The Story of She-Who-Works-Hard-For-The-Wampum

Only. . . and I mean O-N-L-Y. . .  in A Mom on Spin's tee-pee could the following happen over the Thanksgiving weekend:

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After preparing (okay, serving . . .I may not have actually prepared all of it. . . ) the grand Thanksgiving feast, the overworked, overtired, and over-all over-spun mother of three daughters finds it necessary to report to work on the day after Thanksgiving in order to attend to a ill-timed funeral (for aren't the old folks supposed to die after the holidays, not before????) and to complete a project the likes of which will no-doubt be seen one day on To Catch a Predator.  And - since all three of her daughters are flat-broke at the present time - this mother offers to pay a salary to her college-aged daughter (a.k.a. She-Who-Is-Most-Broke) to come in and help her.

But - alas - when push comes to shove the next morning, She-Who-Is-Most-Broke cannot rouse herself out of bed on time (tell me.. . . are we still wondering why she's having a wee-bit of attendance trouble with her 8:00 a.m class????) and the wild war-cries of her mother. . . . offering the salary to anyone within earshot . . .are then broadcast loudly throughout the tee-pee.

And so it was that a younger, more-industrious-and-you-might-say-sometimes-scheming-daughter (who also happens to be without income. . . ) heard her mother's plea and, although she was dressed to go to a spin class at the local gym (I know, ironic. . . isn't it???) agrees to report to work with her mother.

It is now abundantly clear that She-Who-Is-Industrious has found favor in her mother's eye, and after a most-productive day, mother and daughter return home.

The mother and Chief-Who-Dries-By-Dripping then proceed to travel to a nearby tribal family's wigwam to drink the peace-wine and eat the newly-killed-pizza.

While She-Who-Is-Industrious quickly discovers that she - too - wants to go to a pow wow, but is in need of a quick infusion of wampum to fund her "activities".


But then - while in the midst of stealing the right regalia to wear for the night - She-Who-Is-Industrious-But-Sometimes-Duplicitous then spies a debit card on She-Who-Is-Most-Broke's bedroom floor.

And because it looks exactly like She-Who-Is-An-Unsuspecting-Mom-on-Spin's debit card, She-Who-Is-Now-Totally-Duplicitous takes it . . .rationalizing that if her sister had possession of Mom's card, then no one could possibly blame her for a  little withdrawal while in the sister's supposed possession. . . .and after-all. . . her mother is going to pay her for her day's work. . . and she'll just view this as a little advance. . .

And She-Who-Is-No-Longer-Industrious-but-Solely-Duplicitous withdraws a grand total of $10 from what she thinks is her mother's account.

But, alas, it turns out the card Ponzi (I mean . . .She-Who-Was-At-One-Time-Viewed-As-Industrious-and-In-Favor )  lifted belonged to She-Who-Was-Most-Broke who, coincidentally, chose the same PIN number her mother had always employed (because we'd be well-within our rights to also refer to her as She-Who-Is-Most-Lazy. . . stay with me here. . . this stuff is important!!!!!!) and who, earlier that day, had used that very same card in a local diner and knowingly depleted the last of the savings from her summer job  -  leaving a grand total of three (that's right. . .  T-H-R-E-E!!!)  dollars in her account to get her through to next summer.

And, before you know it, the unsympathetic, unfeeling, and uncompromising bank had the nerve to levy a whopping $34 in overdraft fees on the unknowing, unwitting, and unsuspecting She-Who-Is-Now-More-Broke-Than-Ever's account - leaving her $41 in the negative.

And . . . when all of the above was discovered earlier today by She-Who-Works-Hard-For-the-Wampum (a.k.a. A Mom on Spin. . .)  let's just say that She-Who-Was-At-One-Time-Viewed-As-Industrious will - from this day forward - be known as She-Who-Is-Now-Forever-In-The-Doghouse. . .

And as to She-Who-Is-Most-Veggie. . .  . if you think she survived this weekend unscathed, let me just tell you that her new name is She-Who-Travels-Long-Distances-To-March-In-Silly-Peace-Rally-Instead-Of-Hunting-For-Job.

How?  You say.

Now that's a tribal legend to be told another day. . .

A Year of Writing Dangerously. . .

I'm proud to report that I recently broke a dysfunctional two-year cycle and conquered my well-founded fear of small rodents in movie theaters.

Yes, my friends, the other day I swallowed a Xanax, donned my sneakers, propped my feet awkwardly on the armrest between the seats in front of me, and settled in to watch Julie and Julia.

Did I like it? Well, I traditionally like my movies with a little more butter. . .

But that movie got me thinking.

I am quickly approaching my one-year blog-a-versary. Perhaps A Mom on Spin's readership would increase if the blog had . . . a purpose. . .a mission. . . a Raison d'etre, if you will. . . . And if little Julie from Queens could cook her way through Julia Child's 524 recipes in 365 days, could A Mom on Spin do something similar?

But what?

My first thought was The Mickey Project. I would go to view one movie a night in order to find out just how long it would take to repeat the mouse (who am I kidding? It was a rat. . . ) incident that drove me away from movies in the first place. But then I remembered that my physician would not look kindly on prescribing 365 Xanax in one sitting. And attending all those movies would seriously cut into my wine-drinking time. Big. Drawback.

And then I thought of The Hair Art Project, where I would post pictures of my daughters' hair art on the shower wall and you could all guess what the image is. . . sort of like a Rorschach ink-dot-of-the-day . . . but then I remembered that the family's two major losers (of hair! I clearly meant hair!) have moved out of the house and cast-offs from the remaining daughter would be a bit slim. The Thong of the Day Project was immediately canceled for the same reason, because not even Ponzi's latest unauthorized shopping spree has supplied her with a full year of thongs. . .

And then it hit me.

The list. No, I mean, THE list!

Did you all know that I've been keeping a list of my daughters' foibles, untruths, and misdeeds? Let's see. . . I have three daughters and 365 days. . . if I just did the math correctly, that's a mere 122 incidents per daughter!

Bingo!

But where to start? I feel like Julie sitting in front of that huge cookbook, wondering how to tackle her project. Should I cover each episode chronologically? By type of transgression? By severity of the offense? Should I lump all alcohol-related incidents together in one month-long series, or spread them out through the year???? And where on earth would I cover the Sopranos (and I don't mean choir member!) boyfriend? Or the identity theft? Or the testosterone scare???

Oh, so much to write. . . so little time. . .

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!

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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. . .

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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 . . . .

A Mom on Spin's Theory on Grumpy Old Ladies

I have recently developed a theory on why some old ladies are grumpy.

Think of it. . . we all know that these ladies weren't born that way. Sometime - when they were younger - they must have smiled. . . and danced. . . and loved. . . and laughed. They must have cooed over newborns and puppies and mini-muffins and pink baby booties. They must have been awed by a spider's web . . . a sunrise. . . a dust bunny.

Let's face it, something must have happened to morph these ladies from happy and productive individuals into the Granny you see trying to hit someone with her cane in the produce aisle! And I think that perhaps I have discovered what it is.

Perhaps she raised a teenage daughter or two.

Perhaps her daughters were vegetarians and her husband, a carnivore.

Perhaps sometimes she felt like the dog was the only one with any manners.

And Perhaps - long ago - those daughters lied to her . . . and stayed out past their curfews . . . and went to concerts. . . and unauthorized parties. . . and cut school. . . and stole her vodka. . . and lied about detention.

Perhaps those daughters treated her as nothing more than a human ATM machine - draining every dollar out of her bank account and every bit of energy out of her soul.

Perhaps they lived on choka-broka-macho-facho-lattes and mani/peds and iTune downloads.

Perhaps they were always needing money for gas.

Perhaps - even though her mother told one daughter that she was the only one authorized to drive the car - she repeatedly let her boyf with the right arm in the sling drive instead.

Perhaps dealing with the Auto Mechanic, Division of Motor Vehicles, and the local parking authority began to unravel her.

Perhaps she even kept a list of her daughters' misdeeds under her pillow.

Perhaps once they embarrassed her by getting caught drinking beer on a church trip. Her church. I mean her place of employment!!!

Perhaps, before she knew of their misdeeds on the church trip, she had shopped for them at the conclusion of Her Perfect Week - vowing to stock all of their favorite things in the house . . . nuts, berries, tampons, yogurt, coffee, energy bars, bottled water, razors . . . you name it, she purchased it . . . and after one of them searched through the kitchen, she snidely quipped How come you didn't get vanilla yogurt? You know I don't like white chocolate raspberry anymore!

Perhaps little things like that made her cry from time to time.

Okay. . . perhaps they made her cry quite often.

Or perhaps those daughters racked up a $430 cell phone bill one month and a $520 bill the next. But perhaps neither of those bills won the prize for most expensive month ever, 'cause nothing beats the one that rolled in at Seven Nundred and Nifty Blue Scholars!
Perhaps things like that phone bill made her drink sometimes.
Okay. . . perhaps they made her drink . . . quite often.
And Perhaps - before she even finished dealing with her mid-life crisis - this same mother found herself tired.

And cynical.

And overwrought.

And overwhelmed.

And - yes - a little bit cranky. . . and irritable. . . and cross. . . and grouchy. . .

And perhaps one day she woke up, looked around, and thought. . . Whose kids are these anyway????

And then, Perhaps, she even started her own blog. . . .you know. . . . kind of like a Public Service Annoucement to warn young parents to eat their offspring while they still could. . .

But by then. . . perhaps . . . it was too late for the poor mother, and she was destined to live Grumpily Ever After. . .

So that's my theory, and I'm sticking to it. . .

The Things I Don't Understand About "Progress" Reports

Following is a list of the things that I apparently don't understand about "Progress" reports (as told to me by my teenage daughters. . . )

• Because progress reports are addressed to The Parent or Guardian of a certain child, said child is not required to share them with her parents if she is over 18 because she's the guardian of myself now, Mom!

• If you're missing like an assignment or two certain teachers might just give you an "F" until you hand them in . . . at which time your grade will automatically turn to an "A".

• If you're missing like a couple of assignments, nicer teachers will put an "I" in that slot because they don't really feel like giving you that "F".

• In any event, parents should not freak out! about a couple of missing assignments.

• Everybody else gets "F"s and "I"s on their progress reports too.

• She got a "B+" in her A.P. English course, so she's not dumb, you know. . .

• In fact, these Progress report-things are so un-important, you might as well intercept them from the family mailbox and take them straight to your room to save your parents the hassle of even looking at them!

And so, they did. . . . And I - on the other hand - got to add a new item to The List.

The Circus Train

Ponzi is taking the train into the city to see Dave Matthews tonight.

I'm very nervous.

You see, neither of my younger daughters has been to a concert in the last six months . . . . ever since . . . ever since. . . well, ever since the day the circus came to town.

Let me just state for the record that I don't like circuses.


And I don't like trains.


And I really, really, really. . . don't like circus trains!


And, because it's finally the end of a long, dry lenten season, let me just present to you a hypothetical scenario. . .

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Let's just say that the circus was in town . . . and your two teenage sons really want to go to this particular circus because a certain clown whose name was - oh, I don't know . . . eynaK East - would be performing there.

So you buy them each a ticket.

Now they, along with the other teenagers from your town, decide to take the train to the circus. And despite your repeated warnings not to eat any candy at the circus (for, in this hypothetical scenario, you must be at least 21 to purchase or consume candy) someone offers them some candy they had lifted from their parents' candy cabinet at home and disguised as some innocuous-colored health food. So on this circus train, your sons start eating that candy like two kids in a candy store - swedish fish, gummi bears, bubblegum, twizzlers, and smarties - until they were Absolut-ly full!

Of course, you're still not sure why your sons over-indulged. You'd like to believe that it's because, heretofore, they had always obeyed your instructions to not partake of candy until they were 21. But it's more likely that those silly teenage boys ate all those sweets on a empty stomach because they were too busy doing their hair, applying their make-up, and picking their outfits to eat the gourmet frozen pizza that you prepared for them.

Now, upon entering the circus, some savvy EMS worker notices that one son is quite ill from eating all of that candy. He worries that your son's blood sugar level might be too high, and so he proceeds to escort your son via ambulance to the nearest emergency room for observation.

After the EMS worker calls you at home in your sleepy bedroom community to inform you that you must come to the big city to retrieve the sugar-laden son (and, no, he doesn't care that your husband is away on a business trip and you never drive into the city yourself - and, no again, he cannot put him on another circus train home) he returns to check out the rest of the circus acts.

And when he returns to Madison Square Garden, who do you think this very same EMS worker would chance to encounter upon his return? You guessed it! Your younger son - who also very clearly imbibed in too much candy. (People, let me tell you, I couldn't make this hypothetical stuff up if I tried. . . ) So off he goes in another ambulance while calling a frantic you who is already on her way into the city with the only teenage son still standing and screaming, Just make sure you bring him to the same emergency room!

Now, if you had had the pleasure of enduring that hypothetical evening (which ended in the ultimate walk of shame when one son was forced to slink to your 1999 minivan in his hospital-issued Johnnie gown) and returned home at 2:00 a.m. needing a little candy-fix yourself. . . don't you think that, months later when the various medical bills start arriving, your daughters (whoops - sons!) would be tripping over each other to hand over the money to pay them?????

I don't understand it.

Why should it be like pulling teeth to get these children to pay their debt to society for their ill-planned, ill-conceived, ill-timed, and ill-fated - well - illnesses??? For after all . . . if they want to eat the candy, don't you think they should be prepared to pay the dentist?

I do. . . (and at the risk of repeating one damn funny pun. . . I'll add. . . ) I Absolut-ly do!!!!

And a little p.s. on why Ponzi is so aptly named. . . I shelled out a total of $210 for three concert tickets for tonight. And as the great phychic and voodoo priestess (that would be me. . .) predicted, I have yet to see any of it back. . . well, she did hand over $45 as she was preparing to leave. . . only after I had given her an additional $40 for the train fare. . . .

Would you like to hear another story kids?????

It seems that not everyone is afraid of a trainwreck like me . . . for I'm guest posting on Smart A$$ Mom today while she's away on vacation with her husband and kids.

And you know. . . being that she's a recent transplant to the Garden State (that would be New Jersey for those of you who don't recognize the motto . . . ) I felt like I needed to give her a few pointers. Go check it out!

But for those who stay behind. . . I have another story for you from The List. . . This one clocks in at number 8 and is fondly known as If Her Lips Are Moving. . . .

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If Her Lips Are Moving

If her lips are moving. . . she’s lying!

At least that’s what a good friend of mine told me, and I find it a good adage to live by. Consider for a moment, what my grounded daughter recently tried to get me to believe.

Although she was being punished, this daughter was still allowed to drive to karate lessons. And even though she could attend any number of classes throughout the week, I knew the class times that she usually attended. So when she attempted to tell me that she was going to a “double” class on a Monday evening, I questioned her.

Are you telling me the truth?

Of course, Mom! Where else would I be going?

Keep in mind that, because she was grounded, I had confiscated her cell phone; leaving her no choice but to use the house phone to speak to her friends. The caller I.D. on the phone clearly told me that she had recently spoken to one of them. I also noticed that she was straightening her hair. For karate???

Where else would you be going? Oh, I don’t know. . . . maybe somewhere with Susie. . .

In my karate uniform? Mom! Why don’t you trust me?

So after beaucoup discussion, we agreed that she would call the house phone when she got to karate so that the caller I.D. would display the fact that she was, indeed, where she should be. (Trust, but verify–another one of my favorite rules to live by.) I then went on my way, and she went on hers.

But I still wasn’t satisfied.

When my husband called to say he was on his way home from work, I asked him to swing by the karate place to look for her car.

As I suspected, her car was not in the karate parking lot.

But it was, coincidentally, in the parking garage of the movie theater across the street.

And, yes, she had left a message for me at home from the karate studio phone informing me that she was there.

Like I said, If her lips are moving, she’s lying . . .

p.s. And just why was she grounded in the first place? you might ask. . . . That - my friends - is a story that ranks waaaaaay up there on the list and is being reserved for a future date. . .

The list. . . and story number ten

So now you know I have a List of outrageous and grievous offenses that my teenage daughters have committed.

Would you care to hear another item from that very same List?

This one currently clocks in at number 10 and is the one I proudly refer to as The Detention Lie.

Now I know what you're thinking. . . Okay, the kid got detention and didn't want her mother to know and so she lied about it.

Not so.

For haven't you realized yet that nothing is simple in the home of A Mom on Spin? You'll just have to read on to find out. . .

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Why a Daughter Glows from Detention

You may think that your darling little daughter will never do anything bad or unruly enough to deserve detention.

You may be right.

But that doesn’t mean that she won’t use a detention lie to spend that after-school time to do something else altogether.

Now, stay with me here. . . .

My daughter came home from school one day and told me that she had been assigned detention the next day because, although she really had completed her homework, she left it in her locker by mistake and that mean Mr. Burke (don’t know what’s wrong with him lately!) gave her detention.

Did I really care? When you look at one small detention compared to the countless other problems in my life, it’s not a big deal. In fact, I was grateful that I wouldn’t have to rush out of work at the usual hour to pick her up.

And so, although she told me she would call me when she was ready to be picked up, I left work early anyway, ran a few errands, and decided to park outside the front of the school and wait . . . for surely detention would be over before long. And so I texted her, telling her I am outside, and risking what I know may be yet another detention assigned for responding to my text while in school, but hey, this relaxed schedule isn’t so bad after all and if I had to do it all again tomorrow, I wouldn’t complain.

I picked up my book and started to read.

I began to have my suspicions a few minutes later when I looked around and noticed for the first time that there were no other parents waiting to pick up other errant children. Strange.

She texted me back. I’m not out yet, but where are you parked?

I answer that I’m parked in front of the school. I can’t tell you why, but a nagging little doubt started to develop. . .

Before long I heard a train’s whistle announcing that the train had pulled into the station adjacent to the school. The nagging feeling got stronger and I began to envision my daughter sneaking back into the school fresh off the train so she could emerge from “detention”.

Five minutes later a text arrived: Can you pick me up in the back, I thought you said you were parked out back and I went out that way and now I’m locked out. And by the way, can you drive Kim home? She had detention too.

Bingo!

The only challenge that remained was to catch them in their lie, and so I tried my hardest to trip them up with tricky detention questions.
So Kim, you didn’t have your homework yesterday either? Oh yes, it seems Mr. Burke was in a really bad mood yesterday!

Who else was in detention with you? They listed names of others without batting an eye. What, exactly, did you do in detention? They told me all about how Mr. Burke made them clean the science lab.

My mothers’ radar must have malfunctioned this time. I dropped my suspicions off along with the best friend, and headed for home.

A couple of days later I spied a train ticket lying amid a pile of clothing on my daughter’s floor. It’s for the very afternoon she spent in “detention”.

Why did I ever doubt my own psychic ability? I haven’t survived as a mother all these years without listening to my inner voice.

But I did slip up in one respect.

I failed to notice that both my daughter and her friend had an unusual “glow” about them–a glow that could only have come from visiting the tanning salon in the next town.

Next time I’ll have to be more observant.