Sellers Beware

Dear Ladies Behind the Counter at Macy's;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All over the purchase of a handbag.

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

Suspicious behavior, all of it.


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

It's a fact.


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

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

And then perhaps return it

on December 26th. . . 

The Reports of My Apology Are Greatly Exaggerated

Just wanted to let you all know that I have made amends with Trigger since I last posted about our disagreement over Facebook. (Not that we were disagreeing about Facebook, mind you.  We were - instead - "voicing" our displeasure with each other through Facebook.)

The other night I got this terrific pain in the side of my head that jolted through me like a dose of Nurse Ratched's electric shock therapy.  And I thought to myself,  Oh here it is at last. . . my untimely demise!

But then I thought, Wait!  How can I possibly die now when my very own daughter thinks I'm mad at her for dropping that class without consulting me?  How will she live with herself after having said all those awful things about me only caring about her G.P.A.? And money? And how hard I work to pay for that college education?


And so, in order to rid my daughter of the guilt-ridden grief that would inevitably ensue, I decided that I would pick up the phone and apologize to her.  Better to think that her mother had reached out to her with her last dying breath than to keel over for good without making amends.  Right?  And who could say whether I was going to be able to send her messages from the afterlife?  I may be too busy playing bridge with the angels, or using the clouds as a trampoline, or doing all of that bowling required to make thunder.  The poor thing just might be scarred for life!

I simply had no guarantee that the lines of communication would be open for me to set her mind at ease once I was gone, so I picked up the phone and called her. . .

But, just as quickly as that searing pain arrived, it disappeared again (even, in fact, before Trigger answered her phone) and so I was left with a bit of a dilemma:  Since my untimely death did not quite seem so imminent any longer, should I still apologize to her?  Could I, perhaps, take my sweet old time and give Trigger the opportunity to apologize to me instead?  Or should I hang up and simply send her a Facebook message?
  

 

Let me just add for the record that Trigger ended up being the only one who "Liked" my last link on Facebook. .  .

Could It Be 2Facebooked?

So the last time we talked about my foray into the world of Facebook, I wasn't quite sure I liked it.  I hadn't yet navigated around the whole Fb world and didn't feel comfortable enough in its space.

Truth be told, it hadn't done anything for me.

Not so anymore.

Facebook is my new BFF.

And, at the risk of further alienating Trigger, I'll tell you why.   (It's okay if I alienate Trigger right now because this weekend was parents' weekend at Ponzi's college and Drip Dry and I went and bonded with her and so she's now like my second BFF and so I even have one to spare and won't be needing Trigger for a while. . . )

That disclaimer noted,  I was simply glancing at Facebook last week and noticed a post that read, Trigger Spin has changed her status.  And, like any good gossip worth her salt, my new BFF displayed my daughter's updated status which read:  Bye, Bye Art History!  Now, I - being the whirlybird parent that I am - happened to know that my darling Trigger was taking an Art History class.  I also happened to know that I did not get any phone calls, emails, or texts discussing the possibility of dropping a class in mid-stream.

And this would be the appropriate time to introduce you to another added benefit of this whole social networking scene - Facebook Messages.  For where else could a college sophomore - and the woman who risked her life giving birth to her - toss around barbs, insults, hysteria, and accusations while her profile picture remained stoically smiling at her adoring public and her arm firmly planted around her sorority sister?

I'm not sure, but I think they ought to call it Two-Face-Booked. . . 

A Post in which I Give You Just the Facts Ma'am

So when I say from time to time that I feel like I'm just Spinning My Wheels, I know you assume I'm exaggerating.

Not so.

In an attempt to convince you, I'm going to relay today's story Sergeant Joe Friday style and give you Just the Facts, Ma'am.

Ready for the opening credits?

Dum, Dum, Dum, Dum. . . . 

The story you are about to hear is true; the names have been changed to protect the innocent.



Fact:   Trigger left for college with a fully functioning phone exactly one week ago today.


Fact:  The following day, The Husband Formerly Known as Drip Dry received a message from the Verizon wireless store in her University town wanting to know if he would authorize the purchase of a new phone because her old phone was suddenly irreparably broken.

Fact:  He did not reply.

Fact:  Hoping to save a little money, we boxed up Ponzi's old phone and prepared to send it to Trigger even though she had never contacted either of us directly to tell us that she no longer had a phone.

 Unfortunate Fact:  Although this was now her second year at the same university, I still didn't know her address (every time I needed it last year, I'd ask and Trigger would text it to me) and so on Monday morning I sent her an email telling her we knew her phone was broken and instructed her to give her father her address so he could send her the replacement phone instead of buying a brand new phone from the Verizon store.

Fact:  I skipped town on Monday afternoon.

Fact:   By Wednesday night her father and I both marveled at how she was managing to survive without her lifeline (and, yes, that little bit of information counts as a fact because Trigger is widely known to eat, sleep, and shower with her phone) because he still had not heard from her.


Fact:  She finally called home on Thursday morning to give Drip Dry her address and told him that she had discovered an old fashioned land-line phone in her dorm room and had been using that because someone told her that,  it was only like eight cents a call. 

Fact:  And so, on the cusp of the long holiday weekend, Drip Dry was now forced to spend $41 to overnight the phone to her . . . but - hey - it's still cheaper than buying a new phone. . . right?

Fact:   The next day I received a call from and unknown number.  It was a panicked Trigger, telling me that they had a hold on her school account and wouldn't let her change a class because we owed them $116.

Fact:   In phone charges.

Fact:  For the land-line phone in her room.

Fact:  The one she had been calling her boyfriend on all week long . . . for hours on end, mind you. . . . thinking that the charges were eight cents a call instead of EIGHT CENTS A MINUTE!

I guess some silly little co-ed didn't get her facts straight!

And now for the closing credits. .  .
Dumb! Dumb! Dumb! Dumb!!!!

Come to Think of It. . . I Still Don't Know if She Was Peeing or Not

So, I've never really told you this, but the real reason I didn't want Trigger to go away to college is that I somehow knew that one day I was destined to receive this panicked phone call, which came in at approximate 8:53 on Sunday morning. . . .

___________________

Me:  Hello?

Trigger:  Mom!  I'm in the most pain I've ever been in in my life!  Should I go to the emergency room?

Me:  What's wrong?

Trigger:  I told you yesterday!  My throat is so sore it feels like it's swollen shut. . .my glands are HUGE and my neck's all swollen. . . I can't move it, you know. . . and I can't touch it. . .  and I have the worst headache I've ever had in my life. . . and it's going down my spine now. . . and I've never been in so much pain in my entire life!  Should I go to the emergency room or not?

Me (considering. .  .) That much pain?  More than the time you broke your right foot in that Irish Dancing competition?

Trigger:  Yup!

Me:  More than the time you broke your left foot playing basketball?

Trigger:  More!

Me:  And what about the two times I brought you to the emergency room with pleurisy?  More than even those times?

Trigger:  Way more!

Me:  How about the appendicitis?  It can't hurt more than the time you had your appendix out. .  .

Trigger:  Mom!  That was Ponzi, not me!

Me:  What?

Trigger:  Mom!  I didn't ask you anything. Talk to me!

Me:  I'm trying!  But your father wants to know if you have a fever. .  .and if you were out at a frat party last night. .  . oh, and are you peeing. .  .

Trigger:  Of course I wasn't out last night, Mom!  I'm sick!  And I don't even know if I have a fever 'cause I can't find my thermometer!  And  what business is it of his if I'm peeing or not?

_____________________

And if, by chance, you can't imagine a conversation worse than that one, I'm here to tell you that once Trigger was indeed in the emergency room (and I, in church mind you. . . ) our primary means of conversation then became texting:

Trigger:  Am hooked up to an I.V. now and they're giving me lots of medicine.

Me:  did u tell them u have lupus and did u give them you rheumatologist name (I have yet to master the art of punctuation and capital letters while texting. .  .)

Trigger:  Yeah, but they said I had to get hooked up right away.

Me:  r u dehydrated u father was right i bet u werent peeing what medicine they giving

Trigger:  I don't know!

Me:  ask them then tell them that doctor milkmans number is two one two eight five three two two nine three (How does one text a number???)

Trigger:  Some antibioitics, some painkillers, antinflammoatory (spelling has never really been Trigger's strong suit. .  .) and something so I don't throw up.

Me:  i think im going to throw up send it here

Trigger:  Mom!

I could go on like this forever,
but know that if Trigger were not back
in her dorm room within two hours of these texts,
I would not be here reporting to you as an ever-faithful  . . .

The Bank of She-Who-Is-Most-Broke

So Trigger's wallet, phone, debit card, and student I.D. were found the day after she called to tell me she lost them. . .  They were at a different Frat house, Mom!  I swear! I don't know how they got there! 

And once she had them back in her possession, she promptly proceeded to overdraw her checking account once again. . .

____________________


She-Who-Works-Hard-for-the-Wampum:  Trig!  Stop overdrawing your bank account!  I just checked it again and you were overdrawn by $1.57.


She-Who-Is-Most-Broke:  I didn't!  I took exactly the right amount of money out!  I had $26 dollars in there to start with and I withdrew $20 from the machine and I even counted in the $2 withdrawal fee that the bank charged me and then I got like a $4 latte at Starbucks.


She-Who-Works-Hard-for-the-Wampum:  But did you check your balance before you did?


She-Who-Is-Most-Broke:  What?


She-Who-Works-Hard-for-the-Wampum:  Did you check your balance. . . like at the machine. . .  before you withdrew that $20?


She-Who-Is-Most-Broke:  I guess so. . .  that's how I knew how much money I could withdraw.  Why?


She-Who-Works-Hard-for-the-Wampum:  Well, I see here that the bank also charged you a $2 balance inquiry fee at the close of the business day, which left you overdrawn by $1.57!  So that's it!  You have no money!  You are flat broke and will remain so until you come home for your Christmas break this Friday and start babysitting.

She-Who-Is-Most-Broke:  No, I'm not broke, Mom!


She-Who-Works-Hard-for-the-Wampum:  Yes you are broke, Trigger!

She-Who-Is-Most-Broke:  No I'm not!  I found out that I can sell my books back after exams. . . and then I'll have like a hundred bucks and I'll have all the money I need to buy Christmas presents!


She-Who-Works-Hard-for-the-Wampum:  Aren't they the very same books that I paid $750 for at the start of the semester?  I better get one heck of a Christmas present from you, young lady. . . .

I'm Not That Classy. . . and also a post where I make use of a whole lot of hyphenated phrases

This very morning I opened my linen closet and chanted a prayer of thanksgiving.

For there, hapazardly stacked inside, were 21 bath towels - brand spanking clean and available for use.

Thank you, God.



And because the let-me-just-state-for-the-record-that-I'm-not-a-rich-bitch-and-what-do-you-expect-for-this-is-Jersey-where-it-seems-that-everyone-and-their-mother-employs-the-help-of-a-domestic-sanitary-engineer-of-which-I-just-happen-to-employ-a-feng-shui-leaning-version-every-other-feng-shuing-week cleaning lady happened to pay a visit to my house today, I had the good sense to revel in my great fortune when I returned home late from work to a clean, peaceful, and hair-and-fur-free environment.

But the tranquility will not last, my friends.

For tomorrow I enter Trigger World for the first time.

Yes, dear readers, I will be traveling to a distant state to see what I imagine to be her chaos-induced-cyclone-of-a-dorm room for the first time.

Oh, and her bathroom.  I will be taking the virgin voyage into what I further imagine to be her hair-and-tap-tap-make-up-induced-swill-of-a-bathing-parlor for the first time too.

And I just may find out exactly how she has survived for the past two-and-and-half-months with just two bath towels when she used to insist on two freshly-laundered towels a day. .  .

Funny. . .

I once read a story about Jacqueline Kennedy Onnasis visiting her famous son while he was a student at Brown and wading through the mounds of clothing strewn about the floor in order to make his bed.

I may have an every-other-week-cleaning-lady and possession of a wicker-table-that-once-belonged-to-her, but since we're on the record here, let me state, my friends:   I'm just not the Jackie O' kind of classy.

And, yes, even my mother - much to her great dismay - employs a cleaning service every other week.

It's the law.

This is Jersey.

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!

Hello God? It's Me Again. . .

 

Hello God?   Can we talk?

As I'm sure you already know, Trigger was home this weekend.

That's right, Trigger was home for the first time since she left for college over six weeks ago.

Now I don't pretend to call myself an expert on dorm life or anything, but I'm convinced this may have been the first opportunity our little Trigger had to actually sleep since she left home.  And the first opportunity to shop. . . and the first to get her eyebrows threaded. . . and her nails mani-pedi-ed. . . Oh yeah. . . and the first time she actually did her laundry ( 'cause it seems that if you spend all those extra flex dollars your mother puts on your student card on Pumpkin Spice Lattes, suddenly there will be none left over to do your laundry . . . )

But it was also our first opportunity to embark on a new more-grown-up mother/daughter relationship.

Just how did it go? you might ask.  Let's look on the bright side and say that - although it may have been the first - it will definitely not have been the last.  . .

And so I find  -  Dear Lord - that I'm in a position where I simply must ask you once more. . .

Watch over that little Trigger of mine. . . keep her safe and warm (even though I refused to buy her that new white Northface jacket) . . .  Keep her healthy (promise me you'll make her phone that prescription in and start taking her meds like she is supposed to, 'cause  Friday's phone call from her NYC Rhuematologist with her blood test results should have been enough to scare the bejesus out of anyone. . .)  Make sure you drag her little butt out of bed for her 8:00 a.m. classes and teach her that all-nighters should be reserved for exam time only.   Remind her always to clean her hair off of the shower walls (she does have roommates, you know. . . ) and show her the miracle of  putting more flex-dollars on her student card from her own bank account!  Make sure she's eating a healthy diet (once more, the absence of flex points rules out her prior vending machine diet. .  .) And in regards to her social life and the sorority she's joined?   Could you make sure that she remembers to stand on her own two feet (despite the fact that she will be forced to stand in her old Uggs and not the new pair she begged me for. .  .) and doesn't do anything too wild and crazy with those frat boys???

Could you do that, Lord?

'Cause God knows  (yes, You! ) I can't.

Misery Loves Company. . .

Phone conversation overheard earlier today between mother and daughter while groggy mother is at work . . . 

~~~~~~~~~~

Trigger:   Mom!

Trigger:  Mom!

Me:  Yes?

Trigger:  Did you get my text?  Why didn't you get back to me?

Me:  You know, Trig, I did get that text.  But I didn't really appreciate the fact that you sent it to me at 3 in the morning, so I didn't respond to it.

Trigger:  Well I didn't want to forget.

Me:  How was it that you needed to tell me to refill your prescription at that particular moment and couldn't wait until morning?  Were you in terrible pain?  Are you out of medicine?

Trigger:  No, but I only have five left.

Me:   I think it could have waited until morning. . .

Trigger:  You always tell me not to sleep with my phone. . . . why do you?

Me:   Because, my dear, I use my phone as my alarm clock.   You know I have GSD (Goldilocks Sleep Disorder) and I need a mobile alarm clock.  As it was, I happened to be in the third and final bed of the night.  And after your little text message I didn't get back to sleep until 5!

Trigger:  Well you could have texted me back.  I was awake you know.  . . .

Make-up Nazis. . .

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~

Me: Hello?

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

Me: Well did you clean it up?

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

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

Me: What? Me?

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

Me: No.

Me: No!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: No?

Me: Never?

Me: Never ever????

Me: Never ever EVER?????

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

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

Me: Say it!

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

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

How to Blame Your Mother for Everything

I'm convinced my daughters took a How to Blame Your Mother for Everything class while in utero.

For how else could it come so naturally?

I received the following voicemail from Ponzi yesterday . . . (now keep in mind that Ponzi has only been out of my sight since Wednesday evening, with a phone call home to report her safe arrival and a text yesterday to ask the question What's that disease where you remain small forever??? )

Ponzi: Hello there Mother! Just wanted to let you know that your daughter's alive. . . and since you never return my phone calls . . . I won't expect a call back from you . . .

And, with my sanity temporarily placed in the unknown zone on the heels of that lovely voicemail . . . I thought, Hey, maybe Trigger's secretly waiting for me to call her. . . and so - buoyed by a Friday evening glass of wine - I decided to throw caution to the wind and placed a call to her. (Remember, Trigger has been away at college since Tuesday, with no real communication between us except her quick responses to my text messages to let me know that she's, Great! . . . and a 30-second call to ascertain that I had put money on her student card.)

And - knowing that sometimes I ask a few too many questions for her liking - I purposely took to the phone lines with a happy and upbeat tone. . .

~~~~~~~~~~

Me: Hi Trig!

Trigger: Hi Mom. . .

Me: How are things?

Trigger: Great!

Me: When do classes start?

Trigger: Monday. . . and, Mom?

Me: Yes?

Trigger: How do you expect me to get my books?

Me: (Oh no. . . I think I know where she's going with this. . . ) Well Trig, you go to the bookstore . . . and pay for your books with the astronomical amount of flex dollars that I put on your student card.

Trigger: No, you were supposed to pre-order them before you got here!

Me: Well, did you do that?

Trigger: No! I just said. . . You were supposed to do that!


Me: (don't you take that bait! . . . move on. . . just move on. . . ) So, how's the food? Have you been eating?

Trigger: Why wouldn't I have been eating, Mom! Do you really think I haven't been eating?

Me: (Oh . . . and your eating habits were so predictable at home. . . ) Well, you didn't really eat breakfast and lunch much when you were here. . . just wondering if you're eating it now. . .

Trigger: That's a lot different than having a schedule, Mom! Now I need to eat with my roommates! Of course I'm eating!

Me: And the food is good?

Trigger: Yes! Of course the food is good! Do you think it wouldn't be good?

Me: (Silly me! I forgot that every college freshman raves about the food at school. . . let's move on. . . let's try to establish a better form of communication. . . something to get me out of this one. . . ) So has your Skype been working?

Trigger: How would I know??? You're never on!

Me: ("On?" What the hell is she talking about?) I didn't know you were trying to reach us. . . but what about your sisters and your friends? Have you video-chatted with anyone else on your Macbook?

Trigger: Everyone else iChats, Mom! But, didn't Dad tell you? My iChat doesn't work here!

Me: It still doesn't?

Trigger: Do you think I would be lying to you about that, Mom? Why would I lie????

Me: (Oh, sweet Jesus, shoot me now. . . anything to end this agony!!!! ) Oh no, Trigger. . . I would never accuse you of lying. . .well . . . okay, then. . . I can tell this isn't the best time for you to be talking. . .

Trigger: Yeah. . . I'm walking to the Pep Rally with my friends . . .

Me: Great! Have a good time. . . and why don't you call me back when you've got a free moment over the weekend . . . you know. . .like when it's good for you. . . I'll wait for you to call me. . .

Trigger: Sure!

Me: Okay, bye now . . . Love you, Trigger!

Me: Trigger?

Me: Trigger????

Me: ???


Trigger: Love you too. . .

And I thought I cried when she left. . .

Things Missing Since Trigger's Departure

It seems that each morning since Trigger left for college, I discover another item missing from my bathroom. Things like. . .

• My razor
• My moisturizer
• My make-up remover
• My foot spray
• My blush

That's okay, though. . . .

I'm good with being a washed-out, dried-up, stinky-footed, hairy-legged, mess of a human being!

No need to bring Trigger back. . . . Really!

I Thought I'd Be Dancing. . .

But I'm not.

Nor am I doing flips, cartwheels, or high-fiving other mothers of teenage daughters.

Instead, I feel a very strange sense of loss. . . of disappointment. . . and of emptiness. And I'm not quite sure if the tears which have made their way down my cheeks uninvited are those of sadness, joy, or simple relief.

For Trigger has left the building.

Yes, my little four-pound . . . pre-mature . . . speech-delayed. . . palate-expanded. . . spelling-challenged. . . arthritis-ridden. . . attention-deficited. . . lupus-hampered. . . short-tempered. . . disordered-eating. . . all-giving. . . animal-loving. . . warm-hearted. . . beautifully-smiled . . . cautiously-pleasing. . . genius of a vegetarian child has left for college.

And yet, after I ran to her room to make her bed and tidy-up the carnage left in the wake of her packing - it felt strangely empty. And after I rushed to the bathroom to clean up her hair-art and close those damned tri-fold mirrors on the vanity for the last time, I felt as though its very life had been squeezed out of it.
And then, despite myself, I started remembering. . .
I remembered how that little preemie baby came screaming out of her C-section head-first so that my husband screamed - thinking she looked like an alien from some third-rate sci-fi movie.
I remembered all those times I'd wrap her in her kitty-cat towel after her bath and she'd cry, My diggies are dold!
I also remembered all those hours we spent in the speech therapist's office, for goodness knows that - years later - someone might find her in a ditch and not realize that her Piggies were cold! leaving them to fall prey to the ravages of frostbite.
I remembered how she loved roller coasters. . . and pirate ships. . . and bumper cars . . . and anything that would turn your insides into mush.
I remembered her yellow birthday party and her love of St. Bernard's.
I remembered all those nights I tucked her into bed and sang her Baby Mine.
I remembered what she looked like in her Irish dancing costume . . . her track uniform. . .her soccer cleats.
I remembered when - after two years on the team - she scored her first (and only) basket and then promptly broke her ankle upon landing.
I remembered lying side-by-side watching Animal Planet on those many days when she was too sick to even get out of bed.
And I remembered how - shortly thereafter - I relented and found myself with a puppy.

Yes, I remember all of these things.
But what I don't remember is this. . .

When did life get so crazy. . . so hectic. . . so inside-out. . . that I lost track of her? When did negotiations over car keys, and spending money, and sleep-overs, and curfews get to be our primary form of communication? When did not talking to each other become a habit?

~~~~~~~~~~

You know, as she was leaving in the wee-hours of the morning, Trigger went to wake the dog in order to give her a proper farewell. I know what she wanted. She wanted to have one of those a girl and her best-friend-moments. But the dog - being a creature of habit - could think of nothing other than eating upon her morning wake-up, and so ran right past Trigger and stared at her food bowl. And Trigger? She was undeniably disappointed, but shrugged her shoulders and got in the car.
For old habits die hard.
And as I watched that car drive away this morning, I knew exactly how Trigger had felt just a moment earlier. . .

Oh. . . lest you be feeling a bit sorry for me. . . don't you worry. I have vowed to make it all up with our now-only-child-Ponzi. . . And won't that be fun????

Trigger Goes to College. . . For Real this Time!

There are few things in life that compare with the stresses associated with sending a teenage daughter off to college. . . and I'm not sure I can objectively talk about those stresses right now.

For Trigger and Mr. Drip Dry leave first thing in the morning.

And let me just say that I have been wildly vacillating between feeling despondent that she's leaving. . . feeling happy that she's leaving. . . feeling guilty for feeling happy that she's leaving . . . feeling annoyed at her lack of packing before leaving. . . feeling hurt at her quick retorts about her leaving . . . feeling broke from all of the money that has flown out of my bank account upon her leaving. . . feeling irritated at my husband who is equally uptight about her leaving. . . feeling inadequate that I cannot tolerate her leaving. . . feeling grateful that Drip Dry is there to facilitate her leaving. . . feeling overwhelmed at the amount of stuff that must be accumulated before her leaving. . . feeling skeptical that she really needs a mani/pedi before her leaving. . . and feeling more-than-a-little-grouchy about the amount of friends who absolutely must be wined/dined/entertained/cried-upon before her leaving. . .

And so it all comes down to this. . . Leave already! Would 'ya????
I'm a mess.

I mean it.

A freakin' frackin' mess. . .

I love the freakin' frackin' thing. . . don't you???

The Pizza Place Chick

Pizza Place Chick (Hereafter known simply as PPChick) Hello. . . Your Local Pizza Place. Can I help you?

Me: Yes, I'd like to place an order.

PPChick: Will that be for pick-up or delivery?

Me: I'll pick it up, but will you stand outside and throw it in my car so I don't have to park?

PPChick: Okay, sure. What do you want?

Me: I want a large order of your macaroni and cheese. I've seen it on your menu but I've always been ashamed to order it. . . but you see . . . the rest of the family won't be home tonight. . . and I always save my macaroni and cheese pig-outs for when I'm all alone and no one can judge me . . . you know what I mean?

PPChick: Yeah, I know. . .

Me: And - truth be told - I've had a really bad day . . . and I need that comfort food now!

PPChick: What was so bad about it?

Me: Well the first thing my eyes were drawn to when I went downstairs this morning was a parking ticket magnetized to the refrigerator . . . compliments of Ponzi, I'm sure. . . and then I purposely arrived at work a half-hour early but the people I was meeting showed up forty-five minutes late. . . throwing off my funeral timing completely . . . and I mean . . . completely. . . . it was the last of five funerals. . . knock wood. . . and then the office worker who I thought was coming never exactly showed up. . . and then there was a lot of turf warfare going on. . . very un-church-like if you ask me. . . and then when I got back home there were dishes in the sink. . . I ask you. . . is there no one in the family who can put a dish in the dishwasher?. . . not one?. . . well . . . anyway. . . then the pizza-resistance (pardon my pun) came when I went to the mailbox and received yet another rejection letter from a literary agent in the mail . . . I don't know why the hell those people have no taste. . . I could make millions for them. . . but I guess you don't want to hear all of this from me now. . . do you?

PPC: So. . . about the macaroni and cheese. . . when do you want to pick it up?

Me: Well, when will it be ready?

PPC: I don't know! We haven't made it yet! I've been on the phone with you the whole time!

Me: Will you just call me when it's ready?

PPC: Yeah!

Me: Do you need my number?

PPC: No. . . we have caller I.D.

Me: Okay. . . You'll call me. . . right? You won't forget? Promise me you won't forget???? 'Cause I'm not giving you a tip if you forget. . .

PPC: No, I won't forget!!!

Me: So how much will that be?

PPC: Let's see. . . with the family discount, it comes to exactly three dollars.

Me: That's it?

PPC: Yeah, Mom! That's it! Can we get off the phone so I can place your order now?

Me: Okay. . . Bye honey. . .

PPC: Bye Mom . . .

Me: And Trigger?

PPC: What?

Me: Are you always this fresh to your customers on the phone??? No wonder no one's been putting any money in that tip jar!!!

New Schooly, Not Knowy. No Airhorn to Blowy.

Since you all liked the title of my last post so much, I thought I might try it again - but this time it pertains to Trigger's High School Graduation.

~~~~~~~~~~

I admit it.

I'm a snob.

Let me qualify that statement. I'm an educational snob.

Not really my fault though. . . I blame it on my Catholic parents. You see, along with my six brothers and sisters, I never set foot inside of a public school building until the day I had to take my S.A.T.'s. . . .

But you don't need to know all this. . .

What you do need to know is that my little family unit broke out of the mold just last summer on the day when my two youngest daughters decided to move from the private all-girls high school to the town's public high school and my checkbook danced a jig with my credit card.

So let's just say that, heretofore, I had always been exposed to a more formal type of high school graduation ceremony. And if Trigger had decided to stick with my old Alma mater for her senior year, she - like her older sister - would have graduated on the sprawling lawn of The Academy in a long white gown, carrying a bouquet of red roses in her carefully white-gloved hands. There would have been sedate and refined applause from the crowd as each name was called, and the whole event would have been crafted to reflect the elegance and refinement with which The Academy was sending these young women out into the world. . .

But - alas - Trigger did not graduate from The Academy this year.


No, last night, Trigger graduated from The High School.

And - after scouring those pre-commencement instructions again today - I feel confident declaring that nowhere in those mailings did it mention that I needed to bring an air horn with me to Trigger's graduation . . .

For the graduation ceremony was held in the town's arena (you know, the one where I last saw the circus? Yeah, that's the one. . . ) and I was totally unprepared for the . . . well. . . circus-like atmosphere that surrounded the awarding of diplomas.
How was I to know that - after the crowd nearly ran a poor mother and child out of town because the toddler was crying during the valedictorian's address - the air horns, megaphones, and police-siren-thingies would come out in force during the calling of the graduates' names and the whole place would be hootin' and hollerin' like we were all at one big ole Texas Hoe Down right here in good old North Jersey????
And when Trigger's name was called, my husband, Ponzi, and I managed to send off a pitiful little clap . . . looking - and sounding - like the groom's stuffy family in My Big Fat Greek Wedding. . .
Damn!
Why didn't anyone tell me?
If I had made the move to the public education system before this past summer (foregoing the estimated $80,000 in tuition which my husband and I have already spent on Trigger's education) I could have afforded the biggest, baddest, boldest air horn on the East Coast!

Thank God there's always Ponzi's graduation next year!

One Morning a Week (It's Like Parent Abuse)

Braja and Amy haven't asked me to participate in their One Morning a Week exchange. . . but they should.

'Cause I could show them what each of them has mericfully avoided - Braja, all peaceful and serene in her Indian village . . . and Amy, all busy in the throes of raising her three young sons.

So I'm barging in - just for today - to show them what my morning was like yesterday (If they want contrast, I'll show them contrast. . . ) and someday in the future, they just might thank me for it.

Oh, and if any of you want to take the role of Me in this one, go right ahead. . .

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

I was sound asleep in my Goldilocks bed at 6:45 a.m.- after battling a long, nomadic, and sleepless night - only to be awakened by Trigger's revelrie. . . .

Trigger: Mom or Dad?

Me: (all croaky morning voicey) Yes?

Trigger: Mom or Dad?

Me: (still croaky - cause, remember, I've been sick. . . ) Yes?

Trigger: MOM or DAD!!!!

Me: Trigg! You don't have to be so loud. I was trying to answer you!

Trigger: Well, I have to be that loud 'cause you're both like practically deaf!

Me: What is so important that you need to wake me up at this time in the morning?

Trigger: I need $75 for my Prom bid.

Me: Is your room picked-up yet? The cleaners are coming today and you promised you'd have it ready by 10:00 last night.

Trigger: But I need the money.

Me: You'll get it when your room is clean.

and so I drift peacefully back to sleep only to be awakened again ten minutes later. . .

Trigger: My room's clean, now where's the money?

Me: I'll get up and get it in a minute

Trigger: You said I'd have it when my room is clean. My room is clean now and I don't have it.

Me: I said You'll get it when your room is clean, not, You'll have it the second your room is clean. . . give me a minute! You're not walking out the door right this moment are you?

Trigger: No, but it like practically takes you ten minutes just to write a check. . .

Me: Shut up!

Trigger: Are you saying Shut up! to your own daughter? That's real grown-up, Mom!




Will someone please promise me something?

When I really do get old and I'm like practically deaf and I start moving a wee-bit slower and it might take me like ten minutes to write a check . . . .can you see to it that I'm never left alone in a room with Trigger? 'Cause I just might strangle her, but it will probably take me like a half-hour to do it! and she might get to me first!

The trust issue

i have made it a rule, thus far, never to blog after more than two glasses of wine.

until tonight. . .

i only want to say this. . . .never. . . ever. . . under any circumstances. . . regardless of what i've said before. . . or might say in the future. . . should you ever. . . and i mean . . . . EVER. . . trust Trigger!

That being said, let me just hint that this latest incident does not qualify as a new item on The list.

Truancy already occupies a spot . . .

p.s. . . .and, yes, my left 'shift' key is still broken . . .9but i only need it sometimes0

How A Mom on Spin thinks on her feet

Remember my last post?

Trust. Trigger.

So my husband and I were driving down the Garden State Parkway after depositing Ponzi and her friends at the church youth-group retreat on Long Beach Island (. . . all hail exit 63!) when I heard the familiar buzz announcing that I had a new text-message.

And because I'm not real savvy at these things I quipped: Oh look! I have a new text message from Trigger! It reads, Call me when you're not wi. . . . when you're not. . . it says, call me when you're not driving anymore!

But it really said, Call me when you're not with Dad.

Would someone tell me who's lousy decision was it to Trust. Trigger. anyway???

Trust. Trigger.

And so, as soon as we landed at Exit 25 and my husband alighted from the car to make the prerequisite trip into the last-stop liquor store for overnight provisions (it's a "dry" town, my friends) I called her.

Trigger: Mom! Can I sleep out tonight?

Me: What do you mean, Sleep out? Sleep out where?

Trigger: Like at Johnny's house. . . you know. . . he used to be Tammy Quinn's boyfriend. . . so you know her parents. . . like he can't be that bad. . .you know. . . like if they let Tammy go out with him. . . and I really want to go there. . . and Jenny. . . and Katie. . . and Kimmie. . . they're all going. . . so I won't be alone. . . I"m sure Tammy used to sleep there too. . .

Me: Why can't you sleep at home like we agreed? You know, like an all-grown-up-eighteen-year-old-who-just-got-a-job-in-a-pizza-joint-daughter???? Will there be drinking there???

Trigger: Well, you know how we talked about how I wouldn't lie to you anymore??? You know, so you can Trust me??? Trigger???

Me Think: Let's see. . . if the kids are all going to Johnny's house to drink, that means they won't be throwing any wild house parties in my house. If I say Yes, I'm sure my house stays in tact. If I say No, they just might descend on my house instead. . . . I know she wants to tell me the truth and all . . . but do I really want to hear it? . . . Can I condone the behavior???

Me Further Thinking: Brilliant idea!

Me: I can't really hear you, Trigger! Your phone must be breaking up. . . I think you're asking me if you can sleep at Suzie's house tonight. . . and if that's what you're asking, the answer is definitely Yes! Suzie's house it is!!! Did you hear me???? I say Yes to sleeping out . . . .but let it be known that I can't really hear you correctly!!!!

Trigger: Thank you. Mom.

Me: And Trigger?

Trigger: Yes?

Me: If something happens and your father finds out, I will deny ever having this conversation with you.

Trigger: I know, Mom. . .

So let's hear it for my new mantra. . . Trust. . . Trigger. . . Trigger. . . Trust. . . Trust. . . Trust. . . Trigger . . . Trigger . . . Trigger!!!