It Was the Dog. . . in the Laundry Room. . . with the Underwear. . .and the longest run-on sentence you've ever seen in your life . . .

So you must know by now that whenever I return to the house after I've been away I immediately look for the tell-tale signs of miscreant teenage behavior which has taken place in my absence.

It's not that I don't trust my children, really.   It's just that I can't shake the old Reagan philosophy of Trust, but Verify.

Plus, when I think of all of the miscreant behavior that has taken place right under my nose, one cannot help but wonder what sort of trouble these girls could get themselves into while I was slumbering peacefully 150 miles down the Garden State Parkway.   And even though the only female offspring who remains a  teenager in the chronological sense of the word was safely ensconced in Italy under the watchful eye of another lucky parent,  I was all-too-aware of the fact that Veggie and Trigger were still at home - working by day, but still quite capable of wreaking havoc by night.

And so it was that I re-entered my house after my week-long vacation with Drip Dry looking for signs of a wild party or illicit co-habitation.  And even though I had been deprived of the full complement of C.S.I. techniques which I usually employ (for both the cleaning lady and the recycling truck had visited whilst I was away) there were still some discernible changes in the Spin household when I returned:

1. The kitchen microwave had a distinctive dent on its door.
2. A plunger sat next to the laundry room toilet.
3. Drip Dry's one bottle of Old Spice hair and body wash had been replaced by fifty-some bottles of girlie scrubs, rubs, and dubs which now adorned the shower floor.
4. My laundry hamper was empty for the first time since circa 1983.
5. The dog had developed a pathetic whimper.
6. The bathroom scale was clearly broken - weighing everything a full five pounds heavier than before I had left for vacation.
7. Discharge instructions from the local emergency room lay on the dining room table.
8. A strange odor of cat pee now lurked on the bathroom rug.
9. An empty bottle of Captain Jack was found hidden under Ponzi's bed.
10. The magnetic word-art on the refrigerator read "my big gross, stinky, underwear tastes delicious!"

And so it became painfully clear that the following had happened in my absence:

After consuming an entire bottle of rum in a fit of utter loneliness, the despondent dog, pining away for just a sniff of her master, decided to stick her snout in my laundry hamper, and in-so-doing, pulled out a pair of my big, gross, stinky underwear which she immediately deemed delicious! after which - as dogs are wont to do - she mistakenly showed the booty to Trigger who rightfully felt the need to take back the offending item from her - but the dog, my friends, has not been dubbed a retriever for nothing, for once she has decided that something tastes delicious! the skills of a sumo wrestler are required to wrangle said delicacy away; and so, in the inevitable tug-of-war which ensued, Trigger undoubtedly found herself airborne, crashing with a loud Thud! into the microwave oven before landing in a crumpled ball on the kitchen floor - at which point Veggie arrived on the scene in time to spy the dog rushing into the laundry room with the coveted panties while attempting to bury them in the toilet bowl - and,Veggie, being of the mind that she would never touch her mother's unmentionables when they were in a state of total dryness, much less once they had been immersed in stinking toilet water, decided to flush them down the toilet, thinking that the same bowl had on more-than-one-occasion been the ultimate repository for an errant thong or two of her own in the past - but while septic systems, my friends, may think that a teenager's thong is, indeed, a delicacy, they seem to have no love for old lady granny panties (delicious or not) and so the mouth of the toilet started to belch and spew at an alarming rate, which drove Veggie to very quickly learn the fine art of toilet plunging - after which she felt so personally violated that she ran into her parents' shower to wash off the offending smell - replacing her father's Old Spice with every essence of femininity she could find; and it was only upon re-entering the kitchen that she discovered Trigger still unconscious on the floor in front of the now-irreparably-dented microwave - at which point she whisked her off to the emergency room with all haste; and once the last human had left the building the still-intoxicated dog now looked at the tea-totaling cat with a look which said, I think your butt might just smell delicious too! at which point the cat ran like a bat-out-of-hell to her owners' bathroom - jumping in fear onto the bathroom scale, forevermore adding five pounds onto anything ever placed upon it, and accounting for the overwhelming aroma of cat urine upon the bathroom rug.

The end. 

The only thing I can't figure out is how the dog, in all her drunkenness, was able to open the laundry hamper. . .


So what do you think happened????

I'll leave the comment section open this time to see if you have another idea . . . 

My Future's So Bright, Ponzi Has to Wear Shades. . . .

 Be careful what you wish for. . .  one astute reader commented as I  bemoaned my new-found "boring" existence and - ergo - my daughters' lack of bad behavior in my last post.  (Yes, yes, I know. . . two negatives make a positive. . . therefore a "lack" of "bad" behavior must mean "good" behavior. . .  but don't you see???  Good behavior translates to B-O-R-I-N-G in bloggese. .  .)

Where had the good old days gone? I wondered to myself.   The days of bold-faced lying, curfew infractions, and brushes with the law????  You know. . .  the kind of stuff that made me who I am today. .  . A Mom on Spin!

Well, I'm here now to ask you.   Does a black eye count?  

'Cause Ponzi has one.  All signs point to the elbow in the eye she got while doing God-knows-what in the center of the "mosh" pit of the concert she went to on Thursday night.  But, although it looks pretty nasty, the overall "wow" effect of a big old shiner on a beautiful teenager is less than life-altering - for she is proudly sporting it as a badge of courage after all.

No, my friends, this little blip on the radar screen is clearly not enough to get my life back spinning again.

 I promise to get back to you the minute something more exciting happens. . .  .

Despite Ponzi's Best Efforts, this Little Piggy Stayed Home

Overheard in A Mom on Spin's kitchen this weekend. . .(And, by the way, don't I look a wee-bit curvaceous over there?)

____________________


Ponzi:  Mom!  I have a great idea!

Me:  No.

Ponzi:  No?  I didn't even tell you my idea yet!

Me:  I can't help it.   Every idea you've ever had involves spending my money. . .  but I suppose you can go ahead and tell me anyway. . . .

Ponzi:  I have a great idea for something we can do together!  You know. . . like mother/daughter bonding.

Me:  Oh, do you like taking naps too?

Ponzi:  Naps?  No!  I was thinking we could get pedicures.

Me:  Well  I was thinking that the day is all rainy and dreary and I'm kind of tired after that early morning meeting I needed to set up for.   And I thought I would go get a good book.  One that I can cuddle up with this afternoon and fall asleep reading.  And then I could take a good long nap before I have to go to that fundraising dinner tonight.  How about you come to Barnes and Noble with me instead?

Ponzi:  Barnes and Noble?  It takes you like a half-hour to pick out a book there  . . .

Me:  But you could pick out a book too.   And we can even sit in the Starbucks inside and get a coffee. . . . you know a mother/daughter coffee.  Perhaps we could even split it.

Ponzi:  Split a coffee?   Are you crazy?    Plus. .  . you know I hate to read!


Me:  Well you know I hate pedicures.

Ponzi:  You don't really hate pedicures.  You're just saying that!

Me:  Oh no, I'm not.   I do hate pedicures. . . it's like an invasion of my privacy or something. . . what with all the slapping and tickling. . .  . Plus. . .  it's November you know.  No one's going to even see my toes for like another six months.   I'm not paying for a pedicure - correction - Two pedicures . . . . right now!


Ponzi:  Well I'm not going with you to buy a book.


Me:  Well I suppose that settles it!  I've changed my mind.   I'm heading straight to the nap part instead!

Ponzi:  Fine! And since you won't hang out with me, I'm going tanning with Kimmy. . . .

Me:  Fine!

And there you have it folks.

Another stellar moment of motherhood by,

One Poor Correspondant

Dearest Veggie,

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

ARE YOU ALIVE?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You'll have to take over for me.

A Beirdimpfe's Bavarian Birthday Apology to her Bopperl

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

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

 ~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Kerndlabosti (Vegetarian),

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

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

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


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


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


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

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

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


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

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

Affectionately signed,

 (notorious beer drinker, "tavern potato")

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

To Catch a Daughter

So many of my readers write to me and ask: Oh Mom on Spin, how will will I ever be able to handle my child's teenage years? Will I know when they are drinking. . . or smoking. . . or lying to me about where they are going???

The answers to first two will have to be the subject of future blog posts. . . but as to catching a teenager in a lie? My advice, dear readers, is sometimes just as simple as to . . .LISTEN CAREFULLY . . . for in their rush to get to the party, your darling daughter - or her friends - might very well trip themselves up, and their lies will suddenly become as apparent as the nose on Pinocchio's face.

Take - for instance - my recent conversation with Ponzi. . .

~~~~~~~~~~

Ponzi: Is it okay if I sleep at Suzie's house tonight? I'll be back first thing in the morning for Father's Day breakfast.

Me: Suzie's house? Are you really sleeping at Suzie's house? You wouldn't be sleeping at Timmy's or Tommy's house. . . would you?

Ponzi: Mom! Why don't you trust me?
Me Think: (Because I'm your mother, that's why!!!)

But I really answered: Trust? You want me to trust you this time?
Ponzi: Yes Mom. I want you to trust me.

Me: Okay. Suzie's house. You can sleep at Suzie's.

Ponzi: I swear. . . that's where I'll be!

And all was right with the world. . . that was, until Ponzi and Suzie left for their night out. . .

Me: Now, don't forget. . . you have to be home for our Father's Day Breakfast in the morning.

Suzie: Don't worry, Mrs. Mom on Spin. . . . I'll make sure she's home on time. I have to be back home first thing in the morning too . . .

And if this method doesn't work for you, you can always employ another of my tried and true truth-revealing strategies - feign disbelief at one of her sister's stories and all the lies she has told you will come streaming out of her sister's mouth in self defense. . .

Works every time.

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.

A Love Handle Lapachino

The other morning I entered Ponzi's room in search of my ever-elusive box of Q-Tips and guess what I found. . .




This.


Bliss. . . love-handler!



And - thinking it was some sort of slimy and perverted sex product that my seventeen-year-old daughter had no business owning or knowing about- I picked up the bottle and read:

liquid workout for lazy abdominals

with caffeine and lipid-release boosters.

and because my not-too-far-from-fifty-year-old eyes couldn't read the rest of the small print on the lovehandler bottle, I googled it:

Want to whittle your wiggly waist, tone tummy pudge and keep back fat at bay? Wage war on those not-so-hard 'core' areas with this genius gel, formulated for extended 8-hour caffeine release. With cooling mint oil and naturally-derived amino acid ingredients.

Okay.

Now the question you've all been waiting for. . .

What the hell do these girls do with the stuff? Do they sniff it? Apply it? Ingest it? (I'm not kidding here people! You give my daughters any product that boasts of caffeine, and they'll be asking for an extra shot and putting a straw in it. . . )  Do I not hand over enough of my paycheck at Starbucks already that my daughter (a.k.a.. . . me!) now has to spend $36 on caffeine for her non-existent back fat?????? Cause . . . you know . . . it came from me. Even if she never specifically asked for $36 to purchase a Love-Handle Lapachino, I paid for that bottle in some way, shape, or form. . .

Plus, there's the obvious. . .

Now, I don't know about you, but when I think of love handles, my mind wanders to images like this:


not this. . .

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!

What will they think of next for my daughters to go out and spend my hard-earned money on? A champagne pedicure? A vodka facial???? Some Sushi tanning oil???

You tell me. . . cause I've given up. . .

The cost of letting her live on this earth

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

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

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

now for the fun stuff. . .

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

Braces: $5,000

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

The 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

The infirmity in our household

We've had a touch of an infirmity in our household this week.

And no, my friends, it is not the swine flu.

It is, instead, the dreaded Prom-a!

Symptoms include tears, screaming, insomnia, intensive negotiations, and plenty of high-stakes drama!

Drama surrounding dresses bought and returned. . . dates made and broken. . . shoes to be borrowed. . . sticky-boobs to be located . . . "pre" and "post" parties. . . permissions reluctantly granted. . . threats of breathalyzers and police drive-by's. . .

And it seems that the only remedy to Prom-a will come in the form of a manicure, pedicure, eyebrow threading, and a $60 (That's without the tip, Mom!) hairdo.

Oh yes . . . and your oldest sister must come home from college for the weekend to do you makeup.

Prom-a! . . . How I hate you!

p.s. Guess what??? Tonight is just the Junior prom. . . Prom-a! surrounding the Senior prom is scheduled to descend upon our household next month. . .

Trust me. . . your mental health is just fine

So with all of this new-found Trust making its way through our household, Ponzi must have thought, I'm gonna get me some! because she came paddling into my room at 6:45 this morning - a teenager with a mission. . .

Ponzi: Mom, Suzie and Julie are going to the beach today. Their moms are letting them take a mental health day. Can I go with them?

Me: No

Ponzi: Why?

Me: Because I said so.

Ponzi: But why not????

Me: I don't have to explain it to you. My answer is no.

Ponzi: Why won't you tell me why not????

Me: You want an answer???? I'll give you why not. . . becauseyoujustfreakin'frackin'gotbackfromtheGDbeachyesterdaywhereyourfatherandIdroveyouagainstourbetterjudmentand youwouldn'teventellmehowtheretreatwentandifanyoneneedsamentalhealthdayit'smeforputtingupwiththelikesof you,sotrustme!yourmentalhealthisjustfine!!!!!!!!!!

At which point, Ponzi turned and stormed out of the room.

I'm sure you're all reassured to know that - when it comes to doling out permission - I haven't completely lost my marbles. . .

Oh, and p.s.??? She's gonna do it one day. . . just to let you know. . .

Call me crazy, but. . .

Call me crazy.

After numerous high-level negotiations, I turned to my husband last night and said, I think we should trust Trigger.

Let me put those two words back in front of you again:

Trust.

Trigger.

Did you ever think you'd see those two words in the same vicinity again?

I didn't.

But remember the old adage, Trust, but verify? It wouldn't hurt if all of you who live in the mid-Atlantic states did a quick drive-by of my house tonight to ensure that she's not having a wild party while her father and I are away. . . .

All bow before the altar of the Virtual Voodoo Priestess

I'm quite scared.

I think you already know that I have psychic powers. (And if I told you my dream the night before the Needling! incident, you would have goosebumps, my friends. Goosebumps.)

But I didn't know about my virtual voodoo powers.

Remember how in yesterday's voodoo post (published at 6:49 a.m. - I might add. . . ) I pleaded with Ponzi to do something wrong? Well, before nightfall had ever arrived, she had done it again. . . outwitted one of the brightest and best minds in the business! (Not me, silly, her father!) Listen to the story my Stanford University educated husband recounted about his lunchtime visit to our homestead:

Him: I came home for lunch today and Ponzi was here with a friend.

Me: Really? Why???

Him: Something about a fire alarm at the High School and they left. . .

Me: There was a fire at the school?

Him: No, I think it was a false alarm, but the security guards told them to go home. She said she was only missing gym class.

Me: So does that mean she cut school???

Him: Well, I didn't think about it like that. . . but, yeah, I guess so.

Me: And what time was this?

Him: 12:30

Me: School gets out at 2:30 everyday. There's no way she had a two hour gym class. . .

Him: No, she was cutting.

Me: (Risking what I know might be a charge of Needling!) So can I ask you why you didn't haul her ass right back over to that school??

Him: Well, I didn't really think of it. . .

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

And so I quickly picked up the phone and dialed Ponzi's number. . .

Me: Tell me. . . what happened today???

Ponzi: ellsomeonepulledthefirealarmanditwashilariousandthesecurityguardstoldusalltorunand. . . .

Me: Wait. Wait. Wait!!! Slow down! I've told you before. . . Talk like a human!

Ponzi: I can't! I'm driving!!!

Me: Where are you going???

Ponzi: I don't know. . . we haven't decided. . .

Me: Sweet Jesus! Call me when you've landed somewhere!

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

And within five minutes Ponzi and her friend walked in the door. . .

Me: So tell me what really happened

Ponzi: Well, someone pulled the fire alarm and we all had to go outside and the security guard . . . I think his name is . . . .

Friend: Joe. . .

Ponzi. . . Yeah, Joe. . . all the kids love him. . . well anyway, he told us all to run! And so we did . . . and it was hilarious. . . you should have seen it, Mom, like two hundred kids running down the street away from school!!!!

Me: Well I doubt that the principal thought it was hilarious! You'll probably get in trouble now.

Ponzi: Oh come on, Mom! I need to live a little!!! The worst they can do is give us a detention.

Me: What classes did you miss?

Ponzi: Gym and Chem. . .

Me: Why did you tell your father that you were only missing gym.

Ponzi: I said just missing gym. . . not only missing gym. . . because I was missing gym just at the time I talked to him! Why are you being so annoying, Mom??????

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

And so now, my friends, I can officially add TRUANCY to my long list of outrageous acts perpetrated by my teenage daughters. This one will come in at number 9 . . . . right before the one about lying about detention and immediately after the one where my daughter dated the son of a mafioso.

God help you if you were to ever rest your eyes on the full list. . .

Can't a mother ever have "A Moment"?

Daughter speak: Oh my God, Mom! Why did you write that post ? Now everyone's gonna think we did something terribly wrong! Like all those things that are on that list!



Me: Come to think of it, my dear, you and your sisters, collectively, have done all of those things on that list.



Daughter speak: No, Mom! No one's ever gotten a speeding ticket!



Me: Okay, that's called poetic license . . . because the term speeding ticket flowed a whole lot better than ticket for an illegal turn. . . It was still a moving violation!



Daughter speak: What about you? What about that ticket you got for parking in a fire zone?



Me: The one I got sitting in the running car while your sister ran in to get her precious latte at Dunkin' Donuts? Don't even get me started on that one. . .



Daughter speak: Well, don't you think Police Blotter's rather harsh?



Me: Again, do you like the sound of Summons for Underaged Drinking better? By all means, go ahead and replace it, but I think the word blotter followed quickly by the word bottle was a stroke of genius!



Daughter speak: But still, everyone must be wondering what we've done wrong in order for you to love us so much!



Me: You know? Come to think of it. . . I do too, my dear! I do too. . .

It's a jungle in here

Don't forget to enter my Limerick Contest! The winner will be announced on March 17th!

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A few weeks ago I confiscated another thong.

Now don't be hurt that I didn't tell you about it . . . it was just a day like any other, and I didn't want to bore you with another tale of a thong kidnapping. It's just that we were approaching Valentine's Day and I saw a little number floating about that I didn't particularly like.

It looked something like this. . .

. . . only it had little red studs in the shape of a heart on the front.

Well, I figured that no one in my household had any business owning a thing/thong like that (especially so close to Valentine's Day) and so I confiscated it.

End of story.

Or so I thought.

Until I went to look for a pair of my panties that look a lot like this. . .

. . . only they have leopard spots on them.

Those undies seem to have grown legs and taken off for the hinterlands by themselves.

Perhaps they're hiding in my sock drawer. Perhaps they're in the pocket of my bathrobe. Or perhaps they're in a ball under my bed waiting for the cleaning lady to fish them out and put them on display when she comes next Wednesday. (Why does she insist on doing that? She's like my mother - exhibiting bras, socks, and panties at the foot of my bed for all to see. . . Here you go, you dirty little Nellie. . . This is what I found under your bed today!!!! My laundry hamper is right on the other side of the room. Would it kill her to discretely place the offending item in with the rest of the dirty clothes????)

But, I digress.


What I really want to say is that if I discover that one of my lovely daughters has confiscated my leopard-print-granny-panties in retribution for the missing thong, it will be a battle to end all battles! Survival of the fittest, my friends. Jungle warfare at its best!!!!

And, let me tell you, those teenie, tiny thong things can be hidden a lot easier than their old granny!

What's good for the goose. . .

I know that parents of young children sometimes look at (let's just call folks like me. . . ) more mature parents and wish that their own children were old enough to stay home alone. . . that a dinner out on a Saturday night didn't come with a $50 add-on for child care. . . that they didn't have to worry about a teenage babysitter bringing her boyfriend over while they're away . . .

Well, I'm here to inform you that it's no picnic on the other side of the street, my friends.

Take last night, for instance.

A few weeks ago my husband informed me that he had earned a free night at any Hyatt Hotel. And so we started making plans for a little overnight get-away.

But wait. . .

The children!

Now as you know, the "children" left at home are aged 18 and 17 - old enough to stay home alone, but definitely not old enough to be left home alone!!!

I could just envision the wheels of manipulative motion turning in my dear daughters' heads the minute we announced our plans for an overnight away. And I just knew, dear readers, that my house would have been host to a teenage-beer-and-vodka-fest-the-likes-of-which-have-never-been-seen-before!!!

And so I set the wheels of manipulative motion to work in my head instead, and decided to resurrect a trick from my own daughters' playbook - one that had been played out by them on many a previous Saturday night. (Indeed, this little tactic is so familiar I like to call the maneuver the Bait and Switch . . . you know, the one where they tell you they're going to some innocuous location with a few close friends and then call you at around 10:00 p.m. and beg you to sleep at Suzie's house until you finally give in????)

Well, what's good for the goose is good for the gander, my friends!!!! And so I decided that my daughters' evil plots should finally come home to roost, and I put my plan in action!

• 
  
  My husband quietly made a reservation at the hotel in the very town we reside in.
• 
  
  As evening rolled around, we ascertained and approved the plans of each daughter for the night.
• We packed our suitcases like stealth fighters.
• I placed a call to my sister who lives next-door. (Yes, I have a sister who lives next-door, but that's a story for another day. . .)
• And then the two responsible parental figures snuck quietly out of the house under the guise of going to get a quick bite to eat!
• 
  
  We checked into our hotel at 7:00 p.m.
• 
  
  Ate a scrumptious dinner at 8:00.
• 
  
  And returned to our room at 10:00.
• 
  
  Only after which, we placed a call to Trigger and Ponzi to inform them that We may just sleep at the Hyatt tonight. . . and threatened them both within an inch of their lives - threatened that their aunt and uncle had already been put on notice and were watching the house like a gaggle of hawks. . . that my husband just may decide to do a drive-by of the house some time in the wee-hours of the morning. . . and that I had successfully taught the dog sign language so that she could make a full report to us upon our return home.

All that, for a simple evening away!

I think - in retrospect - that I would rather have paid a babysitter. . .

With wheels of manipulative motion still rotating, I am. . .

Roberta's bad day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A letter to my daughter, Ponzi

Dear Ponzi daughter,

Welcome aboard!

I just noticed that you posted the lucky number 13 comment on my Alcohol Spins post.

It was a valiant effort, my dear. . .

But try to be a little quicker on the commenting next time. What do you think this is - facebook or something????

Affectionately yours, I remain. . .

p.s. And if you - by chance - you were expecting me to believe that you didn't already know that little remedy , then I have some cellulite reducing cream I'd love to sell you. . .

Have you sewn your eyebrows today????

For all who are interested. . .

If your daughters proclaim that they are skipping off to get their eyebrows threaded, don't worry.

I can now tell you from personal experience that they will not come home with hairwraps on their eyebrows. . . nor will they be braided. . . nor criss-crossed. . . or sewn together in one big unibrow. . . or have a strange sort of needle-piercing coming through them. . .

Ponzi: You think that's what threading is??? Mom, where have you been???

Trigger: How could you possibly think such a thing???

Me: J.K.!!!!! I wasn't thinking that! Honest!!!!