Amy's Answering Machine Page 2

  The truth is, to a mother, even something you did twenty years ago seems like a-bat-of-an-eyelash ago. All mothers are programmed to calculate time in Mom Years, which are a lot like dog years, though the mathematical conversion process is somewhat simpler. To convert normal years into Mom Years, divide the number of years by itself, then subtract 364 days.

  For example, if your first day of kindergarten was twenty years ago, your calculations would be as follows: 20÷20 = 1 year; 1 year – 364 days = Just Yesterday.

  Why is it that my mother always seems to examine me with a magnifying glass?

  “Hello, Amila. I guess you must be out shopping. I meant to mention something when you were here, but since I didn't get a chance, I figured I'd just leave it on your machine. I don't know if you're aware of it, but when I was taking the pictures and you smiled, I noticed that one of your eyes—I think it was the left one—was staying partially shut, like about a fifth to maybe a third of the way. It looked sort of like a person who's all liquored up trying to wink. You may wanna ask an ophthalmologist about it. And in the meantime, just try and be aware of it, 'cause someone could interpret the wink as body language for an invitation toshtup.Okay, I'll talk to you soon. Bye-bye.”

  All mothers believe they're blessed with superior vision when it comes to looking at their children. Much as a dog can hear sounds not audible to humans, mothers believe they can see things not visible to the ordinary eye.

  Every time I visit my mother, the first thing she does is give me a really loving hug, as she beams with maternal pride, and says, “Oy,mamascheinz,you look beautiful.”

  Then suddenly, as she shifts her gaze to my right cheek, the maternal pride gives way to a look of grave concern, as if Death itself were knocking at the door. “That mole on your cheek—did it get bigger? It looks bigger.”

  For the record, that spot on my cheek that my motherusedto call a “beauty mark” has been the same size for as long as I can remember.

  The mole comment is always followed by another hug and comment about my exceptional beauty, after which she pulls away slightly to examine The Entire Daughter from head to toe. “You look too thin, like you lost weight. Did you lose weight?”

  I once figured out that, based on the minimal weight loss that would be noticeable to the human eye, if Ihadlost weight every time she said that, I should now weigh just over twelve pounds.

  The way my mother talks to me sometimes, she apparently must think I'm some kind of an idiot.

  “Hi, Amila. I was just thinking that for your friend Susan's housewarming, you might wanna get her a gift certificate from Crate and Barrel. That's C-R-A-T-E and barrel—B-A-R-R-E-L. You can remember it because it rhymes with Sandy's in-laws, Nate and Carol. All right, honey, bye-bye.”

  I think my mother's passion for spelling stems from a desire to make sure that I absolutely, positively, fully understand the critically important things she has to tell me.

  Pretty ironic, considering there was a time when she'd spell to make sure Ididn'tunderstand—as in, “Doctor, I'm very concerned about my Amila because she eats like an s-p-a-r-r-o-w.”

  We did get into a heated debate over how to spell her nickname for me, “Amila.” (Remember, untilAmy's Answering Machinecame about, there really was no reason for me to everwritethe name.)

  Here were all the candidates for spellings, along with the reasons why they were rejected.

  Amilah: My mother was lobbying for this spelling, because she thought the final “h” put me in a prime position to “burst onto the scene as a Jewish Oprah.” She argued that the final “h” added a touch of class— until I reminded her of “feh” and “pish,” Yiddish words that roughly translate to “yuck” and “to relieve one's bladder.”

  Amyla: This was my first choice. I thought that the “y” in the middle added a hipness and a downtown edge. My mother, always the Spelling Queen, accurately pointed out, “Look, if you wanna be hip, just remember that ‘hip’ has an ‘i’ in the middle, not a ‘y.’ Okay, chalk one up for Mom.

  Amela: I strongly vetoed this one because I felt then, and still do, that it comes dangerously close to “Amelia” and could cause confusion. Thankfully, Mom agreed: “It reminds me too much of Amelia Earhart, which is no good—remember, that girl got on an airplane and her mother never saw her again.”

  So, by process of elimination, I'm writing to you now as the artist alternately known as “Amila.”

  Ican't seem to make my mother understand that there are some parts of my life that are just not a mother's business.

  “Hi, Amila. I had something on my mind that I wanted to tell you, but I don't want you to get mad at me. I just wanna make sure if you get involved with someone, that you don't use lambskin condoms. Because if you're worried about AIDS, using lambskin is the same as if the guy had a totally nakedshmekel. And they used to make graduation certificates out of sheepskin. So before you do anything foolish, you may wanna ask yourself, How safe would I feel with hisshmekelwrapped in a diploma? Okay, that's my two cents for now. I'll talk to you later.”

  This is the reason I always keep the volume down on my machine when I have a guy over. If a boyfriend heard something like this, hisshmekelwould immediately shrink down to nothing.

  And really, isn't shereachingwith the condom/diploma analogy?

  If they reallywerethat similar, why would there be all that controversy over giving out condoms in the schools? In fact, at graduation, principals could hand each graduate a condominstead ofa diploma.

  How proud the parents would be, as the band played “Pomp and Circumstance” and the PA system blared, “And now, receiving his Bachelor of Science with Lubrication, Michael Adam Klein.”

  Why a Mother

  Is Better Than a Guy

  As a single woman on the dating scene, I have to appreciate one thing about mothers. When a mother says, “I'll call you,” youknowshe's going to call.

  When a motherdoesn'tsay, “I'll call you,” youknowshe's going to call.

  And when a mother says, “I'mnever, ever, evercalling you again,” well, only then do you know for sure that you won't hear from her again.

  Until tomorrow.

  A mother will never leave you in a position where you have to call your girlfriends and ask, “I saw her on Saturday, and it's Wednesday already. If I don't hear from her by tomorrow, do you think it's okay for me to call?”

  Of course, my advice is, if youdofind a guy who calls as often as your mother, whatever you do, hold onto him anddon't let him go.

  Until the police can get there and arrest him for stalking.

  Any time I tell my mother an idea for something I'm excited to do, she will immediately jump to point out the negatives.

  “Yeah, it's me Amila. I was thinking, I don't know if it's such a good idea for you to get a cat. They get hairs all over everything and theypishon the rug. And then all of a sudden, you have vet bills. A lady by me paid twice as much to fix her cat's paw as she did for her own thyroid. And what if you finally found a nice guy and he was allergic? Yeah, you'll tell him, ‘Love me, love my cat,’ and he'll say, ‘Fine. I don't love you, and your cat can kiss mytuchas.’ So think about it, honey, okay? All right. Bye.”

  Now her first point is, basically, that I shouldn't get a cat because it might put a crimp in my housekeeping.

  Well, by that logic, I shouldn't get a husband, either, since I hear they leave toilet seats up and socks on the floor.

  To reassure myself that I could overcome my mother's Cat-owning Concerns, I consulted prominent New York veterinarian Lawrence A. Putter. Dr. Putter's opinion, based on over a decade of caring for domesticated animals, was as follows: “If the cat sheds, you'll just vacuum.”

  Further, Dr. Putter assured me that a healthy young cat “will not, under most circumstances, exhibit any random pishing.”

  Now if Ididfinally meet a nice guy who was allergic—well, my mother's right on that one— that would be a problem.

  I'd feel terrible doing it,
but I guess I'd just have to take an ad out in the paper:

  Single woman with friendly, beautiful, housebroken Tabby has finally met nice guy who's allergic. Seeking loving person, with room in her heart and her apartment, to take the guy.

  Every year on my birthday, my mother calls with birthday wishes. One year, it had a special twist.

  (Singing) “Happy birthday to you,

  Happy birthday to you,

  Happy birthday dear Amila,

  Happy birthday to you.

  How old are you now,

  How old are you now,

  Better hurry and find a husband,

  Before your ovaries shut down.

  All right, that's just a little creativity for my birthday girl. I love you sweetie.”

  I wish someone would please explain to me how come inallother aspects of life, my mother sees me as being practically a toddler, but when it comes to settling down and having kids, suddenly I'm over the hill?

  And what if my ovaries reallywereready to shut down? What does she expect me to do—get on a loudspeaker and make an announcement?

  “Attention all single males. Amy's ovaries will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please decide if Amy is your final selection, and proceed with your gonads to the checkout.”

  Mom's Favorite Sport

  The answering machine is the arena where a mother avidly engages in her favorite sport, Guessing Where My Child Is. She believes herself to be The Person on the Planet Who Knows You Best, and proudly enjoys displaying this knowledge on your machine.

  The only problem is, she's always wrong.

  In my mother's case, her most frequent guesses include, “I assume you went to brunch with Alison,” “Maybe you're in the tub,” and “You must be downstairs doing laundry.”

  The reality is, most mothers have no clue as to how youreallylive your life, but apparently the guessing process is in itself rewarding enough, since all my friends tell me their mothers do the same thing.

  I'm surprised no network has picked up on this trend yet and launched a game show version:

  “Good evening and welcome toGuess Where My Child Is,the show where mothers flaunt their knowledge of their daughters' whereabouts for cash jackpots and fabulous prizes! Our first contestant is Amila's Mom, who'll be competing against our returning champion, Estelle Greene—mother of Lori—who last week correctly guessed that Lori was at the Miss Nails salon getting a wrap and tips. Okay, Amila's mom, you know the way it works, so pick up your telephone, and let's godialing for daughters!

  “All right, it's ringing . . . still ringing . . . okay, we got her machine. So, Amila's mom, for fifty thousand dollars in cash and a chance to advance to the bonus round, where is Amila?”

  “Well, let's see, it's Thursday night and it's after eight-thirty . . . she's normally home at this hour . . . and she has to work on Friday, so if she's not there . . . my guess would be . . . Jack, this is a tough one, but I'm gonna guess Amila's in the Roosevelt Hospital emergency room.”

  At this point, a collective gasp would erupt from the audience.

  “That's quite a leap. Are you sure that's your guess?”

  “I think so. Yeah, I'll stick with that.”

  “Okay, well, Vera the Verifier has Roosevelt Hospital on the other line, and they've just informed us that nobody by the name of Amila Borkowsky has been admitted to the ER this evening. I'mso sorry,but thank you for playing.”

  “Oh, don't be sorry, Jack. I had a feeling I was wrong. When the audience gasped, I knew I shoulda gone with my other answer.”

  “What was that?”

  “The Mount Sinai emergency room.”

  I'm such ahugepart of my mother's life that even a total stranger can pick up on it.

  “Yeah, hello, Amila. It's me. You remember that program I love to watch with the live psychics? Well, I called up this one gal named Natasha for a reading, and she was absolutely marvelous. The first thing she asked right off the bat was if I had a daughter whose name contained a vowel. She said like either an ‘a’ or an ‘e.’ And she saw you romantically involved with a very nice guy who may be going bald, but you shouldn't reject him because of that, because she said he'll bring you much happiness, and he can always buy a toupee. So that should be some good news for you, honey. Call me when you get in. Love you. Bye.”

  My mother became so enamored with her favorite show that she would actually call up the production staff just to chat—and, of course, to give them advice.

  “Hi, Amila. I just got off the phone with Ricardo, the director of that psychic show. I called him up on their studio line to give him a few pointers. I told him, first of all, that their backdrop looks like some kid went and splashed paint on it. And I told him the fill-in psychic is not very telegenic. She looks like a female George Washington. Well, I was surprised, 'cause he was very receptive. I think he got a kick out of me. He said I should let him know when I'll be coming to New York and said I could come by the studio and meet everybody. So I'll have to come and take you with me to meet my psychic buddies, okay? All right. We'll talk later.”

  Mom was very excited. For her, an invitation to the Psychics' Studio was like an invitation to the White House.

  Frankly, I was looking forward to it myself. I would love to be able to shake the hand of the woman whointuitively knewthat my name contained a vowel. How proud she would be to hear my mother call me, “Amila,” a name that containsthreevowels,twoof which are “a”—exactlythe letter that she had predicted!

  And there was so much I wanted to ask her about Mr. Balding. Where would I meet him? Would he be intelligent? Successful? Allergic to cats? Would he necessarily be a toupee candidate, or might he bedestined for hair plugs?

  I'm sorry to report that this story has a very tragic ending. Just days after Ricardo, The Director of That Psychic Show, extended his gracious offer for my mother to visit, the show went off the air. It was finished. Kaput. Banished forever to psychic show heaven. My mothertried in vainto call Ricardo, but apparently the number had been disconnected.

  For weeks she went flipping through channels, hoping against hope that maybe the show had just switched stations, but Natasha and Ricardo were nowhere to be found.

  I told her, “Don't worry, Mom. I'm sure someday they'll resurface. I'm picking up a strong feeling about it. I see them either on a station on the West Coast beginning with a ‘K’ or possibly an East Coast channel with a ‘W.’”

  With all the joy the psychics brought her, I hope I'm right.

  If it were up to my mother, to this day she would still dress me.

  “Hi, Amila. It's me. Y'know the red terry robe you wore when I came to visit—it's like a ruby red with a belt? Do you still wear that or did you throw it out? I just wanna tell you that if you take out the garbage or run to the mailbox, you may wanna put on something else, because my friend Eileen's grandson said that red is a gang color. Okay, Sweetie-pie? Talk to you later.”

  Now, what are the odds that two violent street gangs are going to decide to have it out on the twelfth floor of a Murray Hill doorman building, at theexactmoment that I'm carrying out a bag of trash, totally oblivious to the Crips and the Bloods lining the hallway?

  They'll be yelling, “Don't go after Julio—he'snot the leader.”

  “It's . . . it's the Jewish girl in the bathrobe!”

  Having a mother like mine is like having a consumer advocate who's way too consumed with me.

  “Amila, it's me. I had a thought. Just 'cause the store has such a crazy return policy is no reason you should suffer. If I were you, I would just explain that you were visiting your mother so you couldn't get there within thirty days. What did they expect you to do? They think you're gonna call me up, ‘Mom, I can't come for Thanksgiving because I have to bring back some pants?’ And don't let them talk you into any merchandise credit. The credit slip will sit in your wallet 'til it's all shredded and crumpled, and you won't know whether you should use it to buy pants or blow your nose. So go ahead,mamasch
einz,plead your case with the manager and let me know how it works out, okay. Okay, honey, bye-bye.”

  Here's what happened. I had purchased a pair of blue velvet pants at the one-day sale of a major New York department store whose return period for sale items is thirty days. On day twenty-eight, I went out-of-town to visit Mom and didn't get back to the store until five daysafterthe return period.

  So the bottom line is, it wasmy faultthat I missed the deadline.

  Nevertheless, this monthlong return window fits what my mother seems to think is the definition of a Crazy Policy under New York State law: Any policy that challenges, competes with, or otherwise fails to meet the needs of Amila.

  At the very least, for taking my side and always looking out for my best interest, I have to give her credit.

  But it won't be on a piece of paper, or it'll get all shredded and crumpled and, well, you know the rest.

  A Hit Series About Moms

  With all the drama that Mom brings to my daily life, it got me thinking: Why not have a new series about an emergency room that specializes in the life-and-death concerns of mothers. The show would be called, M-o-t-h-ER. Instead of George Clooney, it'd star Rosemary Clooney, handling such catastrophic events as: