calls me “Amila” (pronounced AY-muh-luh) when my name is actually Amy. The answer is that, as a classic Jewish mother, my mom follows the tradition of adding an “ila” to my name as a term of endearment. (This is probably why you rarely hear of a Jewish girl named something like “Lola”—her mother would then have to call her Lola-ila, which doesn't roll very smoothly off the tongue.) You'll also find that my mother sometimes calls me“mamascheinz,”which literally translates to “sweet mother” but can be used affectionately for anyone female, much as Spanish-speaking people might use“mamacita.”And here and there, my mother uses some other Yiddish phrases, which are explained in the glossary at the end of this book.

  At some point you may also wonder, “WhereisAmy while her mother's calling and chatting up a storm with her machine? Is she sitting there screening or what?”

  The answer is “or what.”

  For the past several years, my answering machine has had a light on but nobody home, due mostly to my insane hours as a creative director at a New York ad agency. On top of that, I began doing stand-up comedy, which is howAmy's Answering Machinecame about.

  When I first played my mother's messages on stage and saw how much audiences loved her (Why is it always easier to see the humor in someoneelse'smother?), I decided to produce my own CD and market it through my Website.

  Then, when the success of the CD showed justhow manypeople related to and were entertained by my struggles with Mom, I was offered the opportunity to write this book.

  If your own mother drives you crazy, I hope my book will help you find some comfort in knowing you're not alone.

  If youarea mother who drives your kids crazy, maybe it will help you see yourself in a new light and take steps toward rehabilitation.

  And if your mother is no longer with you and you actuallymissthe infuriating advice, questions, and comments, I hope my mother's messages will bring you more laughter than tears.

  Wishing only health, happiness, and love for you, your mother, and mine,

  Amy Borkowsky

  HOW COME EVERY TIME I HIT “PLAY” ON MY ANSWERING MACHINE MY MOTHER IS PUSHING MY BUTTONS?

  I have a radio that gives weather forecasts every few minutes, and cable TV with a channel devoted entirely to the weather. So why does my mother always feel compelled to call me up with a weather report?

  “Amila? I hope you're on your way home. I just heard on the weather, there's a big storm headed for New York and they're expecting four to six inches in the city, with accumulations of up to a foot in the outlying areas. So if I were you, I wouldn't goshleppingto any outlying areas. On the weather map, all over New York, they had snowflakes the size of bagels. So if you have to go out, make sure you bundle up. And wrap a scarf around your face to protect it, 'cause y'know, there was that man who climbed Mount Everest and lost his entire nose. Okay, honey? I love you. Bye.”

  Somehow I just don't see anywhere I wouldshlepto as being quite parallel to climbing Mt. Everest.

  “Our guest today is Amila Borkowsky, the first woman ever to reach the summit of Macy's department store. So, Amila, what was it like up there?”

  “Words just can't describe it. The view of Linens and Housewares wasbreathtaking.”

  “Now the question everyone wants to know is, what did you buy?”

  “Nothing. By the time I got there, they didn't have the one item I really needed.”

  “What was that?”

  “A new nose.”

  To my mother, any story she hears on the news is directly related to my well-being.

  “Hi, Amila. I was watching the news, and I heard about that little girl who was alone in an apartment for nine days without food, and it made me think of you. Honey, please, be sure you have what to eat in the fridge, 'cause last time you came to visit, you looked like Olive Oyl. Okay, honey, bye-bye.”

  Like a lot of women, my mother has a distorted body image. Only it's my body she's distorting. I really believe I could gain eighty pounds and would still look too thin to my mother.

  And how could she see any connection between me and the “little girl”? I've been alone in my apartment for nineyearswith an empty fridge and I'm still here. That's because I'm
a grown-up and can easily go to salad bars, restaurants, or order a pizza.

  Really, the only time my empty fridge has been a major problem is if, say, a guy comes over after a date: “Boy, I'm starving, Amila. What do you have in the fridge?”

  “Let's see, Barry. Can I offer you some duck sauce? Or . . . how would you like a nice stick of butter?”

  Of course, I realize all my mother's irritating reminders about having enough food do come from a very loving place. All she wants is to see me thrive.

  And I know that when I appear on television, my mother is sitting at home, just beaming with joy.

  Mainly because TV adds ten pounds.

  So why does my mother always have to repeat herself?

  “Hi, Amila. I still haven't heard whether or not you got the package I sent you. It's a large padded envelope that says ‘Priority Mail’—'cause you're a priority honey. So go and check downstairs and see if there's a large, padded Priority Mail envelope. Okay? It's not a regular envelope—it's a Priority one that's large and padded. All right, so call me as soon as you get the package. But it's not really a package per se, so keep your eyes open for a large padded Priority Mail envelope. All right,mamascheinz,bye-bye.”

  While a mother's constant repetition is annoying enough in face-to-face conversation, it's even more unnecessary on an answering machine. If I didn't catch something my mother said, couldn't I just hit “rewind” and replay it?

  While a mother's constant repetition is annoying enough in face-to-face conversation, it's even more unnecessary on an answering machine. If I didn't catch something my mother said, couldn't I just hit “rewind” and replay it?

  Note to mothers:Now you know howwefeel.

  I imagine my mother must have some measure of peace knowing I live in New York, New York—a city that automatically repeats itself.

  Even in the simplest things I enjoy—like listening to music—my mother will find some element of danger.

  “Hello, Amila. Yeah, I don't know if you heard the latest on the portable stereos, but they're saying that the foam earpiece on the headphones is a prime breeding ground for bacteria. So if you still insist on walking around with the headphones on, you may wanna take an antibiotic. Okay, hon? Talk to you soon. Bye.”

  First of all, I only owned a portable stereo for three weeks out of my life. It was actually just a mini-FM receiver that was so “mini” I lost it, probably in the seat cushions of a taxi. But because my mother happened to see me wearing the Bacteria Breeder on one particular visit, she naturally assumed it was as much a part of what I wore every day as, say, deodorant.

  This is what happens when your parents live out of town and you don't see them often. They assume even random behavior observed on a single visit is habitual. One time, while I was visiting my father, we stopped into a diner and, for a little change of pace, I ordered a pork chop. This was one of only three pork chops I'd eaten in my entire life, but from that day on, I became known to my father as The Daughter Who Eats Pork Chops.

  But back to my mother. Let's suppose, for a moment, that Iwasa habitual headphone wearer. Where would I find a doctorwillingto write me an antibiotic prescription?

  “Doctor, you've gotta help me. I have Headphones.”

  “Well, Amila, I'm sorry, but the only thing we could do for you at this point would involve surgery.”

  “Surgery?”

  “Yes. Basically, we'd have no choice but to remove your headphones.”

  “Please,couldn't you just write me a prescription?”

  “Well, if you still insist on walking around and listening to music, I suppose I could write you a prescription. For a boombox.”

  Not only does my mother use my answering machine to control my life, she also uses it to control the machine itself.

  “Hi, Amila. I don't like the new message you have on your machine. You're letting the whole world know that you're not at home. It'd be better to say something like, ‘Thank you for calling but I am presently indisposed.’ That way they'll just think you're on the toilet. Or on second thought, don't even say ‘I.’ Just say, ‘Nobody can get to the phone right now because we are presently indisposed.’ Okay, honey? Bye-bye.”

  “Amila, it's me again. Where are you? You must be downstairs with the laundry. I know I'm using up your tape, but it just occurred to me, if you use the word ‘we,’ a guy you're interested in might think you're married. So it'd probably be better not to use any pronouns. You could just say something like, ‘Thank you for calling. Leave a message.’ And you don't have to tell them what to do after the beep, 'cause by now, anyone who doesn't know that is a totalshmegegge. Okay, I know I'm using up your tape, honey. Call me back. Bye-bye.”

  Whenever I change my outgoing message, my mother becomes the Roger Ebert of answering machines, critiquing my “work” as if it were a major motion picture. Her comments have ranged from “It sounds like you're in a well” to “The music in the background sounds like a brothel.”

  I could see her having her own show:

  “Good evening. I'm Mrs. Borkowsky with a review of Amila's latest outgoing message. I must admit, my expectations were quite high, since my Amila generally has a very good head on her shoulders. However, I nearlyplotzedwhen I heard her say, ‘Hello, you've reached five-five-five-three-two-three-one.’ What if some lunatic dialed her number at random? Why remind him of what number he called so he can go and do it again? Not to compare her to my other daughter— since, of course, I love them both equally—but her sister Judy used much better judgment when she stuck with the computerized voice that came with the machine. It says, simply, ‘Please leave a message.’ This is one case where less really is more. So, while I applaud Amila for her great pronunciation of the numbers—her delivery of ‘three-two-three-one’ was very convincing—I'm going to have to give her latest outgoing message one-and-a-half matzoh balls.”

  Alot of Internet sites are advertising that they can personalize their home page so you get the news stories that apply to you. What's the big deal? My mother's been providing this service for years.

  “Amila? I don't think you went to bed yet, but maybe you're in the tub. I wanted to know if you by any chance happened to catch the story on the new squirting scam. Apparently, the way it works is, you'll be walking along the street and, unbeknownst to you, some guy or maybe a woman will squirt you from behind with a bottle of ketchup. Then, someone else who's in cahoots with that person will say, ‘Excuse me, Miss, but there's some ketchup on your sweater.’ And then, just as you go to wipe it, they grab your bag and that's the end of that. I just figured I'd mention it, so if somebody tries to point out any ketchup on you, you'll be wise to it, and you can just say something like, ‘I'm well aware of the ketchup—in fact, it matches my pants that have a big blob of relish.’ Then as they're looking down at your pants, you can make a quick getaway and go report it to the police. All right, I hope you're doing good, and I'll talk to you tomorrow. Bye-bye.”

  In a world where innocent people are being randomly attacked with guns, knives, and AIDS-filled syringes, I find it hard to lose even a millisecond of sleep worrying that someone's going to come after me with a bottle of ketchup.

  I mean, if this werereallya threat, wouldn't people be lobbying for ketchup control?

  Wouldn't they install ketchup detectors at the airports?

  And anyway, it usually takes me forty-five minutes of smacking a ketchup bottle to get one drop out; if some stranger can manage to squirt it out fast enough to catch me off guard, that's not a crime.

  That's an accomplishment.

  Now, if they took my wallet in the process, well, thatwouldmake me mad.

  Yeah, the more I think about it, I'mgladmy mother warned me.

  I'm not going to stand by, passively, helplessly waiting to be The Next Victim. I'm going to Take Action and Arm Myself.

  With a jar of mayo.

  My mother still doesn't seem to realize that I'm capable of taking care of some really very basic needs.r />
  “Hi, Amila. It's me, honey. If you haven't already left to go to the motor vehicle bureau, keep in mind that the wait is very long. So before you get in line, you may wanna empty your bladder. All right, honey, that's all for now. Bye-bye.”

  What gets me, first of all, is that she thinks I wouldn't alreadyknowthere'd be a wait at the DMV—as if I'm under the impression that the DMV in Manhattan givesinstantservice. Like maybe I'm figuring I'll go over there and the smiling DMV clerk will meet meat the door:

  “Here's your license, Ma'am, and remember: ‘DMV’ stands for Done in aMoment'sVisit!”

  And even if the linewerelonger than expected and I felt like I could burst a water main, when I got to the organ donor check box, I'd just write in, ‘Take my bladder.Now.’

  Mom Years

  Mothers experience time in a totally different way when it comes to their kids. Recently, I was visiting my mother, when she casually suggested, “Why don't you put your hair up in a bun like you wear it sometimes.”

  “What do you mean ‘sometimes’—Ineverwear my hair in a bun.”

  “Yes, you do—you know, how you pull it up off your face and wrap it with bobby pins?”

  “Mom, I haven't worn a bun since I was seventeen!”

  “So what are you arguing with me for? You just said so yourself. That's how you sometimes wear your hair.”