What Kind of Idiot?

I just want to tell you that things have not been going as planned lately. It seems that the cosmos has things in store for me that I wouldn't have chosen for myself.

Let me reassure you that I don't have blue hair (currently) but I do have a hair story.  Silly me thought that I could go and pick up my prescriptions before getting my hair colored the other day.  Plus the appointment was at 1:30.  Dicey time for me.  Approaching the daily melt down when I need to be near my bed. I was sitting in the chair, hair full of dye when it descended:  The Walking Dead Wipeout.   I ended up begging the receptionist to go and rip my hairdresser back from her lunch break to wash that wicked stuff out of my hair.  No cut.  No blow-dry. Said yes to the purchase of yet-another no-frizz product.  Like an idiot, I emptied the contents of my wallet, gave it to her, and walked out of that salon.

Idiot.

I have a plant story too.  I have been fascinated with forest bathing and wanted to bring some more plants into my home.   Now plants are about the only thing you can't order online, although I have ordered live bamboo sticks from Amazon.  (And in retrospect I guess I could have called 1-800-FLOWERS and sent a plant to myself.)  But instead I thought, "What kind of idiot can't drive to the adjacent town and go into a green house, pick out a plant and leave?"


What kind of idiot?

 Guess.

I was such a mess in that hot, humid greenhouse I wanted to die. I snatched up a plant so quickly, I don't know its name, whether it needs sun or shade, or how much to water it.  I just know it's green and will exude all sorts of good things into my air.

And I have a tree story too. . .

And a pool story. . .

OH, how is it that I have to readjust my life once again?  Is it truly possible that I can't even do the little things anymore?


Someone bring me back from this!

But I Did Everything Right!

UGH!!!

I did everything right this morning.

Rose around 8:30 a.m., downed my first two morning medications, sat in the shade in my backyard sipping coffee, said my morning prayers, and then meditated with moist compresses on my eyes.  Why, I even stood guard and prevented the dog from pooping in the yard next door!

I returned back inside and - deciding against my usual carb-heavy breakfast - chose to eat fruit instead.  I then took my other six morning meds, started my essential oil diffuser, soaked in a tepid bath filled with epsom salts and essential oils with spa music playing, drank my low-salt-no-sugar-vitamin-and-electrolyte-water, and stood up.

UGH!

Dizzy.  Nauseous.  Disgusted.

What happened to the benefits of being around trees?  The sheer goodness of summer nectarines and strawberries?  The detox of epsom salts?  The good karma connected with the dog poop?

All of it down the drain with the bath water.

Could it have been the second cup of coffee consumed while reveling in the fresh morning air?  The fact that my poor gastritis-ridden stomach cannot handle the ingestion of eight morning meds with just fruit?  Could it be that I truly need my morning bagel for medicinal purposes?

I well remember those days long ago; days when, after working long frantic hours, I would long for a day in bed.  Now I can't do enough to get out of it.

There's always tomorrow I suppose. . .

My Boring Life Part 3

Just signed into my Amazon account.

My family has placed 132 orders in the past six months.

Does that sound a little undun to you?




If you need more proof, check out this post on Drying My Tears

My Boring Life Part 1

So here's a little confession. . .

I ran the dishwasher last night before I went to bed because, it had been like three days since I ran it last.  It was time.  Right?  Yet when I went to unload it this morning I was a bit surprised by its contents, which included the following:

• 5 coffee mugs
• 6 wine glasses
• 1 Sam Adams pint glass
• Some random silverware
• 2 lunch plates

 That's it.  C'est tout.  The totality of it.

I haven't put away a spatula, a colander, or a pair of salad tongs in as long as I can remember. 

Proof positive that Drip Dry and I have been living on coffee, wine, water bottles, sandwiches that he brings home from work, prepared foods in microwavable trays, and toast that I put on an actual lunch plate.

The Fall of Olympic Proportions

Some say it was an evolution of sorts.

Others tell me it was cascade-like.

Many describe it as a pirouette.

All 100 guests gasped when they saw it.  The fall that went on forever.  And ever.  The fall of Olympic proportions.

And then someone from the concerned crowd cried out, "Liz Wilkey just fell!"

Another quipped, "Liz Wilkey????  Did you say Liz Wilkey?"

As if there were any doubt as to exactly who it was that stepped off that step into nothing but thin air, the woman who had somehow turned and landed on her feet and then stepped backwards over and over again trying desperately to catch herself and regain her balance - a gymnast who didn't quite stick the landing.

And then?  Then she turned into that unfortunate ice skater who practices day and night for the big competition; attempting to do the quadruple Salchow, and somehow is short on her rotation and ends up falling flat on her butt in front of thousands of people.

Olympic proportions.

If course there weren't thousands who saw me fall as we were waiting for the valet service to bring our car after the event with 1250 attendees.  No, I'd estimate that gasp came from about 100 collective mouths.  But ice skaters don't have the additional humiliation of the competitor's husband running over and screaming, "Nobody move her!" at the exact moment that the parking attendant drives up and yells, "Black Nissan Rogue!"

Nobody move her?

I don't know who you think you're married to buddy, but I moving alright.  My car.  Just get me into my car!  Away from these faces, these eyes, these people!  I want my black Nissan Rogue!  But first I want a bag to put over my head as you raise me up and walk me over there.

Oh, the humiliation!



(For all who care. . .  you can read the story behind the story here.)

How It Was that I Needed Just a Little Bit More than a Hair. . .

So this morning, in order to prepare for what will soon be our empty-except-for-the-boomeranger-but-she's-never-here-on-the-weekends nest, I thought it might be nice to actually do something with Drip Dry.

You know. .  . like, together.

But the problem is that there are very few things that we both enjoy.

He likes golf, exercise, and health foods.

I like cheese, bagels, blogging, and reading.

Sad to say, the only interest we both heartily share is affiliated with alcohol consumption, but it was 8:00 a.m. and, after some back and forth, we decided to take that option off the table.

Now I made the suggestion that we go to church like many couples do, but he quickly refused - even when I reminded him that it was probably the only place in town serving wine at 8:30 in the morning.

But wine or no-wine. . . Drip Dry was not going to church.   In fact, he insisted on going for a run instead, while I - in my sainthood - opted for the hair-of-the-dog route.  But we did, however, agree to meet up later and go to the Sunday morning farmer's market together.

Splendid.

Except that I forgot all about the embarrassment factor that comes with shopping with my husband.  How bad could it be? you ask.  Let me recount just some of the things that came out of his mouth when others were in earshot:

Hey look what that lady bought, Liz, how come you never buy that?  

Garlic?  I've never seen garlic look like that!  Yes, of course garlic upsets my digestive system. 

Seafood!   Do they expect you to believe they raise fish on farms? 

Who's that guy over there, Liz?  No!  Don't look now!  I just want you to tell me who he is.

I've gotta text Ed right now to tell him I'm in a sea of humanity. S-E-A   O-F    H-U-M-A-N-I-T-Y!

I know they all have their teeth, Liz! 

Oh look!  The cheese booth. . . I suppose you're going to want to stop at the bread stand next???

$2.99 for six ears. .  . let's see. .  . that's like. . .  like. .  .fifty cents an ear!  That's waaaaaay too expensive for corn.  It's a good thing I'm here with you.  I have to teach you how to economize.  We'll be retired soon, you know.

Oh, and who's that guy standing right there?  You know him from church.  He's the one married to the lady with the big. .  . 

Hey!  Why did you leave me standing there?

No, don't leave that way, Liz!  This way is much closer. . .  just crawl under that table there between the two stands and we're home free!

Aha!  Now we get to see where they get the stuff from.  Look at those boxes.  I told you . . . this stuff doesn't really come from farms.  It comes from boxes!


Needless to say, I have already scheduled his tee time for next Sunday morning.

Like I Said. . . Familiar Territory

Let me just state for the record that I'm no stranger to Emergency Rooms.

In fact, a quick review of visits reveals that - while I have been a patient twice - I have accompanied a family member to the emergency room a grand total of 20 times in my 23 years of married life.

So the other night, while sitting at my mother's bedside at four in the morning waiting for her dangerously-low blood sugar levels to rise, I knew I was in familiar territory. And so it was that my mind inevitably started wandering to other fond memories of time spent in the ER.

Let me just tell you for starters that the Spin family does not spring from the most graceful stock.  My children have broken various bones while Irish dancing, playing basketball, falling off curbs, walking down stairs, passing each other in the hallway, and strolling along a boardwalk.  And as my clumsy children have grown older and less prone to falling, my aging parents seem to have become more so.  What's more . . . bouts with A.D.D., arthritis, and autoimmune diseases have caused my children to show up in the ER presenting some pretty wacky symptoms.

But take note, if you will, of the eerie similarities in some of our other emergency room visits:

• Trigger broke a foot on three separate occasions.  I once had to dash to an emergency room in a neighboring state when Veggie lost all feeling in her feet.

• One summer Veggie broke her right arm first and fractured her left arm four weeks later.

• My daughters have gone to the ER to have both an appendix and a forgotten feminine protection product removed (not in the same visit, mind you. . . )

• Trigger was in the emergency room exactly one-year-to-the-day after having been treated there for an identical ailment.

• I was rushed to the ER after falling up the stairs; Veggie after falling down.

•  And Ponzi was placed in the same bay of the same ER two days in a row.

           And no list would be complete, my friends, without the inclusion of my all-time favorite. . . 

• Last summer, after an endless ER wait with my father, my sister's husband surprised us with a cooler containing some well-deserved vodka drinks. The summer before that, vodka consumption was the surprise cause of not one. . . but TWO. . .  of my daughters being transported to the same New York City emergency room from a rock concert.

Like I said. . . familiar territory

I Have Seen the Devil Himself. . or perhaps it was The Grinch . . but - wait - no, his face was definitely red, not green . . . .

So this weekend started out a little rough for me.

I was hemmed in.  Quite literally.

Attempting to leave the house early Saturday morning in advance of the big blizzard that hit much of the east coast, I discovered that one of the three Sleeping Beauties had parked her car directly behind my garage - a maneuver that I had cautioned her against no less than sixteen thousand times!. . . and the very one which she had been angry with her own sister for pulling just the previous day.

And so I decided to take her car. . . . wait. . .  let me rephrase that. . . I decided to take my car. .  . the car which my husband and I had purchased. .  . registered. . . paid the insurance on. . . .and put the gas into. . .  it's just that my daughters somehow feel like the car belongs to them. . .  because they named her. . . .like naming a car is akin to actual ownership. .  .


So as I turned the key in Roberta's ignition, I made a solemn promise to her that she - for once - would be treated with care and respect.  I also told her that she was in for the ride of her life . . . getting the chance to accompany A Mom on Spin on her errands as an emissary of good will. .  .

First, knowing that I was scheduled to deliver the monthly food from the Angel Food Ministries for my wheelchair-bound friends Meke and Dora, I was able to make a few extra stops in order to get them well-supplied before the big storm hit.

Next I stopped by work to check on the status of some parishioners in the hospital, where I chanced to encounter a very kind gentleman who had come to the church in order to donate a number of frozen turkeys and a single Christmas tree. And so Roberta and I set out around town once again to deliver the turkeys. . .  over to the senior citizen's housing . . .  back to Meke and Dora's . . . and on to other families who I thought might need and appreciate them.

Next, the Christmas tree.  I placed a call to Mr. Drip Dry and he came and tied that tree to the top of my car for me, and Roberta and I set out once again on a mission of mercy.

And the moment I drove away with that tree was the very moment that I - like my favorite character of all times, the Grinch - was suddenly filled with the Christmas Spirit. And as I drove along I found myself composing a little ditty that went something like this. . .

Forget fancy phones. . . and pricey black Uggs. . . 

iPods and downloads and Starbucks in mugs. . . 

Forget about concerts and money that's lost

memberships to the gym, and all that they cost.

Forget about tanning and under-aged drinking

overdraft charges and balances sinking!

For THIS is the stuff that God made Christmas for!

  Why I'm helping my friends. . . and  feeding the poor! 

Caring for those who are down on their luck

When this very morning, I thought I was stuck!
But you know the one thing I love best of all???

'Cause I took their car, they can't go to the Mall!

And so it was that I was filled with happiness as I came to rest at a traffic light and pulled out my phone in order to tell the lucky recipient that a tree was on its way to her home . . .when I saw that the gentleman in the car next to me had put down his window. . . probably to ask for directions, I thought. . . . and I quickly put down my passenger-side window - prepared to make a difference in yet-another lost soul's life that December morn. . .

And then I saw it.

His face was twisted and contorted into a fit of rage.

His complexion was as red as boiling lava.

His tongue was forked and spewing venom.

Get off that phone!

Excuse me? I queried. .  .


I said get off that G**-D****ed phone!

And as I continued to stare at him in disbelief . . . wondering when he would get to the real reason for the conversation . . . . he quickly hurled the ultimate insult at me before I had time to cover Roberta's delicate ears. . . .


You drive like sh**!!! he growled. . . and sped away.

And so it was that Roberta and I were left there - shuddering from our encounter with an entity of unknown origin.  Was it Scrooge?  The Grinch?  The Devil himself?

But it wasn't until I finally returned home and recounted the story to Veggie, that I was able to put the whole episode into perspective. . .  .  Oh, he was probably just an asshole! she said.

Oh yeah. . . assholes. . . for one blissful moment I had forgotten all about them. . . . 

Setting the Record Straight

So, as you might imagine with Christmas right around the corner, tensions in A Mom on Spin's household are running at an all-time high.  And because I've recently been accused of Never being clear about anything, Mom!  I wish to set the record straight and make the following points crystal clear to all those who live in this household with me. . .

1. I have not. . . will not. . . nor will I ever. . . spend $178 on boots for myself.  Why, then, would I compound the agony of purchasing them for someone else by stepping foot in The Dreaded Mall?  If I must violate my own principles in the boot department, the very least you can do is take my debit card to The Mall yourself.  Either one of you.  Because, in total, I have now committed to spending $356.  In boots.  I think I may throw up.
2. And while we're on the subject of The Mall, I don't like the make-up nazis  (oh, I'm sorry. . . was I supposed to call them "artistes"???) in those stores.  You can tap-tap your own booties there and buy your over-priced make-up yourself.
3. Only those who are gainfully employed deserve to own a Blackberry.
4. Claiming you have a birthday four days after Christmas does not allow you to collateralize birthday money to fund future Blackberry data plans.  The rest of your extended family is just not that generous.  Trust me.
5. In case your haven't noticed, gift giving is often a two-way street.  If anyone is interested, I have a very practical wish list of my own. Asking for it just may earn you some brownie points.
6. Despite what you may say, I have never told anyone anything Like sixteen thousand times!
7. I know better than to throw away the Christmas card from your boss and his wife.  In your freakish 7:00 a.m. frenzy to find that card, I may have unwittingly misdirected you as to its ultimate whereabouts, but I never would have thrown it away.
8. Just hearing someone finally admit that You're the only one who ever puts anything away in this house, Liz! makes me feel strangely validated. . . even if it was quickly followed by any accusation of carelessly tossing an oh-so-important item away.
9. Saving bags of kitchen garbage to be fished through in a desperate search for a missing Christmas card may make one feel like he's the master of the house, but finding that card in a place earlier suggested by you after the the "master" has left for work feels a heck-of-a lot better than that!

How to Cook a Celebratory Dinner Like A Mom on Spin

So, after only one week in "The States", Veggie has landed a full-time-part-time-temporarily-permanent position with a pharmaceutical company . . . the news of which sent your favorite Mom on Spin rushing to the market after work to carefully choose organic-farm-raised-no-animals-were-killed-in-the-making-of-this (unless you count the free-range chicken) ingredients for a celebratory family dinner.

And if you - like so many others - have been aching to cook like A Mom on Spin, I suggest you follow these simple steps so that you, too, can serve her famous Family Stir-Fry.

1. Run to the grocery store like a chicken with her head cut off  (but all indications are we'll get to that part of the recipe later. . . )
2. Enter the house and head straight to the basement to pick up the official rice steamer in order to prepare specialty rice you have just paid a premium for.
3. Encounter Ponzi upon entering kitchen - who promptly declares she must leave the house in one-half hour and that she just couldn't wait for you to come home so she made herself a small salad, but if the rest of the dinner is ready on time, she'd love to eat that too!
4. "Bag" the idea of the specialty rice and reach into freezer for bagged brown rice.
5. Cut up organic peppers and onions and begin to saute in frying pan.
6. Look for can of water chestnuts you swore resided in your pantry.  Discover it's a can of tuna. Decide not to add to recipe (although - strictly speaking - it would qualify as vegetarian, now wouldn't it???)
7. Open fridge. Look for soy sauce.  Find only two drops left in bottle.   Scream like a banshee.   Hear Ponzi blame Trigger for using up the family's store of soy sauce.  Find remnants of other "sitr-fry" sauce in an unfamiliar-but-only-slightly-used bottle and decide that it will do.
8. Begin to heat up special Terriaki-flavored "Tofetti" bites in separate frying pan for vegetarian daughters.
9. Observe Veggie enter kitchen and hear her asking you to drive her to the train station so she can have a last overnight in New York before starting her big job. . . and, yes . . . she does have plans for dinner - but they're in "The City". . . you know. . . with her friend . . .  who's in from California. .  .
10. Put all frying pans on "low".  Yell up to Ponzi that she must finish her own cooking and depart immediately for train station.
11. Allow Veggie to take $40 from you to pay for train fare, because the only other valid U.S. currency in her wallet is a $100 bill and - as she discovered last weekend - the conductors on the train won't be able to change that!
12. Ignore her requests to stay in your warm, dry car until the train arrives because your house is most-likely burning down as you speak (for you're beginning to be haunted by the fact that you're not really sure you ever heard Ponzi acknowledge your request to come down to the kitchen. . . )
13. Swear to yourself that you will make an appointment with the Opthamologist tomorrow because you can't see a damned thing in the dark . . .and it's pouring rain on the way back home.
14. Return home to an empty house.  Assume that now no one but Drip Dry will be eating dinner with you.
15. Head to refrigerator and promptly pull out box of Pinot Grigio.
16. Pour wine into glass.  Consume first glass quickly.
17. Throw caution to the wind and feed tofu to dog. . . .for once not thinking how much THAT just cost you! 
18. Smile at the thought.
19. Cut up organic chicken (with head already cut off) and fry in already-used-but-no-longer-holding-tofu pan with stir-fry sauce.
20. Burn tip of tongue while trying to sample chicken prematurely.
21. Observe Ponzi return home, help herself to all of the brown rice and most of the veggies, and yell, Hey!  What happened to the tofu???? but then proceed to head downstairs to eat her vegetarian meal and watch t.v.  (She left you a message, you know.  Did you not get it????)
22. Hear the garage door open, announcing Drip Dry's return home.
23. Separate onions from peppers (for don't you know they upset his delicate digestive system?) and pretend they never existed.
24. Pour more wine out of box.
25. Resort to heating pre-cooked minute rice in microwave and douse with remaining stir-fry sauce.
26. Serve dinner to Drip Dry.
27. Disassemble box in order to milk last of wine out of box and then proceed to blog.
28. Somehow validate Drip Dry's "observations" that no one else in the family likes the theme-related dessert items you purchased by consuming the entire pint of green tea ice cream and the box of ginger cookies by yourself despite the fact that the ice cream would almost qualify as "medicinal" on your burnt tongue. . . would it not????

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!

Oh My God! The "Special" Made Me Do It. . .

So I was with my sister and a friend on Friday night and they were all excited about this new nail salon which offered a manicure and pedicure for only $20.

And, although I'm not really a mani/pedi kind of gal, there was a wedding (bite your tongue. . .  may my daughters never want one. .  .) to go to on Saturday and I got to thinking that I might just employ a little outside help to pretty myself up.  Now keep in mind, it was only the mani part of the mani/pedi I was interested in, but I've never been one to turn down a bargain . . . and why pay $12 for a mani when you can get the whole mani/pedi for just eight bucks more. . . and so, on the way back from buying my suck-it-all-in-unitard-body-shaper and black support hose at the mall, I did the unthinkable and drove unscripted into the parking lot of a new nail salon, riveted by the sign which read . . . 

Special!  

$20  

Mani/Pedi

And, although I may be accused at times of being an impulse shopper, I have never before been an impulse mani/pedi/ier.

And for good reason.

I forgot that I don't like people touching me.

But somehow the thought of the wedding (bite your tongue for even mentioning the word. . . may my daughters never want one. . . ) and the special price led me to dive into that pedi chair without prethinking the consequences.

And, hoping to get past the whole I hope she won't notice that my feet smell thing by quickly immersing them in the water, the nail attendant promptly pulled them out again and said, Oh My God!

What's wrong?  I queried.

And, although I may be accused at times of being an impulse shopper, I have never before been an impulse mani/pedi/ier.

And for good reason.

I forgot that I don't like people touching me.

But somehow the thought of the wedding (bite your tongue for even mentioning the word. . . may my daughters never want one. . . ) and the special price led me to dive into that pedi chair without prethinking the consequences.

And, hoping to get past the whole I hope she won't notice that my feet smell thing by quickly immersing them in the water, the nail attendant promptly pulled them out again and said, Oh My God!

What's wrong?  I queried.

Oh My God!  she re-uttered.  You need  Oh My God!

Oh My God?

There!  she said, pointing to the salon services menu and the item that read Oh My God! Callus Remover.

$35 for mani/pedi with Oh My God!

Are you sure?  I asked.

Positive! she answered.

And so for the next hour the poor nail attendant invoked the name of God as she and her saran wrap attempted to remove the calluses from the bottom of my feet.  And after both she and I had lost a good five pounds in doing so, she turned her attention to my legs.

And it hit me.

She was going to massage my legs.  I hadn't shaved those mother-f***ers in at least two weeks!

Not to mention my toes!  My biggest piggies hadn't seen the edge of a shaving blade since the last time they went to market. . .

Oh. My. God!

And so it was that the unsuspecting pedicurist and her hot stone spent the next ten minutes of her life caressing my prickly and stubbly calf muscles, and the following ten trying to apply nail polish while resisting the urge to braid my three errant toe hairs.

And by that time I was praying to a merciful God to grant me another curist for the mani part, but it seems that praying to God to remove your calluses does not give the supplicant much clout in choosing her next victim, for that same girl took one look at my misshapen and bitten-down fingernails and nearly cried.

But thankfully there wasn't a spa service entitled Go to Hell! and so the poor girl could only ask, Same color? 

Yes, same color.  I replied sheepishly.

And when the time came to pay for all this fun, I found that the $20 mani/pedi sign was, indeed, truthful advertising . . .  for although I paid $35 to the salon for its special services, I coughed up an additional $20 in the form of a tip to that mani/pedi/curist to keep her from laughing at me if God ever grants me the grace to walk back through those doors again.

Oh. . . and just another little tidbit of information. . .

All night long at the wedding (may I never have to pay for one. . . ) my feet were slipping right out of my shoes. And the unitard didn't reach down to my heels, my friends.   Nope. . . .without my trusty calluses, my shoes were suddenly too big.

What was I thinking?

And All this Time I Thought I Was a Christian

If there's a God of weather. . . . I would pray for sunshine.

If there's a God of knowledge. . . . I pray that I remember everything.

And if there's a God of common sense. . . I hope I've been blessed with it.

And - not that there's a separate God of thanks - but if there were, I would thank her/him for allowing me to stretch the gifts and talents he/she has given me to the MAX!

And if, by chance, someone up there is in charge of sleep???? Please send your abundant blessings upon me tonight.

For tomorrow is THE day, my friends, the culmination of my big week. . . the final event in the work/life/worship trinity. . . the "hello and goodbye" picnic for 1,200 of my closest friends. . . the day that I say goodbye to my old boss and usher in the new. . .

Wish me luck.

Oh yeah. . . and if there's a God of wine (was it Dionysus???) tell him I like mine chilled - Pinot Grigio to be exact. . .

So God (I mean the ONE God who handles all this stuff for me. . .) I'll be by to talk to you on Monday . . . . wait for my call, would you????

Delta, Delta, No!

So last night, no doubt, phones all across America were ringing. And in living rooms everywhere, mothers of college-aged daughters were having the same conversation:

Daughter: Mom?

Mother: Yes?

Daughter: Remember how I called you like five times on Friday to get information so I could rush a campus sorority?

Mother: Yes?

Daughter: Well it turns out I kinda filled out the wrong form and I need to re-do it. Can I have that credit card number again?

Mother: But what did we spend that $35 on? Why do you need it again?

Daughter: I just told you! I filled out the wrong form!

Mother: The wrong form? I don't get it! What form did you fill out?

Daughter: (mumble. . .mumble. . . ) fra(mumble)ty

Mother: What's that? I didn't quite hear that. . . your must be on your cell phone 'cause the line is breaking up and your voice just got lower. . . what form?

Daughter: Fraternity! I was rushing a fraternity instead!!!! Can I have that credit card number now?

Daughter: Mom?

Daughter: Mom!

Daughter: Mom! Stop laughing! I need that credit card number now!

Daughter: Mom?

Daughter: Mom!!!!!

Wait! You didn't receive a phone call like that? Imagine! You neither? Nor you?

I just don't get it! Why am I the one who always has all the fun?

No Sleepy with Matey. My New Room Is Greaty. . .

It has happened.

After almost 23 years of marriage and 22 years of motherhood . . . (don't you go counting now. . . Veggie was five weeks early . . .) I have arrived!

For I have created my own space.

That's right. In this four-bedroom, five-human, two-animal, five-alarm, and always-dysfunctional household of mine, I have reclaimed a place for myself.

For me!

And I ask you. . . why is it that - just because you fall in love and choose to marry another human being - you are expected to give up your privacy. . . your solitude. . . . your escape from the world. . . tossing your alone time and sleeping habits in with his??? Did any one of us hear the officiant ask a question like, Do you promise to sleep in the same cramped bed as this man regardless of either party's crazy insomniatic or snoring conditions????

I didn't.

For little did I know that G.I.D. (Goldilocks Insomiac Disorder) would rear its ugly head approximately one week out of each month and leave me literally itching for a fresh bed at 3:00 a.m. . . Nor did I know that - after years of being on-call for each daughter's homework/boyfriend/proma/wardrobe/best-friend/drama, I would yearn for the night when I could post an Off Duty! sign on my bedroom door. . .
And so tonight, my friends, I am blogging in my newly appointed study (although there's nothing studious about it . . . ) It is my retreat . . . my refuge . . . my sanctuary. . . my haven . . . my oasis . . . and I have taken Ponzi's lavender color scheme and added my own black and white. . . and candles. . . and orchids. . . and books. . . and music. . . and antique desk. . . and yoga blankets. . . and - oh - I can't forget my blogging boots. . . and - yes - I am feeling happy. . . and peaceful. . . and satisfied. . . and serene. . . and awfully zen-like. . .

Zen-like.

I'm not sure I know what it means, but I sure am feeling it. . .

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. . .

Dear Daugther Who Texted Me from Appalachia

Dear Daughter Who Texted Me from Appalachia,

Did you learn nothing on your trip to the Gulf Coast after Hurricane Katrina? Or how about your previous trips to repair homes in Appalachia? Isn't part of this trip about discovering just how lucky you are as compared to those who have been born with far less???

Should you not be down on your knees right now thanking the stars above for your overstuffed drawers, your umpteen prom dresses, your precious cell phone, your almost-your-very-own car (okay, she doesn't know Roberta's back on the injured reserve list. . . and let's not tell her right now) your tap-tap make-up, your father's hand-me-down iPod, and the opportunity to go to the college of your choice without so much as thinking how you are going to pay for it???

Did you really need to text me during My Perfect Week to say (and I quote. . . ) My birthday's in 29 days. . . you better get me something SUPER?

Let me tell you something, young lady, you'd better pick up that hammer and knock some sense into that head of yours. (No! Not the nail gun, Trigger, I said the hammer!)

And don't you dare come back home until you do!

And - while you're at it - could you keep your father and sister down there for a few extra days as well? That would just be SUPER!!!

And to my oldest daughter,Veggie???? Even though I know that the immigration officials finally let you into the UK the other morning, it would be reassuring if you would answer my email (or comment right here. . . ) and let me know that you haven't been sold into the sex slave trade or something like that. . . 'cause that would totally ruin My Perfect Week. . .

As always, I'm just sayin'. . . .

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!!!!

Dear Car Gods

It's Friday, so it must be time for another episode of Dear So and So. . . thunk up by Kat at 3 Bedroom Bungalow. Go visit her to read some other fascinating correspondence. . . .

~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Car Gods,

Please excuse me for not knowing your names, but - from my limited understanding of ancient mythology - I'm assuming you must be fairly new to the scene. Oh. . . and I'm also assuming that you must be gods in the plural sense, for no mere god could keep track of my daughter's comings and goings. . . .

Anyway. . . I am writing to you because my little family unit is in very poor automotive health at the present time.

As you probably know, our dear Roberta - after having been stranded in a stranger's driveway all last week while Veggie left for parts unknown, only to return and whisk her up and down the Northeast Corridor for the next three days - has suffered from a breakdown (we think she's a bit of the nervous type. . . but, you know, who wouldn't be traumatized in the hands of my daughters? I refuse to even get in the car when they're driving. . . I can't imagine being the instrument by which they . . . I can say no more. . . ) So, poor Roberta got towed away last night and has been hospitalized for the long holiday weekend until a mechanic shows up on Monday morning to help her.

Which leaves my three daughters to argue over Percy.

Now, Percy may look smart because of all of the cousins' pricey college stickers on the windshield (which came with him at the time of purchase) but even Percy does not have an advanced degree in mediation. And I'm afraid that our poor little Toyota Camry has been witness to some pretty mean-spirited carjacking in the past few days, as the battles between Ponzi and Trigger have escalated to new heights. (Oh. . . and, by the way Car Gods, if you ever see Ponzi's boyfriend. . . you know. . . the one with his right arm in a sling from the broken collarbone. . . driving one of our cars again, could you please eject him quickly from the driver's seat before my husband finds out and ensures that his other arm is place in a sling as well????)

Now where was I?

Well, if the story Ponzi tells me was correct. . . some nice police officer (perhaps the very same one who helped tow Roberta away???) informed her yesterday that Percy had a flat tire and, wasn't it lucky that Ponzi's boyf happened to be in the car 'cause he put air in the tire for her - averting yet another automotive disaster????

But, let me tell you Car Gods, after two chance encounters with police officers yesterday, it's a damn good thing that neither of them saw me driving White Ice.

Now, after looking around for someone to blame for my minivan's current dilemma, I've pointed the finger squarely at the New Jersey Division of Motor Vehicles who dared to have their on-line site "under construction" during the long holiday weekend. Now I ask you. . . how else are slackers like me supposed to renew their 1999 Dodge Grand Caravan's registration which expired on June 30th? Don't they know that I always procrastinate, renewing on line three days late and then printing the receipt, carrying it around in my glove compartment to say Here officer, I really did renew it. . . I just haven't gotten the actual card yet. . . See ??? And what's worse. . . this year's debacle includes a little state inspection that hasn't been performed and whose little "6/2009" sticker is sitting in the corner of my windshield for every police officer from here to eternity to see. . .

Oh my!

So here we are, Car Gods, on a long holiday weekend . . . with five licensed drivers in the house. . . forced to share 1 and 3/4 cars (I guess three out of four tires aren't bad. . . Oh. . . and did I tell you . . . my husband doesn't really like to "share" his Jeep. . . so much so, that it doesn't even rate a name. . . it's just referred to as Dad's Car. . . )

But will you be smiling on me on Monday, Car Gods, when - having already waved goodbye to Ponzi, Trigger and my husband on Sunday as they leave for a service trip to Appalachia - I drop Veggie off at the airport to depart for the UK and return home (all alone!!!) and have four cars to choose from for the remainder of the week?????

I hope so! Oh, I hope so!!!!

No Sicky, No Stoppy. No Streppy, No Poppy!

Some of you may view what comes next as cruel and unusual treatment of a teenage daughter.

Perhaps it is.

But if you had been witness to even a fraction of the cruel and unusual treatment that has been exhibited toward the mother of this teenage daughter, you would understand the extenuating circumstances that have led me to act this way.

And, before you judge me without a trial of my peers, let me say the following in my own defense:

Just last week, foreseeing a long and demand-filled summer, I laid down the law to my daughters about things they were not allowed to call me at work to ask. And along with the most offensive item - cash (or in the absence thereof - my highly-prized Debit card) came a request from me that my offspring refrain from calling me everyday at work to give me a list of items I absolutely need to stop and pick up on my way home. I reminded them that each of them had a driver's license and the God-given talent to navigate through various stores alone. I also reminded them that - on many occasions - I am utterly exhausted at the end of the day, and unless the requested item is a bottle of Pinot Grigio which I will imbibe without their help, I'm thinking that tasting the new and improved flavor of some coconut custard yogurt can probably wait until the next time I've been to the market. . .


This point being understood and universally accepted, you are now allowed to read the rest of this post - which - once again features a conversation with my dear daughter Ponzi . . . who happens to be, without question, the worst of the work-call-request offenders. . .

~~~~~~~~~~

Call received on my cell at 3:30 p.m.

Me: Hello?

Ponzi: Mom! On your way home you need to stop and pick up some ice pops for my sore throat.

I now interrupt this blog post to bring you the following information, which I should have supplied earlier. . .

Ponzi has been complaining of a sore throat for a number of days, but refuses to let it keep her from all of the social engagements and attempted sleepovers that seem to come along with the last few days of school - today having been the absolute last day of her junior year.

We now return to the story. . .

Me: You know, Ponz, I'm particularly tired today and I don't have any other reason to go to the store on my way home, so I'm not going to get those ice pops.

Ponzi: But I need them! My throat is sore and I can barely talk!!!

Me: What I am willing to do for you, Ponzi, is to take you to the doctor to get a strep test. Perhaps you need an antibiotic.

Ponzi: No! I don't have strep throat! I just need ice pops!

Me: Alright! If I leave work and stop to get you ice pops, will you promise me you won't ask to go out tonight? You're sick.

Ponzi: I'm not sick! I'm going out with Timmy tonight, but I need the ice pops first!

Me: If you're not sick, I'm not stopping. It's as simple as that.

Ponzi: But I need them! I can hardly swallow!

Me: If I stop, you don't go out. . .

Ponzi: Mom! You're not making any sense at all!

Me: You want sense? I'll give you "sense". . . "Since" when did you think it's acceptable to call me at work and harass me about a stupid thing like ice pops?????

I'm so grown up sometimes - aren't I????

And- by the way - I'm quite sure that a jury of my peers would never convict me. . .