My Mother's Eulogy

About 10 years ago my brother Alan suggested that our parents write autobiographies so their grandchildren could have a first hand history of their lives when they got older. In typical fashion, my father took the task so seriously it began with his conception and fetal development. It turned out to be 21 pages long. Naturally, my mother was upset that my father didn’t mention her until page 10, for which he no doubt paid dearly. In contrast, my mother’s was a page and a half. I’d like to share her story written in her own words with you right now. Please keep in mind this was written 10 years ago to her beloved grandchildren Sam, Sarah, Ben & Max.

Your Grandma

This bio wasn’t written to make you sad, just to let you know a little about me.

The first twelve years of my life were not with loving parents. (My mother died when I was born and my father when I was about six or seven.)

My sisters and brother who were in their teens helped raise me. They did their best but money was tight. In fact, when I see what my grandchildren have, I often say that I hope they appreciate and cherish it all and love their parents - not for the amount of things they have but rather for how fortunate they are to have such loving and caring parents.

I was born on October 10, 1929. I have two sisters: Penny and Ruth: and a brother Jack who passed away recently. I did not know my mother since she died shortly after I was born. (They have all passed since she wrote this).

My father (Abe) remarried when I was about four – to Bessie. I remember her as being very good to me. My father died suddenly when I was about six and Bessie went back to her mother’s bakery store in Newark, New Jersey. After that, I lived with my sister Ruth and her husband Vito. Penny also lived there and took care of me while Ruth worked. Penny was very young. I also lived with my brother Jack and his wife Pauline for a while, but they had two children and it was hard for them. Penny and I just went back and forth and my siblings did their best to care for us.

Since Penny was stuck with me all the time it was tough for her growing up. They all finally felt it was too hard. I was about ten when I went into the Jewish foster home system and went to live with an older woman and her husband; their names were Becky and Reuben Blatt. Their children were grown and married. Aunt Becky was very good to me. As a result, I finally began to have a stable family life and friends.

It just so happens that the building we lived in was right around the corner from where Grandpa lived and that is how we met. I was fifteen; Grandpa was seventeen. I was doing very well in school and graduated at sixteen. Grandpa and I started dating and went together for four years before we married. (Just a side note- If you haven’t noticed Dad – you’re included on page 1 of her life story).


I have been married to Grandpa for fifty-two years (present day it’s almost 62 years now), and these are the important years as far as I am concerned. We married young, I was twenty and Grandpa was twenty-two. We lived in a single bedroom apartment in the Bronx. We both worked, he as a teacher and I as a secretary in the Empire State Building.

When Grandpa went into the Air Force I stayed in the Bronx, but was very lonely and eventually followed him to Geneva, New York. I had a good time. Grandpa was an officer so I had all the benefits and use of the Officers’ Club and its facilities located on a beautiful lake. While there, I became pregnant with Alan. We were thrilled, very young, no big amounts of money, but very happy.

Alan was born in the Bronx at Mt. Eden Hospital. Grandpa was already out of the Air Force and we had returned to our one bedroom apartment - no dish washer, no washing machine – but it didn’t matter; we had Alan and each other.

Grandpa went back to teaching and I stayed home and learned what it was like taking care of a baby. They didn’t have courses then for parents on how to care for infants. We didn’t have babysitters because we couldn’t afford them, so I was a full time mom and loved every minute of it (as far as I can remember).

Alan was a good baby, ate well (which was all that really mattered to my mother), played and participated in everything we did. Karen was not born until Alan was eleven years old so he always had our full attention, and was a happy well-adjusted kid.

We moved to an apartment complex called Edgebrook in White Plains after we went into the day camp business. Alan was three years old, made friends and we lived there until he entered junior high school at which time we bought a house.

When Alan was eleven years old we were still living in Edgebrook when Karen was born - a beautiful baby girl weighing five pounds. We were all so happy; Alan gave out bubble gum cigars to his friends.

Alan went off to college at eighteen; Karen was seven years old. She missed having him around.
Karen and I spent a lot of time together; we were very close. In our neighborhood (we now lived in a house) there were no girls her age, so she did everything with me. I still believe we are very close and I love every minute of it. (I couldn’t agree more – she truly is my best friend, closest confidant and greatest supporter).

Alan and Karen can tell you about their growing up and what they remember and as you get older you will appreciate it.

All I can say to my grandchildren is that Grandpa and I love you. Each of you has a special place in our hearts. Your parents Alan and Karen are the best thing that ever happened to us, so treat them well and make them as happy as they made us, and you will be on the right track.

That was my mother’s life story in her own words – short and sweet.

I think it’s important to note that my mother was what present day psychologist’s call a “motherless daughter”. As such, she had no role model to teach her about what it would be like to be a grown woman, how to be a loving wife or nurturing mother. For most, this is a recipe for disaster. Against all odds, she excelled at all of these roles. No surprise really – she always looked forward and never focused on her past.

Being a control freak, she started planning for her death (and my father’s) earlier than most. My mother was in her mid twenties when she bought 4 cemetery plots in Valhalla, NY. Considering it was just the 2 of them at the time, my dad found the whole idea pretty scary. No stopping her though. Last year, she and my father went on what she described as a fun filled road trip with their friends, Linda and Richard, to check out a VA cemetery in south Florida. She really had a blast most likely due to the company of good friends. She delighted in telling me how they decided to buried there instead of Valhalla for the obvious logical reasons.
There was a great Jewish deli around the corner (which my father has been ridiculed relentlessly for ordering egg salad instead of corn beef), great shopping, and my Aunt Roz bought plots at a cemetery nearby, not to mention they mowed the grounds unbelievably sharp and even. She also loved that their coffins were buried one on top of another so there would be no waste of space. When I asked her if she realized she would be dead, which rendered deli’s and shopping unnecessary she laughed and said it was important to her. She also made sure to note that Alan and I could probably make a mint on the 4 plots in Valhalla that she bought 60 years ago.

She always lived her life on her own terms - with humor (often hilarity), integrity, sometimes brutal honesty, and the utmost love for all the people she held dear.

Since her passing was so sudden and still so surreal for us, I take comfort in knowing that because of her lifetime of strength and honesty, in the end nothing had gone unspoken between us. A heartfelt “I love you” ended every phone conversation we ever had and filled all of our interactions. While I will never fill the void of her loss and will think of her every single day of the remainder of my life, I know that she would find a way to haunt me if I didn’t encourage everyone here to celebrate her life rather than focus on mourning her loss.

Bar Mitzvah Speech

I haven't written in 2 years and during that time my twin sons, Ben and Max, were Bar Mitzvahed. At our reform temple it is customary for 1 or both of the parents to give a speech to their children. My brother-in-laws both said and I quote, "I laughed, I cried, it was better than Cats!" (obviously one of them stole it from the other). In any event, I've decided to share it on my blog for posterity's sake since no one reads this damn thing anyway. So here we go:

Well, well, well. I can't believe how quickly this day has come. The years truly have flown by. I may have mentioned in passing that you guys gave me quite a tough time when I was pregnant I actually remind them everyday (I said this to the audience).

Allow me to elaborate. It was 9 months filled with uncertainty, worry, vomiting, pain and a very loooong 3 month bed rest. During those months I had the opportunity to watch lots of television. One day, I tuned into the Oprah Winfrey show which happened to be all about expectant parents. One of the guests suggested that soon-to-be moms write a letter to their unborn babies for the to read when they were older. Being bored and hormonal I thought it was a brilliant idea and did just that. I think now is the perfect opportunity to read it to you both.

(Side note: they knew nothing about this letter and it was handwritten on a yellow sheet of paper and dated 10/1/97)

My Dearest sons,

I am 32 weeks pregnant with the 2 of you. Yesterday, your father and I went to the doctor and he told us that I had finally reached the point where if you were born right now you would be healthy and well babies. I truly felt a wave of relief come over me knowing that after a difficult pregnancy (yes - you even managed to give me a hard time in the womb) characterized by the phrase "very high risk" and months of worry, that we finally reached this important milestone. Your Dad and I know that in about a month you will be born and we will finally get to meet face to face. You'll be in for it guys - lots of hug, kisses and love for the children we waited almost 4 years to have. You see, your father and I tried for almost 3 years before I finally became pregnant with the 2 of you. Having you will mark the end of an often desperate struggle that we endured to have a family. The 2 of you have made it all worth it.

Please always know, that having the great honor of bringing you into this world and watching you grow into wonderful, loving and caring spirits will be the most gratifying and fulfilling experience of my life. Your Dad and I love you unconditionally and will do our best to guide you and support you throughout your lives. Let me apologize inn advance for any mistakes we will inevitably make (this is our first time at this parenting business, you know).

Max and Ben, please always remember that your are and always will be the lights of our lives. If you haven't noticed, as usual I have taken the liberty of speaking for your father. I know for a fact that he couldn't agree more with every word I've said.

Can't wait to hold you in my arms.

Love always,

Mom

Since the time I wrote that letter, I've had the pleasure of learning what makes you each so special and so completely opposite. A true "odd Couple" really.

Ben - You have the morality and ethics that we could have only wished the banking industry had. You have always had an innate sense of knowing right from wrong. You are truly fearless!

I remember your kindergarten teacher pulling me aside to tell me how you stood up for a friend in class that had been picked on by a boy was literally 3 times your size (Samantha Glicker and that big kid Steven). She said that when you saw your friend crying you ran up to the bully, pushed him and yelled at him to never pick on her again. Your teacher was pretty surprised since you were the youngest and smallest in your class. She was secretly proud and amused at your chutzpah. I was even more amused when that same boy came up to me several weeks later to tell me that he suddenly considered you one of his best friends. Even he couldn't help but respect you. You were a person of action even at that young age.

I am in perpetual awe of how quickly you are able to learn and figure things out. As a result, you've embarrassed your father numerous times by fixing our dishwasher, his cell phone, and countless other household items after his many failed attempts.

Your discipline and lightening coordination in karate has lead you to be the youngest black belt in your dojo. What I respect even more is the control you have shown over the years by not using your skills against others who have picked on you. You truly don't want to hurt anyone, despite the fact that Dad and I are usually telling you to kick some serious butt.

Your are truly older than your years, Ben, in so many ways.

Max - You've always had an amazing sense of humor and wit. Take it from me - that's a sign of great intelligence (*I laughed and looked innocent*). I remember when you were in kindergarten, you asked me if you could go to clown school. Being a supportive parent, I told you that I had no problem with clown school. My only stipulation was that you needed to be able to make enough money clowning, to move out of the house and support yourself. After some careful thought, you decided that you had really only wanted to go so you could learn the correct way to throw a cream pie. Then you asked if you could have a whoopee cushion instead of clown school. I bought you 2 whoopee cushions.

You have a magnetism that draws people to you like moths to a flame. It is a true gift that most people only dream of having.

Did I mention how smart you are? I know you prefer to be goofy, but even though you hate to have to do any kind of work you still manage to get almost a 95 average in school and achieve quite a high belt in karate as well.

When I am down you always manage to make me feel better.

You, Max, are truly a kind, gentle soul.

It has be a gift to have been able to watch you both find your way in life. I have no doubt that you will be truly great men of honor and integrity just like your Dad. Today is just one more reason that I am soooooo very proud of you. I love you always and forever.

So that was it. Thank God I have no issues with public speaking, particularly since I had to hold a 30 pound Torah the entire time I read this speech! My friends swear that they thought they caught the boys crying and tearing up a bit during it. I wish they had bawled like babies so I could have made fun of them afterwards - just an example of my super nurturing nature.

Lacking Gall

I haven't posted in years. I assure those of you who care, my life is still a sitcom. Lucky for you, a recent hospital stay and subsequent organ removal made me decide to fire up the old blog again.

New Year's day, I found myself sitting at my computer as usual. Normally, doing so doesn't cause me to break into a cold sweat, vomit, and have horrendous chest pain, so I figured my body was finally revolting after the enormous dinner I had on New Year's eve. My husband checked online and told me that all my symptoms were indicative of a heart attack and he was calling 911. Fucking great. I don't think I was wearing clean underwear and my PJ's had signs of the previous night's food orgy all over them. The next thing I knew I found myself hanging out in an ambulance with some wonderfully attentive EMS volunteers. Turned out that my heart was not the organ causing the uproar but my gall bladder. My liver enzymes were through the roof and I became convinced that I had cirrhosis from all the holiday imbibing I'd been doing. Luckily, a subsequent sonogram proved me wrong, because God knows I'm such a hypochondriac I needed scientific proof I wasn't riddled w/ liver cancer.

I ended up spending 5 funfilled days and 6 nights in the hospital. Trust me it was no Ritz Carlton, people. While there I learned several things. First off, the floor nurses were trained by Nurse Ratchet, and indeed hated doling out life's necessities like water and pain medication unless you begged for at least 45 minutes. Most, even enjoyed stabbing you w/ the morphine needle to ensure lasting bruises. The Nurses From the Bowels of Hell (my pet name for them) also loved to watch the old people with heart problems flip out when the numerous, incessant fire drills went off. There would never be an announcement that it was a drill, so the seniors heart monitors would be going off like crazy. No worries though! They couldn't be heard anyway over the thundering sound of the fire alarms.

Second, I'm claustrophobic. This revelation came to me while I was shoved into an enclosed MRI for 20 minutes by a creepy MRI technician who asked me several odd questions before he abruptly stuffed me in. He asked if I was married and if I would marry my husband again if I had the choice. I said, "In a heartbeat". Then he asked if I had to be married to myself, would I do it. I told him that I wasn't sure because I can be kind of difficult. Silence ensued as he pushed me into the tube. I lay there wishing I wasn't so God damn honest and had said, "Of course I would marry me. I'm fucking fabulous, extremely charitable, love small snot-ridden children and fluffy bunnies". Staring at the ceiling of the MRI I had visions of being buried alive or shoved through the blazing furnace of a crematorium while creepy guy laughed like the Wicked Witch in the Wizard of Oz. By the time he yanked me out I was hysterical. Not pretty hysterical, either. Ugly, bright red, sobbing and whimpering in a fetal position, begging for mommy, hysterical. I cried all the way back to my room, where much to my horror, I was greeted by Mike and 5 of my speechless friends. While I tried to stop hyperventilating, Mike and his best friend Kevin tried to lighten the mood. Kevin had stopped on his way to work so he was looking all spiffy in a suit and tie. He and Mike went for coffee in the hospital and took note of the sign in the elevator that says that all medical staff must refrain from discussing patient's conditions and respect their privacy. Of course, as they made their way up to my room in a crowded elevator, Kevin took great pleasure standing next to the sign, as he told Mike how poor, old Mrs. Robinson's heart finally gave out and he was sure another of his patients was dropping dead later that day. Turns out those assholes were actually getting their kicks while I was shoved in a cave by sadistic MRI dude. Super!

Finally, I learned the meaning of the word "Sundowner". The man across the hall from me had some sort of brain damage so he would scream all night long. Obviously, this ensures that other patients get absolutely no sleep whatsoever. Don't get me wrong, I felt bad for him but to a sick twitch like myself he was also a constant source of amusement. After all, nothing gets a room going like a sudden blood curdling scream! My friends would call and ask if that was a siren in the background. I would explain that it was just my best friend, "The Screamer", at which point they would burst into laughter not giving a shit that the poor schmuck was suffering, and even worse, so was I. My kids couldn't get enough of him. Being a compassionate and kind man, Mike told the kids not to laugh because he would be the same way one day. I assured him we would take great pleasure in ridiculing him as well, just to get our rocks off. Just another example of my stellar parenting skills.

Well, that fabulous chapter in my life is over. I no longer have a gall bladder and instead have chronic diarrhea which I've been assured will go away when it's good and ready. Then of course, there's my scarred psyche which no amount of shrink visits will cure, but heck, I was pretty fucked up anyway.

Mike's Bedside Manner Sucks!!

I have been sick for 2 1/2 days. Don't mistake me for some whiny, she-baby. I had twins and can handle pain like an Olympic athlete. However, it's become clear that my husband is trying to take advantage of my impaired condition. It's as if he's been sticking needles under my fingernails, or worse, cutting up my credit cards.

Yesterday I woke up achy, snotty, and definitely had a raging bird flu. When I asked Mike to feel my head, he immediately told me I was fine. He assured me it was nothing that a little 50" plasma screen TV shopping (aka his holy grail) couldn't fix. Next I found myself at Best Buy for an hour and a half sitting in a chair watching X Men 3. If you have read any of my previous posts, you would know that I'm incredibly shallow and I consider this to be an Oscar-worthy film. Being a deeply loving wife and no doubt suffering from an excruciatingly high fever, I suggested that we go to a furniture store so he could purchase a worthy table to stand his new acquisition on. He spent the rest of the day ignoring our kids and setting up his new furniture regardless that the TV won't be delivered for 2 weeks.

After an appalling night of sweatiness and chills I decided to call my mommy. I told her I was sick and Mike sucked. Being head over heels in love with Mike even though I came from her loins, she ignored me and asked if I had a fever. I told her that Mike had felt my head and told me I was fine and just had a cold. It was at this time that she reminded me that history had proven that Mike had repeatedly made awful medical decisions, least of all resulting in accidentally almost killing our dog when she was a puppy by ignoring her symptoms. I asked her to fly in and take care of me. She promised she would if I was dying, which was little comfort.

My twin sons are angels. They at least checked on me in between their video games. Twice in 24 hours is pretty good for them. Ben even felt my head and took my temperature (I had a 101 fever). He then wanted to take his own temperature since he is a hypochondriac. The funny thing is that I still can eat without any problem. I always told my friends that I would no doubt be the heaviest cancer patient (God forbid) because I never lose my appetite.

Alas, Mike is still destroying my den and leaving debris for me to clean up when I recuperate. Mom and Dad, please keep in mind that your loving son-in-law once told me that if he ever had to dispose of my body he would cut me up into itty-bitty pieces and stick the remains in the cesspool, in order to allow the acid to eat away at me and destroy all signs of foul play. I also noticed that he inadvertently (?) tried to stick me in the furniture box he was throwing out for the garbage men. No worries! We have a loving and nurturing relationship. Just wanted to give you a heads up - just in case.

Sciatica

A little over a year ago, my darling husband made the mistake of throwing a 40 pound bag of dog food over his shoulder like some insane long shore man. The result was a herniated disc and mass household hysteria.

You see, Mike didn't have any immediate pain from the initial thrust of the enormous bag of dog food, and only heard a popping noise emanating from his back. He ignored it and made no mention of it, typical behavior for most men. After dropping the kids and I off at home, he decided to go to Kmart for some gardening supplies. He knows not to bother asking me to go, because that store makes my skin crawl. As I've previously mentioned, the 3 words Jewish women should never hear is "Attention Kmart shoppers". Anyway, while bending over to reach for something he felt an incredibly sharp, paralyzing pain in his back and left leg. He realized he couldn't stand or walk and sat down on a low lying shelf. Living in New York, people walked by him never bothering to ask if he was OK, but rather thinking that he had some kind of strange gardening fetish. Somehow he limped to his car and drove home. He yelled to me from the garage to help him hobble up to bed so he could lay down. Once there, it became evident he had some kind of serious back problem, discernible by his incessant whining and subsequent screaming and crying.

I immediately called our doctor, knowing it was a Sunday and I would have to deal with one of his lesser colleagues who would no doubt be annoyed that I interrupted his golf game. The doctor arrogantly agreed with my diagnosis of Sciatica and called in a prescription for Vicodin. I picked it up after dropping our kids off at a birthday party, and looked forward to some peace and quiet. Unfortunately, the pill did nothing and only made my husband more hysterical. About an hour later and much verbal abuse and expletives, I was on the phone with the doctor again while Mike wailed for me to call an ambulance. It was at this point that my kids got dropped off at home from their party. Hearing daddy cry like a baby was foreign to them and quite upsetting. I juggled them as I held up the phone so the doctor could hear my husband screaming. He finally agreed that I should call an ambulance since nothing had helped, including the 3 Ibuprofen I had earlier shoved down his throat. As I hung up and was about to dial 911, I heard Mike yell at one of our sons, "Tell your f-ing mother to call an ambulance or I am going to G*d damn divorce her". It was at this point that I began dialing furiously while my sons were freaking out that daddy was going to die and I wasn't helping him. The police arrived first and asked if I was his wife since I was dressed in sweats and could have been mistaken for a bag lady. Then came the paramedics who assessed my husband's condition while I waited downstairs with an officer. I noticed Mike was much calmer and nicer to them. I even overheard him say he was feeling a little better, at which point I turned to the cop to see if he had heard the same thing. When he agreed he had, I replied, "that f-cker!", as any wife would in my circumstances. The next thing I knew, they wheeled him out wearing only his boxer shorts. After getting a sitter, I met up with him in the emergency room. As the nurse fed him Percosets, I realized he was wearing the new boxer shorts I bought him for Valentine's Day that had red hearts and provocative naughty looking nurses on them. Noting this, the nurse and I both cracked up at his expense. After several hours, and a pair of paper doctor's pants he was released into my nurturing care.

Needless to say, it took an endless supply of drugs (for me), and an excellent spinal surgeon to remove the chip that had fragmented from Mike's disc and pressed against his nerve until he cried like an infant. The only time I became angry with him was when he told me that regardless of having birthed twins, I knew nothing about pain. Lucky for him, he was already in excruciating agony at the time so no retaliatory response was necessary.

Homosexuality Explained

Let me start out by saying I love gay people. My husband's cousin Merril who I call my sister is gay and his brother Neil is gay as well. Come to think of it, my favorite author Augusten Burroughes is gay too! I never really thought much about it until I had to explain it to my 8 year old twin sons with comedic results.

Last October, Merril announced that she was marrying her girlfriend and we would all have the honor of being involved in the ceremony. We were thrilled because we not only love her to itty bitty pieces but also her girfriend Bec. My children share a very close relationship with both of them, so I excitedly told them how they were going to have an important role in Aunt Merril's wedding. They were really happy but wanted to know who she was marrying. I answered very simply, Bec. Max looked at me confused and after much thought said, "Wow, and all this time I thought Bec was a woman!" Trying to be mature for once in my life and not just pee myself laughing, I told him that Bec was a woman, but that their Aunt was lucky enough to find her true love and it made no difference what gender the person was. They didn't seem to want to pursue this topic any further and quite frankly I had my fill of maturity for one day.

The next time they had a run in with homosexuality was when we were visiting my husband's brother in San Francisco. We rarely see him and this was the first time since they were very young that they had spent any amount of time with him. One morning, he took them for breakfast so we could sleep in. They went to a coffee shop in the Noe Valley which is well known for it's gay population. At breakfast Neil noticed Ben reading a flier that someone had posted that read "Gay male couple looking for gay man to join them". Ben nudged Max and whispered something in his ear, but they never asked Neil about it. Relieved, Neil gave me a head's up so that I could field questions from them in an adult manner (not my forte). Later, they had mentioned that there were a lot of gay people around. I said, that was true and that their Uncle Neil was gay like their Aunt Merril. They were shocked! Then I proceeded to go into my whole, "people can fall in love with whoever they want as long as it makes them happy" speech. Despite my ridiculously poor parenting skills, they seemed to get the concept.

Unfortunately, now they are at an age where kids are calling each other gay for demeaning reasons. When I catch them, I ask how they would think their Aunt or Uncle would feel and if they would be ok with hurting them with those words. Of course they have no defense, and knock the crap off immediately.

Merril and Neil I can't thank you enough for enabling me to teach my kids such an important life lesson at their young age. I bet you guys never thought I'd be capable enough!

Crazy Aunt Penny

My mother's family tree is riddled with mental illness. Her father committed suicide when she was very young, her older brother jumped out a window and broke both legs while attempting to kill himself and her sister, Penny, is manic depressive and I believe, deeply evil. How my mom turned out normal is truly a phenomenon. In contrast, on the other side of the tree, my father's family was somewhat mentally healthy. It was only mildly strange that his mother(my grandmother) would respond to the question, "How are you?" with the consistent answer of "Like the weather". Only after making sure that she realized it was a beautiful, sunny day would she explain that she was certain it was raining somewhere. However, for the purposes of this post, let's focus on my Aunt Penny.

She has never liked me. Ever. She has always made this crystal clear. My 11 year older brother, Alan, was the Messiah and I was gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe that she could never completely scrape off. As evidence, when I was around 8 years old my parents had me stay overnite at her and my Uncle's apartment. My Uncle Jack was a kind and loving man who I liked to spend time with so I thought it was a good idea. Even my Aunt seemed unusually excited for me to visit. When I got there my Uncle was still at work, so Aunt Penny seduced me with Shake and Bake chicken and a vanilla Yoo-hoo. As I sat at her glass coffee table sipping my Yoo-hoo through a straw, I made the mistake of dripping exactly one drop onto it. Suddenly, I was no longer a welcome house guest. I was a sloppy, pig that had defiled her precious, (piece of crap) glass coffee table. Even though I immediately cleaned it up, she continued to rant like the lunatic she truly was. After screaming that my brother would never have dripped anything on her furniture, she proceeded to show me her costume jewelry and tell me that I would never see any of it because she never put me in her will. Her pasty jewelry would only go to Alan, lest I spill Yoo-hoo all over it. The fact of the matter was that no one would ever sit next to my brother when he ate a bowl of soup because they would be wearing it by the end of the meal. Unable to accept bullshit even as a child, I screamed that she was crazy and I left. I ended up waiting out in their apartment hallway until my Uncle came home confused and angry at my Aunt.

There were many incidents when my Aunt went off her medication and went into what we termed her "highs". Usually, they entailed her calling and screaming at my mother for apparently ruining her life, calling me to remind me that I was garbage, or screaming at my Uncle that she hated him and knew he was with hookers on 42nd street. Frankly, who could blame him. Then she would drive around in her ancient car that she named "Betsey" and shop incessantly, upset the public at large, and sometimes disappear for a while. Always ending with my Uncle Jack having to forcibly hospitalize and medicate her.

Her final "high" took place about 13 years ago. By this time she and my Uncle had moved from New York to live in the same Florida neighborhood as my parents, much to their chagrin. I had cut off all ties to her and would only visit with my Uncle at my parent's home or at the community pool so I could avoid the witch. My mother called to warn me that my Aunt was off her meds and would likely call to remind me of the fact that I was shit, or worse show up at my doorstep in New York to tell me in person. Luckily, she and "Betsey" stayed in Florida harassing my parents and Uncle, as well as the entire population of Melbourne Beach. When her beautician would no longer deal with her, she cut off her own hair transforming her appearance into the true mental patient that she was. When the Chinese restaurant refused to accept her coupon for the Italian restaurant, they called the cops and had her thrown out. When she was selling mechanical toy dogs outside a shopping mall for half the price she paid, she was shut down by security. When she drove on the landing strip of Patrick's airforce base and nearly caused a plane to crash, the military police surrounded her with M16's, carted her off and called the name of the doctor that she claimed was her physician. The name she gave them was my father's. He holds a doctorate in health and physical education and never practiced medicine or had the right to, in his entire life.

That was the end of the road (or landing strip) for my Aunt's highs. Lithium has been coursing through her veins religiously ever since and "Betsey" has been garaged and will remain that way until she drops dead.