a mother who desperately tries to save her son from a downward spiral of self-destruction that culminates in his going swimmingless than twenty-five minutes after eating
a mother on the verge of becominga broken womanwhen she learns that her daughter, barely thirty,goes outside with a damp head.(This episode might be too dark and depressing to have prime-time network appeal, but could perhaps be toned down by having the daughter go out with her jacket unzipped.)
a mother who enlists the aid of specialists in the m-o-t-h-ERwhen she is unable to contact her daughter to inform her that carrying cash in a backpack isinviting theft. Will the crack team in the m-o-t-h-ERbe able to locate the daughter and convince her totuck the bills into her bra?
My mother is a very honest person, and when she sees dishonesty in her world, it upsets her, and she calls me to vent.
“Hi, Amila, it's me honey. I'm so annoyed I could bust. I just saw Barbara downstairs and she was bragging how a friend of hers brought her some real New York rye bread, and Amila, I swear there's no way that's New York rye bread because as God is my witness, I know that bread came from New Jersey. So finally I confronted her about it because evidently she forgot that she told me her friend is from New Jersey. And you know what she finally admitted? It was baked in New York, but the dough was from Paramus. Well I got the name of the bakery and you know what else I found out? The caraway seeds are from Hartford, Connecticut. Don't call me back tonight, honey, because this whole thing has me too upset. All right, I'll talk to you tomorrow. Bye-bye.”
Gosh, I actuallywantedto call her back. This was a Very Serious Matter, and I had questions. Lots of them.
Like, what about the doughingredients?Where was the yeast from? The flour? The water?
For a legal perspective on the issue, I consulted attorney Marvin Katzman of the esteemed law firm Katzman and Weiss. Mr. Katzman was reluctant to offer a definitive opinion on what he admitted was a “gray area,” but said: “The closest precedent is a ruling which states that for sparkling wine to be called ‘champagne,’ it must not just be bottled in the Champagne region of France but made with grapes from the Champagne region.”
Well, then, shouldn't the same logic hold for a loaf of bread?
Further complicating the matter is that there's a town in New York that's named “Rye,” so even if every molecule in the bread hailed from the state of New York, could you legally call it “rye” if it were not from the town of Rye, but from, say, Great Neck? Would it then be more accurate to call it New York Great Neck bread?
All sarcasm aside, I applaud my mother for standing up for what is Fair and Just. And she has equally high moral values for issues that go way beyond the scope of a loaf of bread.
She also applies these principles to cake.
Last time Mom was visiting, we had dinner in a restaurant at the South Street Seaport, where she ordered the Triple Chocolate Cake, “a decadent dessert made with three kinds of chocolate.” Just a couple of forkfuls into the cake, my mother summoned the waiter:
“Excuse, me, sir, but this isnottriple chocolate cake.”
“Uh, yes it is, Ma'am.”
“Then how come I only taste two kinds of chocolate?”
“Would you like me to bring you something else?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, what would you like?”
“A side order of the third chocolate.”
One of my advertising clients was based in Washington, DC. This is the message I got on my machine after I told my mother I might stay over after my Friday meeting and do some sightseeing.
“Hello, Amila. It's me, honey. I know you're all excited about your trip to Washington, but I wanna remind you that it's very windy by the Washington Monument, so you may wanna take along a hat. And if you happen to take a tour of the White House, whatever you do, don't let them leave you alone with the president. So call me before you leave. Bye-bye.”
What was my mother thinking? Just how likely did she think it was that President Clinton would be trolling the lines of White House tourists just asIhappen to be working my way through, and that, of thehundredsof women in the line, he'd singlemeout to hit on:
“Excuse me. I couldn't help but notice you on the tour line. When the guide said, ‘To your right is the blue room,’ I was enchanted by the way you craned your neck.”
“Oh, thank you.”
“Look, I don't normally do this, but, uh, I was wondering if you might like to join me for a cup of coffee. Or maybe a cigar.”
“I'm sorry, Mr. President, but before I left, my mother told me to make sure I have a hat—and she really stressed that I shouldn't be alone with you.”
“No problem. I totally understand.”
“You do?”
“Sure. So I'll bring along some interns.”
“Gee, I don't know.”
“Then how about a little ride in the backseat of my limo?”
“It's a tempting offer, but I just wouldn't feel right disobeying my mother.”
“I can respect that.”
“You can?”
“Of course. I won't mind at all if you wear a hat.”
When I go to the airport, I'm happy if all my stuff fits in my suitcase and I get to my plane on time. My mother worries about other things that ina million yearswould never have entered my mind.
“Yeah, Amila. It's me. I meant to tell you, so you don't set off the metal detector at the airport, make sure that when you leave the house, you don't wear an underwire bra. A lady on the bus said it happened to a woman she knew, and she claims they frisked her for four hours. Even if she's exaggerating and it was only two, that's a long time to have a stranger surveying your land. So, just for one day, you may even wanna consider going braless. So have a wonderful trip, and call me when you get to the hotel, okay? Love you. Bye.”
First off, let me just say that I'm flattered my mother thinks I have enough “land” to “survey” that I might actually need the support of an underwire bra. This is a rare example of her acknowledging me as a fully developed adult woman.
I'll never forget how embarrassed I felt when I was in junior high and overheard my mother talking to a friend of hers on the phone; apparently, the friend must have asked about my newly developing figure, because all I heard was my mother's response: “Well, let's just say there are, uh, how should I put it—two mosquito bites.”
I probably need some calamine lotion, 'cause those bites are still there.
I can't recall ever taking a trip andnotgetting a phone call from my mother confirming my safe arrival home and questioning me about the flight experience. However, this questionnaire rarely comes in the form of a message; I may hear several hang-ups on my machine, but this all-important flight follow-up is always conducted live, voice-to-voice.
Mom's Flight Satisfaction Survey
Q1. How was your flight?
Q2. Did they give you anything to eat?
(If “no”) Oy, you must be starving. Are you starving?
(If “yes”) What did they give you?
(If meal contains less than three thousand calories)
Oy, you must be starving. Are you starving?
Q3. Did you sit next to anyone interesting?
(If male) Was he single?
(If “yes”) Did he take your number?
(If “no”) Did you get his card?
Q4. So what time did you get in?
(If after 6:00P.M.)Oy, you must be exhausted.
Are you exhausted?
(If “no”) See? You don't evenrealizeyou're so exhausted 'cause you're overtired.
The TV only feeds my mother's already obsessive concern over my safety.
“Yeah, hello, Amila. They just said on TV, ‘It's tenP.M.,do you know where your children are?’ and I'm thinking, I don't know, so I figured I'd call you,mamascheinz.You must be in the bathroom or something. Give me a buzz when you're done, okay? All right, bye-bye.”
“Amila? It's five to eleven and I know you have work
tomorrow. I'm getting a little worried. Call me when you get this message, honey. Okay, bye-bye.”
This message was followed by four separate messages— from my friends Michael, Sherry, Alison, and Leslie— each saying that my mother had called them looking for me. But it didn't end there.
“Hi, Amy. Yeah, it's Andrew. I just got a call from your mom about ten minutes ago, and she wanted to know if you were spending the night at my house. I told her we broke up four years ago.”
“Hello, Miss Borkowsky? Hi, I'm calling from NYU Hospital. Someone called here claiming to be your mother and wanting to know if you'd been admitted.”
So wherewasI, you ask? Passed out drunk at some wild sex orgy? Abducted by a group of militant guerrillas?
Actually, I was somewhere far more shocking.
In my own bed. Sound asleep. Sincenine-thirty.
Exhausted from too many late nights at the ad
agency, I'd conked out early and had just turned my ringer off. When I woke up the next morning, I wassomad.
I could only imagine who she would have called next . . .
(Ring, ring.)
“Good morning. National Dairy Board.”
“Uh, yes, I'd like to find out how I can get my child's picture on a milk carton.”
“How long has the child been missing?”
“Averylong time. I'd say well over ninety minutes.”
“Okay, Ma'am, is this a boy or a girl?”
“It's a girl—my Amila.”
“And what was she wearing when she disappeared?”
“Let's see . . . she probably had on a silk blouse with maybe a dark blazer, a matching skirt, and a pair of pumps.”
“Was she playing dress up?”
“No. But she mentioned today she had to go see a new client.”
“Ma'am, how old is your Amila?”
“Thirty-four and three quarters.”
Amother has no place getting involved in my career.
“Oh, hi, Amila. Your machine picked up so fast this time—your message tape must be full. Yeah, I was thinking, I don't like the fact that that headhunter is keeping your portfolio tied up for so long. It's unprofessional, and she's keeping you from pursuing your livelihood, which is really unfair. If she doesn't get it back to you by Friday, do you think maybeIshould call? If you think that might get some results, leave me her number, and I'll do it tomorrow morning before I go to the podiatrist, okay? Okay, bye-bye.”
Nowthiswould present me as the take-charge woman on her way to top management:
“Hi, I'm calling on behalf of Amy Borkowsky who's seeking a position as Executive Vice President and Creative Director.”
“Are you her assistant?”
“No, I'm her mother.”
Even after I told her that her stepping in would send the wrong message, she insisted, “The only statement it's making is that you have a mother who cares about your success.”
Okay, she has always beenverysupportive of my career, but she has to learn where to draw the line.
It would not surprise me in the least to see my mother leading the charge to organize a Take Your Mothers to Work Day.
Why does my mother think it's necessary to go to the ends of the Earth to find me a date?
“Hi, Amila. I don't know if you saw, this week inPeoplemagazine, there's an article on a single, Jewish guy who owns a restaurant in Fairbanks, Alaska, and he's now in New York looking for a wife. He lookseppeslike a young Jackie Mason. Anyway, you know my friend Muriel saw the same article, so you better hurry up and contact him before her daughter does. So call me tonight and I'll give you the information. At least if he's from Alaska, you figure he knows how to pick out a fresh salmon. Oh, and in case you get along and you go to visit his family, you may wanna think about getting a Polartec jacket. Well, I should be up until at least eleven so call me.”
I'm impressed that she would actually consider shipping me off to the farthest, most frigid place on the planet. I did happen to see the article and, if I remember correctly, the chosen bride would have been required to relocatepermanentlyto Alaska. Obviously, she missed this critical fact, because I don't think she would have found the guy's natural salmon-picking ability enough of a plus to outweigh it.
Or maybe she just got caught up in some romanticized notion of me and The Young Jackie Mason in a sprawling, ranch-style igloo. I could see it myself: After a long day of toiling at His Own Restaurant, Young Jackie would come bounding up our driveway with a kettle full of fresh salmon and I'd greet him at the door in a Polartec teddy. Then we'd make love until the sun came up. Which, in Alaska, could be three months.
That's the fantasy. The reality? I'm sure it'd be only a matter of time—like twelve minutes—before I'd be deluged with messages like “They say colds are passed by nasal viruses, so don't let any Alaskans talk you into rubbing noses” or “If you happen to get hit on the head by a falling icicle, remember toput ice on it.”
Call Prying
The feature known colloquially as “call waiting” is more accurately referred to as “call prying,” because it obviously was designed by a mother as an invitation to pry for details on her child's social life.
Here's how it works: Whenever I'm talking to my mother and another call clicks in, she always asks, “So who was that?”
“Just a friend.”
“Which friend?”
“Mom, it's a personal call. I'd rather not say.”
“Was it a guy?”
“Okay, fine, it was a guy. Let's just leave it at that.”
The goal with the call prying interrogation is to communicate to your mother that youdohave a social life but not to give her too much information that could lead to further questioning.
And anyway, I just don't think it's necessary to give my mother every little detail of all the guys who call me.
Especially when most of them are selling magazines and time-shares.
Ilive in the same neighborhood as the United Nations, and whenever countries gather to work toward peace, I haveanything butfrom my mother.
“Hi, Amila. I just heard about that meeting at the U.N., and I hear the whole area is a madhouse. If you look out your window, you may even be able to seeeppessome kind of demonstration. It sounds like they're making all kinds of crazy threats, so until it all subsides, I would really recommend that you stay inside and maybe order dinner in. Just for tonight, if you can avoid it, I wouldn't order, like, Chinese or even, say, Indian 'cause with all that's going on, you don't know who might have it in for that particular country and what they could stick in the food. So you may wanna play it safe and order from a diner. All right, Amila, give me a call.”
Hypothetically, if I give my mother the benefit of ahugedoubt and embrace her international food fight theory, a diner really wouldn't be any safer than an ethnic restaurant; a good percentage of the diners in New York are owned by Greeks, which means the diner food could be tainted by any country that “has it in” for Greece.
By her logic, the only food I could feel comfortable eating during a U.N. summit is from countries that are neutral.
Luckily, I like Swiss cheese and chocolate.
Though I'm sure it wouldn't be long before my mother would call to say “They just had a story on the news that cheese and chocolate can increase your risk of heart disease.”
Then I'd be forced to eatnothingduring U.N. sessions.
I'll be the only one on a hunger strike with no idea of what I'm protesting.
Halloween's not a big holiday for me. If I happen to hear of a party I'll go. But I basically outgrew Halloween when I was around twelve. Apparently, my mother is not aware of this.
“Boooo, Amila. Boooo. Okay, don't get scared. It's just me, honey. Tomorrow's Halloween, and I just want to warn you to throw out anything that looks suspicious in your trick-or-treat bag. Like if you should happen to find a hole in a candy bar, it could mean that someone stuck it with a hypodermic needle, all right? Happy Halloween, sweetheart. Bye-
bye.”
How could she even imagine me trick-or-treating atthisage?
(Knock, knock, knock.)
“Who's there?”
“Trick or treat!”
“My goodness! What a wonderful costume! Can you wait just a minute?”
“Actually, I'm not wearing a cos—”
“Staaaanley! Bring the camera! There's a little girl dressed as Jerry's friend Elaine! She has the hair and everything! It's amazing! She even looks like she's in her thirties!”
“That's because—”
“Your mommy must've spent quite some time making your costume!”
Other than the answering machine, which is her lifeline to me, my mother has some strong reservations about me getting involved with new technology.
“Hi, Amila. Y'know, it just occurred to me—what do you really need a laptop computer for? You'll spend a fortune of money to lug around a piece of equipment that really belongs in the home. It'd be the same thing as if you bought a scaled-down toilet toshleparound on a shoulder strap. And what if you get allfarmishtand leave the computer on the table at a diner? It's like you're having an egg on a roll and leaving the waitress a three-thousand-dollar tip. So promise me you'll think about it, okay? Okay. That's that, I love you.”
All right, here are the facts. At least 80 percent of this book was written on a laptop computer.
Amy's Answering Machine Page 3