Sellers Beware

Dear Ladies Behind the Counter at Macy's;

I'm here to apologize for my daughter, Trigger's, behavior.

No, not apologize.  That's not the word.  A better word would be explain.

On second thought. . . there is no explanation for her behavior.   It would be better if I simply told you that my daughter Trigger is not a crazy handbag stalker.

Although it turns out that she is, indeed, a crazy handbag stalker so I guess I'm really writing you to thank you for not calling the mall police. . . or F.B.I. . . .or the nearest insane asylum.

You see, Christmas is fast-approaching and I gave all of my daughters free-reign to purchase their own Christmas present.  I wanted it to be something significant.   Something they wouldn't have the funds to purchase on their own.  A real treat.

So Veggie very quickly picked out a warm coat.  Ponzi, a pair of tight, black over-the-knee boots.

But Trigger?  Well Trigger has become thoroughly perplexed.  Confused.   Completely undun.

All over the purchase of a handbag.

And I freely admit that she has been stalking your particular counter in the dreaded mall for three weeks straight.  Engaging you in conversation. . .  asking your opinion on which bag you like better. . . Michael Koors. . . Kate Spade. . .Dolce and Gabanna.  I know for a fact she has purchased at least three of your bags and then promptly returned them the next day.

Suspicious behavior, all of it.


Would it help you to know that my darling daughter was the first in the history of dollar stores to actually make a return when she was no more than five years old?

It's a fact.


But you see, my little Trigger has had problems with making big decisions all of her life.  And this handbag purchase is a BIG decision for her.  It ranks right up there with college choice, car acquisitions, and boyfriend selections . .  .trying her very best to avoid buyer's remorse.

So go easy on her ladies.  An end is in sight.  Christmas Day is right around the corner and your store has to close sometime before midnight on Christmas Eve.   And then it will be somewhat like musical chairs.  Trigger will end up with the last bag in her hand at the stroke of midnight.

And then perhaps return it

on December 26th. . . 

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

It's not every day that a girl gets lucky enough  to withdraw over $36,000 from an account in one afternoon.

But I did today.

Just a small price to pay, my friends, in order to send Trigger and Ponzi back to college for another semester.

A very small price for the restoration of my sanity.

So go on my little fledglings.  Go leave the nest once more. . .

Go with your 42 pairs of flip-flops. . . your Uggs. . . and your thongs.   Go with your breast banderos and your less-than-sticky-boobs.  Take flight along with those countless pairs of shoes with six-inch heels (the ones you swear that all the sorority sisters wear! and not just the New York City streetwalkers. . .) And about that single pair of jeans you've been arguing over all summer??? Perhaps you'll just have to rip them in half and take one leg along with the 14 other pairs you each own.

Take with you your specialty foods purchased at great cost for you. .  . your quinoa, millet, amaranth and buckwheat. . . your soy and coconut flours. Grab the organic tofu and coconut oil. . . . pumpkin, sunflower, and flax seeds. . . the gluten-free soy sauce and the all-so-important aluminum-free baking powder. . .And don't forget the blue agave nectar. . .organic cinnamon. . . and essential oil of oregano.

Remember too your umpteen supplements. .  .the vitamin C crystals. . . the olive leaf extract. . . and the one that sounds just like tree bark (although I can't imagine that anyone in their right mind would voluntarily ingest the bark of trees. . . and, yes, I know what cinnamon is but give me a little hilarity room here. . . )  Be sure to take that stuff that promises to kill every fungus and bacteria known to humankind yet is still safe to purify fish tanks. . .'cause you're in your own apartments now and won't be able to clean your toilets with your sulphate-free shampoo.

Depart with your tap-tap makeup and your 27 makeup brushes.  Gather all 19 bottles of cleansers and "products" from your shower.  Steal my Q-tips, deodorant, and moroccan hair oil one final time.  Take those fancy razors and expensive hair straighteners (for who wants to be reminded of her ch'i while in the bathroom???)   Leave no pumice stone unturned.  No lathering face scrub to left to linger. . .

And by all means, go ahead and pack that fancy self-tanner . . . because I've noticed that you've somehow managed to leave the careless overspray of said tanner on your off-white bedroom carpet.   Rest assured, knowing that whenever I glance in that room and see the two white footprints where your perfectly-pedicured feet once stood, I will always think of you. . .

Yes, go my darlings.

Just go. . .

And Trigger?   Hold onto that legal 22-year-old driver's license of yours for dear life.  If you leave it hanging about Ponzi will scoop that up in a heartbeat!

Dear Mr. President of Sticky Boobs, Inc.

Dear Mr. (or perhaps Ms. - but a woman would have known better) President of Sticky Boobs, Inc.,

Despite the fact that there was no acknowledgement to my previous correspondence last January,  I find that I am once-again at your mercy. . .  begging you to take some action on my behalf.  And, yes, the reason for my correspondence does have to do with the stickiness of your product. . . but not in the manner of which you and I spoke last year. (Well, I spoke.  You never saw fit to reply. )

This time I would like to simply ask the following question:


If your boobs are so sticky, why - then - do they not stick around?

Wait.  Let me state that more succinctly. Why do your sticky boobs not stick around where they belong?

For, Mr. (or perhaps, Ms. - but a woman would have known better) President of Sticky Boobs, Inc., it appears that whenever your sticky boobs are needed by one of my three daughters, they are no where to be found.  Sadly, it seems,  those little rascals are often carelessly left at a friend's house after a big sleepover. . . buried deep in the recesses of the dog's crate (Don't blame her. She's a retriever!) . . . or - as is most-often the case - smushed in the closet or suitcase of another daughter.  And guess who it is who ends up having to shell out yet-more money on her daughters' boobs, Mr. President?

That's right.  Me.

Case in point. . .

Just the other day I was forced to leave my sick bed in order to drive Ponzi to the corset shop so she could spend a whopping $48 of my money on a set of your push-up-enhanced sticky boobs. (Yes, I know Ponzi has her license, but the Spin Family has been short a car ever since Veggie's accident - may Percy rest in peace - and all of my daughters refuse to drive my 1999 minivan, but I guess that's a story for another day . . .)  When I inquired as to the whereabouts of the countless other boobs I had purchased for Ponzi in the past, I was informed that Trigger took all of the good sticky boobs back to college with her, Mom!  And, although Trigger may have left some bad boobs behind in the wake of her departure, no decent mother worth her salt would entrust her teenage daughter's decency at a rock concert in the heart of New York City to a pair of bad (or shall I say sticky-challenged?) boobs!

So I ask you. . .  .  Should it be my fault if Trigger has sticky fingers in the sticky boob department?

I think not.

In fact, I think it's your fault Mr. (or perhaps Ms - but a woman would definitely have know better) President of Sticky Boobs, Inc.!  Yes, it's your fault for not having some sort of elaborate locking mechanism. . . or security-encrypted packaging. . . or, better yet. . .  . voice-activated adhesive . . . attached to your boobs.  That way they could actually stick around and be available to the rightful boob-owner when she needed them.

Could you work on that for me?

Tell you what. . .  I won't even charge you for the intellectual properties associated with the voice-activated idea if you would just market the product.   Having the correct boobs at my daughters' disposal when they need them would be payment enough.

Signed, one of your best customers (albeit, reluctantly)

Oh. . .  and I still think you would make a killing in the sticky thong (ouch!) department. . . .

Houston, We Have a Problem. . . of the coat kind . . .

If there's one thing I try to teach my daughters, it's how to be a good listener.

Take note of the following two problems which cropped up this past weekend and my astute attempt to zero in on what really matters.

_____________________________

Ponzi:  Mom, I think we have a bit of a problem. . .

Me:  A problem?  What is it?


Ponzi:  Well I went to that concert on Friday night. . . and I had my coat with me. . .you know. . . my black Northface. . .  and they made me check it. . .  like to prove I didn't have any booze with me or anything like that .  .and I gave Kathy my coat check ticket and she lost it. . .  just like she did last week. . .and I had to wait until the firemen said it was alright to come back in . . . you know. .  .after the fire alarm that we all thought was part of the show. . .  and they made me wait 'til everyone else claimed their coats. . .  and someone had taken my coat and it had your $30 in it and my train ticket home. . . and my school I.D. and perhaps my driver's license. . . I'm not really sure about that one. . .  but somebody else left their black Northface and I took that one instead . . . and the good news is that . . . remember how you made me buy a child's XL 'cause the ladies' "small" was like fifty bucks more???. . . well. . .  this coat is a ladies's "small". .  .so I think we made out on the deal!

Me:  Oh my God, Ponzi! You brought an unknown coat home from New York City?  You better put in in the washer right away! You never know where a coat like that has been!


Which was quickly followed by this phone conversation on Sunday afternoon. . .

Trigger:   Mom!  We have a problem!

Me:  We do???  What is it?


Trigger:   Well you see . . .  Last night I was at a Frat party. . . you know . . . and I had my coat. . . my black Northface. . . cause I told you we practically had like a blizzard. . .  well I left my coat in Kimmie's bedroom and when I went back to get it at the end of the night it wasn't there.


Me:  Tell me. . .  what size was that coat?  Was it a child's XL????


Trigger:  Mom!  Did you hear me?  Do you know what was in my coat?  My wallet!   My ATM card!! My student I.D.!!!   My PHONE!!!!

Me:  Were there any firefighters there?

Trigger:  Do you not even care?   This is serious!  Do you even know what this means?

Me:  What does this mean?

Trigger:  I don't have any money!  I can't talk to anyone!   I can't eat!  Aren't you worried that someone is using my ATM card???

Me:   What?  And withdrawing the grand total of $25 you begged me to put in your account yesterday?  I'll just transfer it back to my account.

Trigger:  But they could overdraw!

Me: Oh yes!  I vaguely remember your sister doing that just last week. . .  I tell you what. . .  go steal someone else's Northface, get yourself a new student I.D., and eat in the dining hall until you come home for Christmas break.

Me (again):  And Trig?

Trigger:  Yes?

Me:  Make sure your new coat is a ladies' "small" and don't forget to you wash it right away.  You never know where a coat like that has been. .  . but check the pockets first. . .  there may be something good in there. .  .

The Ignore Button

I've decided that the only logical way to handle motherhood is with the IGNORE button.

No. Seriously.

You don't own one?  It's like the Easy button. . . only better.  And I've found it comes in especially handy when dealing with college-aged daughters.

Listen.

____________________

Trigger:  Mom!

Me:  What?

Trigger:  Are you really coming to visit me next week?

Me:  Yes.

Trigger:  When are you coming?

Me:  Thursday.  And leaving on Friday.

Trigger:  Great!  Just in time.  I need you to bring me a long white dress for my induction into the sorority on Saturday night.    It has to be very conservative . . . nothing strapless or see-through. . . .you know. . .  very lady like.  I don't care what else you do, you have to go to The Mall and find a dress for me and bring it with you.

Me: 

or how about this one. . . 

Trigger:  Mom!

Me:  Yes?

Trigger:  Didn't you put more flex dollars on my student card?

Me:  No.  I told you last time you asked. The money I put on your card at the beginning of the school year was IT for the semester.  If you need more flex dollars, you can transfer them from your own bank account.

Trigger:  But Mom!  You know I don't even know how to do stuff like that.   You're the one who's supposed to do it for me.   Every one else's parents do!

Me:   

Now, THAT was easy!

Wait! Who's That Tapping?

I never thought I'd do it.


Didn't think I'd fall prey.

Never, in a million years, did I dream I'd be tap-tapping in the morning.  And sometimes in the afternoon.  And again before I go out at night.   And - come to think of it - I must have been waaaaaaay more worried about turning 50 than I ever thought I was.

Listen to the conversation I had with Ponzi just about a month ago. . . a few days before my birthday. . .

___________________

Me:  You know that make-up you left in the bathroom the other day?


Ponzi:  Yeah?   Because, believe it or not, ever since Trigger's departure (yes, Trigger - remember her?) anything left on the bathroom counter is a memorable experience. . .

Me:  Well I tried it, and I actually kind of liked it.   Did that come from one of those stores in The Mall?  You know. . ."The" Mall I won't go into?

Ponzi:  Yeah Mom, it's the tap-tap make-up you always make fun of.  It's from Sephora's.

Me:  Well can you go there. . . and get some for me. . . like in disguise?

Ponzi:  Yeah, I'll get you a starter kit for your skin tone.  It'll be my birthday present to you.  Only you'll pay for it!

Me:  How much will that be?

Ponzi:  Oh, not much . . . . like $50 or $60 or something.

Me:  Well, that's quite a present to myself. . .  but a lady only turns 50 once. . .and goodness knows your sisters won't be buying me anything. . . but Ponz?

Ponzi:  Yes?

Me: Tell those make-up Nazi's in the store you're buying it for your sister.  Whatever you do, don't tell them it's for your 50-year-old mother, 'cause then they'll either laugh you out of the store, or try to talk you into buying all kinds of other stuff. . . . like . . . . for old ladies.   I don't look like an old lady, do I?

Ponzi:  No, Mom, of course you don't.

Me:  Good. . . that's why I had you. . . . now hurry up and run along to The Mall so I can tap-tap tonight before I go out. . . 

oh. . . and the starter kit came with a dvd.  What sort of numskull would give a dvd to an old lady, who - very clearly - can't operate her family's entertainment system without the help of a teenage daughter?  And, furthermore, what kind of self-respecting female needs a dvd to show them how to apply a little makeup?  WTF???

Make-up Nazis. . .

I know you all like my conversations with my teenage daughters.

Here's one with a little twist. Like most things in my life, it's one sided. . .

~~~~~~~~~~

Me: Hello?

Me: Trigger! Speak slowly! What's the problem?

Me: Well did you clean it up?

Me: What do you mean, "What difference does that make?" You're sharing a bathroom with four other girls now, you can't continue to be the slob you were at home.

Me: Well, I don't really see why it's such an emergency.

Me: What? Me?

Me: Trigger, you know I only go to The Mall at Christmas. . . (and heavily medicated at that. . .)

Me: No.

Me: No!

Me: I'm not even wearing black today. I absolutely cannot step foot in that mall unless I'm wearing black. It's my only hope of looking sophisticated. But we haven't had a funeral at work in five weeks . . .

Me: I know you don't care about people dying! Just like I don't really care about your make-up drama!

Me: But how will I know what to get? Those snotty little make-up Nazi-sale-clerks will take one look at me and throw me out of the store! They have a way of knowing, you know . . .

Me: Knowing what? They can tell that I wear drug-store make-up. . . and that I shop at Target. . . and color my own hair. . . I see it in their eyes. . .

Me: A profile? They have a profile on you? I told you they're Nazis! "No make-up for you!"

Me: No, you wouldn't get it. It was an old Seinfeld episode, you see there was this soup Nazi. . .

Me: Seinfeld. His name was Seinfeld. He was a comedian. There was this show. It was funny.

Me: I know you don't care about Seinfeld either. . . It's all about the make-up. . . the tragedy of the bronzer break. . .

Me: Shattered. Yeah, I know. It shattered. You're shattered. I'm shattered for you. . .

Me: Well don't they have drugstores in Virginia? Can't you just go to CVS and buy some bronzer? Nobody says you can't just pretend and tap-tap it like the other stuff. . .

Me: No?

Me: Never?

Me: Never ever????

Me: Never ever EVER?????

Me: Well let me hear you say it, then. . .

Me: Now! Say it now! What are you? A love Nazi? Repeat after me. . . "My mom's the best mom in the world and I love her to death..."

Me: Say it!

Me: Say it, or there's no makeup. . .

Me: Thanks Trigger. . . I love you too!

The Thing about Thongs is. . .

They're small.

Itsy-bitsy, you might say . . .

The other Thing about Thongs is that my daughters own a lot of them. . .

So just yesterday, as I was folding a load of laundry (I'll leave you to guess for which daughter - for only one is still at home doing laundry and we are talking about unmentionables here . . . ) I counted 19 thongs among the myriad of t-shirts, towels, and gym shorts . . .

And this little exercise, my friends, led me to ask (and attempt to answer) the following questions. . .

• How many thongs can you carry in one hand? 19. I think I reached the limit with those 19 thongs.

• How many thongs can you fit between your toes? If I assign two per opening that gives us 16. The answer is 16.

• How many thongs can you eat with a Klondike bar? Good God above, I hope none. . .

• How many thongs could you smush in a Starbuck's Vente cup? 27. Final answer.

• How many could you wear on your head at one time? None. My head is definitely bigger than my daughters' hineys, so it would be all stretched out! by the time I returned it, and I wouldn't want to risk those consequences. . .

and, last but not least. . .

• If you were stranded on a desert island with only a thong, could you use it? Perhaps as a sling shot, but I'd rather have her sticky boobs as flotation devices . . .

So there you have it, my friends, the Thing(s) about Thongs.

With no charge for the free information, I remain. . .

Do you, by chance, have a Thing about Thongs you'd like to share???? Please do. . . .

Smile! You're on Proma Camera

It's a well-known fact that no matter how panicked. . . frustrated. . . frantic . . . short tempered . . . .or Proma-ed out! a teenage daugther might be, she will stand before the camera and smile like a regular politician. . .



And so they did. . .

A Love Handle Lapachino

The other morning I entered Ponzi's room in search of my ever-elusive box of Q-Tips and guess what I found. . .




This.


Bliss. . . love-handler!



And - thinking it was some sort of slimy and perverted sex product that my seventeen-year-old daughter had no business owning or knowing about- I picked up the bottle and read:

liquid workout for lazy abdominals

with caffeine and lipid-release boosters.

and because my not-too-far-from-fifty-year-old eyes couldn't read the rest of the small print on the lovehandler bottle, I googled it:

Want to whittle your wiggly waist, tone tummy pudge and keep back fat at bay? Wage war on those not-so-hard 'core' areas with this genius gel, formulated for extended 8-hour caffeine release. With cooling mint oil and naturally-derived amino acid ingredients.

Okay.

Now the question you've all been waiting for. . .

What the hell do these girls do with the stuff? Do they sniff it? Apply it? Ingest it? (I'm not kidding here people! You give my daughters any product that boasts of caffeine, and they'll be asking for an extra shot and putting a straw in it. . . )  Do I not hand over enough of my paycheck at Starbucks already that my daughter (a.k.a.. . . me!) now has to spend $36 on caffeine for her non-existent back fat?????? Cause . . . you know . . . it came from me. Even if she never specifically asked for $36 to purchase a Love-Handle Lapachino, I paid for that bottle in some way, shape, or form. . .

Plus, there's the obvious. . .

Now, I don't know about you, but when I think of love handles, my mind wanders to images like this:


not this. . .

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!

What will they think of next for my daughters to go out and spend my hard-earned money on? A champagne pedicure? A vodka facial???? Some Sushi tanning oil???

You tell me. . . cause I've given up. . .

The infirmity in our household

We've had a touch of an infirmity in our household this week.

And no, my friends, it is not the swine flu.

It is, instead, the dreaded Prom-a!

Symptoms include tears, screaming, insomnia, intensive negotiations, and plenty of high-stakes drama!

Drama surrounding dresses bought and returned. . . dates made and broken. . . shoes to be borrowed. . . sticky-boobs to be located . . . "pre" and "post" parties. . . permissions reluctantly granted. . . threats of breathalyzers and police drive-by's. . .

And it seems that the only remedy to Prom-a will come in the form of a manicure, pedicure, eyebrow threading, and a $60 (That's without the tip, Mom!) hairdo.

Oh yes . . . and your oldest sister must come home from college for the weekend to do you makeup.

Prom-a! . . . How I hate you!

p.s. Guess what??? Tonight is just the Junior prom. . . Prom-a! surrounding the Senior prom is scheduled to descend upon our household next month. . .

It's a jungle in here

Don't forget to enter my Limerick Contest! The winner will be announced on March 17th!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few weeks ago I confiscated another thong.

Now don't be hurt that I didn't tell you about it . . . it was just a day like any other, and I didn't want to bore you with another tale of a thong kidnapping. It's just that we were approaching Valentine's Day and I saw a little number floating about that I didn't particularly like.

It looked something like this. . .

. . . only it had little red studs in the shape of a heart on the front.

Well, I figured that no one in my household had any business owning a thing/thong like that (especially so close to Valentine's Day) and so I confiscated it.

End of story.

Or so I thought.

Until I went to look for a pair of my panties that look a lot like this. . .

. . . only they have leopard spots on them.

Those undies seem to have grown legs and taken off for the hinterlands by themselves.

Perhaps they're hiding in my sock drawer. Perhaps they're in the pocket of my bathrobe. Or perhaps they're in a ball under my bed waiting for the cleaning lady to fish them out and put them on display when she comes next Wednesday. (Why does she insist on doing that? She's like my mother - exhibiting bras, socks, and panties at the foot of my bed for all to see. . . Here you go, you dirty little Nellie. . . This is what I found under your bed today!!!! My laundry hamper is right on the other side of the room. Would it kill her to discretely place the offending item in with the rest of the dirty clothes????)

But, I digress.


What I really want to say is that if I discover that one of my lovely daughters has confiscated my leopard-print-granny-panties in retribution for the missing thong, it will be a battle to end all battles! Survival of the fittest, my friends. Jungle warfare at its best!!!!

And, let me tell you, those teenie, tiny thong things can be hidden a lot easier than their old granny!

And so the plot thickens. . . .

I hope you all enjoyed my "fictional" short story yesterday. (If you didn't get a chance to read it, say a quick Hail Mary as your penance and scroll on down.) But it turns out that - as with everything in my life - nothing is as straightforward as it seems.

And so I return you now to . . . .Take From Me, My Lace (a fictional story by A Mom on Spin)




Who knew that one simple piece of lingerie could take on a life of its own?

The fiery piece of evidence burned a hole in her bathrobe pocket until our gentle heroine could stand it no more. . . Carefully she placed the offending item deep in the recesses of her own drawer to reside amid the watchful eye of her old lady briefs. And there it would bide its time until. . .



Who am I kidding here???? This story is much too time-consuming to write - especially because I already know how it ends. So let me return to my usual motus operandi. . .

Me: (returning home from a long day of work) Hello Girls. What's new?

Ponzi: I read your blog. Now give me back the thong!

Me: Why??? Are you the hussy confessing? (And if you - dear reader - had any doubt that I knew all along who had been in that laundry room before me, you don't know me at all!)

Ponzi: Yes, Mom!

Me: Would you care to tell me why on earth would you need a thing like that in your personal repertoire???

Ponzi and Trigger: (simultaneously) We all have them, Mom!!!

Trigger: (standing alone suddenly because Ponzi knows enough not to insult my intelligence) Yeah, they're comfortable!


Ponzi: Trigger!
Me: (reluctantly producing the black lingerie) Here you go. . .

Ponzi: (obviously in some sudden state of shock) That thing? That's not mine! That's Veggie's (my new name for Daughter Number One) !!!

Ponzi Think: Jesus! I just gave up a big one when I could have blamed it on my older sister the whole time! I have to be more careful next time!!!!!

Me: How can that be? You clearly were the one who did laundry before me!

Ponzi: Well it may have been in my laundry hamper, but I didn't buy it!

Me: (listening to my youngest daughter carefully parsing her words. You have to be like freaking Perry Mason when you talk to these girls. . . .) Okay, maybe you didn't purchase it, but did you wear it???

Ponzi: Maybe. . .

Me: (dangling the sexy black thong in front of her seventeen-year-old face) Well why on earth would you wear your sister's underwear? Especially when it's something like this????

Ponzi: Well, she took all my underwear to Guatemala, so I had to wear something!!! You didn't want me going to school in no underwear! Did you????

And that circular finger of blame, my friends,

is the precisely the reason why I remain. . . .

Take from me. . . my lace

Inspired by many of the short stories and excellent posts I have recently read (have you checked out Irish Gumbo ????) I thought I'd give some serious writing a try. . .




The early morning mist had barely risen past the rim of her coffee cup as she paddled down the basement steps - each one less forgiving than the one before. An unknowing listener might think her step light, but she alone knew just how heavy her heart had become. For she was about to begin another day in a life that sometimes hurt just to live it. . . . a life so mundane and dreary, even her wardrobe screamed to be released.

Unaware of the resignation in her step, she approached the clothes dryer in search of her day's attire. Once there, she methodically folded the palates of her everyday existence - the blacks . . . the browns. . . the burgundies of her life - when suddenly a strange light flashed through the material.


"Damn it!" she cried. "Don't tell me I ripped those black pants again!"

But as she held the offending article up for inspection, she discovered that those rays of light were not streaming through unwanted openings. No, these holes were in a distinct and beautiful pattern. It was lace! A texture memorable to her touch. . . familiar to her skin . . . yet long ago forgotten.

How had this small piece of black lace found it's way through the universe only to become intertwined with her clothing? Had some great cosmic static-cling storm caused it to land amid her possessions? And, more importantly, what was the meaning behind its arrival? Was it a harbinger sent to lift her from the monotony of her life? To reawaken her long-sleeping sensuality? To remind her of her solidarity with all of femalehood?


And so she held that tangible sign of hope . . . caressing her cheek with the subtle coarseness of the fabric, until. . . .


Until. . .

Well, until . . . she discovered a tag that read Victoria's Secret . . .




HOLY SMOKES!!!!





This wasn't merely a piece of lace. It was a THONG. . . and a size XS thong at that!!!!



And suddenly she was no longer wondering how that lace had found it's way through the universe and into her clothes dryer. The only question remaining was: Which one of her teenage daughters had used that dryer before she did???



And what should she do with this tangible piece of evidence? Confront her offspring? Show her husband? Dangle the offending article from the kitchen chandelier until the hussy confessed? Or should she do nothing. . . waiting to see which one of her three daughters would begin to develop a look of utter desperation as Saturday night approached????

And so she smiled, quietly tucking the garment into her bathrobe pocket, and - for the first time in weeks - ascended the stairs with a spring in her step.

p.s. The woman in the story could never be me because. . . because. . . well because, my washer and dryer are not in the basement!

Have you sewn your eyebrows today????

For all who are interested. . .

If your daughters proclaim that they are skipping off to get their eyebrows threaded, don't worry.

I can now tell you from personal experience that they will not come home with hairwraps on their eyebrows. . . nor will they be braided. . . nor criss-crossed. . . or sewn together in one big unibrow. . . or have a strange sort of needle-piercing coming through them. . .

Ponzi: You think that's what threading is??? Mom, where have you been???

Trigger: How could you possibly think such a thing???

Me: J.K.!!!!! I wasn't thinking that! Honest!!!!

A letter to my daughter in Guatemala

My Dearest Daughter,

Remember how I promised to notify you if anything went awry on the homefront while you were away?

Well, I fear that you had better hurry home quickly.

Perhaps you should hop on the next flight home. . . perhaps you should find a Guatemalan guide who would like to escort you to the U.S. . . . or perhaps you should hitchhike through Mexico and most of the lower 48 states. . . whatever it takes, just do it!!!

For I fear, my dear, that you will have no clothing left to your name if you do not.

Now usually when you leave us, you take all seasonal-appropriate clothing with you. This time, however, you have let for a warmer climate, leaving all of your winter clothing behind. Your sisters, it seems, have returned to their hunter/gatherer roots and taken this opportunity to snatch anything that is not nailed down! Like piranha, they have rifled through your closet, your dresser drawers, and yes - even your laundry hamper - stripping them clean of any and all clothing that looks like it might fit them. When I asked them to stop, they simply quipped, Why, this is our chance to get her back! She steals everything from us!!!!

I need to go on record here. . . I cannot protect your clothing anymore! Hurry home!

Signed,

Your Loving Mother

p.s. Love those new boots you got before your left. I never realized that your feet were the same size as mine!!!!!

The difference between mother and daughter

Yesterday happened to be our 22nd Wedding Anniversary. It was also Daughter #3's best friend's birthday. I thought you might enjoy hearing how we celebrated these respective milestones in our lives:

I announced to everyone within earshot that it was our 23rd Anniversary (even though we've only been married 22 years - whoops!)

She knew it was her friend's 17th birthday because of the whole driver's license thing. (Don't worry. . . the car was purchased last year.)

I prepared for the big event by buying a card for my husband while I was in the pharmacy.

She talked her sister into bringing her to the Mall to shop with my money.

I put on a pair of jeans and my usual earth-tone colors.

She needed to go back to the drawing board because I thought she would be mistaken for a streetwalker.

I stayed in my jeans and a pair of flats

She settled for her sister's tight grey dress and black belt, black tights, and a friend's black high-heeled boots.

I hopped in my husband's car and we headed west on a leisurely drive into the country for an informal meal at a brew pub.

She left the house with no time to spare to take the train directly east into New York City for dinner and God-knows-what-else.

I drank three glasses of wine - legally.

She . . . well, I can only imagine what happened on the train into the city. (We've been on that ride before. . . )

I ordered a cheeseburger and sweet potato fries.

She ate hummus and veggies.

I came back home and fell asleep.

She went to a Korean Karaoke Bar and sang the night away.

I spent a total of $70 of my own money on my anniversary.

She spent a total of $180 of my money on her friend's birthday.

I am tired, cranky, and have a headache today.

She, somehow, is happy and fresh as a daisy!

Tap-tap make-up

You might think that - because I have been a mother to teenage girls for many-a-year now - I would have seen it all.

But let me introduce you to a recent discovery. . .

It's called Tap-Tap Make-Up.

I'm not sure exactly where it is sold. . . more than likely it comes from one of those expensive stores in The Mall (you know the one I'm talking about . . . the one where Morticia Adams sells the products.)

I first became acquainted with Tap-Tap Make-Up this past summer when my time-challenged-college-aged-daughter was living at home and struggling to make an early train into the city each morning. And so, on the mornings I lost the coin toss with my husband on who was to drive her to the station, I began to hear a strange sort of tapping from the passenger seat as I drove like Evil Knievel to get her to her train on time.

At first I thought the noise stemmed from my daughter's impatience with my driving skills (the mere fact that she leaned on my horn to insult other drivers for me should give you a small idea why I would have surmised this) but, no, before long I realized that the Tapping noise was associated with applying makeup. Only after she Tap-Tapped on the bottom of the jar with the tail end of the makeup brush, would she apply the makeup.

Strange habit, I thought. . . and put all of that annoying Tap-Tapping out of my mind when she returned to college in the fall.

But, before long, that sound started to enter into my sleep . . . or perhaps it was my dreams. . . . whatever, it emerged in those crazy early morning half sleeping-half-waking moments of consciousness: Tap-Tap! And it wasn't a slow, sleepy, drawn-out sound like . . . . T a a a a p . . . . T a a a a p p p. . .

No, it was a quick staccato sound: Tap-Tap!

Am I going crazy?

And then it hit me . . . .Daughter Number Two has purchased the Tap-Tap Make-Up!

And so, each morning as I lie in my bed awaiting their departure for school, I am now serenadaded by the beautiful sounds of Tap-Tap Make-Up mixed in with my daughters' fighting:

Daughter #3: Knock-Knock! on the bathroom door: Where are my Uggs?

Daughter # 2: Tap-Tap! I told you. I don't know where they are!

Daugther #3: But you wore them yesterday and I told you to wear socks with them because your feet smell disgusting and now I'll probably have to make Mom buy me a new pair.

Daughter #2: No, Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap! You're the one with the smelly feet! And what about my shirt you stole off of my Tap-Tap! floor without asking? I hadn't even worn it yet!

Daughter #3: Are you kidding? That shirt already smelled! And you're late as usual! Hurry up!

Daughter #2: I'm ready! Tap-Tap! Honestly! Tap-Tap! Let me just grab your Uggs!

Rant and rave - teenage daughters - take two

Now where was I?

Oh yes, the last time we spoke I was complaining about my daughter's lack of cleanliness and the fact that I filled two lawn and leaf bags with errant clothing from the floor of her bedroom yesterday. (If, by chance, you have happened on this post and did not read yesterday's post entitled Rant and rave - teenage daughters - take one, please scroll down, read it, and make a silent resolution to be more faithful in the future.)

So there I stood along with my husband - staring at two large garbage bags and a pile of 18 baths towels on the floor of my daughter's bedroom.

Now what???

Quite honestly, we really hadn't thought about the next step.

We'd taken her jackets, her jeans, and her skirts.

We snatched up pajamas and bathrobes and skirts,

tank tops, and tube tops, and bras my-oh-my

sweatpants and thongs of enormous supply!

So what should we do with these two bags of clothes?

When our daughter sees them it might well come to blows!

But her mother, you see, was so crafty and slick,

she thought up a plan. . . and she thought it up quick!

Then, just like the Grinch spiriting the Who's toys and Christmas decorations up the side of Mount Crumpet, my husband stuffed those two overflowing bags into the back of his car and drove away.

Do you remember how little Cindy Lou Who innocently asked the Grinch why he was stealing her tree? Santy Claus, why? Why are you taking our Christmas Tree, why????

Well, the daughter in this story was not nearly as meek when she called at work to question me about the whereabouts of her clothing.

I'm not really sure I could trace the exact downward spiral of the phone call, but it ended with something like (well actually, it concluded with my daughter hanging up on me, but her parting words went something like. . . .) You better go see a shrink, because there's something wrong with you if you have to steal all my clothes!

And that, my friends, was the nice part.

And so, in a subsequent conversation, I recommended that the best and fastest way for her to get her clothing back would be to start by laundering the 18 bath towels. After that task was complete, we would talk about the rest.

And then I went to my favorite establishment to cry in my wine while my good friend listened.

When I returned home, I found my ever-patient husband holding my daughter's hand while she laundered those towels - upon the sight of which I headed directly to my bed.

And this morning, that husband of mine plopped the two bags of clothing on the floor of the laundry room and promptly left the state on a business trip.

So here I sit this evening . . . listening to the distant rustle of those garbage bags as my daughter pulls out each and every article of clothing in order to place in the washing machine; for the final verdict was that a minimum of three full loads of laundry had to be washed, folded, and put neatly away before her friend-who-is-a-boy can come to visit tonight.

Happy washing, my darling. . . Happy washing!

Beach party fire sale

For sale. . .

One "gently-used" pair of Uggs. . . worn by a daughter's college roommate to a beach party where the plumbing system overflowed.

I'm sure they could be salvaged by some unsuspecting individual who is oblivious to the muck they've been through.

Oh, and even though the daughter's roommate made an effort to reimburse the daughter for the expense of said Uggs, the daughter just Couldn't make her pay for that!

Of course not, the daughter did not pay for them in the first place . . . her parents did!

If interested, please leave an offer in the comment section below.

Any return on investment would be a gain for me.