They Call Me Baba Booey by Gary Dell'Abate

things worse for me, not better. So I said to Howard, “Listen, tomorrow I want you to hammer me as hard as you ever have.”
    He had no problem with that. After we hung up I called my mom. “Mom, you gotta be kidding me! You can’t do that. I’m a grown-up, I have my own apartment! I live in Manhattan!”
    “I know,” she said. “But you sounded so upset.”
    “That is the show!” I was still yelling. “Why wouldn’t you call me, not her?”
    I was really angry, not just because of what she did, but because I wanted to be clear that she was never to call my office or anyone I worked with ever again. Maybe it was a singular moment of clarity for her, because I never once heard about her interfering again. But I still spent many months after that being wary whenever I got ripped on the show. I was never out of the woods. It reminded me of something my father always said about my mom: She does the right thing in the wrong way, and the way she does it pisses everyone off.
    In junior high I first started exploring the idea of dating girls. There was one girl in particular I liked to flirt with and webegan passing each other notes in class. I don’t think we had ever been alone together or held hands, let alone kissed. But we joked about a lot of stuff. At the end of one of the notes she sent me she added, “PS, I’m pregnant and you did it and now you are going to pay.”
    If you were thirteen and read that note in context, you’d know it was a joke and think it was hilarious. I tucked it in my wallet and forgot about it.
    The next day I accidentally left my wallet and my lunch money at home. I called my mom and asked her to bring it to school. Uh-oh. You had to be three steps ahead of her, and already I was a step behind. I hadn’t remembered what was in my wallet until after I’d asked her to bring it to me.
Okay, she won’t read it
, I thought, and then almost immediately realized, of course she would. I told myself,
If she reads that last line, she’ll get that it was a joke
. Then I immediately thought to myself,
Of course she won’t know it was a joke
.
    I was sitting in English class when I got called to the office. When I walked in I found my mom, crying hysterically. “Mom, you read the note didn’t you?”
    She couldn’t even speak; she just nodded her head yes. How could I have known she probably had visions of the night Steven came home and announced he had knocked up his girlfriend?
    “It was a joke, Mom!”
    Didn’t matter. I should have known better. I should have run through the scenarios
before
I called her. In that way, it’s no different than producing a radio show—it’s all about being able to anticipate.
    “Please leave now, Mom,” I said, while she sat in the office sobbing. “You are making a scene. Go home.”
    That night, as soon as my father got home, I watched the two of them walk into their bedroom and close the door. A fewminutes later my dad came back out, alone. “You shouldn’t joke about stuff like that,” he told me.
    “Okay,” I said.
    To this day, I think what my dad really meant was, You shouldn’t joke about stuff like that—because then I have to deal with your mother.

1988
    My mom had taken the antibiotic tetracycline when she was pregnant with me. Turns out, doctors later learned, that a common side effect for pregnant women who take the drug is that it can permanently stain their kids’ teeth. No joke. My entire life, I had teeth that were stained in a strange, asymmetrical pattern. Kids made fun of me for it. They were merciless. Most of what I remember about fifth grade is being picked on for having a mouthful of yellow teeth. I asked a girl out once—who even knew what that meant at that age—and she turned me down because of my banana-colored chompers. I was crushed and told my mom about it, which you might think was a stupid move, but in moments like that my mom was at her best. She was absolutely convinced the girl was an idiot.
    “You are