I Have Seen the Devil Himself. . or perhaps it was The Grinch . . but - wait - no, his face was definitely red, not green . . . .

So this weekend started out a little rough for me.

I was hemmed in.  Quite literally.

Attempting to leave the house early Saturday morning in advance of the big blizzard that hit much of the east coast, I discovered that one of the three Sleeping Beauties had parked her car directly behind my garage - a maneuver that I had cautioned her against no less than sixteen thousand times!. . . and the very one which she had been angry with her own sister for pulling just the previous day.

And so I decided to take her car. . . . wait. . .  let me rephrase that. . . I decided to take my car. .  . the car which my husband and I had purchased. .  . registered. . . paid the insurance on. . . .and put the gas into. . .  it's just that my daughters somehow feel like the car belongs to them. . .  because they named her. . . .like naming a car is akin to actual ownership. .  .


So as I turned the key in Roberta's ignition, I made a solemn promise to her that she - for once - would be treated with care and respect.  I also told her that she was in for the ride of her life . . . getting the chance to accompany A Mom on Spin on her errands as an emissary of good will. .  .

First, knowing that I was scheduled to deliver the monthly food from the Angel Food Ministries for my wheelchair-bound friends Meke and Dora, I was able to make a few extra stops in order to get them well-supplied before the big storm hit.

Next I stopped by work to check on the status of some parishioners in the hospital, where I chanced to encounter a very kind gentleman who had come to the church in order to donate a number of frozen turkeys and a single Christmas tree. And so Roberta and I set out around town once again to deliver the turkeys. . .  over to the senior citizen's housing . . .  back to Meke and Dora's . . . and on to other families who I thought might need and appreciate them.

Next, the Christmas tree.  I placed a call to Mr. Drip Dry and he came and tied that tree to the top of my car for me, and Roberta and I set out once again on a mission of mercy.

And the moment I drove away with that tree was the very moment that I - like my favorite character of all times, the Grinch - was suddenly filled with the Christmas Spirit. And as I drove along I found myself composing a little ditty that went something like this. . .

Forget fancy phones. . . and pricey black Uggs. . . 

iPods and downloads and Starbucks in mugs. . . 

Forget about concerts and money that's lost

memberships to the gym, and all that they cost.

Forget about tanning and under-aged drinking

overdraft charges and balances sinking!

For THIS is the stuff that God made Christmas for!

  Why I'm helping my friends. . . and  feeding the poor! 

Caring for those who are down on their luck

When this very morning, I thought I was stuck!
But you know the one thing I love best of all???

'Cause I took their car, they can't go to the Mall!

And so it was that I was filled with happiness as I came to rest at a traffic light and pulled out my phone in order to tell the lucky recipient that a tree was on its way to her home . . .when I saw that the gentleman in the car next to me had put down his window. . . probably to ask for directions, I thought. . . . and I quickly put down my passenger-side window - prepared to make a difference in yet-another lost soul's life that December morn. . .

And then I saw it.

His face was twisted and contorted into a fit of rage.

His complexion was as red as boiling lava.

His tongue was forked and spewing venom.

Get off that phone!

Excuse me? I queried. .  .


I said get off that G**-D****ed phone!

And as I continued to stare at him in disbelief . . . wondering when he would get to the real reason for the conversation . . . . he quickly hurled the ultimate insult at me before I had time to cover Roberta's delicate ears. . . .


You drive like sh**!!! he growled. . . and sped away.

And so it was that Roberta and I were left there - shuddering from our encounter with an entity of unknown origin.  Was it Scrooge?  The Grinch?  The Devil himself?

But it wasn't until I finally returned home and recounted the story to Veggie, that I was able to put the whole episode into perspective. . .  .  Oh, he was probably just an asshole! she said.

Oh yeah. . . assholes. . . for one blissful moment I had forgotten all about them. . . . 

Houston, We Have a Problem. . . of the coat kind . . .

If there's one thing I try to teach my daughters, it's how to be a good listener.

Take note of the following two problems which cropped up this past weekend and my astute attempt to zero in on what really matters.

_____________________________

Ponzi:  Mom, I think we have a bit of a problem. . .

Me:  A problem?  What is it?


Ponzi:  Well I went to that concert on Friday night. . . and I had my coat with me. . .you know. . . my black Northface. . .  and they made me check it. . .  like to prove I didn't have any booze with me or anything like that .  .and I gave Kathy my coat check ticket and she lost it. . .  just like she did last week. . .and I had to wait until the firemen said it was alright to come back in . . . you know. .  .after the fire alarm that we all thought was part of the show. . .  and they made me wait 'til everyone else claimed their coats. . .  and someone had taken my coat and it had your $30 in it and my train ticket home. . . and my school I.D. and perhaps my driver's license. . . I'm not really sure about that one. . .  but somebody else left their black Northface and I took that one instead . . . and the good news is that . . . remember how you made me buy a child's XL 'cause the ladies' "small" was like fifty bucks more???. . . well. . .  this coat is a ladies's "small". .  .so I think we made out on the deal!

Me:  Oh my God, Ponzi! You brought an unknown coat home from New York City?  You better put in in the washer right away! You never know where a coat like that has been!


Which was quickly followed by this phone conversation on Sunday afternoon. . .

Trigger:   Mom!  We have a problem!

Me:  We do???  What is it?


Trigger:   Well you see . . .  Last night I was at a Frat party. . . you know . . . and I had my coat. . . my black Northface. . . cause I told you we practically had like a blizzard. . .  well I left my coat in Kimmie's bedroom and when I went back to get it at the end of the night it wasn't there.


Me:  Tell me. . .  what size was that coat?  Was it a child's XL????


Trigger:  Mom!  Did you hear me?  Do you know what was in my coat?  My wallet!   My ATM card!! My student I.D.!!!   My PHONE!!!!

Me:  Were there any firefighters there?

Trigger:  Do you not even care?   This is serious!  Do you even know what this means?

Me:  What does this mean?

Trigger:  I don't have any money!  I can't talk to anyone!   I can't eat!  Aren't you worried that someone is using my ATM card???

Me:   What?  And withdrawing the grand total of $25 you begged me to put in your account yesterday?  I'll just transfer it back to my account.

Trigger:  But they could overdraw!

Me: Oh yes!  I vaguely remember your sister doing that just last week. . .  I tell you what. . .  go steal someone else's Northface, get yourself a new student I.D., and eat in the dining hall until you come home for Christmas break.

Me (again):  And Trig?

Trigger:  Yes?

Me:  Make sure your new coat is a ladies' "small" and don't forget to you wash it right away.  You never know where a coat like that has been. .  . but check the pockets first. . .  there may be something good in there. .  .

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

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

_____________________

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How?  You say.

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

To Catch a Thief

One of my lovely daughters lifted $20 from my wallet on Saturday.

I'm quite certain of it.

For after I returned from a fundraising breakfast for a young mother with terminal cancer, a stint at work delivering Thanksgiving baskets to the homes of the area's poor, and attending my 27-year-old cousin's profoundly sad and troubling wake. . . .well, the only thing in life I was sure of was the fact that I had a total of $80 in my wallet.

And yet, later in the evening, when I pulled out my wallet to pay the take-out-delivery guy (What?  Don't tell me you would cook after a day like that????) there were clearly only three twenties in there.

And so I proceeded to launch an investigation - starting with the most-likely culprit first:

____________________

Me:   Ponzi, did you, by chance, take a twenty dollar bill from my wallet this afternoon?

Ponzi:  No, I asked you for five dollars.   Remember?  And you told me I couldn't take it and you told me to get a job.

Me:  Exactly. . .  .


Ponzi:  But I didn't, Mom!  Wouldn't that have been stupid of my to ask for five and take twenty instead?

Me:  But I only had twenties in my wallet.   And remember how you told me you couldn't apply for a job now. . . you know. . .  cause who would hire someone with a big black eye???

Ponzi:  I didn't take it, Mom!  I swear!  It must have been Trigger!

And so the scope of my investigation widened to another bedroom.

Me:  Trigger?   Did you, by chance, take $20 from my wallet this afternoon?

Trigger:  No Mom!  Why would I do a think like that?  You know I came home from college broke with no money left in my bank account!

Me:  Exactly. . .  .

Trigger:   So if I went and bought something you would have seen it and then you would have known that I didn't have the money for it and you probably would have thought that I stole the money from you and I don't care what you think but I'm not that stupid Mom!

Me:  Not if you used it on coffee. . . or tanning. . .  or makeup. . .  how would I notice a thing like that?  You were gone an awfully long time after you dropped Ponzi off at her friend's house.   For all I know, it could still be in your wallet.


Trigger:  Oh.  My.  God!!!  You can look in my wallet if you want to.  You already know I'm broke. . .

So there you have it, my friends.  The investigation is at a stand still.  I'm thinking of running fingerprint checks on both of them  (you know. . . like I do with all the unwitting church volunteers.) And the dog.  I'm considering having her paw-printed too while I'm at it . .  .

Alright.. .  I know you all have a theory as to where that $20 went.   So you might-as-well go ahead and say it here. . .

When you live in a den with liars and thieves, you can no longer afford to be proud.

Quite literally. . .

Oh My God! The "Special" Made Me Do It. . .

So I was with my sister and a friend on Friday night and they were all excited about this new nail salon which offered a manicure and pedicure for only $20.

And, although I'm not really a mani/pedi kind of gal, there was a wedding (bite your tongue. . .  may my daughters never want one. .  .) to go to on Saturday and I got to thinking that I might just employ a little outside help to pretty myself up.  Now keep in mind, it was only the mani part of the mani/pedi I was interested in, but I've never been one to turn down a bargain . . . and why pay $12 for a mani when you can get the whole mani/pedi for just eight bucks more. . . and so, on the way back from buying my suck-it-all-in-unitard-body-shaper and black support hose at the mall, I did the unthinkable and drove unscripted into the parking lot of a new nail salon, riveted by the sign which read . . . 

Special!  

$20  

Mani/Pedi

And, although I may be accused at times of being an impulse shopper, I have never before been an impulse mani/pedi/ier.

And for good reason.

I forgot that I don't like people touching me.

But somehow the thought of the wedding (bite your tongue for even mentioning the word. . . may my daughters never want one. . . ) and the special price led me to dive into that pedi chair without prethinking the consequences.

And, hoping to get past the whole I hope she won't notice that my feet smell thing by quickly immersing them in the water, the nail attendant promptly pulled them out again and said, Oh My God!

What's wrong?  I queried.

Oh My God!  she re-uttered.  You need  Oh My God!

Oh My God?

There!  she said, pointing to the salon services menu and the item that read Oh My God! Callus Remover.

$35 for mani/pedi with Oh My God!

Are you sure?  I asked.

Positive! she answered.

And so for the next hour the poor nail attendant invoked the name of God as she and her saran wrap attempted to remove the calluses from the bottom of my feet.  And after both she and I had lost a good five pounds in doing so, she turned her attention to my legs.

And it hit me.

She was going to massage my legs.  I hadn't shaved those mother-f***ers in at least two weeks!

Not to mention my toes!  My biggest piggies hadn't seen the edge of a shaving blade since the last time they went to market. . .

Oh. My. God!

And so it was that the unsuspecting pedicurist and her hot stone spent the next ten minutes of her life caressing my prickly and stubbly calf muscles, and the following ten trying to apply nail polish while resisting the urge to braid my three errant toe hairs.

And by that time I was praying to a merciful God to grant me another curist for the mani part, but it seems that praying to God to remove your calluses does not give the supplicant much clout in choosing her next victim, for that same girl took one look at my misshapen and bitten-down fingernails and nearly cried.

But thankfully there wasn't a spa service entitled Go to Hell! and so the poor girl could only ask, Same color? 

Yes, same color.  I replied sheepishly.

And when the time came to pay for all this fun, I found that the $20 mani/pedi sign was, indeed, truthful advertising . . .  for although I paid $35 to the salon for its special services, I coughed up an additional $20 in the form of a tip to that mani/pedi/curist to keep her from laughing at me if God ever grants me the grace to walk back through those doors again.

Oh. . . and just another little tidbit of information. . .

All night long at the wedding (may I never have to pay for one. . . ) my feet were slipping right out of my shoes. And the unitard didn't reach down to my heels, my friends.   Nope. . . .without my trusty calluses, my shoes were suddenly too big.

What was I thinking?

And I Remember When She Used to Fingerpaint. . .

Conversation overheard just yesterday in A Mom on Spin's kitchen. . .


Me:  Ponzi!  Where are you going dressed like that?

Ponzi:  To the high school football game.  Why?

Me:  Well, my dear, that shirt is more-than-a-little-bit see through.  You better put a jacket on over it.

Ponzi:  It's not like it really matters.   I'm just going to be pulling it up anyway. . .

After all. . . she is the second "R" in Morristown, you know. . .

Why Couldn't That Damn Dog Whisper????

First of all. . .

You need to go vote for Ponzi's friend in the Jets' National Anthem contest.  This, my friends,  is a contest akin to those in Chicago politics. . .  you can, and should, vote for Meghann Carr early and often (and you don't even have to be a U.S. citizen.)  Yet - unlike Chicago politics - you have to be alive. . . 

Now onto the family dog. . .

I need you all to travel back in time with me.

Remember when I saw The Psychic?  That very same psychic came to my house the following week to do readings for a few of my close friends and  family members.  (Okay! Next time I'll invite you. . .)  And besides the fact that she was totally AWESOME for me, she was SPOT ON with my guests that night.  (And just to get this straight, it's not like I'm a psychic groupie or anything. . . )

But another thing  happened that night that I was not privy to at the time.

I guess my dog was talking.

To the Psychic.

My dog was talking to the Psychic!

And the reason that I know that My dog was talking to the Psychic! was that last Friday evening I was at a little get-together where the afore-mentioned psychic was present (I'm NOT  a psychic groupie or anything. . . ) and the psychic had a gift for me - a collection of photographs of yellow labs.

Me:  Oh, but, you didn't have to!

Psychic:  Well, I never actually told you what happened at the end of the night when your dog came up to me.

Me:  Oh but I remember! You said she told you that she wanted to be a good dog. . . you know. . . in order to please me.

Psychic:  Yes, but there were so many people there, I didn't want to tell you what she really said. . .

Me:  Really said?  Well, what did she say???

Psychic:  It was kind of unusual. .  .

Me:  Go on. . . .   I won't be surprised.

Psychic:  Well, the dog walked right up to me and told me that you like her better than you like your own daughters!!!!

Now I ask you. . .  Is there one of you who would be surprised that the dog thought that?

For after all. . . I tell her that every day!!!

The Ten Commandments of Blogging (Brought down the mountain one at a time by A Mom on Spin . . . )

Why, whadda know???? It's my Anni-bloga-versary!

That's right! Exactly one year ago today A Mom on Spin (the blog - mind you) was born. 

So now that I have now officially become a Blogging Diva, I thought I would take this opportunity to impart to you my vision of how blogging should be. . . a few little rules and suggestions that I like to call. . .

The Ten Commandments of Blogging

(Brought down the mountain one at a time by A Mom on Spin. . .)

1. I am A Mom on Spin, and you shall read no other blogs before mine.
2. Thou shalt not use A Mom on Spin's name in vain. But you shall, instead, link to my name and blog at every opportunity.
3. Keep short your blog posts. A line or two for the rest of you should do. . . all the more time we can spend at my blog. . .
4. Honor the blogging Diva - always in the form of a comment.
   
5. Thou shalt not speed read A Mom on Spin. Every word is carefully chosen to enlighten and improve the quality of your life. Don't miss a single one!
   
6. Thou shalt not use certain acronyms when commenting on this blog. . . Okay, I get what LOL means, but no one has enlightened me as to what the LMAO thing is. And no more snorting coffee out your nose 'cause I'm so funny. . . that's just plain old TMI.
7. Thou shalt not lurk. I understand that's it's often hard to come up with witty, pithy, and original comments to my blog posts - and so, as of today, the following new acromyns will be accepted and expected: ICIRIL (I came, I read, I laughed. . .) ICIRIC (I came, I read, I cried. . . cause sometimes I can be really touching like that. . . ) and finally. . . ICIRIG (I came, I read, I'm gone. . .)
8. You shalt not be funnier than A Mom on Spin. (A sort of an oxi-moronic phrase, I know. . .)
   
9. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's (that would mean me, folks. . .) blog.

and last, but not least. . .

10. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's (me again!) followers. . . or elipses. . . you shouldn't covet them either. . . or my sharp wit. . . or my daughters. . . my job. . . or Mr. Drip Dry if you think he's covetable. . . don't you dare covet him . . . or my dog, 'cause she really is the best dog in the world. . . sorry, folks. . . but she has that title wrapped up. . . no coveting. . . you hear me. . . coveting is NOT allowed. . . . no coveting. period.

And if anyone wants to read A Mom on Spin's first-ever blog post . . . well, you really should. . . .because - Diva or not - it's somehow comforting to know that life hasn't changed much for her in the last year. . .

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!!!!!

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?

Tell Me Who. . .

Okay. So who was the brainiac who thought that - just because she'd had a good week or two of family life - throwing away her anti-anxiety meds would be the smart thing to do????

Did she remember that in this one week alone she needed to

• Say goodbye to her old boss
  
• Say hello to her new one
  
• Organize a luncheon for twenty
  
• Oversee a cocktail reception for 57
  
• and run a picnic for (at last count) 1,064????

What was that silly girl thinking????

and - in case you're wondering - I'm not panicked at all. . . not at all. . . 1,067. . . it's up to 1,067. . .

Make-up Nazis. . .

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~

Me: Hello?

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

Me: Well did you clean it up?

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

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

Me: What? Me?

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

Me: No.

Me: No!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: No?

Me: Never?

Me: Never ever????

Me: Never ever EVER?????

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

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

Me: Say it!

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

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

Just Some Everyday Run-of-the-Mill Office Correspondence

Dear Johnny (or is it Connie. . . or Bonnie. . . or Donny. . . no it's definitely Johnny. . . )

I would like to congratulate you on your impending nuptials.

I'm also happy to hear that after 60-something years of being on the fence (shall we say) that you have determined that the heterosexual lifestyle is the one for you. And - yes - it is glorious to be in love.

But since you have spent so many of your earthly years in someone else's back yard, I thought I would give you just a few pointers on how women feel about some of the things that you shared earlier today. . .

1. Women do not like you entering church offices and regaling the employees there with your latest sexual exploits - especially if it includes some mention of blood and gore.
2. Women do not like you telling the very same employees how you managed the very same types of things while on the other side. It just isn't conversation meant for polite company.
3. Women do not especially like you taking a beer or two so early in the morning. We much prefer that you take your meds like the doctor suggests.
4. Nor do we like to hear about what it was like the time you had bed bugs.
5. Women do not think you need a bridal gown for your nuptials - nor should you glam yourself down the aisle when you hear the beginnings of Here Comes the Bride.
6. We do - however - like you to take off your white athletic socks if wearing flip-flops.

But my greatest piece of advice for you, Dear Johnny, is a warning for you to watch your heart - for you and I both know it's been broken before. And in a strange and quite uncomfortable way, I find myself hoping that your future bride knows just how lucky she is.

That's right. I said lucky. . . to have the bi-polar, bi-sexual, anxiety-ridden, bed-bugged, heart-and-thyroid-diseased teddy bear that is YOU!
Call me crazy. . .

Oh. . . and that twenty bucks???? You still owe it to me.

I'm a Believer!

I got my very first Psychic reading this weekend and I'm all . . . like. . . Wow!

And in order to Wow! you. . . let me just cut to the chase and tell you a few things she said about my teenage daughters. . .

• Although Veggie has graduated, she still saw her connected with education. . . but somewhere overseas. . . maybe like England. . . with a teacher . . . or professor . . . but a connection she had made previously.

Truth: Veggie has indeed moved to England to be a research assistant for a Professor she met while on her service trip to Guatemala last Christmas.

• She saw Trigger possibly entering the Psychology field.

Truth: Trigger wants to be a therapist. She is headed to college next week and has declared Psychology her Major.

• And my third daughter? Well, she saw her as always wanting/needing more money. . . feeling entitled to it.

Truth: The very reason I call her Ponzi. Need I say more????

And, if you're still a tad bit skeptical and think . . . Hey, a Mom on Spin's life is an open book! All anyone would have to do is read this blog. . . (Although I've never mentioned Veggie's occupation in the U.K. nor Trigger's declared major . . . ) she knew all about a miscarriage I had in conjunction with Veggie's pregnancy . . . a second fetus (twin) that didn't survive. . .

So, my friends, how does that grab you???
It sure wowed me!

Oh. . .and she said she saw my house "tidying up" due to Trigger's imminent departure. That - my friends - was the moment I kissed her.

Oooh, La, La, and All That. . .

Dearest Veggie,

Thanks for responding to my email wondering if you were still alive. I guess that life in the U.K. must be agreeing with you.

Your father and I returned from our vacation at the "shore" earlier today. We forced Ponzi to come with us for the week, but Trigger couldn't afford any more time off from work and so she traveled down by herself and stayed just for two nights because she wanted to be home for her 19th birthday. (Btw. . .was it you - perhaps - who taught her the pick-and-pass method of driving she uses on the highway? 'Cause it sounds like vintage Veggie to me. . . ) Anyway. . . we had to send the dog back with Trigger because she was suffering from Safe Potty Syndrome (the dog, silly, not Trigger) and I caught her once or twice clicking her heels and muttering something like. . . There's no place home. . .I'm sure you'll be pleased to know that, according to Trigger, once she was in her own backyard, everything ran smoothly for her once again.

Speaking of smoothly. . . it seems that my little excercise in Trusting Trigger worked out just fine. I checked my camera again, and the inside of the liquor cabinet looks just the way it looked in the photo I took before we left.

I'm glad that your trip to Spain was wonderful. I was surpised - however - to read your p.s. about skipping over to Paris from there . . . I checked your bank account and have not - as of yet - seen any Parisian purchases on your debit card. How could this be? Not a single pair of shoes? A scarf? A cafe au lait? A pack of cigarettes??? (Or are they fags now to you???) Come now, Veggie, you are messing up my super-sleuthing abilities!

While in the City of Love, please promise me you will not get seduced by a Frenchman, for I'm quite convinced that you - my dear daughter - will fall head-over-heels with a young strapping gadabout, who - in turn - will only break your heart. You know what they say. . . sometimes you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince . . .

I guess that's it for now. Please write again and give me some more details about your living conditions . . . like your phone number. . . or if you're actually making any money. . . you know. . . little things like that. . .

Signed lovingly,

Oh. . . and I hope you weren't planning on coming home any time in the near future, 'cause Ponzi has some friends over and they're moving her into your old room as we speak. . . and I'll be taking over Ponzi's old room after that. . . turning it into my study. . . 'cause I need one, you know. . .

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. . .

Look! A Mom on Spin in New Verizon Commercial. . . Take One

New Commercial for Verizon Wireless . . . shot in suburban New Jersey Verizon store.

Take One!

Verizon Rep: Mrs. Mom on Spin? You're next. How can I help you?

Frazzled Middle-Aged Woman: I desperately need your help to decipher my cell phone bill. Months ago I opted for an on-line bill and so I no longer get a paper bill and I kinda open it only when I go to pay it ('cause, believe me if I had known about this, I would never have let something as important as this lapse) but my husband has all of the passwords and he's away right now and I really need to get to the bottom of this problem.

Verizon Rep: And what problem would that be?

Frazzled: Well I gave my phone number to that woman when I checked in and you must have my account open so you must see what the problem is. .

Rep: Well are you Veggie?

Frazzled: No, I'm not Veggie.

Rep: And clearly you're not Mr. Drip Dry . . . is that correct?

Frazzled: Yes, you are correct on that one.

Rep: Well only Veggie and Drip have authorization to talk to me about the account. I can't tell you anything.

Frazzled: Well Mr. Drip Dry is away right now and Veggie's my oldest daughter and might very well be the culprit. . . so I desperately need your help! Would it help if I told you that I recently paid a $430 cell phone bill??? And the on-line banking bill is now telling me that I owe you $950 dollars right now! Could you please just reassure me that my payment got applied and I only owe you $520 for last month's bill???? Could you at least do that for me???

Rep: Well, yes, I can confirm that you now owe Verizon Wireless $516.

Frazzled: (breathing a sigh of relief that she only owes $516. . . ) And can't you just peek at that bill for me and tell me which one of my three daughters I need to kill right now? It's very important that I get the right one. . .

Rep: Okay, let me look. . .

Frazzled: Oh, Thank you! Thank you!!!!!!

Rep: Now it looks like it could be this number that has the problem . . . 973-867-5309. . .

Frazzled: TRIGGER! Damn! I knew it! How did that bill get so high? What did she do? Was it texting? Downloads? Navigation system? What????

Rep: It looks like it was texting. . . let's see. . .

Frazzled: But doesn't she have unlimited text messaging?

Rep: The unlimited part is for in-network texts. She only has 1,500 out-of-network texts for free.

Frazzled: Holy God above! How many out-of-network texts did that child send in one month?

Rep: 6,000.

Frazzled: WHAT???

Rep: Well, actually it was 5,948 out-of-network text messages. . . and only 1,500 of them were free and so over 4,000 of them were billable. . .

Frazzled: (now clearly in an altered mental state. . . ) Well, do you offer a plan that has unlimited out-of-network texts so we can stop this from going any further????

Rep: No, I'm sorry. The plan with the most out-of-network texts only covers 4,000 per month, so she'd still have to cut back on her texting habits.

Frazzled: (regaining a small bit of sanity) Well, can I cut off her texting option from her phone right here and now?

Rep: I'm sorry, only Veggie or Drip Dry can do that. You're not authorized on the account.

Frazzled: Oh. . . right. . . Veggie. . . and Drip. . . one of them will get back to you on that. . .

enter. . .

Ponzi: (breathless with excitement. . . ) Mom! I figured out which phone I want! The guy over there told me I'm due for an upgrade and I have a $50 credit so the new Blackberry would only be like $53 and then $15 a month after that. . .


Frazzled: Oh, this is my third daughter, Ponzi, she's not the one who. . . well. . . you know. . .


Rep: Yes, I see. . . but you're still not authorized. . .


Frazzled: Believe me . . . I understand! (now clearly trying to uphold the last shred of dignity she once had while whisking Ponzi away. . . ) Ponzi, we are not getting that phone right now! Do you understand? Are you insane?


Ponzi: But why can't she call Dad? It's not fair to punish me for something that's Trigger's fault! You do that all the time, Mom. . . get mad at me for something Trigger's done!


Frazzled: We're just not doing it now!


Ponzi: But why not????? Why not? Mom! I said. . . why not????

scene fades to black. . . and. . . Cut!!!

I'm a Lousy Chicken Stalker

So guess who's having a yard sale this weekend?

No, I mean it. . .

Guess.

Who.

Let me give you a hint. . .

I stopped by to see if there were any COATS for sale!!!!

Yes, my friends, The Perfect Coated One held a yard sale this weekend.

And this, we all know, was a stalker's dream come true . . . the opportunity of a lifetime. . . a chance to debunk the myth. . . peek under the veil. . . find some cobwebs in her picture-perfect life. . .

But - alas - there was only one problem.

I chickened out.

I first discovered the retail bonanza on the way to the market this morning, but quickly ascertained that my reaction time is not nearly what it used to be - for I just couldn't bring myself do something as crazy and unscripted as stopping at The Perfect Coated One's garage sale without butterflies in my stomach and sufficient prior planning under my belt.

What would I do? Nonchalantly wander about as if I do this kind of thing all the time? Casually check labels for size and maker of any clothing for sale? Pretend to be peering at the candlesticks while all-the-while peeking inside the windows???

And where was the Perfect One anyway?

She was nowhere in sight. And in her place stood the Granny-figure of the household (mother-in-law, no doubt - for I'm sure she never would have subjected her own dear mother to anything as base and lowly as a yard sale. . . )

No, The Perfect One was clearly not about. . . but a beautiful happy vase of sunflowers stood welcoming her garage sale guests.

And so I parked in the grocery store parking lot and hyperventilated.

While a strange case of hives developed on my torso.

And after I spent way too much money at the market (including $8.99 for my own cheery bunch of sunflowers) I put White Ice on autopilot and headed for the house with the white picket fence.

And for all of my time plotting (or should I say scratching) I still didn't have a plan.

And so I casually pulled up outside the house and left car running while I tried to peer around the corner of the driveway from the driver's seat. . . and suddenly . . . without warning. . . the Granny figure looked up from under her visor and stared straight at me. . . .and I froze!

Froze, I tell you.

I Froze!


Well. . . and then. . . I drove away.

Drove away without even a glimpse at the clothing rack. . . Drove away without even browsing through her books. . . or her VHS tapes (My God, there could have been an unwitting sex tape of her and the Perfect Hatted Husband in there and I missed my opportunity!). . . drove away without knowing what size shoes she wears!

Now I ask you. . . What kind of timid-lousy-no-good-brainless-complete-nin-com-poop-of-a-stalker am I???

What was I afraid of? Was I afraid to discover that she had actually read Ulysses? Or listened to Pavarotti? Or didn't have any old exercise equipment to shed because she faithfully uses it every day?

Was I afraid that even her cast-offs weren't good enough for me???

Or perhaps it was something else!

Perhaps . . . just perhaps. . . .I didn't need her hand-me-down clothing (Who am I kidding here? She's all of a size "6" while I'm well into double-digits.) Perhaps I felt secure with my own sunflowers and didn't need to stare at hers. Perhaps I didn't want to waste my hard-earned money supporting her out-of-control spending habit!

Or perhaps I'm just a spineless chicken. . . .

Will You Still Need Me? Will You Still Feed Me?

Just the other day, after Hubby returned from getting his hair cut, we found ourselves in conversation that went something like this. . .

Mom on Spin: If I ever start growing hairs on my chin. . . would you tell me?

Drip Dry: Sure, I'd tell you. . .

Mom on Spin: But, what if I couldn't see them. . . would you pluck them?

Drip Dry: No way! I'm not plucking your chin! You'd have to do that yourself.

Mom on Spin: Well good luck with your old-man nose hair then! You're gonna have them, you know! And don't you think that one day you'll be begging me to do some ear-hair trimming . . . but I will just turn a blind eye. . . or perhaps a deaf ear. . .

Drip Dry: Well . . .Ha! You're the one that's gonna have to look at it anyway, so I won't care!

Mom on Spin: Well I won't care either!

Drip Dry: Yeah?

Mom on Spin: Yeah! It will serve you right for not plucking my chin when I need you!

~~~~~~~~~~

So remember how this is My Perfect Week?

Well, I wasn't really truthful about how it all began.

As my husband and I were bidding each other a fond farewell in the bright sunshine of the church parking lot yesterday morning, we found ourselves in a conversation that went something like this. . .

Mom on Spin: Now keep an eye on those daughters of ours. . . just because they're on a church trip doesn't mean that they can't find some way to get themselves in trouble. . .

Drip Dry: Oh my God! You have one!

Mom on Spin: What?

Drip Dry: A hair! Here. . . let me get it for you. . .

Mom on Spin: Whaaaaat? A hair? Like on my chin???

Drip Dry: Yeah, nobody's looking I'll just . . .

Mom on Spin: Ouch!!!!

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. . . .