Dear Life

Dear Life,

We persevered despite your setbacks.

 

Are you surprised? Did we foil your plans? Were you astonished to find that we danced over your hot coals and came through on the other side? (Or thought we did???)

Oh yes, we were a little battle-scarred and a whole lot wiser, but we thought we had you beat.  Besides, we had much bigger fish to fry in our household.  My daughters had entered their teenage years.

Talk about battles!  Do you remember what you were like before the word “unlimited” was used in conjunction with cell phone plans?  Do you remember Megan’s 4,032 texts messages in one month at ten cents a text? Do you remember underage drinking?  Unauthorized use of credit cards?   Curfews, concerts, and college applications?

 

And how about the introduction of “adhesive breast forms” (or “sticky boobs” as I used to refer to them?)  Was it the dog’s fault that she happens to be a retriever and loved to store them away in the back of her crate, leaving them filled with pet fur when my daughters wanted them?  I applauded her efforts – at least I wasn’t the only one who wanted those girls to dress modestly from time to time.   If the outfit wasn’t big enough to accommodate a regular bra, it plainly shouldn’t be worn!

Do you remember the first time I found a leopard print thong in the household laundry; knowing with certainty it hadn’t been spawned from my old lady granny panties overnight?  Or the time when I determined an astute laundress could hang a whopping 26 thongs from her pinkie?

Yes, those were the days, my friend. And my daughters lived them to their fullest.

Signed,

a very tired and grateful,

 

Unwinceable Me. . .

Now I am painfully aware of the fact that most of my readers and fellow bloggers are younger than I am.  And so, having taken a few more rotations around the treadmill of life, I feel it's my constitutional duty to warn you of the perils and pitfalls lurking upon the parental road ahead (you know, kind of like a public service announcement.)  And this is precisely why I want you all to start practicing a certain maneuver now:

You need to become unwinceable.

 That's right, go stand in front of the bathroom mirror, take a deep breath, and pretend that someone is lobbing hand grenades at you. . . or plastering a big old x on your heart and using you for target practice . .  . or better yet, stabbing you with the little pins that  practitioners of voodoo and acupuncture use.

Yeah, just like that. . .

Now practice being unwinceable in the face of all that fear, shock and pain.

Because, my friends, if you have any hope of getting out of your child's teenage years with your dignity in tact, you have to master the art of appearing nonplussed when your child's friend's mother says, By golly!  That application to Harvard was terribly cumbersome this year!  Was it not??? even though you both know that the flesh-of-your-flesh-and-bone-of-your-bone is not Ivy League material.


Likewise of course, you must remain stoic when another mother quips, Those poor senior citizens in the nursing home sooooooo appreciated that visit the church youth group made, didn't they??? even though both she and you know that your child hasn't seen the inside of a church since you last dragged her there kicking and screaming.

But above all else, you must train yourself to remain totally unwinceable , unflinchable, and unflappable when your sister starts a sentence with,  I was reading the police blotter the other day. . .

You now have my permission

to refer to me as the unwinceable. . . 

Houston, We Have a Problem

Turns out there's a very good reason why I should never be allowed to go away on vacation.

And that, my friends, is because I invariably have trouble with re-entry.

In fact, I think there may be a direct correlation between the level of pleasure experienced while away from the house, and the level of distress upon entering back in it.

Picture this scenario for a moment if you will. . .

When last we spoke I was at the Shore for a few days - after which I traveled up to the scenic shoreline of Connecticut for the first-ever Spin Family Reunion.  And, although Drip Dry and the Spin grandparents were able to accompany me on the journey, other members of the Spin household were allowed to remain in the Garden State without parental supervision due to previous commitments to concert tickets. . . .camping trips. . . mall employment . . . and plain-old-not-liking-their-mother-enough-to-spend-the-weekend-with-fifty-other-human-beings-who resemble-her.

So there I was. . .


Visiting a family cottage on a secluded cove. . . lodging in a waterside bed & breakfast . . . sitting dockside watching Drip Dry get thrown from a tube on the back of a boat . .  . drinking mohitos at lunchtime - fine wine at dinner. . . conversing with philosophy professors, chefs, epidemiologists, authors, and neuroscientists. .  . distributing family heirlooms. . . sharing memories of those who are no longer with us. . .  listening to my 86-year-old father and his 84-year-old brother regale us with memories of their childhood.

Yes, my friends, that was my little slice of Heaven right there on the Connecticut coast. (Let's face it, any day where I am the only one who brings down the collective I.Q. is a good day in my book)

But it wasn't long after I exited the car upon my arrival home that the re-entry problems began.

For despite the fact that I had sent out a warning signal upon crossing the state line to inform my daughters of the estimated hour of splash-down, the first thing I spied upon entering the household (smack-dab in the center of the kitchen table for all to see. . .) was  Drip Dry's prized lantern which I had allowed Ponzi to take on her camping trip - ignoring the fact that her father had expressly forbidden her (and me) to do so.

And I knew right then and there that I was in for a bumpy landing.

For the amenities and accouterments in the Spin house in no way resemble a bed and breakfast. . .  nor could I put my toes in the sand (although there was a perfect coating of downy dog hair on the floor) . . . I saw no sign of the water  (unless you count the sound of splashing in a dishwasher which had been hastily loaded and turned on) . . . the frozen "Bubba Burger" which I rustled up for dinner somehow lacked the appeal of grilled swordfish . . . and - smart as I make her out to be - conversations with the dog somehow do not provide the same level of intellectual stimulation as those which I have aforementioned . . .

So you see, it's not my fault - really - that the cursing began when it did.  For the stream of swear words that followed went something like this:  I don't care what those feckin' girls say, they had time to clean up after themselves. . . who do they think I'm am . . . a cleaning lady or something?. . .  oh nice. . . look at this. . . someone left a g-dummed glass on my wooden table . . . and that smell. . . my God. . .how the freakin' frackin' way could they stand to be in the kitchen with that smell ememinating from that stinking garbage . . . oh, and look here . . . someone cooked a gourmet pizza for themselves and left the pan and pizza cutter out on the stove. .  .well I hope she enjoyed it 'cause that's the last fecking pizza I'm buying until H-E-DOUBLE-TOOTHPICK freezes over. . .and where the holy heck did I think I was going to put these freakin' tablecloths I brought home. . . what's with those Irish and their ***#@#**#$@*  linens anyway?!?!?!?

Well I think you get the picture. . .

In a Rut

So are you prepared - dear reader - to imagine this scenario in the Spin household . . .


Veggie with a respectable full-time job. . . earning money?

Trigger on ADD meds. .. and (according to her latest report from college) a neat freak????

Ponzi out of funds because I've learned to lock my wallet up at night???

Veggie on the verge of purchasing her own car. . . with her own insurance policy. . . .so that it no longer matters if she cracks ours up????

Trigger staying out of the emergency room????

Ponzi completing the college application process without a hiccup. . .and already accepted at two universities?

Veggie easily passing her employer's drug testing???

Did I tell you that Trigger is on ADD meds?

Ponzi deciding not to go to a concert and selling her ticket for a profit????

Veggie's travel plans being confined to weekends. . .  and limited to the Northeast corridor????

Trigger . . . Well, she's still away at school so she could be doing God-knows-what there. . . but the beauty of it is. . .  God knows the bad things she's doing, while I'm still in the dark!!!!

Ponzi. . . Now would you believe it if I told you that she's .  . . well . . . . less scheming????

I ask you. . .  where have the good old days gone????

Truth be told. . .  within the last week Veggie stayed out 'til 2:30 a.m.. . . Trigger overdrew her bank account once again. . . and Ponzi attempted to steal twenty bucks from me (twice). . .  but still . . . I dare say we're closing in on boring here. . .

Official Minutes of the Spin Family Meeting

Those Present:  A Mom on Spin, Mr. Drip Dry, Ponzi, Veggie, and - as the spirit moved her - Trigger.

The meeting opened with a prayer.

Correction:  The meeting with with a swear.  The meeting opened with a swear word from the mouth of none-other than A Mom on Spin who - before moving on to further business - voiced displeasure at the fact that, upon returning home from a long day of work, she was once-again kept from parking in her proper parking place by a thoughtless teenager who left Roberta parked directly in front of her garage and did not answer the phone as she called frantically from the street.  She also voiced displeasure at the fact that, upon entering the house with armloads of groceries, she found the kitchen sink filled with dirty dishes and the dishwasher filled with sparkling clean ones - despite the very visible sign on the kitchen counter which screamed, Empty Dishwasher!

Veggie, Trigger, and Ponzi all looked at each other and agreed they thought the sign was for someone else.

 A Mom on Spin then moved on to the subject of Ponzi's 18th Birthday which was, in fact, the very next day.  She reported that she had managed to take the day off from work and had just purchased the all-important breakfast of Lucky Charms before finding the aforementioned kitchen a disaster area.


Ponzi then reported that she intended to take a spin class at the gym early in the morning and so she would not be partaking of the traditional birthday breakfast after all, but that her mother was invited to join her at the gym if she wished.


A Mom on Spin then taught Ponzi the meaning of the phrase, When Pigs Fly!

The conversation then quickly moved to upcoming family plans.

A Mom on Spin informed all those present that her offer to host the "Cousins' Christmas" party on New Year's Day had - to her surprise - been accepted by no fewer than 31 of her closest family members and that she intended to enter full panic mode shortly.  She then made a motion to foist responsibility for the party back onto another unsuspecting family member with a larger house.

Drip Dry, Veggie, Ponzi, and Trigger all dissented, swearing that they would chip in to help with anything A Mom on Spin needed.

A Mom on Spin then reminded them that this party was set for New Year's Day. . . you know. . . like the day immediately following New Year's Eve. . . and, since the party was called for noon and the Spin parents were also hosting a dinner party for New Year's Eve, their services would be required no later than 10:00 a.m. in the morning.

Veggie, Trigger, and Ponzi then very quickly recanted their previous offers of help stating things like. . . Oh, I'm spending the night in the city, I can't be home by then!. . . or . . . I'm going to be staying overnight at Kimmy's house, I can't possibly be up that early!. . . and even. . . Well I'm not sure what I'm doing for New Year's Eve, but I know I would never be home!!!! while Drip Dry alone stood firm and stubbornly continued to insist on hosting the party.

A Mom on Spin then accused Drip Dry of digging in his heels just to drive her crazy.

Drip Dry adamantly insisted that he would take care of all party preparations and clean up.

A Mom on Spin then reminded the family of the time she handed Drip Dry the toilet bowl brush and asked him to clean the toilets an hour before company was due to arrive - only to discover that he had dismantled the toilet seat and was soaking the nuts and bolts as the first guests walked through the door.

Drip Dry then asked for forgiveness for liking a clean house.

His motion was not seconded and the meeting was quickly adjourned.

Respectfully submitted

on this 29th day of December in the year 2009. . . .

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.

From the Ridiculous to the Sublime . . .while just a wee-bit off-"kilt"er, mind you . . . .

Did you ever have one of those moments when you realized that life was good?  Or funny?  Did you ever think life was funny?  How about quirky?  Life is definitely quirky somedays.  Is it not?

Well just last night Mr. Drip Dry decided to set up the webcam on my brandy new netbook, and instead of placing a test call on Skype he decided to video chat with Ponzi.   Upstairs.   In her room.   (Now don't tell me you all don't use your cell phones like an intercom system in your homes . . . it was just like that, only he was using my netbook. . . ) So anyhow there we were . . .all comfortable in our living room - and - like all good parents of teenage girls . . . chatting to a picture of our daughter upstairs through a little box . . . when Veggie beeped in.  From Scotland.  Veggie was beeping in from Scotland.  Even though it was some ridiculous wee-hour of the morning, Veggie was calling in from Scotland.   And then my husband and daughters got all techy on me and ended up three-way-video-chatting on something called ooVuu . . . and so I went to bed. . .

But the ooVuu thing is not what's important.

What hit me as funny . . . and crazy . . .and quirky . . .and wonderfully blogable is this. . .

There I was in my own living room, video-chatting with a daughter who was a few steps away, and another who happened to be an ocean apart!  At the same time!

Amazing,   Is it not?


And isn't it quite fortuitous that Veggie happened to have traveled to Scotland for the week? 'Cause you know, the only thing I even slightly miss about blogging on her cast-off-crap-top was the Up Yer Kilt sticker, and now she's promised me a replacement!  And I told her to throw caution to the wind and buy out Scotland.  Of stickers.  I'll have an Up Your "Kilt"er for everyone!

And just where was Trigger? you might ask.

I'm quite certain she was in the library.  Studying.   I'm sure she was in the library studying. Or in her room.  Packing.   Packing to come home.  This weekend.   Yikes!  In her room packing to come home this weekend!

The "One" I Raised correctly

Pay close attention to this post which was written in December of 2008 yet - until today - never made it out of my "draft" folder. There just may be a quiz on it tomorrow. .  .

-----------

I'm aware of the fact that I am swimming in complaints about the females who live under this roof with me . . . 

But all is not lost, my friends.

For there's one female in our household I need to commend.
Take a look. . .

• She stands up the moment I walk into the room.
• She is more-than-willing to help clean the dishes.
• They wouldn't let her in The Mall unless she was sporting lots of leather, and me, dark sunglasses.
• She vacuums all of the crumbs from the kitchen floor for me.
• I need only say the word laundry and she's right by my side to gather all of the errant socks that fall to the floor.
• She never complains that the food I feed her is fattening.
• As far as I can tell, she doesn't have a boyfriend.

And the best part ?????

•  She couldn't talk back to me even if she tried!

Which of my teenage daughters could this be? you ask yourself.
Here's a little hint. . . . . .

Well it turns out my little Kasey's been talking after all.   You'll have to wait 'til tomorrow to find out to who. .  .or is it to whom????  Suffice it to say that the damned dog has been spilling the beans and it got back to me. . .

How Was I to Know I Was Random?

Okay, I know I'm a little late for Keely's Random Tuesday thing, but I ask you . . . How does one plan random?

So here we go. . .

Did you ever notice how little spousal tiffs that don't get aired properly can turn into nothing short of a subterfuge-filled battle?  I am currently in a conflict with Mr. Drip Dry that would be best named The Coffee Wars. . .  .('cause we all know how Drip Dry is about his coffee. . . )

Did you ever notice how college-aged daughters don't return text messages you send saying things like, Please make sure you get your blood work done tomorrow.  Those puffy and swollen eyes could mean your kidneys aren't functioning correctly and you do have lupus, you know, so I'm not being a neurotic mom???? but they do send you a text in return that reads, I ran out of dining dollars, so please put more on my flex.  And how about my lost ATM card?  I need cash!

And did you further ever notice that another daughter's $60 haircut needs to be topped off with a purchase of $130 hair straightener because she's Not putting my hair back in a ponytail now, Mom!!!

And when you stop to think about it, wouldn't you have rather used all of that money to help the young homeless couple in your office today who are paying $25 a night to some low-life-seedy-money-grubbing-and-I'm-quite-sure-drug-snorting-individual just to sleep on his living room floor?????

Come to think of it, I just may fire up the Tassimo and invite that young couple to my house for unlimited coffee in the morning.  I'm sure Drip Dry would love it. . .

Last I Checked, the Dog Still Loved Me. . .

Just wanted to leave a little note to tell Mr. Drip Dry and (not only one, but. . . ) two of my daughters that apologies are now being accepted.

Here.

Apologies are being accepted here.

Oh. . . and just in case any/all of you have trouble with the phraseology of said apologies, I suggest you try the following. . .

I'm sorry I didn't call you.  I'm sorry I hung up on you.   I'm sorry I called you at work to say I'm sorry that I hung up on you, 'cause I know that you know that I know that you can't talk there. . .

I'm sorry I lost my debit card.  I'm sorry used my debit card once-too-often.  I'm sorry I accused you of not teaching our daughters how to be financially responsible.

I'm sorry I yelled.  I'm sorry I bitched.   I'm sorry I gave you the silent treatment.

I'm sorry to tell you that even though I swore I wouldn't go on my little country-hopping jaunt, I'm still going.

Or how about this one???

I'm sorry that, after countless panicked phone calls about the non-receipt of my debit card and absolutely insisting that you mail cash to me, I opened my mailbox only to discover that the debit card had been in there all along. . .the discovery of which does not negate the fact that - once I retrieved it - I lost it again.

I'm sorry that I was all proprietary about my therapist.   I guess I can share her with other family members.

I'm sorry about the accusations . . . I'm sorry about the nit-picking. . . I'm sorry that I treat you like a doormat.

I'm sorry that I took back the at-work apology, swearing it was no longer valid.

Or why don't you all just try this???

I'm sorry that I lured you into a false sense of security and led you to believe you could abandon your anti-depression meds. . .

Or. . .

I'm sorry that I drove you to a stress-induced mac and cheese pig-out, leaving your lips chapped from the stickiness of the Velveeta?

Oh, but this all-inclusive one would hit the jackpot. . .

I'm sorry that I don't always recognize you for the beautiful, talented, selfless, wonderful mother/wife/friend/love-of-my-life that A Mom on Spin is . . . .

There must be more they need to apologize for. . . help me out here!!!!!

A Prisoner of Love. . . Or Is it Just Poor Planning. . .

Okay.

I've had a bit of a tiff tonight with Mr. Drip Dry and I need your help.

'Cause I'm locked up here in my study and he's in the expansive downstairs. . . 'Cause I'm the one who stormed off in a huff, while he had the foresight to stay put. . . 'Cause I'm the one who only has a laptop and he has a big screen t.v. . . . 'Cause I'm bored already, but I dare not give in . . .'Cause it's completely dry up here and he has access to a myriad of beverages in the refrigerator. . . 'Cause I was right and, of course, he was wrong. . . .'Cause I think I forgot what we fought about, but he might remember. . . and because I thought I'd be good and mad for the night, but realize now that it's only 8:02 p.m.!!!

Entertain me people! I'm a prisoner of poor planning!!!

So tell me, dear readers. . . what would you do in my situation? Would you. . . .

a) Blog about your ridiculous fight (whose origins you can't quite remember, and - quite frankly - don't care about) to the entire blogging community????

b) Sneak downstairs like a stealth fighter and steal a bottle of wine? (Thank God for screw tops. . . heh???)

c) Make sure you conveniently use all the toilet paper on the roll in the master bathroom, 'cause he'll be looking for it in the morning?

d) Swish his toothbrush in the toilet a few times?

e) Chalk it up to experience, retire to your bed, and decide that next time, you'll be savvy enough to make sure that he storms off while you keep the balance of the house?

or. . .

f) All of the above.

Do tell, bloggy friends, do tell . . .

Oh. . . and don't pretend that stuff like this hasn't happened to you, 'cause it soooooooo totally has. . . .

Just When I Thought it Was Safe to Go Back in the Water. . .

She was bound to do it sometime.

Bust the honeymoon phase, that is. . .

You see, in a strange combination of irrational trust, unearned confidence, and good old-fashioned impulse shopping, I purchased a brand new Starbucks travel mug as a back-to-school gift for Ponzi. And - at the risk of significant danger to my own life and limb - I purchased some Starbucks Tassimo pods to go with it.

Because, my friends, I thought it was safe to go back to the Tassimo.

The very same Tassimo coffee maker that her sisters used with wild abandon and - consequently - had been declared off limits! by Mr. Drip Dry. And I, the shopper of the family, had been forbidden to refill the corresponding coffee supply until the two of us were both safely ensconced in nothing short of an assisted living facility and were assured that we could afford what would be our now-limited "lifetime" of pod purchasing. (You get it? That's a fancy/funny way of saying that those freaking pods are expensive and one of Ponzi's sisters - who shall remain nameless - had been drinking about five cups of espresso a day, leaving Drip Dry no recourse but to shut down the whole operation.)

Literally. No drips from the coffee maker . . .

Dry as a bone. . .

And, from that moment on, we were all expected to use the boring, outdated, outmoded, and outclassed, Mr. Coffee to brew our morning's lifejuice.

And, in what will go down in the no-good-deed-goes-unpunished-by-a-teenage-daughter annals, for the past two mornings Ponzi has had the ultimate gall to use not one - but TWO - of those Tassimo pods to fill her travel mug. Wait. I stand corrected! It's more like one-and-a-half to fill that cup. That's right! She makes two cups, pours one-and-a-half of them into her new mug, and then proceeds to commit the most egregious sin of waste by leaving the remaining half-cup behind - sending Mr. Drip Dry into a tailspin from which he may never recover!

Note this day, folks.

The day that the coffee maker. . . the pods. . . the mug. . . and A Mom on Spin. . . go into hibernation until retirement . . .

What Life Is. . .

Just the other day I renewed my domain name for another year.

And now I find I have to change it.

For keeping the name A Mom on Spin would clearly be misleading. . . disingenuous. . . falsehood in advertising. . .


My friends, this morning was the first morning of the school year, and I was not even the tiniest bit agitated! There was no screaming. . . no fighting. . . no bathroom wars. . . no car horns blaring . . . no last minute hunt for missing items. . . not even one staccato note of tap-tap-make-up!

Just Ponzi, going off to the high school. Alone.

And when she swiped that twenty dollar bill from the kitchen counter, I shrugged my shoulders and walked away.

What is happening to me????

Does A Mom on Delicate have the same ring to it? How about Life in the Gentle Cycle? Or Hand Wash with Care???

And then, to add insult to injury, I started categorizing The List for my newest blogging project.

I don't have a full year of blogging material in there, folks! Do you know I can only cobble together a mere 68 life-changing, traumatizing, grounding-inducing incidents between my three teenage daughters???

Only 68!

Damn! What is my life coming to????

Oh wait, I just remembered 69. . .

No Wash-y the Towel-y or Drip Dry Will Growl-y

I always knew that raising our teenage daughters was tough on me.

But I never realized that it was driving my husband certifiably insane.

Isn't it always the way? You're so focused on your own troubles that you don't notice those around you crying out for help?

Just yesterday I walked into the laundry room to do some wash and Drip Dry came in all screaming-like. . . Whatever you do, don't wash those two towels!

Why can't I wash them? I asked innocently.

Because they're big and fluffy! he answered.

What's wrong with big and fluffy??? I inquired.

Nothing's wrong with big and fluffy, but you know our daughters. . .  they use a towel once before discarding it for a freshly laundered one.  They should be using the old threadbare ones until they learn to use a towel more than once!

But they can't stay here! I answered. They'll grow old and smelly.

Well, wash them if you must, he said, but then I'm hiding them!


And so it was that those towels went into hiding. . . along with the blueberries they ate too fast. . . and the chocolate he thought they consumed too much of. . . and the pine nuts that were way too expensive. . . and the Tassimo coffee pods they drank with abandon. . . and the tweezers they didn't appreciate. . .and the razor they stole that was his. . . and the mirror they got their grimy little fingerprints all over. . . and the soda cans they never finish. . . and the iHome they didn't treat correctly . . . and the. . .

Well, you get the picture. . .

Seatbelts on Wheelchairs and Words that I've Written

Dear Dad,

Welcome home.

I can honestly say that the neighborhood has not been the same without you for these past three weeks.

For there has been no 85-year-old sun worshiper perched on his front lawn. . . no noisy early riser rifling through the recycling bin next-door. . . . and no well-read copies of Business Week carefully maneuvered into our overstuffed mailbox.

Oh yeah - and even though Mom told everyone she was doing fine without you, I think she was scared to admit that she missed you too.

We've all known that you've had early stage Alzheimer's now for quite a few years, but I guess we've been crossing our fingers and hoping for the best. I - for one - could not imagine that anything could get the better of your giant-sized intellect. The disease may bring down others - I thought - but clearly it had never encountered an individual with your brain power.

And yet somehow these past few years have ushered in more than a few unwelcome and unforeseen changes. And you - my father - have faced each one of these challenges with untold grace and dignity.

For suddenly the man who taught his seven children how to drive, could no longer sit behind the steering wheel himself.

The permanent deacon who - at each Sunday dinner - asked us to discuss the homily, could no longer preach . . . or baptize. . . or assist in liturgies.

The father who used to pay his children a quarter to search for his missing glasses had grown poor in spirit - losing his wallet. . . keys. . . Yankees cap. . . and beloved Magnificat on a daily basis.

The Wall Street banker who misplaced his ATM card one-too-many times, could no longer carry it with him.

And - perhaps the most unsettling of all - a few short weeks ago, the first mortal born with an inboard GPS system, misdirected me while riding shotgun.

And now we have this.

The aftermath of The Fall.

And we silently watched as the forward thinking consumer who demanded seat belts be installed in our 1966 Chrysler station wagon, was alarmed and belted into his wheelchair at the rehab center. . . and the fitness enthusiast who used to rise at 5:00 a.m. to do his calisthenics and run laps (quite literally) around our dining room table each morning, came home with a walker.

Tough. . . all of it.

So excuse us if we hover.

Pardon us if we don't give you the independence which you so rightly deserve.

And be patient with us if we choose cheery conversational topics instead of asking you how you really feel about this new normal in your life.

For we know that one thing remains unchanged - your capacity to see the best in all of us.

Love always,

Oh. . . and one more thing. . . if you know what's good for you. . . . never - and I mean NEVER- call Mom Nursie again. . . for she doesn't always share your sense of humor about such things. . .

Dear Daugther Who Texted Me from Appalachia

Dear Daughter Who Texted Me from Appalachia,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The "a" in "ahhhhhhh"

It's here.

Well, the "a" is, anyway.

The rest of the word will arrive tomorrow evening after I deposit Veggie on a plane to the UK.

But this morning I distinctly felt the "a" . . . as I gladly waved goodbye to Trigger, Ponzi, and Mr. Drip-Dry as they left on their annual service trip to repair homes in the Appalachian region of West Virginia. Don't forget to call! I yelled as I watched the caravan depart the church parking lot. . .

. . . after which, I quickly scurried home to make a clean sweep of the house - spraying Febreeze . . . dumping water bottles. . . locating remote controls . . . scrubbing heel marks from the living room coffeetable. . . discarding gum wrappers. . . and eradicating bathroom hair art like an errant etch-a-sketch project. . . until - at last - the house contained no hint of the packing frenzy that had unfolded in those very rooms just two hours earlier, and the only item that remained out of place was my happy dance.





And so begins My Perfect Week, my friends.





And God help anyone who tries to mess it up!

The Morning After

Yes, it's all over but the headache. (Oh, and Trigger's actual graduation - which is next Tuesday.)

But the party has been had.

The invitations were sent (some of them - anyway - if I had your email address in my evite contacts . . .) The food was made/ordered/picked up (but paid for- in any event . . .) The tables and chairs were delivered from church (yes, I asked before taking this time. . . no pilfering at this party. . . the priests were invited.)

And perhaps - most importantly - the house was cleaned!

Now, by "cleaned" I don't mean just dusted and vacuumed. I mean de-cobwebbed. . . de-cluttered. . . de-junked. . . and de-bunked (okay, it wasn't actually debunked . . . but it rhymed nicely, now didn't it?)

And so here we are. . . the morning after. . . and only the post-mortem questions remain. . .

~~~~~~~~~~

Ponzi: Mom, can I have ten dollars? I have a sore throat and I can't find the tea kettle so I have to go to Starbucks to get a cup of tea.

Me: No, you can't go to Starbucks to get a cup of tea! The kettle's in the cabinet in the laundry room.

Ponzi: What's it doing there?

Me: I put it there to get it out of the way. . . you know. . . for the party.

~~~~~~~~~~

Trigger: Mom! Where are the tan sticky boobs? I left them next to the computer the other day!

Me: I put them in the laundry basket.

~~~~~~~~~~

Veggie: Hey! Where's that little snowman ornament that was still on the shelf in the kitchen? The one that said Let it Snow???? You know I hate it when you change things!!!

Me: Look on the bright side. You'll see it again next Christmas.

~~~~~~~~~~

Trigger: Mom! I'm in the laundry room, and the laundry basket's not here! Where is it????

Me: It's on the front seat of my van. . .

Trigger: That is soooooo annoying! Who would put a laundry basket in a car??? The party guests aren't allowed to see that we have laundry????

~~~~~~~~~~

Trigger Finger Guy: Liz, have you seen my Golf Magazine? I left it next to the toilet in the bathroom and I can't find it now. . .

Me: I kicked it under the bed (and then, for brownie points. . . ) for safekeeping.

~~~~~~~~~~

Veggie: And what about the tooth magnet that hangs on the refrigerator? How are we gonna know when it's time to call the dentist????

~~~~~~~~~~

and last. . . but not least. . .

Kasey: Hey! Where's that smelly dog toy that I carry around in my mouth the whole time? You know . . . the one that's supposed to look like a squirrel, but looks more like a drowned rat? Did it run under the couch again? Let's see. . . .I can't quite get my whole snout under there. . . Could you look for me? Could you?


Me: Kasey! How many times do I have to tell you? No barking in the house!


Kasey: Oh. . . but I bet if I cock my head to the side in that way I do, you'd move the couch for me. . . .

Me: And don't you look at me like that either!!!

Truth be told. . . there was one pilfered item at the party. Veggie pilfered the funeral pickles. But that, my friends, is a story for another day. . . .

The Twilight Zone goes Reality Show

There are three tidbits of information you need to know before reading this post:

1. My husband is a Standford University-educated electrical engineer.
2. Ever since her graduation from college a few weeks ago, Veggie has been working for me in the church office in order to make some money before leaving for her new life in England in July.
3. After saying Goodbye to both husband and daughter in the kitchen yesterday morning, I headed off to work - leaving my cell phone behind. And so I called home when I got to the office. . .

Me: I left my cell phone on the desk. Can you get it and give it to Veggie?
Husband: Let's see. . . . Here it is. . . .Do you want me to swing by and drop it off at the office on my way to work?
Me: No, just give it to Veggie. She'll bring it to me.
Husband: Okay. . .

Now, I wasn't there for the next part of the conversation, but I have to trust Veggie's version of what happened next. . .

Husband: Veggie, while you're on your way to wherever it is you're going, could you stop by Mom's work and bring her this cell phone????

Okay. . . let me get this straight. . . my near-genius of a husband thought my 21-year-old daughter - who stayed out until 2:30 a.m. the night before, mind you - would voluntarily be up, dressed, and ready to go to wherever it was she was going at 8:30 in the morning???

And you wonder why I sometimes feel that my entire life is one sorry episode of The Twilight Zone goes Reality Show????

p.s. . . . in the spirit of truth in publishing here I really should add that old hubbie was a tad-bit preoccupied at the time of our conversation. He had taken a casual interest in trying to fix my Craptop. . . and I'm not saying that he fixed it or anything. . . but I'm am blogging from it right now. . . under strict instructions not to touch the screen. . . the power cord. . . the battery. . . or anything else for that matter. . . .

Nothing to Report. For Once.

My husband and I left the children this weekend.



For a quick getaway to The shore.



No, we were not totally negligent . . . . Veggie was here to keep an eye on them. . . And my sister and her family (our next-door-neighbors) were on the look-out. . . .And my parents, from their perch in my sister's house, were placed on high alert. . .



But when we returned home, nothing seemed to be amiss.



Nothing clocked in as out-of-the-ordinary (except for the fact that the dog went without water the entire weekend. . . .)



Nothing seemed suspicious (. . . well. . . except that Trigger took the kitchen garbage out on her own without anyone telling her. . . )



I even invited my seven-year-old niece over and peppered her with questions, but she - too - had nothing to report. . .




Good God!



Could I be out of blogging material???