Amy's Answering Machine Read online

  It was written in approximately thirty different visits to eleven different diners and coffee shops, withouta single instanceof my gettingfarmishtand leaving the establishment without my laptop.

  And how could she even compare a laptop to a hypothetical shoulder-strap toilet? I don't think such a thing would ever see the light of day simply because people would never feel the same sense of pride bragging about a commode:

  “Nice toilet, Bob! What model is it?”

  “It's a PottyTech500 with a 2.4-gallon tank and a 3.2-inch chrome-plated flusher.”

  “Oh, man, I've been dying to get one, but I know the minute I do, they'll come out with the PottyTech 501.”

  “Yeah, it's hard to keep up with all the new stuff coming out of Porcelain Valley.”

  Okay, forget all these intellectualizations. I'm getting sidetracked. The point is, I'm an independent human being, and if I want to put my hard-earned cash into a laptop—if I want to walk into a diner andhand itto the waitress (“Thanks for the toast, here's a computer”)—I should be able to do so without any flack from anyone.

  My mother seems to have no faith at all in my ability to find my own dates.

  “Hi, Amila. It's me honey. I was just watching the Maury Povich show, and the whole show was about eligible millionaire bachelors. And one of them in particular I thought would be perfect for you. He's a millionaire and he has a house in Italy. And I know how much you love spaghetti. So let me know if I should call the Maury Povich show, okay? Bye.”

  I called her back and told her, Absolutely do not call the Maury Povich show. Two hours later, I got another message.

  “Yeah, hello, Amila, it's me again. I called the Maury Povich show and what would be required is to send the bachelor a video of yourself. So I had some thoughts. Like maybe you could put in a shot of you preparing a chicken. Or since they said he's such a big sports fan, you could show yourself by the TV yelling, ‘Let's go Jets!’ So call me back,mamascheinz.”

  As for the first message: I thought one of the benefits of marrying a millionaire is that youdon'thave to eat spaghetti. I don't think anyone ever said, “I'd really like to marry a millionaire, so I can have a maid, travel the world, and dine every night on protein-enriched wagon wheels.”

  Now you may be thinking, “Wouldn't a mother as overprotective as yours have a problem with you running off to some guy's house in Italy?” Not at all. I think she'd be perfectly happy sleeping on his sofa.

  And about that video: How could my mother possibly thinkanyguy would be turned on by a shot of me preparing a chicken? Really, how seductive would it be to watch me yanking the pull-tab off a box of Healthy Choice?

  What 's Wrong

  with This Bachelor?

  Despite my mother's enthusiasm for fixing me up with eligible bachelors, when it comes down to it, she knows what all parents know about their children: that nobody is really good enough for us. (This includes the doctor sheclaimsto want for me.) The convenient chart below will save your mother the trouble of ferreting out the problems with your potential mates, since my mother's already thought of most of them.

  Doctor:Works crazy hours,shlepshome germs

  Veterinarian:Works crazy hours,shlepshome cat hairs

  International businessman:Has woman in every port

  Lawyer (civil):Too argumentative

  Lawyer (criminal):Parolee could come after him with a gun

  Artist/Actor/Graphic designer:Too bohemian, uses drugs, possibly gay

  Computer/Internet professional:Downloads porno,shlepshome viruses

  Accountant:Won't know from you during tax season

  Real Estate agent:Will put house in his name

  Psychotherapist:Will blame all your problems on me

  As much as I love my mother, we have very different ideas about how much time we want to spend together.

  “Hi, Amila. It's me honey. I just wanna tell you, they're having some good airfares to New York, and I was thinking maybe I could come up for a little while. Like for a few months maybe.”

  Now while I'm sure that seeing me was the primary reason for her visit, the rest of her message revealed that she also had another very, very important reason for coming to New York:

  “I have to go to that store on Third Avenue that has the pumpernickel raisin bread that I love. The only place that has it here has also, I don't know, like caraway seeds. Uchh. Feh. They gave me a slice, it made me so nauseous. Well, call me back,mamascheinz.Bye-bye.”

  My mother did eventually make the trip, but she only stayed for two weeks.

  In Mom Time, that's a day trip.

  As it turned out, “that store on Third Avenue” didn't exist, so off we went,shleppingon buses, trains, and foot, chasing down a bread that to my mother is thespecialtyof New York City. Apparently, I just wasn't aware that New York's nickname was changed to “The Big Pumpernickel Raisin Loaf.”

  While pumpernickel raisinrollswere readily available, it soon became clear that the Loaf Form would be a very, very rare find. We hit every bakery from First Avenue to Broadway, only to learn that most of them had never even heard of pumpernickel raisin in Loaf Form, let alone carried it.

  Without really knowing what hit me, I found myself my mother's unwitting partner in a bread-finding mission that would span an entire city and ultimately prove to be a testament to the power of perseverance.

  Not to mention a great source of personal embarrassment.

  That night, she had me dialing my friends, dates, and business acquaintances to ask them, please, could they give meany information at allon where we could find a loaf. (Ihadto call, otherwise she would have called them herself, which would have beentwiceas embarrassing.)

  But, alas, every trail was cold and breadless.

  Refusing to accept defeat, my mother spent the rest of her visit askingeveryonewe encountered— cab drivers, neighbors, strangers on the street—if they knew where she could find some pumpernickel raisin bread.

  Finally, as I hovered behind her, praying that nobody I knew would pass by and discover I was A Bread Addict's daughter, she leaned her head into a parked patrol car.

  “Excuse me, Officer! Officer!”

  “How can I help you, Miss?”

  “Would you happen to know where I can find some pumpernickel raisin bread?”

  “Somewhat?”

  “Pumpernickel raisin bread.”

  “Did someone walk off with your loaf?”

  “No.”

  “Was there a loaf illegally parked by your building?”

  “No.”

  “Then sorry, I can't help you.”

  We returned to my building and, undeterred, she handed Gene the Doorman a ten-dollar bill and convinced him to scour the bakeries near his home in Queens, one of the few areas we had not visited on Our Mission.

  Just when it seemed all hope was lost—when all neighbors, strangers, and public servants had failed— Gene appeared at my door and uttered the words that, frankly, I never believed I would hear in my lifetime:

  “I found the bread.”

  Mom wasthrilled!Victory at last!

  There it was—tangible proof thatif one just perseveres,no goal is too great to achieve andno dream is impossible!

  I look back and wonder, long after most people would have given up, what fire inside kept my mother going? Was it a steadfast belief in a higher power? Or just a passionate, unrelenting desire tonosh?

  Whatever obstacles you're facing right now, whatever detours are keeping you from achieving your dream, I sincerely hope that you, the reader, will draw some inspiration from this story of my mother's incredible journey.

  Considerthisyour Pumpernickel Raisin Bread for the Soul.

  People are always debating whether it's harmful for kids to watch too much TV, but I think the bigger problem is what happens whenyour parentswatch too much TV.

  “Amila? I just talked to you. Where'd you go? Anyway, I forgot to tell you—I was watching the news and they had a story about the Hell
's Angels motorcycle club, and they flashed a shot of a big bear of a guy from Greenwich Village who was covered in tattoos, and on the back of his motorcycle was a very pretty girl, and I meant to ask, was that you? She had your hair, and she was wearing a green blouse that looked like the one that I gave you for Chanukah. I'm hoping it was just a coincidence, because you know how I feel about motorcycles. Do me a favor, Amy, if you have such ants in your pants like you wanna go for a ride, it can be just as exciting to go in a cab. Okay, keep your wits about you, honey. Bye”

  First of all, my mother should know me well enough by now to realize I'm too much of a scaredy-cat to go flitting around town on the back of a Harley.

  The last time I went for a ride in anything without a roof and four wheels was when my ad agency was pitching the Six Flags account. I discovered a lung capacity I never knew I had, letting off blood-curdling screams the entire ride.

  And that was on the Ferris wheel.

  I, of course, did understand her confusion when she saw the Very Pretty Girl's hair. There areso fewwomen in Manhattan with brown, wavy hair that, really, whowouldn'tassume it was me?

  I'mconstantlygetting comments such as:

  “Excuse, me, but I was just noticing how completely unique your hair is. What color would you call that?”

  “Brown.”

  “Can you write that down? I want to ask my colorist about it.”

  With my mother, anything that happens to even a distant cousin somehow has an immediate bearing on my health.

  “Yeah, Amila. It's only me. I don't know if you heard that Cousin Myron passed a kidney stone, and the doctors told him it's from not drinking enough water, which is why I'm telling you. Remember, honey, you're not a camel. They say that passing a stone feels like you're giving birth. And if you're gonna go through all that, I'd like to end up with something that can call me Grandma. Okay, honey, bye-bye.”

  There's no question that a baby would give her more pleasure than a kidney stone. I just couldn't see my mother—anymother—pulling an X-ray out of her wallet and bragging, “This is my grandstone Rocky.”

  But why does she always have to be so dramatic?

  And the camel reference—I've had times when I've forgotten what day it was or couldn't recall my ATM number, but I'veneverstood there scratching my head, thinking, “Hmm, let's see, I don't have any fur so I can rule outcollie. . . wild African boar is a possibility, but I'm looking in the mirror here and don't see a snout . . . hey, now that I think of it, Ihardly everget thirsty, and last week Ididnotice a little bump on my back—could it be that . . .”

  I'm sure one of my mother's greatest joys was the first time that my nephew “J” called her Grandma. She's a proud grandmother, and her living room has enough pictures of him to pass for The National Museum of “J.”

  Now that I think of it, she's so loving, so proud, so maternal, that if I did end up producing her first grandstone, I just know Mom would findsomeway to brag about him: “Let me tell you, Myrna, little Rocky is so smart, he hasn't spent one minute in a classroom, and already he's been passed.”

  Whose Body Is It Anyway?

  The last several years have seen intense controversy over who has the right to control a woman's body. Is it just the woman herself? Her legislator? Her doctor? Her god?

  All the news stories and public debates have left out one very influential force.

  Her mother.

  Flip through this book and you'll see that my mother has attempted to control my bladder, my ovaries, my kidneys—even my boy-friends'“shmekels.”

  One of the worst parts is when I'm actually visiting my mother and she reminds me to go to the bathroom. In her sweetest little voice, as if she's talking to a toddler, she asks, “Gotta go baffroom?”

  This is not just a problem for daughters; I got an email from a fifty-one-year-old man in Ohio who says that whenever he and his fifty-something brothers visit their eighty-three-year-old mother, she lines them all up in the bathroom hall to make sure that each of them “takes care of business and finishes the paperwork.”

  I think it's time the adult children of the world unite to reclaim our bodies from our mothers.

  Take Back the Bladder, I say!

  We'll raise funds with a concert— a Bladderpalooza!

  We'll wear ribbons of toilet paper on our lapels!

  We'll rally in Washington andmake our voices heard!We'll make sure there are thousands of reporters! Hundreds of photographers!

  And plenty of Port-a-Potties.

  My mother seems think that, if she doesn't call me up to remind me of certain things, I'm going to lose all sense of time and space.

  “Yeah, it's me, Amila. I'm calling to remind you to move your clocks ahead one hour tonight. So if you go to bed at ten, move the clock to eleven. And while you're at it, make a note in your appointment book that this year, February has only twenty-eight days. So don't go making any dates for February the twenty-ninth, because it just doesn't exist. All right, honey? Sleep well.”

  I do understand that my mother only wants to help me navigate the very, very difficult transition to Daylight Savings Time, when, as she puts it, “You'll have jet lag only you won't have gone anywhere on a jet.”

  But if she really sees herself at the Official Timekeeper of my life, shouldn't she be the first to realize that over thirty years have passed since I learned to tell time?

  And as for the February twenty-ninth issue, well, she makes a good point—in fact, maybe I could use it to my advantage: “Y'know, Chuck, even though I've told you very nicely about seventeen times that I'm not interested, I'm glad you called again, 'cause I've decided Iwouldlike to have a one-night fling with you. Why don't I come over to your place onFebruary twenty-ninth.”

  Really, messages like these are so irritating that, one of these days, I'm going to sit my mother down and tell her in very clear terms just to back off and quit calling.

  Since I love her in spite of all her interference, I think I'll have that chat on September thirty-first.

  My mother wants to make sure that I'm safe, from head to toe.

  “Hi, Amila. I meant to ask you, the pair of shoes you said you bought, do they have crepe soles or regular rubber? Do me a favor, honey, it's very important: Check and see if they're rubber or crepe. Because they were just saying on the news that if you're ever in a plane crash, crepe is no good if you have to go down the slide. So let me know, okay? Bye-bye.”

  First of all, I've never even foundthe airline'ssafety instructions sensible, let alone my mother's. Take those plastic cards that show how, in the event of a crash, you should put your chest to your knees and scrunch your whole body into a ball. Now if you're in coach, aren't you already sitting that way?

  The bottom line is, if my time is up and my plane's going down—from forty thousand feet at five hundred miles an hour—no body position, no life vest, and no plastic cup with a little rubber band is going to save me.

  And as I'm crashing to earth and my life is flashing before me, I can't even imagine that my last thought would be,“Oh my God! I'm wearing the wrong shoes!”

  Please. My last thought would be the same as that of any other young woman with hopes and dreams who suddenly finds herself strapped to a gurney in the ER:

  “I hope I shaved my legs.”

  The last ad agency I worked for was located near Times Square, and a news story had my mother convinced there were a lot more things dropping than the New Year's ball.

  “Amila? I just called your office and got your voice mail. I hope you're all right. I just saw on TV about the building collapse in Times Square, and I know that's right by you. They say the building wasn't occupied yet, but some elderly residents of a hotel got knocked out by the debris. So in case you have to walk by the building, you might wanna go to a sporting goods store and buy like a football helmet. That way, at least if you get hit by a falling brick, you'll have something to protect your littlekeppie. All right, give me a buzz so I know you're okay. I love
you, honey.”

  I did give my mother a buzz so she wouldn't worry, but I told her I would notfor one secondconsider purchasing a football helmet. “Mom, how could you evensuggestthat I parade myself through New York's prime business district looking like a New York Jet in drag?”

  “What're you getting all excited for? There's deadly debris falling, and I don't think it's such a crazy idea to have something on your head.”

  “Yeah, but you want me to wear athleticheadgearon the streets of Manhattan? That's insane!”

  “No, it's not. Just go to any mall on a Saturday— there's not even any debris falling, and you know what?”

  “What?”

  “Half the kids are walking around in baseball caps.”

  100% FOOLPROOF

  TIPS FOR HANDLING

  A MOTHER WHO

  CALLS TOO MUCH

  will not be found here or anywhere else. Sorry.

  You're just gonna have to learn to live with the aggravation.

  It seems like the end of this book is where I'm supposed to say something that'll give hope to other grown sons and daughters whose mothers use the telephone as a baby monitor.

  Okay, here's what I have to say:

  When you hear of something that works, let me know.

  What follows are a few suggestions that were of zero help to me; but, since you were kind enough to get through this whole book and let me vent, the least I can do is offer them up and cross my fingers that you'll have better luck.