Dont Mince Words

I grew up thinking I had to be adopted. I could not really be my mother’s daughter. That dream was dashed when I began to realize I had some of her physical features. Then, when divorce became very popular in the 1970’s, I prayed each night that my father would find a new mother for me.

To get out of the house and assert more independence, I got a work permit at the age of 13 and took a job as a custodian at the local temple. I was promoted to help the caterers with the bar/bat mitzvahs. My first exposure to multiple Jewish mothers was during these Saturday events.

In Eastern Europe and in the immigrant centers of America, the Jewish mother is celebrated by her children in song and story. My observations confirmed this. The Jewish mothers at the mitzvahs were interested and involved with there children – a far cry from the neurotic stereotype comedians portray.

A lifetime of my mother’s disinterested domination was confirmed this spring. I was having dinner with a friend when she called. I answered the phone expecting a report on my dying grandmother.

“I received those newspaper clips. I didn’t know you could write,” my mother said.

“Mom, I’ve been writing my whole life. Where have you been,” I replied.

This specific event made me realize my mother has spent 38 years telling me what I should do instead of paying attention and encouraging what I am doing.

Amy Borkowsky has a Jewish mother that leaves her endearing phone messages with helpful advice such as not to use lambskin condoms or to go to the bathroom at home before standing in line at the DMV. Now, that’s a cute Jewish mother.

My mother has left me some classic advice-dispensing voice mail messages. This year I finally saved and digitally transferred some of them. I’ve played the raw files for my Jewish friends who asked me if she was institutionalized or medicated yet.

“What do you mean, telling your child you are going to pursue them and disown them isn’t love?” I joked with a Brooklyn Jew.

I’ve stopped talking to my unsupportive mother. However, she is getting the proverbial last word all over the nation. I’ve handed her files over to a friend at Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus. My mother’s voice, This is your mother calling, is being used in each town to test the PA systems for the circus.

Now she can scare future generations of small children while I sip matzo ball soup with my friends’ Jewish mothers.

MAZLE TOV

The Crazy Barbara threat level has been elevated.

Today, 5:40 p.m. Eastern Cocktail Time, my mother left me a detailed voicemail. Somewhere between the grocery store, the post office, and the Moose Lodge she has met some computer geeks who could disable my computer.

“They won’t do it, but they know people who will do it. And again, if they can’t do it, Charles has a son-in-law who can do it,” she explained.

Last time I checked, hacking was a Federal crime — a felony I believe. This would be win-win because prison would solve my mother’s retirement community decision making problems.

In her 3-minute message, my mother also dispensed career advice. “You’ve been out there in La-La land a bit too long. Why the hell couldn’t you keep the job at the post office down in Richmond?” she asked.

I’ve never worked for the post office, but I hear they have nice benefits. And guns.

There are two goals in every woman’s life. The first is to meet prince charming. The second is to not turn out like your mother.

My Anti-Crazy Barbara training has been a secondary career. I do periodically check-in with my brother to ensure my aspirations are on track.

“Am I attempting to control the lives of my immediate family?” I ask.

“Am I out of touch with reality and what is currently socially acceptable?” I ask again.

My brother confirms my score is within the normal range of the Bell curve. I rest easily knowing I still haven’t become my mother.

Her latest target is my web site. Yesterday she threatened to sue me because I mentioned she had a mastectomy in a posted piece I wrote more than two years ago. “If you are such a hot shot writer, why do you have to rely on your family for material? I want no reference what so ever to me or the family. You are going to get your ass sued one way or another,” she said.

Of course, when a parent tells you not to do something, it makes you want to do it more — at any age.

David Sedaris has a great piece about family writing in the “Repeat After Me” short story contained within his compilation Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim.

She’s afraid to tell me anything important, knowing I’ll only turn around and write about it. In my mind, I’m a like a friendly junkman, building things from the little pieces of scrap I find here and there, but my family’s started to see things differently. Their personal lives are the so-called pieces of scrap I so casually pick up, and they’re sick of it. More and more often their stories begin with the line “You have to swear you will never repeat this.” I always promise, but it’s generally understood that my word means nothing. (p. 147)

My brother has begun self-censoring. Before he would tell me about a recent family trip to Amsterdam, he asked his wife, “hey, is it ok for me to tell Marna.” Once he got the green light, I heard about their accidental walk through the red light district pushing strollers. When they realized they made a wrong turn, their solution was to make the kids look the other way. “Hey, look at that boat over there.” It was a hilarious story that ended with me saying, “You know, by telling me this story you’ve given me permission to tell the kids as soon as they are old enough to know what hookers are.”

“Yeah, I know,” my brother replied

I don’t know if I’m my family’s junk man. I feel more like a counteragent. I have the information; I just need to figure out if it is valuable and when to use it.

I have a stable of mother stories – bad ones, funny ones, and sad ones. I have to remember them and I have to write them because it is the only prescription to not turning out like Crazy Barbara.

That’s what I’ll continue to do, until I’m served with papers from her. Then I’ll bring out the big story guns.