One Poor Correspondant

Dearest Veggie,

I'm sorry to be a meddling parent, but I have a quick question for you.

ARE YOU ALIVE?

The last time we spoke - which I believe was somewhere around Halloweenish - we discussed making a reservation for your flight home from the U.K.  And I can't help but notice that Continental withdrew a large sum of money from your bank account in early November.  And I do remember you said something about visiting Prague . . . and Dresden. . .  and Berlin before leaving Europe.  Oh yes, and you also said you were going to squeeze in one last trip to the Old Sod . . .

But could you possibly give me the date of your return?

Or just drop me a little line to let me know you're alive?

Keep in mind. .  .because you're no longer using your U.S. debit card, I have lost my only means of knowing where you are.   Little did I think I ever miss the days of my virtual vacation - piecing together your life on the continent by watching account withdrawals - the fish and chips in London. . .  . sweater in Dublin. . .  pub in Paris. . . I felt like I was right there with you.

And to be brutally honest, Trigger's new life at college is not nearly as interesting as yours.  From the looks of her spending habits, it seems she only goes to tanning salons and drinks coffee. B-O-R-I-N-G!

So, you know I don't like to be a buttinsky . . . nor do I wish to meddle in your affairs. . . And it's not like I'm  asking you if you've eaten your vegetables or gone to church or anything. . . .I just want to know that you're alive.

And, assuming that you are, I'd like to know when you're coming home.

'Cause I'll have to give up my blogging room.  And I want to know when I have to move out all my stuff.  Like the elephant.  But perhaps you'll like the elephant and find yourself wanting to keep it. .  . and the fake orchid. . . I bet you'll like that. . .and the photo of the lotus blossom. .  . in fact, you may find you want to leave the room exactly as it is until you move back out of the house again.  (And do you know when - exactly - that will be?  'Cause if you do, I'll like to know that too. .  .)

p.s. Your return home comes just in time.   Ponzi is growing frightfully bored being an "only"child.   She's forcing me to get pedicures and go out for sushi.  I've tried to pawn her off on your father, but he says real men don't get pedicures . . . or put on little goggles and go tanning.   Wimp.

You'll have to take over for me.

A Beirdimpfe's Bavarian Birthday Apology to her Bopperl

There's a certain daughter of mine who's celebrating a birthday this weekend.  I dare say she's probably in Munich right now under some Oktoberfest tent with a mug of beer in her hand singing the Ein Prosit song. . .

And because - ever since my last correspondence on this blog regarding the financing of her country-hopping-beer-loving birthday jaunt - we haven't quite been on skyping terms, the time has come to me to say "I'm sorry".   So, in honor of her birthday, I have composed the following letter of apology with the help of the official Bavarian Oktoberfest dictionary. . .

 ~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Kerndlabosti (Vegetarian),

Happy Birthday to my dandschig (pretty) and gaudinockerIn (luxuriantly breasts) daughter who will turn 22 on Sunntag (Sunday)!

I hope you are having a grisinagott (good day) and that you are experiencing mordsmassl (enormous luck) on the anniversary of the day you arrived in this world arshlings (backwards: more specific "in your behinds direction.")

Since our relationship has been a wee-bit uncomfortable as of late, I have decided to practice the fine art of oabischwoam (to solve a fight through drinking, a much better alternative than letting the fist do the talking, at the Oktoberfest as well as elsewhere) and apologize to you.


Please excuse me for being a gschead (mannerless, tactless) and zwieda (bad tempered, ill-humoured) oide Schäsn (patronising term for an old woman. Also used for cars.) In fact, I wouldn't blame you for telling me to zupf de (back off, get lost ) forever.


But my little Bopperl (nickname for someone dear or special) you must remember that  I suffer from extreme drahwuam (giddiness, occurs after constant spinning) which often leads to duachanand (chaos, confusion) and therefore cannot be trusted to say or do the right things.


And so I'm sorry that we argued about diridari (money: should be brought in sufficient sums to the Oktoberfest.)  It was utter schmarrn (absurdity, nonsense) and I will do it nimma (no more.)

I hope you are having a great feiadog (holiday) there in Munich and that you're not fetznrausch (totally drunk) or even ogschdocha (slightly tipsy.)  I also hope you are staying away from every fackl (a young pig, often used to describe an indecent behaving person) who I'm sure are hovering around you in great abundance, along with their schoaB (methane-containing, foul-smelling puff, often caused by digestion procedures) which I assume are hovering in abundance as well.

Please make sure you are minding your manners and avoiding all forms of fuaßln (above the table people hook fingers, but when people secretly have toe-to-toe contact under the table, it usually gets more interesting.) Remember that it is also important to only accept busserl (term for a swift kiss, often on other parts of the face or body than the mouth.  More intensive kiss mutations, as the French kiss, are not included in this term) from the gentlemen around you. And please . . . do make sure you use the proper facilities to bieseln (term for "to take a leak"; unfortunately too many want to save a couple of cents and use the option "wild bieseln") or you might just find yourself eikastln (put in prison, arrest) for being a flidscherl (tart, floozy.)


But enough of my damisch (patronising term for stupid, dumb, crasy) froaseln (nonsense drivel . . . )

I'm sorry that I criticized you for being the very life-loving-free-spirited individual who I taught you to be. I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me and do not continue to be a bebawurscht (offended person) so that our relationship can return to the happy and loving mother/daughter relationship it once was.
 

Affectionately signed,

 (notorious beer drinker, "tavern potato")

And as further proof of my repentance, dear Veggie, I want to you know that I am now truly suffering from drahwuam (dizziness) after having spent a good twenty minutes watching youtube videos of the Ein Prosit song - all of which seemed to be filmed by fetznrausch (totally drunk) photographers and none of which were worth using on this post. . .

As Only Veggie Could

Remember how I told you that the psychic I saw last week knew about the "twin" that I had lost when pregnant with Veggie?


It was early on in my pregnancy. . . and it never was a proven fact. . . all that was really known was that I was pregnant at the beginning of the whole bloody (I'll pretend I'm a Brit, here. . . ) episode and was still pregnant when they saw Veggie all happy, content, and smiling on my first-ever ultrasound in the E.R. And so the most logical conclusion that the doctors could come up with was that I had been pregnant with twins and had lost one.



And - not that I was glib about it - but I never really gave it much thought after that. And every once in a while we would chide Veggie about her twin. . . you know. . . 'cause we're sick like that. . .



So talking with Veggie in England last weekend (and let me tell you how much I love video-chatting on Skype) I told her how the psychic had told me about her twin. . .how he was still around me . . . and she replied. . . Oh yeah! The one I kicked out!. . . Ha, Ha, Ha, Chuckle, Chuckle, Chuckle. . . everybody thinks it's funny. . .



Until. . .



Later in the week Veggie rented a movie with a friend. He picked it out. . . she approved it. . .they started to watch it. . . and suddenly she realized an eerie similarity . . .







. . . it's the story of a young woman whose twin brother died in utero and Wants to be born now! and so comes back to haunt and terrify her.

My God! Not that any of you have seen Veggie in her underwear from behind. . . but that actress even looks like Veggie! Perhaps someone is trying to tell her something??????

Poor Veggie! I don't think she has slept since. . .

Oooh, La, La, and All That. . .

Dearest Veggie,

Thanks for responding to my email wondering if you were still alive. I guess that life in the U.K. must be agreeing with you.

Your father and I returned from our vacation at the "shore" earlier today. We forced Ponzi to come with us for the week, but Trigger couldn't afford any more time off from work and so she traveled down by herself and stayed just for two nights because she wanted to be home for her 19th birthday. (Btw. . .was it you - perhaps - who taught her the pick-and-pass method of driving she uses on the highway? 'Cause it sounds like vintage Veggie to me. . . ) Anyway. . . we had to send the dog back with Trigger because she was suffering from Safe Potty Syndrome (the dog, silly, not Trigger) and I caught her once or twice clicking her heels and muttering something like. . . There's no place home. . .I'm sure you'll be pleased to know that, according to Trigger, once she was in her own backyard, everything ran smoothly for her once again.

Speaking of smoothly. . . it seems that my little excercise in Trusting Trigger worked out just fine. I checked my camera again, and the inside of the liquor cabinet looks just the way it looked in the photo I took before we left.

I'm glad that your trip to Spain was wonderful. I was surpised - however - to read your p.s. about skipping over to Paris from there . . . I checked your bank account and have not - as of yet - seen any Parisian purchases on your debit card. How could this be? Not a single pair of shoes? A scarf? A cafe au lait? A pack of cigarettes??? (Or are they fags now to you???) Come now, Veggie, you are messing up my super-sleuthing abilities!

While in the City of Love, please promise me you will not get seduced by a Frenchman, for I'm quite convinced that you - my dear daughter - will fall head-over-heels with a young strapping gadabout, who - in turn - will only break your heart. You know what they say. . . sometimes you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince . . .

I guess that's it for now. Please write again and give me some more details about your living conditions . . . like your phone number. . . or if you're actually making any money. . . you know. . . little things like that. . .

Signed lovingly,

Oh. . . and I hope you weren't planning on coming home any time in the near future, 'cause Ponzi has some friends over and they're moving her into your old room as we speak. . . and I'll be taking over Ponzi's old room after that. . . turning it into my study. . . 'cause I need one, you know. . .

The Reason Veggie Has a Sore Butt

I almost titled this post. . . And to think I used to worry when she stayed out past midnight!
or perhaps. . . And to think I never thought I'd get that child potty trained!
or even. . . Why I'm glad I learned to let go. . .
What the hell. . . I'm sure you don't care to know what I almost named this post. . . but I need to tell you right now that her butt is not sore because never got potty trained. . . you have to read to post to understand exactly why Veggie's butt is sore. . . I know. . . if I don't shut up. . . you'll never get a chance to read the post. . .

~~~~~~~~~~


Before leaving for her job in England (notice I didn't say. . . moving to England. . . cause I'm in denial. . . . ) Veggie and her friend planned a road trip to say goodbye to their good friend in Colorado. I thought you might like a little review of her whirlwind trip. . .

Sunday

Veggie: Okay, I'm leaving for Maryland now to start my big road trip. I'll call you each night from the road.

Monday

Veggie: I made it to Chicago. We even stopped in South Bend to see Brad.

Tuesday

Veggie: But I didn't need to call you tonight. I told you before we left. . . we're spending two nights in Chicago.

Wednesday

Veggie: Omaha. . . Of course that's the one Nebraska. . .

Thursday

Voicemail: Hi Mom and Dad, it's Veggie. We broke down in Nebraska and we're spending the night at a Holiday Inn. The car will be fixed first thing in the morning. . . .



Friday

Veggie: We finally made it! We're in Colorado! We had to drop Steve off in Wyoming first. . . .

Saturday

Voicemail: We're on the way to Susie's grandparents' house in Kansas. We think we'll probably be there around midnight. . .



Sunday

Text Message: University of Kentucky! We'll be back in Maryland tomorrow!

Monday

Veggie: I picked up my car at Susie's, but I'm not going to come home right away. . . . Amy doesn't know it yet, but I'm going to Annapolis to say goodbye to her.

Tuesday

Veggie: I'm driving to D.C. to see Matt. . . I'll be home tomorrow!

Wednesday
Ponzi: Oh, I forgot to tell you. . Veggie was home for about an hour and then Jenny called her and she needed to go pick her up in Connecticut. . . but then she called and said they're taking the train into the city. . . she'll be home tomorrow. . . she promises. . .

Thursday

Veggie: Yes, I'm home. . . . Dinner? Well, I may not actually be home for dinner. . . .

A Letter to Veggie Upon Her Graduation from College. . . well, to be exact, two days later. . .

Dear Veg,

What with all the tears, and the dancing, and the eating, and the missed rides, and the accusations of drunkenness, I didn't get to talk to you upon this great and momentous occasion in your life.

And I have some words wisdom I wanted to impart.

And I would have written them to you sooner had your hand-me-down laptop not crapped out on me last night . . . and the other two p.c.'s in the house been gummed up by your sister, Trigger . . . and Ponzi not even letting me near her MacBook and all. . .


But here I am.

And I want to tell you how proud I am of you and the woman you have become. I love your free-spirited-pseudo-flower-child-carefree-coffeeshop approach to life. I love your big and generous heart. And I am delighted with all you have achieved.

I guess if someone asked me to sum up a lifetime of advice in three words (which you haven't) I would say, Don't be afraid.

• Don't be afraid to be assertive. You know what you want. Make sure others know it too.
• Don't be afraid to be proactive. You have a good heart and should trust it.
• Don't be afraid to be smart, skinny, and beautiful all at the same time. . . cause you are. . .
• Don't be afraid to wear perfect coats. . . .even if women like me stalk you.
• Don't be afraid to laugh; your laughter is contagious.
• I already know you're not afraid to cry . . . but I'll say it anyway. I have found tears to be a very effective cleanser.
• Don't be afraid to love - even though it may get you in a teensie, weensie bit of trouble from time to time.

• Don't be afraid to forgive when you feel the time is right.
• Don't be afraid to use funny words cause they make you sound interesting. I - for one - am currently enthralled by the word akimbo and use it at every opportunity.
  
  
• Don't be afraid to be original. Find your own word and flaunt it.
• Don't be afraid of silence. Solitude does not equal loneliness.
  
• Don't be afraid to listen when God talks.

• Don't be afraid to be picky. Call it discerning if you will. . .
• Don't ever be afraid to be grateful. . . or joyful . . . or thoughtful . . . or thankful. . . or just plain-old full!
• Even though you're a free spirit, don't forget to put the grocery cart back in its rightful place after you use it. Some things should just be set right at the end and not left all akimbo. . . .

• And never. . . ever. . . under any circumstances. . . should you be afraid to be a mother. . . of BOYS!
  

posted today at 5:58 p.m. on my trusty crap-top. . . .

The cost of letting her live on this earth

My post the other day got me thinking. . . what if I really tallied every dime it cost me to let my soon-to-be college graduate live upon this earth?

I'm sure I can't calculate every expense, but here's a start. . .

Two years of preschool: $2,500
Nine years of Catholic Grammar school $18,000
Four years of Catholic High School: $42,000
Four years of a private college (even with a $40,000 academic scholarship. . . ) $140,000

now for the fun stuff. . .

Ballet lessons: $600.
Irish dancing lessons, costumes, curly-hair wigs, shoes, feis fees, etc.: $1,200.
Hip-Hop lessons $350.

Braces: $5,000

Broken wrist falling from bicycle: $350.
Broken arm falling down stairs: $300.
Broken other-arm tripping on boardwalk three weeks later: $300.
Neurology testing to diagnose daydreaming: $250.

High school trip to Florida so parents could go to Ireland: $350.
High school Senior Year Spring break in Florida: $450

College laptop: $950.
Replacement college laptop: $700.
Three digital cameras: $375.
Four series of cell phones: $325.
Heaven Nundred and Nifty Blue Scholar phone bill for one month: $752.

My virtual vacation (a.k.a. a semester in Florence) $4,000.

Four years of summer "mission" trips with church youth group: $900.
Two mission trips to Guatemala: $1,300.

Behind-the-wheel driving instruction: $300
Three car accidents: $3,000
One ticket for an "illegal turn": $360.
One summons for underage drinking: I forget.
Third, fourth, and fifth used family cars: $13,000
Car insurance: God help me!
Gas: There is no freakin' way on earth I could calculate that!
Parking tickets: $50

Train fare and spending money for summer of internships with DiNiro: $850;
Getting to talk to DiNiro on the phone about perfume purchases: Priceless!

Clothing? Don't even go there!!!!

Rent for beach house senior year of college: Uncalculated. For a very good reason . . .
Fees that must be paid before Graduation: $290


That's over $230,000 to let that child live upon this earth. . . and that little price tag does not include my own personal birthing fees, pain and hardship, wear-and-tear, or bodily depreciation. . .

My God! Would someone tell me why on earth I ever had three of them????

Hey, I could have billed her for the cost of the honeymoon, cause I'm pretty sure that's where I conceived her. . .

wait. . .wait. . .wait. . . iPods. . . How could i have forgotten two iPods @ $700???? Oh my God, there must be so much more I have forgotten. . .

The price of letting go . . .

Just when you thought that spending $160,000 in hard-earned, after-tax dollars for a daughter's college education was enough, along comes this phone call. . .

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Veggie: Mom!

Me: Yes?

Veggie: I just had graduation practice and then I checked my mailbox. . .

Me: I haven't sent you a single care package in your four years of college. Did you think I'd start now???

Veggie: No! But there was a note in there saying that my diploma was being held until I paid a few things. . . you know. . . these were things that would normally be on the next tuition bill. . . the bursar's bill I think they called it. . . yeah. . . the bursar's bill . . .but now. . . since you don't have to pay tuition anymore. . . like we. . . like. . . have to pay them now or else I can't graduate on Sunday. . . you know . . . it's for things like visits to the health center. . . and a few little parking fines. . . and things like that. . . they would normally be rolled up in tuition bills. . . but now they're on their own . . .

Me: Parking fines? Why do you have parking fines????

Veggie: Mom! Did you forget I have arthritis? I can't like. . . park far away from things!!!!

Me: Okay! What's the number? Just tell me.

Veggie: Well, I was thinking. . . if I return that first dress that Ponzi bought to wear to Prom. . . you know. . . the one she never wore and went out and bought a second one. . .and I shoved it in my bag the weekend I was home. . . well, if there was like a Bloomingdales around here. . .well, then I could return it. . . it still has the tags on it. . . and that would cover like $250 of it. . . you know. . . I don't really need to wear that awesome dress to the senior dance. . .

Me: Keep the dress, Veggie. It looked great on Ponzi, and I'm sure it will look equally awesome on you. . . just tell me what the number is.

Veggie: The number???

Me: The amount. . . just tell me how much the parking fines are and I'll pay them.

Veggie: But they said it has to be in cash or certified check. . .

Me: The number. . .

Veggie: $290.

Me: GULP!!!! So if I transfer $300 to your account, and you get the cash from the machine, will that cover it?

Veggie: Well. . . actually. . . I owe Suzie $45 for the electric bill and Tammy another $45 for the cable bill. . . and . . . well. . . it is Senior Week and all . . .

Me: Okay! I am going to transfer $500 into that account, but that's it! This is officially the last transfer I will ever make into your account!!! From this day forward, you are a college graduate and you are on your own! Is that perfectly. . . unadulterated. . . not-a-doubt-about-it clear???? Perfectly????

Veggie: I hope so. . . .

Spring Break

Well, Number One Daughter has headed south for her spring break. But I don't think I need to worry about her appearing on one of those Girls Gone Wild videos.

That's because she left this morning for Guatemala to volunteer again with From Houses to Homes, Guatemala

She enjoyed her service trip to Guatemala on her winter break so much, she has headed back again.

For once, I am left speechless. . .

And in awe. . .

And without a complaint. . .

This child can't be my daughter!!!!

Roberta's bad day

I’ve come to the conclusion that the only thing worse than being the mother of a teenage girl is to be that same teenager’s car. Of course, you already know that my daughters name their cars (may Zack rest in peace) but do they really show respect for them? Let me introduce you to some of the trials and tribulations endured on just one day in the life of their next car, Roberta:

7:50 a.m. – The oldest daughter drives Roberta to the train station to catch a train into the city for the day. She leaves a tad bit on the late side, and despite the mother’s offers to drop her off on her way to work, swears she’ll be fine. After circling the commuter parking lot, Roberta ends up parked on a neighborhood side street under a sign that reads, 2 Hour Parking Only – All Others Will Be Towed Away.
9:25 a.m. – Nonetheless, Roberta is somewhat surprised when the responsible mother figure arrives and moves her off that side street (for there have been countless other instances where Roberta has been left under similar circumstances.) Noticing, thankfully, that the daughter has been driving on fumes, the responsible mother figure brings her to the nearest gas station and spends yet more of her precious work time and $65 in hard-earned cash to fill Roberta’s gas tank.

9:35 a.m. – Refreshed and renewed, it’s back to the commuter lot again where Roberta has her choice of parking spaces, and the mother attempts to wrestle with the “pay to park” machine at the station. Roberta watches as the mother inserts $5 for a $3 fee, pushes a few buttons, and the machine spits out a receipt declaring that, despite the money deposited, she has no time assigned to her. Then she watches as the mother almost loses her debit card to the very same hungry machine.

And so, Roberta doesn’t blame the mother at all when she displays the lost $5 receipt in a prominent place on her windshield, grabs the full cup of (now iced) coffee that her daughter stopped for along the way and promptly forgot (time she could have used to find a parking place, no doubt) and trudges back to her own car which she left on that side street a good half-mile away on the other side of the station.

Time Unknown – Roberta is disappointed to see a member of the parking authority put a ticket on her windshield despite the best efforts of the mother.

8:05 p.m. – The daughter comes to reclaim the car, sees the parking ticket, mumbles something under her breath, tosses the ticket on the back seat, plugs in her iPod, and proceeds to begin driving to her friend’s house.

8:09 p.m. – Roberta comes to an abrupt stop when a car with flashing lights appears behind her. She watches anxiously as the daughter rifles through the Dunkin Donut napkins in the glove compartment looking for her insurance card and registration. No luck. She hears the officer tell the daughter that she is lucky that he’s only giving her a ticket for a broken taillight and not the $180 ticket for the missing registration.

8:10 p.m. – Although she knows it’s not her fault, Roberta feels somewhat responsible for all that she has clearly been lacking this day–gas in her tank, adequate parking fees, working taillight, missing documentation. The daughter, however, seems to only be angry at the officer and so Roberta and the daughter proceed on to meet the daughter’s friends.

10:52 p.m. – When, after an exhausting day, Roberta finally returns to her own driveway, she hears the daughter tell the responsible mother figure that the other licensed daughter must have been pulled over and not told her parents, for where else would that missing documentation have gone to? For some reason the mother believes her story and goes looking for that other daughter.

But alas, Roberta knows that the last time those cards were used was at the scene of this daughter’s last accident–an accident, by the way, that still had Roberta missing her front bumper.

A pox on your bank

Dear President of PNC Bank,

I understand that times are tough in the banking industry these days, but I'm not sure you understand how tough times are for mothers of teenage girls.

Our daughters continue to spend without regard for the recent economic downturn, while we - their overworked, overtired, and under-appreciated mothers - remain busy trying to vet out their ponzi schemes and mop up the financial turmoil they leave in their wake.

All this, I might add, comes on top of the never-ending responsibilities of posing as a human lie, smoke, and vodka detector while fulfilling the role of personal grocery shopper and hair, beauty, and make-up consultant.

So, with all this going on, can you blame a mother who forgot to transfer that money to her daughter's account so that she could buy a semester's worth of books at college? As you can clearly see when viewing my daughter's account, the minute I realized the error of my ways I quickly rushed to make amends.

And so I don't think it fair that you charged her (a.k.a. me) an extra $216 in fees for overdrawing her account.

Do you have children, Mr. President of PNC Bank? Because, if you have teenaged daughters, you will immediately understand what I'm talking about and will refund those outrageous charges.

And if you don't, I'll put a pox on your house and send my daughters to you!

With all gratitude for your concern for customer loyalty, I remain. . .

p.s. Don't you think it's bad enough that Starbucks charges $3.85 for a latte? Why would you add insult to injury (so to speak) by adding a $36 overdraft charge????

I'm just saying. . .

Daughter Number One returns home

I am only one, but I am one. I cannot do everything, but I can do something.

And I will not let what I cannot do interfere with what I can do.

~Edward Everett Hale

For all who are wondering. . .

Yes, Daughter Number One made it home from her service trip to Guatemala safe and sound. . . and, Yes, she loved it. . . and No, she didn't even mind the bugs. . . and Yes, she desperately wants to go back for her spring break. . . and Yes, she still wants to join the Peace Corps when she graduates in May. . . and Yes, in an unpredictably strange way, her mother has come around to her decision. . . and Yes, her often reticent mother is proud of her!

While there she helped to build a home for a poor Mayan family . . .

Each home costs approximately $3,000, which covers the cost of the construction materials, transportation, salaries, rent, office expenses, etc. Our homes are 13 x 19 foot homes, made entirely of concrete block, with cement floor, corrugated metal roof, with skylight, a metal door with lock, and a metal-framed window with glass. The home is stuccoed and painted inside and out with colors chosen by the home owner. A plaque with your name will be placed on the home honoring your donation.

Don't forget to check out their site http://www.fromhousestohomes.org/

Ola! The newest in G.P.S. tracking systems

Ola!

For those of you wondering how my daughter is liking her service trip to Guatemala. . .


The answer is, I honestly don't know!

I do know, however, that she (correction, someone) withdrew $100 from her account earlier today.

Yes, I have been forced to revert to the sleuth tactics I used when she spent the semester in Florence.

The other day I told you about the panicked(drunken) phone call from the streets of Rome. That phone call, my friends, set the standard that would serve as our routine for the next three-and-a-half months. Daughter Number One called when she needed something, and I tracked her whereabouts on the continent by watching the purchases on her debit card . . . The Fish ‘n Chips in Dublin . . . the nightclub in London. . . the boutique in Edinburgh. (Let me tell you, it was better than having a G.P.S. device plastered to her forehead!)

And each evening before I went to bed, I transferred more money into her account and prayed that the dollar would grow stronger overnight.

Then one day, after she lost her phone along with the brand new digital camera we gave her as a going-away present, along came a call from an unknown number. I was tempted to hit the ignore button, but for some strange reason I answered the call (mother’s intuition if you will) only to hear, Mom, I’m in Paris right now and the stupid machine won’t let me withdraw any money. (Aha ! That’s why I didn’t know where she was!) I only have five dollars in my account and I need to get back to Florence and so do Greg and Kim and they don’t have any money either.
Neither, obviously, do they have a fool for a mother - for I was the only one answering my cell phone that day!!!!

So, Hija de un número, if you happen to read this. . . I pray that you are safe. . . careful . . . and happy. I hope you're not drinking the water and that your host family understands what it is to be a "vegetariano. " And remember. . . It's okay to withdraw money. . . it lets me know you're alive and well. . .

Just don't withdraw demasiado dinero!!!!

The night I learned to let go

I know that some of you are wondering. . . How on earth could she let that daughter go off by herself to build homes for the poor of Guatemala? What kind of care-free mother is she???? Doesn't she worry about her daughter at all???

Well, my friends, it's like this. . .

Years ago I was what you might call a worry wart. I worried about where my children went. . . how they got there. . . what they ate. . . who they were with . . . car accidents . . . near drownings. . . bicycle topplings . . .you name it, I worried about it. . . until . . .

. . . until I sent my oldest for a semester in Florence.

And let me tell you, sending a child for a semester abroad is the Compound W of Motherhood; curing you of any worry warts you may have acquired in your collective years of parenting.

Let me set the stage for you. . .

Daughter Number One has left for Florence on a Saturday, and despite her promises to call when she arrives, the next time we hear from her is Tuesday night. (Thanks to the wonders of on-line flight information, we know that - at the very least - her flights have landed safely.) Now this particular call arrives at our home at about 9:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, which makes it somewhere around 3:00 a.m. in Rome - and the streets of downtown Rome are where she’s calling from. My husband can barely hear her . . . what with all the sirens wailing in the background. . .

Dad! Is that you????

What???

Whoops!!!

I have to go now.

I’ll call you right back. I promise!!

. . . Click. . .

I tried desperately to redial the number she called us from. No luck.

So tell me. . . What would you do in a situation like this????
I tell you what I did . . . . I went to bed and slept like a baby for the first time in weeks!

Sometimes, my friends, you just have to accept the fact that there is nothing on God's good earth you can do that will change the outcome of a situation.
And that, loyal readers, is the night I learned to let go.

It's like that old saying. . .

God, grant me the eyesight to see my daughters' strengths,

the blindfold to ignore her outfits,

and the wisdom to know the difference!

p.s. Months later my daughter let us know that real story behind that phone call. . . turns out she had imbibed a wee bit of that fine Italian wine (okay, she was drunk as a skunk) and hit the wrong button on that new cell phone of hers. . . you know, the one that she had programmed our home number into, but never intended to call!!!!

From Houses to Homes Guatemala

Well, Daughter Number One is off to Guatemala on a service project this morning. . . and, yes, I admire her courage and her willingness to be part of the solution.






But still I worry for her safety and her well-being.



This is not a college-sponsored service trip. . . she is not going with others she knows. . . . she's just volunteered to be part of a building team whose members will come from across the globe. . . . she'll stay with a host family. . . drink a lot of bottled water. . . and hope that the few words of Spanish she knows will get her by.

From Houses . . .

. . . to Homes.

Please stop by their website http://www.fromhousestohomes.org/
Read their mission statement. . .
Look at the photos. . .
Donate if you can. . .
And say a little prayer that Daughter Number One survives for ten days without her cell phone, iTouch, laptop, or flip flops. Pray that she wears those baggy shirts her father made her pack, and the sunscreen her mother begged her to bring. Pray that she never has need for the pepper spray her father snuck into her suitcase or the insurance card her mother forgot to give her. Pray that she comes home in one piece without having adopted a Guatemalan child. And - above all - pray, that after this trip, her desire to join the Peace Corps and move to Africa for two years will become something of a distant memory. . .

Deal? Or no deal?

Tuesday is election day and I have a proposition for my oldest daughter who is away at college.

You don't know this yet, my dear, but you're in a bit of a dilemma, and so am I.

But I have thought of a way to work things out to be a win/win for both of us.


So here is your problem as I see it. . . . I am 90% certain that your absentee ballot request was filed too late to be honored. And so I am anticipating a phone call from you on Monday afternoon or Tuesday morning announcing that you are driving home in order to vote.

The problem with your problem is this: You, my eco-conscience daughter, will be expanding your carbon footprint by driving the unnecessary four hours. In addition, you will be using at least $50 of my money to put gas in that car (unless, by some miracle, you've starting working and have stopped using my credit card) in order to drive here to vote for your candidate and down the line for the rest of the ticket.


I, on the other hand, have over-committed myself yet again, and have not been able to free myself from certain responsibilities with the other political party that I assumed years ago when my children were young and I was not yet stuck in the spin cycle. Hence, my problem is that I am supposed to act as a "challenger" at the polls.

The problem with my problem is this . . . For those of you who don't know me, let me just tell you that avoidance and procrastination are my best friends. Consequently, I have been completely derelict of my civic duty throughout this entire election cycle. I did not attend the information session about becoming a "challenger" so I don't know what my responsibilities are. . . I haven't attended a meeting, opened an email, or returned a desperate phone call from the local party chairman . . . I haven't handed out a leaflet, made a phone call, or shown my face at a rally or event. . . and I cannot - for the life of me - find the challenger card that was mailed to me only two weeks ago!

Now, considering all this, could you tell me how I am going to walk into that polling place and vote on Tuesday??? (Did I forget to tell you that old-fashioned Catholic guilt makes up the third leaf of my best friend troika?)


So here comes my proposition to you - my eldest daughter. . .



It's simple really. . .



Quite ingenious if I do say so myself. . .


You promise to stay home on your couch and I'll promise to stay home on mine!


You save my money and your precious fossil fuels. I'll save myself all sorts of embarrassment, and - most importantly - our votes will not cancel each other out! Your father will still vote for my candidates and your younger sister just realized the other day that I had never registered her to vote (like I would ever help her vote for the other candidate) so the household overall will be up one vote thanks to my efforts and I can rest knowing I have fulfilled my civic duty!


And so I ask you . . . .



Daughter Number One. . .


Deal or no deal????????

Recycled what?

One of my daughters has gotten a bit crunchy with maturity. You know what I mean . . . a wee- bit treehugging, green and earth friendly.

She wanted to drive her gas-guzzling Jeep to a rally in D.C. to protest the use of fossil fuels until I pointed out that she would only be increasing her carbon footprint by going.

But speaking of her carbon footprint, I've been thinking. . . .

How much gas has she wasted on those countless trips to The Mall? How much energy do you think it takes to make those lattes she drinks? And what about the wattage used in those little tanning booths?

Nevertheless, in solidarity with her good intentions, I decided to purchase a few earth-friendly products myself. After discarding both the laundry and dishwashing detergents (I now know why they're labeled earth friendly - because they leave everything looking and smelling like the dog just dragged it in from the back yard) I decided to purchase some recycled paper products.

But now I know where I have to draw the line.

Recycled toilet paper.

The very term makes me wonder if we've advanced from Adam, Eve, and the tree leaf.

And besides, do we really want that recycled stuff when we don't know where it was used before?

I'd rather squeeze the Charmin and get in trouble with Mr. Whipple (and my daughter, for that matter!)

Wouldn't you?

An ode to a non-teenage daugther

Believe it or not, my oldest daughter is turning 21 tomorrow. How I have waited for this day! I am so excited that I feel the need to write a little ditty. . .

Hurray to the one who arrived five weeks early.
She's darling and charming and lovely and whirly.
I remember her birth just like yesterday,
for she's the first one who brought disarray.

I thought her so cute with her hair in a tonsure.
Who was to know she resembled a monster?
Those chipmonk-ey cheeks, head cocked to one side,
you just might just confuse her with Frankenstein's bride.

And though now she sports many symbols of peace,
we'd go to the mall and she'd shop on a leash.
She'd sing-song her way through racks of good clothes,
telling the world that she picked her nose!

And soon she grew into a most graceful tyke,
breaking her wrist while riding her bike.
Breaking one arm when she fell down the stairs,
the next time she fell, the boardwalk was there.

No wonder when this one was all set to drive,
her mother prayed hard that she'd just stay alive.
Though, sadly, it's true that Zack's time has now past,
Roberta's real cool and she drives pretty fast.

Arthritis and countless diseases. . . disorders. . .
the near-to-death drowning in ocean's deep water. . . .
declaring out loud her distaste for all meat. . .
calling home drunk from Rome's darkened streets.

Yes, raising this daughter has been, at times, trying -
the drama, the pain, the tears, fights, and crying.
But now she's "of age" and I'm glad she is mine
to run to the store and buy Mommy some wine!

Happy 21st Birthday!