Monday, April 13, 2009

The end of The Promise

Function: intransitive verb

1 : to express grief, pain, or discontent
2 : to make a formal accusation or charge

And there you have it. The formal definition of the word complain from Mr. Webster himself.

You may recall my sorry Lenten promise which I will now quote verbatim: I . . . . aka. . . . A Mom on Spin . . . .do hereby declare that for the forty day and forty nights of the Lenten season, I am going to give up complaining about my daughters.

So, how'd I do????

Well, there were no formal charges against my daughters (issued by myself anyway - I can't vouch for the rest of humanity. . . ) within the last forty days, so I'm good with the second half of the definition.

And about the first part????

Did anyone ever hear me express grief???? Pain???? Or (gulp) discontent?????

Okay! I admit it! I may have slipped up in a few small instances. . . like when Boyf and Ponzi tried to rent the Porno. . . or when I accused my lovely daughters of kidnapping my leopard-print-granny-panties . . . or the Up Yer Kilt awards that I so freely doled out. . . or when I told a few funny stories from the List . . . but for the most part I thought I was very kind to my daughters throughout the Lenten season. Not even the harshest of critics could have a problem with my reporting a few facts. If my memory serves me correctly, that's what they were. Facts. Plain and simple.

And let me tell you this my friends. You don't know the half of what I could have told you throughout those forty days! (Well, I guess - in reality - you don't know any of what I could have told you.) And that restraint, in itself, could transform my Eulogy from a simple statement to a compound sentence! Here lies Liz. She was good at complaining but could hold her tongue if need be! (I still can't die tomorrow, but I'm slowly discovering my hidden talents. . . )

So here we are. . . the day after the glorious celebration of Easter. . . the pinnacle in the Christian liturgical year. . . my daughters are at the gym madly trying to work off their peeps inhalations . . . and I am at home dancing a jig! For the gloves are off. . . the gag order has been lifted . . . and the proverbial floodgates opened . . .

Tomorrow. I'm just a tad bit too tired today.

But until then I am. . .