Hey Jack Kerouac

Well, Jack, it turns out I'm obsessed with you.

I always knew about you; I knew your name and I knew to connect you with the Beat Poets or the Beat Generation, and I think I knew that you had written a book called On the Road, but I had never read it nor really thought about you until I went to a bar in Lowell Massachusetts last weekend (the Worthen House it was called) that you were supposed to have frequented - because my husband, like you, is originally from Lowell and it's no wonder that you went On the Road but I won't utter another derogatory word about the birthplace of those that I love.   My husband had a hot dog in that bar that legend has that you and Edgar Allen Poe called your own - but not at the same time, for you were born long after he and his Annabel Lee were and I hear - that among other things - that you popularized a style of writing called Spontaneous Prose where you used the dash instead of a period. .  . and while the dash is not quite as good as ellipses in my book, I think you just might have something there, for it fits my style - I, too, like to go on and on - flinging the punctuation rules to the wind - until my readers want to throw up their hands in disgust.

Spontaneity.  It's all about spontaneity.

And run-on sentences.

I had a Moscow Mule.

In that bar that you and Edgar Allen Poe frequented.  I had never actually ordered one before but I figured that now (actually, then) was the time because they're all back in style now; copper cups and all, and Drip Dry says he drank them growing up in Lowell, so I figured I would go ahead and order one in your honor: "A Moscow Mule," I said to the waitress when she came to take our drink order - and sure enough, that's what she brought me - and it tasted good but I wish I had ordered the hot dog, for I'm all-but-certain that you ordered many a hot dog at that eatery in your day - and sometimes don't you just crave something has bad and unhealthy as a hot dog?

Can I ask you, Jack, how does one deal with a question mark when writing in Spontaneous Prose?

I'm going to read your book.  I ordered it on Audible so I won't really see all of your dashes - all the better, for I can fill them in in my mind - but the punctuation regarding inquiries will still be a dilemma to me. . .

Dear People Who Write Wedding Vows

Dear People Who Write 
Wedding Vows,

I am shortly about to celebrate my 30^th wedding anniversary and admit that my memories of my wedding day may be somewhat fuzzy, but distinctly remember proclaiming the following vows:

I, A Mom on Spin, take you, Drip Dry

 to be my lawful husband,

to have and to hold from this day forward,

for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer

in sickness and in health,

until death do us part.

                        And that, my friends, was it.  With those few words I was hitched – tied to the man standing next to me for the rest of my life.  Oh yes, there was a statement of intentions before those vows and some phrases uttered with the exchange of rings, but in hindsight, those promises may have been a wee bit simplistic.

                        I have spent some time perusing wedding websites which encourage couples to compose their own vows.  And so I have decided to take their advice and rewrite my own:

I, A Mom on Spin, take you, Drip Dry, to be my husband.

I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad.

Please know that during the good times

you will find me laughing along with you,

but when the bad times hit

 I will be hiding my head in the sand somewhere.

I will be there for you through thick and thin –

even if I happen to be the one who becomes quite thicker with age

 while you remain as thin as this very day on which we marry.

I pledge to be your partner in sickness and in health –

especially because you’re one of those crazy health nuts

and I have a hunch I’m going to need all the help I can get.

I swear to be with you for richer and for poorer.

I realize that our yet-to-be-conceived children will cause the

 “poorer” part –

particularly if they turn out to be daughters who view the woman who gave birth to them as a mobile ATM machine.

I vow to stay by your side night and day;

until, of course, my future snoring forces you

 to kick me out of our marital bed

 and take up permanent residence in the guest room.

Oh yes, and I will love you and honor you all the days of my life,

that is, if you will still have me.

Signed,

a poor, snoring, autoimmuner

with her head in the sand,

A Rose by Any Other Name. . .

Being that Drip Dry and I have been on vacation alone now for like two whole days, we've had a long-awaited opportunity to converse with one another in the way that married couples should, but rarely do. . . ' cause, despite what your husband tells you . . . Could you hand me another roll of toilet paper?. . . really doesn't really count as meaningful conversation.

So yesterday after we discussed religion, politics, and found the answer to world peace. . . the conversation eventually rolled around to my blog.  And that, my friends, was when he dropped the bombshell on me.

 Drip Dry doesn't like his bloggy name.

In fact, he thinks the "Drip" part has negative connotations.  (?!?!???)

Now I tried to explain my very logical reasoning to him . . . all about how his name was just an "opposites" thing . . . .and how it is not a commentary on his personality. . . and how my description of him reads. . . In contrast to my Spin Cycle, my husband doesn't sweat the small stuff.  In fact, you might say he prefers the Drip Dry method. . . (I know. . . funny, isn't it???)

But for some inexplicable reason, Old Drippy didn't buy it   What's more, he boldly declared that if I'm truly in search of a contrasting name for him, he wants to be called Hang Dry from now on.

That's right, Hang Dry.

And although I told him that any laundress worth her shirt knows that you only Hang something out to dry after you have put it through the Spin cycle, but Drip Drying avoids spinning completely, he still stood firm.

And when I told him that Hang Dry would be like. . . The most BORING name ever!. . . he still preferred the "Hang" to the "Drip".  (Why must this man put me through the wringer like this????)


I even offered up some playful monikers I had used in the past, like. . . Trigger Finger Guy. . . and Chief-Who-Dries-by-Dripping. . .  but he was not besmirched with either of them.

And then - in a moment of utter frustration - I pulled out the big guns and reminded him that he wouldn't want my gazillions of readers to constantly be thinking about how he was "Hung" . . . but he didn't respond to that.  (Truth be told, he couldn't respond to that 'cause I just thought of that little rejoinder now, but it's hilarious - is it not???)

And so it was that A Mom on Spin and The-Husband-Formerly-Known-as-Drip-Dry decided to forgo the conversing part of their vacation and stick to the more important things. .  . like blogging. . . and drinking. . .and eating. . .and napping. . . 

No Wash-y the Towel-y or Drip Dry Will Growl-y

I always knew that raising our teenage daughters was tough on me.

But I never realized that it was driving my husband certifiably insane.

Isn't it always the way? You're so focused on your own troubles that you don't notice those around you crying out for help?

Just yesterday I walked into the laundry room to do some wash and Drip Dry came in all screaming-like. . . Whatever you do, don't wash those two towels!

Why can't I wash them? I asked innocently.

Because they're big and fluffy! he answered.

What's wrong with big and fluffy??? I inquired.

Nothing's wrong with big and fluffy, but you know our daughters. . .  they use a towel once before discarding it for a freshly laundered one.  They should be using the old threadbare ones until they learn to use a towel more than once!

But they can't stay here! I answered. They'll grow old and smelly.

Well, wash them if you must, he said, but then I'm hiding them!


And so it was that those towels went into hiding. . . along with the blueberries they ate too fast. . . and the chocolate he thought they consumed too much of. . . and the pine nuts that were way too expensive. . . and the Tassimo coffee pods they drank with abandon. . . and the tweezers they didn't appreciate. . .and the razor they stole that was his. . . and the mirror they got their grimy little fingerprints all over. . . and the soda cans they never finish. . . and the iHome they didn't treat correctly . . . and the. . .

Well, you get the picture. . .

Can You Hear Me Now???

Dear Mr. President of Verizon Wireless,

I love you.


Actually I think my husband loves you.


Or perhaps we're both in love with the customer service rep my husband spoke to on the phone yesterday . . . you know. . . the one who told him about your Family Freedom Plan, or some catchy name like that . . . (we don't care what you call it, as long as it makes me do cartwheels. . . ) with unlimited text messaging - no matter whether you're texting in or out of network. . . so each one of Trigger's 10,000 ( that's right I said ten thousand. . . ) monthly text messages will be covered under the plan?????


And that's not all. Do you know what else? (I'm guessing you're an educated man, Mr. President of Verizon Wireless, so I'm going to throw some latin phraseology in here, 'cause my daughters sometimes read my blog and there's something I don't want them to know. . .) Well, that lovely customer service rep actually agreed to ack-bate-day the activation of our freedom plan and everse-ray the latest $400 in exting-tay arges-chay!!!!!Don't you see why we love her?

And you too. We love you too!


And the guy on the commercial? You know, the one who looks a little nerdy and says Can you hear me now? Yeah, well we're his biggest fans now. And the ten thousand people standing behind him who represent The Network? We just adore them! Especially the guys swinging from the phone poles. As a matter of fact, we love them all so much we're going to send each and every one of them a text message to personally thank them for being a Verizon wireless employee. And we won't get charged a penny. . . even . . . if for some strange reason your employees choose another service provider!

~~~~~~~~~

And if you're looking for more witty and entertaining correspondence, go on over to Kat's bungalow and see what others are writing about.

Oh wait! It has just come to my attention that I have to add another little piece of correspondence to my husband. . .

~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Mr. Drip (Dry)

Was it not just this morning that we agreed that Ponzi was not going to get a new phone unless and until she had the cash in hand to pay for it???

Hello????

How was it that you fell prey to her promissory schemes once again? Don't you know that - even if we garnished that child's imaginary wages from now until the day she dies - she will never repay all of the money she owes us????

Why not? you ask. . . because. . . as we both know. . . she has no job!!!!

I am hereby removing you as an authorized decision maker on our new Verizon Family Freedom plan. Let's face it. . . . Veggie's going to have to be the brains of the family from now on!

Signed, your lovely wife . . . .

Will You Still Need Me? Will You Still Feed Me?

Just the other day, after Hubby returned from getting his hair cut, we found ourselves in conversation that went something like this. . .

Mom on Spin: If I ever start growing hairs on my chin. . . would you tell me?

Drip Dry: Sure, I'd tell you. . .

Mom on Spin: But, what if I couldn't see them. . . would you pluck them?

Drip Dry: No way! I'm not plucking your chin! You'd have to do that yourself.

Mom on Spin: Well good luck with your old-man nose hair then! You're gonna have them, you know! And don't you think that one day you'll be begging me to do some ear-hair trimming . . . but I will just turn a blind eye. . . or perhaps a deaf ear. . .

Drip Dry: Well . . .Ha! You're the one that's gonna have to look at it anyway, so I won't care!

Mom on Spin: Well I won't care either!

Drip Dry: Yeah?

Mom on Spin: Yeah! It will serve you right for not plucking my chin when I need you!

~~~~~~~~~~

So remember how this is My Perfect Week?

Well, I wasn't really truthful about how it all began.

As my husband and I were bidding each other a fond farewell in the bright sunshine of the church parking lot yesterday morning, we found ourselves in a conversation that went something like this. . .

Mom on Spin: Now keep an eye on those daughters of ours. . . just because they're on a church trip doesn't mean that they can't find some way to get themselves in trouble. . .

Drip Dry: Oh my God! You have one!

Mom on Spin: What?

Drip Dry: A hair! Here. . . let me get it for you. . .

Mom on Spin: Whaaaaat? A hair? Like on my chin???

Drip Dry: Yeah, nobody's looking I'll just . . .

Mom on Spin: Ouch!!!!

A second letter to my "better half"

Dear Drip Dry,

Thank you for your timely response in attempting to teach Ponzi how to drive.

But perhaps, my love, I was not as clear as I could have been in my last letter to you on the subject. . .

When I requested that you teach our third (and final) daughter how to drive, I was envisioning tutorials in some of the finer arts of driving . . . you know. . . things like K-turns and parallel parking. I was not, my dear, thinking that she would simply drive her older sister's car to Starbucks so that you (and she) could use that ten dollar gift card that had been burning a hole in your pocket since Christmas.

Now, with all due respect, I have to ask you. . .

What in Heaven's name were you thinking????? Good God! That car could drive itself to Starbucks with a blindfold on! In fact, I'm quite sure there's a autopilot setting. . . just push the button that says Coffee!

I don't mean to find fault in your efforts, my love, but you were clearly duped. (Don't fret over your lack of common sense, you Stanford graduate. . . she's fooled quicker thinkers than you. She is - indeed- a smooth operator, that permit girl!)

So now I humbly request that you pick yourself up, brush yourself off, and re-double your efforts to teach her how to drive . . . for real this time.

With all wishes for your future success, I remain. . .

p.s. Those paper Starbucks cups are disposable, even if they do have that cozy sleeve to protect your delicate hands. You can throw it away now. . .

As always, I'm just saying. . .

Conversations with Santa . . .and no, that's not a beer

Christmas Eve

Santa: What are you doing up in the middle of the night? Santa only comes to homes where everyone is sleeping.

Me: Well you see, that's almost a physical impossibility. I suffer from a nomadic sleep disorder - you, know the kind where you get up and wander around in the middle of the night trying every couch and extra bed to find the one that's just right?

Santa: But my dear, why don't you sleep?

Me: I have three teenage girls. . .

Santa: Don't you think I know that already? I'm Santa remember. . . I have them on my list.

Me: Which list are they on? The Naughty or Nice list?

Santa: Well that, my dear, is a tough one.

Me again: You see, I think that's one of the reasons I don't sleep . . . I don't know which list to put them on myself. Sometimes I think they're terribly naughty. . . they fight. . . they lie . . . they're mean to me. . . they accuse me of freaking out! when I'm only asking a question . . . they're self absorbed, self-centered, and self. . . well, they're plain old selfish!

Santa: But they're teenagers. What did you expect?

Me: I honestly don't know what I expected. I held them as tiny newborns in my arms. . . I fed them in the middle of the night. . . I kissed them . . . I loved them . . . I tucked them into bed. . . drove them to their dancing lessons . . . helped them with their homework . . . took them to the mall. . . threw them birthday parties . . . rushed them to the emergency room with their broken bones. . . .stayed by their side when they were sick . . . You name it, I did it!

Santa: And now?

Me: Well now they no longer need me.

Santa: Not at all?

Me: I guess I should correct that. They no longer need me as long as they have my debit card. As a matter of fact, I now know what I feel like . . . a human ATM machine. . . dispensing twenties and fifties . . . and permission slips. . . and tanks of gas. . . and tampons, twizzlers, and tofu . . . but yet I've never once seen them make a deposit. And if by chance they approach the machine and it doesn't behave quite the way they want it to, I get kicked and screamed at and banged on until I give in and spit out what it is they want.

Me again: Some days I just want to post a big OUT OF ORDER sign and just walk away. Or better yet - a sign that reads DEPOSITS ONLY!

Santa: Well, my dear, I wish I could give you some magical words of advice. I've never had teenage girls before. I think the best advice I can give you is just to sit tight and wait for them to come around. You've raised them to be good people, you know. . . just keep loving them and those deposits will roll in sooner or later . . .

Me: Are you sure?

Santa: I'm not a psychic, you know, but it's a pretty good guess. Now speaking of deposits. . . let's get these stockings filled. . .

Me: Okay. . . I guess you're right. . .

Me again: And just one more thing. . .

Santa: Yes?

Me: Thanks for not sleeping through the present thing this year. I'm sorry for calling you a Good for Nothing Elf. . . .I know I don't say it often enough, but I really do love you. Even if you snore a lot!

Santa: I love you too. Now let's get back to bed and try to get some sleep! We've got a big day tomorrow.

Question: How do you stop the father of a teenage girl in his tracks?

Answer: Get her a boyfriend.

Now Drip Dry is what you might call a jack-of-all-trades.

Although he's an electrical engineer by day, he's also known to many as the guy who never met an appliance he couldn't fix (evidence of such is the fact that I'm still using the same vacuum cleaner he owned when I married him 22 years ago.) He also is my favorite electrician, wallpaper hanger, painter, and mason.

So earlier this school year when his darling teenage daughters asked him to update their old "playroom" in our basement so that they could have a place to hang out with their new friends, he went to work at a frantic pace - ripping up carpet, spackling, sanding, and painting. . . the only piece left to complete was installing new carpeting.

Until the day . . .

What day? you ask.

The day he walked downstairs and saw his prized little daughter on the family room couch with her "friend-who-is-a-boy" (I told you, we're under strict instructions not to call him her boyfriend!)

That was the day of the work stoppage. . . the day that every effort to complete that new room was abruptly halted. . . . the day that I (their over-taxed, over-tired, and over-spun-mother) had to start fielding 101 questions from them.

Why isn't Dad finishing the basement for us? When's he going to put the carpet down? Why can't you do it?????

I tried to deploy my most trusted weapon - procrastination - but those two girls beat me yet again.

They had their two friends-who-just-happen-to-be-boys (I like to call them Thing 1 and Thing 2) hook up the t.v., d.v.d. player and x-box - and are all now in my basement watching t.v. with their feet up on the couch.

Please tell me. . . . have you ever met a teenage boy who would care if there were carpeting under his feet when he's sitting with one of my daughters on the couch???? All the better to lie down with, my dear. . . . . .

Yikes! Get me the number of that next-day carpet installer! Quick!