Happiness Is. . .

Happiness can take many forms, my friends.

We've all heard that for some, happiness is a warm blanket.

For others, it may be a good meal . . . a fine bottle of wine. . . a night spent with friends or family. . . a well-earned vacation.

And I venture to say that happiness most-always accompanies lottery winning.

And when your dog wags her tail and gives you that look of love upon your return home. . .even if you just walked to the end of the driveway to bring in the day's mail?  How can one not experience even a little bit of happiness???

But the very thing that make me do my !HAPPY DANCE! happened just a few short minutes ago. . . as I sat on my living room couch. . . in my clean house. .  . my empty house. . .with a glass of Chianti in my hand . .  . Billie Holiday on my iPod. . .War and Peace on my NOOK. . . and my favorite daughter at my side (licking my feet - a pet-a-cure you might say. . .)

For today was D-Day, my friends.

Deliverance Day.

The day that Trigger and Ponzi left the nest to return to school after a oh-so-long summer vacation.  And Drip Dry also happens to be out of the house  . . . spending the night somewhere in Virginia in his quest to drop Trigger off as early as possible so he, too, can hurry home and do his !HAPPY DANCE!.

The only thing missing is the macaroni and cheese.

Damn!  Why didn't I plan that better. . . 

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

It's not every day that a girl gets lucky enough  to withdraw over $36,000 from an account in one afternoon.

But I did today.

Just a small price to pay, my friends, in order to send Trigger and Ponzi back to college for another semester.

A very small price for the restoration of my sanity.

So go on my little fledglings.  Go leave the nest once more. . .

Go with your 42 pairs of flip-flops. . . your Uggs. . . and your thongs.   Go with your breast banderos and your less-than-sticky-boobs.  Take flight along with those countless pairs of shoes with six-inch heels (the ones you swear that all the sorority sisters wear! and not just the New York City streetwalkers. . .) And about that single pair of jeans you've been arguing over all summer??? Perhaps you'll just have to rip them in half and take one leg along with the 14 other pairs you each own.

Take with you your specialty foods purchased at great cost for you. .  . your quinoa, millet, amaranth and buckwheat. . . your soy and coconut flours. Grab the organic tofu and coconut oil. . . . pumpkin, sunflower, and flax seeds. . . the gluten-free soy sauce and the all-so-important aluminum-free baking powder. . .And don't forget the blue agave nectar. . .organic cinnamon. . . and essential oil of oregano.

Remember too your umpteen supplements. .  .the vitamin C crystals. . . the olive leaf extract. . . and the one that sounds just like tree bark (although I can't imagine that anyone in their right mind would voluntarily ingest the bark of trees. . . and, yes, I know what cinnamon is but give me a little hilarity room here. . . )  Be sure to take that stuff that promises to kill every fungus and bacteria known to humankind yet is still safe to purify fish tanks. . .'cause you're in your own apartments now and won't be able to clean your toilets with your sulphate-free shampoo.

Depart with your tap-tap makeup and your 27 makeup brushes.  Gather all 19 bottles of cleansers and "products" from your shower.  Steal my Q-tips, deodorant, and moroccan hair oil one final time.  Take those fancy razors and expensive hair straighteners (for who wants to be reminded of her ch'i while in the bathroom???)   Leave no pumice stone unturned.  No lathering face scrub to left to linger. . .

And by all means, go ahead and pack that fancy self-tanner . . . because I've noticed that you've somehow managed to leave the careless overspray of said tanner on your off-white bedroom carpet.   Rest assured, knowing that whenever I glance in that room and see the two white footprints where your perfectly-pedicured feet once stood, I will always think of you. . .

Yes, go my darlings.

Just go. . .

And Trigger?   Hold onto that legal 22-year-old driver's license of yours for dear life.  If you leave it hanging about Ponzi will scoop that up in a heartbeat!

Messing with my Ch'i

I made a silent promise that I would no longer blog about my daughters.  Nevertheless, I have just one question for you:

?????   WHEN IN SWEET JESUS' NAME ARE THOSE GIRLS GOING BACK TO SCHOOL  ????

Now, I know what you're thinking. . . What's wrong with that woman? Why can't she stand to have a couple of college-aged daughters home for the summer?  They appear to be lovely young women.  What could be so bad about having them around?

I'll tell you right now.

Simply put. . . the downside to having Ponzi and Trigger around for the summer is that They-mess-up-my-clean-feng-shui-house-and-spend-all-of-my-church-lady-money-requiring-oranic-only-foods-that-no-sane-person-on-the-face-of-God's-good-earth-has-ever-heard-of-much-less-ingested-and-neither-i-repeat-NEITHER-of-them-have-jobs-and-are-well-are. . .well. . . around. . .  for the summer.   THEY'RE IN MY HOUSE FOR THE SUMMER!!!

Yes, they're here. . . in my home. . .messing with my life energy.   And, in case you hadn't noticed, A Mom on Spin's ch'i is very delicato, my friends. . .very, VERY d-e-l-i-c-a-t-o. . .

Now I'm what you might call a minimalist (but don't go looking in my closet for confirmation of that little fact) and a bit of a neat freak too (a closet-peek would not confirm that claim either) and am doing my best to deal with a few recently-acquired food aversions (not my fault really. . .it's the mouse-a-phobic in me) so it upsets me terribly when, before I even leave the house in the morning, a certain daughter starts peeling raw onions, potatoes and leeks for a kidney cleanse (Mom? Just where is the organic garlic I asked you to get????) and I return home after a hard day of church-lady work only to discover that the pot which cooked said Slurry of Stinkiness is still sitting in my kitchen sink along with an assortment of other cups, dishes and cooking utensils . . .while 22 glasses of various shapes and sizes are scattered throughout the rest of the house ('Cause when you do a kidney cleanse, Mom, you're supposed to drink lots of water!) 

Now can I ask you:   WHY IN HEAVEN'S NAME IS IT CALLED A CLEANSE?   My house has never been so messy!!!

As if that weren't bad enough. . .


In the midst of all this disarray, stands Ponzi leaning over my laptop on the kitchen counter with every ingredient required to make some sort of coco-buck-nut-wheat bread spilling over it like the lava in molten volcano. . . except - of course - the aluminum-free baking powder which is oh-so-essential to the well-being of my daughters but I have not purchased.  Now, who knew the human body is not supposed to ingest aluminum (Go figure!) leaving me to unwittingly expose my family to the horrors of aluminum poisoning for decades by purchasing the wrong baking powder?

Should I now consider it a good thing that I haven't had the energy it takes to bake so much as a single cookie since 1992???

 I ask you. . .  What is a mother to do when she feels her ch'i draining right along with her bank account?

Someone please send a yin for that yang,
'cause I'm dying here. . . 

Note to Self

Note to self. .  .

Next year, no matter the cost, agree to pay for Ponzi's  $winter session$ at college. . .  because the last thing you need after the stress of the holidays is to have one high-energy-19-year-old-vegetarian home for a full month after all of her friends have returned to school.

Please. . .  Please. . .  PLEASE. . .  remember this!

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. . . 

Countdown Expired

So in the beginning of the summer I thought it would be amusing to add a  countdown thingy to my iGoogle home page.

And today, my friends, my countdown expired.

Today was the day that Trigger and Ponzi both flew off to school, leaving Drip Dry and me (semi) empty nesters.

And if I told you what the week leading up to today had been like, you would . .  .

Forget it.

I had been fighting back tears for two days now. . .Grew a stress-induced cold sore resembling the chain of Aleutian Islands from the corner of my mouth. . . Spent a guestimated $2,000 in clothing, haircuts, dorm room wares, toiletries, mani-pedis, and school supplies. . . sucked down the contents of a full bottle of wine and cried myself to sleep last night. . . and transferred another $1,000 to fund their Flex accounts so they could purchase books.

And so this morning, at about 10:30, the dog, Trigger, and I waved goodbye as Veggie and Drip Dry left to settle Ponzi into her first year of college.

And by about 10:45, I had the sheets off of her bed (would have been in the washer too, had Trigger's entire wardrobe not still been in there) and had armed myself with a big black garbage bag to scoop up all of the errant tags, bags, tissues and sticky boobs that had been left behind in her packing frenzy.

And then, with her room neat and tidy, I started to feel a sensation that I hadn't felt in quite a while. .  . warm and fuzzy like. . .

It was a sense of orderliness and I liked it.

And, like a relapsed junkie, I quickly tried to get another fix.

But Trigger was still enveloped in her packing phase and you can't rush greatness.

And so I waited.

And somewhere around 2:00 p.m., the dog and I stood on the front porch and had a mother/daughter moment as we watched Trigger's boyfriend drive her away too.

And at precisely 2:01, I discovered that she had forgotten to take her pillows with her but waited until she was safely in a neighboring state to tell her, 'cause God knows I didn't want her coming back to get them.

And then I donned my HazMat suit and proceeded to disinfect her room.

And that poor clothes washer which had been working overtime for the last two days was put to work once more washing sheets, mattress pads, stray thongs, and the mountain of dirty bath towels I found tucked away in her closet.

And then I cleaned their bathroom.

And then I brushed the dog.

And then I realized that I could purge the refrigerator.

And scrub it.

And then I took out the garbage, straightened the book shelves, febreezed the cat, vacuumed the rug, emptied the dishwasher, fluffed the pillows, tried to vacuum the dog but she would have no part of it, and took a shower myself.

And then my mother called to see how I was doing all alone in my empty nest and she asked me,  Did you spend all day cleaning their rooms?  That's always what I used to do.  It made me feel better somehow. . .

I supposed that you could say,

that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree,

before she rushes to sweep it up. . .

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  . . .

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.

Another Reason to Never Let a Teenage Daughter Drive. . . as if you needed another one. . .

Driving home from work earlier today, I thought to myself. . .  Self . . .you have absolutely nothing to blog about. . .

But then I got the mail.

And I quickly called the toll free number that was prominently displayed on the letter I opened. . .

_______________________

Me:  I just got a notice in the mail and I'm hoping you can clarify something for me.

Debt Collector:  Well first - even though you phoned in, Mam - I'm obligated to tell you that the conversation we are about to have qualifies as an attempt to collect a debt.   Do you understand?

Me:  Of course I understand!  I'm calling you, aren't I???   It says here that my "account" with the NY State Thruway has been placed in collections and I owe them/you $88.50?

Debt Collector: Yes, Mam, that's correct.

Me:  But this is the first I've heard of this.   I didn't even know I had an "account". Can you enlighten me?

Debt Collector: Now, let's see. . .  the first violation was on October 2, 2008. . . and the second  . . .

Me:  What does that mean, violation?  Speeding?  Was I speeding?  I live in Jersey! I don't even drive on the Thruway!

Debt Collector:  Not speeding, Mam.   EZ Pass. The vehicle went through the EZ Pass lane without a device.

Me:  But I have EZ Pass.


Debt Collector:  Well, I have the license plate right here. . . YEX 24P. . .is that your car?

Me:   Oh. . . it's one of my daughters' cars. . .

Debt Collector:  Well did she have a device in her car?

Me:  An EZ Pass device?  Knowing her, probably not.  But I'm sure she had her cell phone. . . and her iPod. . . .and her Tom Tom. . . she never leaves home without them. . .

Debt Collector:  Well, that's nice, Mam, but as I said, the next violation was two days later.  Tappen Zee Bridge again.  And the third. . .

Me:  Never mind. I get the picture. . . .but why so much money?

Debt Collector:   It was $4.50 for the toll and a $25 penalty for each of the violations.

Me:  But why didn't I know about this?  Those so-called violations were a full year ago?  Did you send prior notification??  Was my daughter confiscating it in the mail or something?

Debt Collector:  Mam, I'm just the debt collector.  They don't give me that sort of information.

Me:  I understand.  I'm just their mother.  And they don't give me that sort of information either.  What will it take to pay you off?

Debt Collector:  I'm authorized to settle with you for 75% of the debt, Mam, with an $8 processing fee, so that comes to $75.

Me:  Do you take credit cards?

And, as any good Debt Collector would answer:  We sure do!

and in case you're wondering. . .  yes, I feel a tad-bit violated myself tonight. . .

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.

Delta, Delta, No!

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

Daughter: Mom?

Mother: Yes?

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

Mother: Yes?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daughter: Mom?

Daughter: Mom!

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

Daughter: Mom?

Daughter: Mom!!!!!

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

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

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!

Stop the Giggles Already!

Life is ever-changing in A Mom on Spin's household.

Was it just yesterday that I was bemoaning Trigger's move to college???? Well, today I've had a chance to see things from another perspective. . .

Veggie is now safely ensconced in the U.K. ( with all thoughts of Paris safely behind her) and hasn't overdrawn her bank account in almost two weeks.

Trigger is - by all accounts - happy with her choice of colleges. Her one and only phone call to me was to ensure that I had, indeed, loaded her student card with plenty of flex dollars. . .

And Ponzi has safely negotiated the drive to The Shore (the Jersey Girl's equivalent of going to the Beach) and will not return until the weekend.

And me? I have retired to my new study for the night . . . giggling.

Simply giggling. . .

hee. . .hee. . . hee. . .

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???

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!

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 price of letting go . . .

Just when you thought that spending $160,000 in hard-earned, after-tax dollars for a daughter's college education was enough, along comes this phone call. . .

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Veggie: Mom!

Me: Yes?

Veggie: I just had graduation practice and then I checked my mailbox. . .

Me: I haven't sent you a single care package in your four years of college. Did you think I'd start now???

Veggie: No! But there was a note in there saying that my diploma was being held until I paid a few things. . . you know. . . these were things that would normally be on the next tuition bill. . . the bursar's bill I think they called it. . . yeah. . . the bursar's bill . . .but now. . . since you don't have to pay tuition anymore. . . like we. . . like. . . have to pay them now or else I can't graduate on Sunday. . . you know . . . it's for things like visits to the health center. . . and a few little parking fines. . . and things like that. . . they would normally be rolled up in tuition bills. . . but now they're on their own . . .

Me: Parking fines? Why do you have parking fines????

Veggie: Mom! Did you forget I have arthritis? I can't like. . . park far away from things!!!!

Me: Okay! What's the number? Just tell me.

Veggie: Well, I was thinking. . . if I return that first dress that Ponzi bought to wear to Prom. . . you know. . . the one she never wore and went out and bought a second one. . .and I shoved it in my bag the weekend I was home. . . well, if there was like a Bloomingdales around here. . .well, then I could return it. . . it still has the tags on it. . . and that would cover like $250 of it. . . you know. . . I don't really need to wear that awesome dress to the senior dance. . .

Me: Keep the dress, Veggie. It looked great on Ponzi, and I'm sure it will look equally awesome on you. . . just tell me what the number is.

Veggie: The number???

Me: The amount. . . just tell me how much the parking fines are and I'll pay them.

Veggie: But they said it has to be in cash or certified check. . .

Me: The number. . .

Veggie: $290.

Me: GULP!!!! So if I transfer $300 to your account, and you get the cash from the machine, will that cover it?

Veggie: Well. . . actually. . . I owe Suzie $45 for the electric bill and Tammy another $45 for the cable bill. . . and . . . well. . . it is Senior Week and all . . .

Me: Okay! I am going to transfer $500 into that account, but that's it! This is officially the last transfer I will ever make into your account!!! From this day forward, you are a college graduate and you are on your own! Is that perfectly. . . unadulterated. . . not-a-doubt-about-it clear???? Perfectly????

Veggie: I hope so. . . .

A proclamation (of sorts)

I am happy to announce to all within listening range. . .

Trigger is going to college!!!

And to all of you who remember the angst she put me through over the completion of her applications, I am forced to admit that perhaps she did - indeed - Have it under control, Mom!!! for she has gained acceptance into each one to which she applied.

And so, my friends, it seems that neither avoidance, nor procrastination, nor SAT scores, nor little white envelopes will come between me and Trigger's scheduled departure from the nest next fall!

Do I detect a lump in my throat???

Not me!

Never me!!!!

. . . also known as. . . .