An Abrupt Departure from My Usual Posts (but, hey, who's checking)

I assume that everyone who is diagnosed with a chronic illness passes through a stage akin to grief.

For months now I've been feeling genuinely ill.  And - although I've been able to reduce or eliminate some of the troublesome symptoms - it seems the next, more-serious, one is always waiting to fill the void.  For Sjogren's is - by its very nature - systemic and can attack almost any organ or system it chooses.  And so, for the first time in my life, I have begun to worry about life-threatening events.

Me - who hasn't made a "sick" appointment with my doctor in the 15 years I've been a patient.

 I worry about blood clots, pulmonary embolisms and stroke.   I worry about lymphoma.   And, during my recent struggle with diverticulitis, I worried about a host of things ranging from vasculitis and pancreatitis to perforations and peritonitis.


And now I find myself truly grieving that which I have lost. . . the old me so-to-speak. . .the simple me.  Not a me who ran marathons or worked out at 5:00 a.m. - but the me who walked effortlessly through the grocery store. . . the me who woke up refreshed, instead of tangled in a horrifying web of morning dryness . . .the me would could bask in the sunlight without developing rashes. . .  the me who took her health for granted and didn't worry about an ominous cloud waiting around the bend.

So, in a fettered-frenzy of fear-induced insomnia, I offer the following:

I Grieve

I grieve the me who used to be 

fresh-faced as the honeybee;

and, mindless of unforeseen blows,

was not attuned to wafting woes.

I grieve the me who used to flit

from bud to bough, no thought of it;

for sun's harsh rays would never touch

this woman who life loved so much.

I grieve the me who never knew,

the mist of pain on sunrise dew;

and who, from daybreak's web would climb

unfettered from sleep's silken vine.

I grieve for me who must endure

a wear-worn dream which is no more;

 for who could guess, that fate unknown

would claim uncertainty my home.

I grieve for me who, worry-wrought,

in midnight's hour, dreary caught;

to whom, fresh troubles deftly cling

like regal robes on new-crowned king.

I grieve for me who tears have fled,

to leave life's sorrows yet unshed;

and dry up yesterdays of yore.

I grieve the me who is no more.

Signed, a

less-than-normally-exuberant. . . 

Yoga School Dropout

So I was all excited to begin my early-morning yoga class until my proclivity for vertigo got in the way.

And - frankly - my first class was less than I had hoped for.

I think you'll get the gist of it from the following song written just for this occasion:

 

 Yoga School Dropout. . .

no graduation day for you!

Yoga School dropout . . .

what did you think that you would do?

At least you could have have gone and learned the Downward Facing Doggie;

the Lotus, or the Crane, Half-Moon, the Cobra or the Froggy!

Yoga School Dropout. . .

Why did you get so sick in class?

Yoga School Dropout. . .

Your only pose was named "The Ass"!

A yogi-mom with motion sickness, who's ever heard of that?

At least with all those spins you didn't throw up on your mat!

Yoga School Dropout. . . 

You should have stayed right in your bed.

Yoga School Dropout. . .

You sure are sickly in the head!

You're a hopeless Mom on Spin and you can never change a wink

These things you say are easy can be harder than you think!

Yoga School Dropout. . . 

Yoga School Dropout. . . 

Go Back to Bed!!!!

Got the picture?

Words I Hate

 Once before, when I fancied myself a vocabularian, I wrote a post entitled The Language of Giggles. 

That post was all about the words I absotutely adore.

Now that I'm a Mouse-a-Phobic, I offer you instead the words that I adamently abhor:

Scurry. . .Scamper. . .Wriggle. . . Slither

Swishy .. . Nibble. . . Sneaky. . .Twitchy

Flurry. . .Tamper . . .Squiggle. . .Quiver
Fishy. .  .Dribble. . .Freaky. . .Itchy

Dirty. .  . Furry. . .Filthy. . .Stinky

Hurty. . .Blurry. . . Stealthy.. . Blinky
Hairy. . .Smelly. . . Putrid. . .Squatter
Scary. . .Yelly. . .Stupid. . .Fodder

Turning. . . Lying. . . Danger . . .Waver
Squishy. . .Squashy. . .Tumble. . .Tossy
Churning. . .Crying. . .Changer. . . Caver
Wishy. . .Washy. . .Bumble. . .Bossy

Frightened. . .Racing. . . Cower. . .Fleeing
Tightened. . Pacing. . . Anxious. . .Being
Panic. .  . Fearing. . .Trauma. . .Stumble 

Frantic . . Tearing. . . Drama. . . Crumble

Meaty. . . Muddy. . .Messy. . . Chewy
Beady. . .Bloody. . .Fleshy. . .Gooey
Cautious. . .Greyish. . .Oooey. . .Stewy
Nauseous. . .Preyish . . .Ratatouille!

And with that said, I lovingly remain. . .

p.s. Let me just state for the record that - although it conjures up a  messy and out-of-control image for me - I have not abandoned my affection for the word akimbo!

I Have Been to the Mountain

Not the mountain, really.   The inauguration.

I have been to the inauguration of New Jersey's new Governor.

And because I went there sick, I feel like I have not only been to the mountain, I also feel as if I had trudged up it, did a hundred sit-ups at the summit, and slid back down on my tookus.

And so I sit here this evening - thinking that I really should have been to the grocery store instead of the mountain on my first foray out of my sickbed - but realizing, none-the-less, that days like today are the very things God made take-out for.

And Drip Dry.   These are the days that God made Drip Dry and take-out for.

So I'm just here under my blanket waiting tonight for the phone call asking me to become the new Poet Laureate of the great State of New Jersey.

And practicing.

Tell me what you think. . .

There once was a girl from Pennsauken

at whose nose folks were always a-gawking.

It was big, red, and round,

until that girl found,

a surgeon who hailed from Weehawken.

or how about this one. . .

There once was a lad from Bagota,

who fancied himself Cssanova.
But the New Jersey girls
gave this young lad a whirl,
and sent him to Drake, North Dakota.

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. . . . 

Forbidden Love. . .

Oh how I long for you each lonely night!
Desire - seems so wrong, but feels so right.
Your first brief brush against my waiting lips,
will leave my heart and stomach doing flips.

And though I crave your presence endlessly,
my secret love, I can't let others see.
For others judge - and they don't understand,
just how your cold heart melts on my command.

You are no good for me, my daughters cry.
But love in pure form cannot be denied!
They warn me you will crawl under my skin,
and one day I sport a double chin.

But nights when Drip Dry travels far from home,
I find myself weak, stranded, and alone.
And soon I find I simply can't ignore
the heaven waiting on my freezer door.

Wisconsin's finest! Caught up in your lair -
your tangy goodness wafts upon the air.
Enveloped elbows, dripping with cheese sauce.
I consummate our love - the battle lost.

And afterward? I deftly hide the truth -
for Drip Dry would have made a wonder-sleuth.
The proof of our affair cannot be found -
with bowl and spoon licked by the family hound.

And hours after my illicit binge,
I start to feel an old familiar twinge.
My burdened stomach, like a lover spurned,
begins to twist, burn, tumble, toss, and churn.

Oh gluttony! Oh excess food imbibed!
I take antacids just as they're prescribed!
A tummy ache? Just one small price to pay. . .
For I have sampled Heaven for a day!

Don't worry . . . Drip Dry's back tomorrow.

Silly Sunday

So just yesterday as I stood by my car (picking up husband and daughters from their trip, and putting an end to My Perfect Week) someone asked me for a piece of paper and a pen. After rifling through my briefcase for what seemed like an eternity yet coming up empty handed, I finally tore out page 45 from just one out of five never-quite-been published manuscripts penned by yours truly - this one from a book of expanded children's limericks called If a Word Rhymes with Silly.



And, since I freely shared page 45 with a total stranger yesterday, I thought I would share that same poem with you today.

The Reason that Francis Now Dances

There once was a young man named Francis,

who hailed straight from Wichita, Kansas.

He strongly desired,

to learn and acquire,

the moves to the new-fangled dances.

So Francis then made up his mind,

to master each step he could find.

He learned every move,

got into the groove,

and shagged every bump, hop, and grind.

He started with the Bunny Hop,

then added the Jerk and Bus Stop.

The Cha-Cha and Swim,

were easy for him

and so were the Time Warp and Bop.

And then our friend added the Twist

the Hitch Hiker - which used his wrist,

the Hammer, the Smash,

the Potatoes of Mashed,

and Monkey were next on his list.

And then came the Pony and Limbo

which left him all short and a-trimbo.

And then the display,

of the YMCA,

with limbs all aloft and akimbo.

And now our good friend we call Francis,

who hails from a town down in Kansas,

is a dancing machine,

and can always be seen,

around the town boppin' and prancin'!

An Ode to Mothers of Teenage Daughters

An Ode to Mothers


She fed you mashed bananas that you smeared across your face.
Without her help you would have grown to be a big disgrace.
She drove you to your dance lessons - sat through each T-ball game.
She somehow knew when you were wrong and made you take the blame.


She kissed each little cut and sprayed that awful antiseptic;
showing her great love in ways that you did not expect it!
She helped you with your homework, your projects and your tests.
She taught you how to shop . . . in fact, she taught you how to dress.


But now that you have grown, somehow, she's suddenly not cool.
You think she's far too strict because she lays down a few rules.
She's given you a curfew. . . and it's one that you think stinks
And yells at you to clean the toothpaste from the bathroom sink.


She sniffs your water bottles and she kisses you goodnight.
She's always telling you she thinks your shirts are just too tight!
She snoops inside your room for things like cigarettes and booze,
and doesn't like it when you set your school alarm to snooze.


She thinks you drive too fast and that you clean up far too slow,
but yet that woman loves you lots in ways you cannot know.
She's giving, kind, and thoughtful . . . intuitive and clever
And yes, she just might be The Most Annoying Person Ever!!!

Corned tofu, cocoa krispies, buck's fizz and a limerick

The big day is here! The day I have been waiting for!

I was determined to get home early to put the corned beef "on" in time (did you ever notice that the corned beef has to go "on" - never "in" ????) . . . because everyone knows that the corned beef takes well over three hours to cook. . . but stuff kept cropping up at work and soon it was 3:30 and I called home in a frantic mood, begging my daughters to put the corned beef "on" . . . and Trigger cussed and fussed about having to be the one who does "everything". . . but still, the corned beef got "on". . . and soon I came home. . .

To this. . .

Ponzi: What's for dinner?

Me: Corned beef and cabbage.

Ponzi: Yeah, but what are you cooking for ME??? (Remember, she's a vegetarian. . . )

Me: Well, seeing that I have not yet discovered how to cook corned Tofu and cabbage, I guess you're having the cabbage, carrots, and potatoes.

Ponzi: I'm not eating that!

Me: Sorry. It sucks being a vegetarian on St. Patrick's Day.

When who should happen along, but . . .

Trigger: I'm not eating the corned beef either.

Me: Why not?

Trigger: Because when I opened that disgusting bag and put that thing in the pot, I saw all the fat and it reminded me of the eyeball I just dissected in AP Bio and I decided to become a vegetarian. . .

Me: Sorry, I didn't get the memo. Could you tell me what time this afternoon you sent it?

Trigger: I'm no different than my two other sisters! They're already vegetarians. So can I have Cocoa Krispies for dinner???

Me: You can, but we don't have any milk.

Trigger: We don't have any milk? What kind of a house is it that doesn't have any milk?

Me: A kind of house where two of my daughters went grocery shopping the other night and purchased Cocoa Krispies and so we've had a run on milk lately. . .

When who should chime in, but . .

Ponzi: Mom, when Trigger goes to get the milk for the Cocoa Krispies, can I go get a hummus and veggie sandwich from Cosi?

Me: No.

Ponzi: You're refusing to feed me dinner? I don't like cabbage or carrots! Do you expect me to eat potatoes for dinner?

Me think: (Well, yes - actually - Ponzi dear, that's what your ancestors ate for breakfast, lunch and dinner in the old country. . . that is until the famine. . . But Jesus, do I want to go there with her today???? I think not. )

Me: We have hummus here . And we have pita bread. Make yourself a sandwich.

Ponzi: Well, do you have fresh cucumbers. . . and tomatoes. . . and onions. . . and basil. . . Cosi puts all of that on the sandwich. . . What am I going to put on mine????

Me: Cocoa Krispies!

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

But on a more positive note. . .

I have picked a winner of my limerick contest! And here you go. . .

There once was a mother named Liz

Whose girls got her all in a tizz

She'd blog day and night

keep the girls in her sight

unless she'd drunk too much buck's fizz. . .

And just who wrote that lovely limerick? you might ask. . .

Well the answer is Braja herself! You know, being an Aussie, she must have a bit of the Irish rebel in her. . .

Let's all raise a pint and say a prayer for Braja's recovery tonight !!!

There once was a girl from Nantucket. . .

What's with the Haiku?

They're heady, brilliant, that's true.

Are lim'ricks taboo?

Why is everyone writing Haiku all of the sudden? (Yes, I wikied it, and haiku is the plural of haiku.)

Hello!!!! Do you know what month this is????? Yes, it's the month of March. . . And do we celebrate St. Kamono's Day in March??? Or St. Tamagucchi????

I think not.

But we do celebrate St. Patrick's Day. . .the patron saint of Ireland. . . you know, the country where he drove out the snakes and stuff. . . and the fair isle where Limerick is located. . . home of The Limerick!!!!
We should be writing Limericks in March people!!!

In fact, in honor of my forth-coming present from Heather Kathleen at A Mouthy Irish Woman I have decided to pay it forward and start a Limerick contest on this blog. The winner will receive an autographed first-edition copy of my almost-completed-and ready-to-be published book of silly limericks, entitled If A Word Rhymes with Silly. . . . (Not to be confused, dear reader, with my fully-completed-and-ready-to-be-published manuscript on raising teenage daughters. . . nor my two other fully-completed-and-dying-to have-a-publisher-take-a-look-at-them books of religious poetry for children. . . Yes, I am quite prolific, don't you agree? )

So write your limerick and post it in my comment section. I will declare the winner ten days from now on March 17th!

Well, here's a little Limerick to start you out, people. . .

The Trio from Rio

There once was a girl from Brazil
who danced with seduction and skill.
Each night she would samba,
then sashay the rumba,
and tango ‘til she had her fill.

When one day this young lass named Jill,
met a young lad we’ll call Phil,
she invited him over,
to dance Bassa Nova,
and – let’s say – he gave Jill a thrill.

And suddenly, to their dismay,
they found themselves in a strange way.
They traveled to Rio,
where two became trio,
and their young son, they named Jay.

So listen, young women and men,
along with each Ben, Ken, and Jen:
If you samba that way,
be ready to say,
“I do”, “I will”, and “Amen!”

I know that was longer than a traditional limerick, but I'm not too good at restraint.

and p.s. If no one submits an entry, I'll just keep the book - in all its greatness - to myself and laugh myself to sleep each night.

The big man's birthday

Imagine my delight as I signed onto Google at 2:00 a.m. this morning (what? doesn't everyone???) and discovered that today was the Big Man's Birthday! The man whose every word can move me like no other. . . whose lyricism and cadence is forever etched upon my lips . . . whose sense of silliness and whimsy will forever stay in my heart. . .
And so, without further ado, I've decided to write a poem and dedicate it to Theodore Geisel, who - were he still alive - would have been a 105-years-young today!

(I'll let you know what I title it after I write it. . . for you can't predict these sorts of things in advance, you know. . . )

Quite a bit west of good old Weehauken,
and twenty miles due north of Middle Pennsauken,
there lived a nice lady with daughters of three,
who fretted and worried to quite a degree.

But there's a good reason she worried a lot,

for, truthful, her daughters most surely were not!

Their lies would unfurl when asked for the truth,

but their mom had been blessed with gifts of a sleuth.

Now one day, this Spinmom who had much to do,

found in her car, one lone, errant shoe.

A sneaker - in shades of black, brown and tan,

residing alone in her old minivan.

The trouble, you see, with just finding one shoe

came not from the "what" but more from the "who?"

For who could have left a size Ten Extra-Wide,

when only three daughters traveled inside?

It wasn't her husband's - oh no, not at all -

for it wasn't his taste and was slightly too small.

One shoe, on its own, may not seem so bizarre,

But who - tell me who - had been in her car???

She queried her daughters - down to the last one,

and got the same answer - the sneaker was shunned!

That shoe? they all cried in a snooferlous way,

I surely don't know and I won't likely say!

Why would you care for a shoe left behind?

A shoe brown and tan in a man's extra wide????

Let's face it, dear mother, you'll never find out,

just why that old shoe began hanging about!

But our mother, you know, was a crafty old lass;

she thought up a scheme and she went to work fast.

She took that old sneaker and without a quick doubt,

let the dog sniff both around and about.

When later that day a chap came to the door,

to visit a daughter he hadn't before,

the dog greeted him with hardly a whiff,

and knew what to do upon the first sniff . . .

That dog, our good friends, went and got that old shoe,

and dropped it before the chap in his debut!

And then our Spinmom - like a flash in the pan -

knew this was the one who had been in her van!

And so her young daughter was punished once more,

for never divulging what she had in store,

And - as for her mom - so brilliant and clever,

well, she was declared more annoying than ever!!!

btw. . . This poem - in no way, shape, or form - should be construed as complaining. It's art.

My New Year's Toast for You

Here's my little New Years toast for you . . .


May your smiles number many; your misfortunes, remain few,
may total minutes stay within your family plan.
May vodka bottles go untouched (that is unless, of course, by you)
and may your daughter not crack up your minivan!

I hope your precious debit card, never once will leave your sight;
may all young suitors remain blissfully at bay.
May her curfew be observed when she goes out each weekend night;
and may her belly button not be on display.

So here's to you - her special Mom - the only one she loves to hate;
the one who changed her diapers and sang "Baby Mine."
You don't know how on earth it was, that you survived 2008;
here's hoping for a new "improved" 2009!

A Mom on Spin
© December, 2008

Glad Tidings

I can think of nothing better on this Christmas Eve, but to share this poem I wrote with you. . .

Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy.
Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you.
He is Christ the Lord.
Luke 2: 10-11

Glad Tidings

A night so still and gentle, brought tidings to behold;
a weary couple thankful for shelter from the cold.
And when their newborn baby drew an innocent first breath,
creation dawned anew for us inside that humble crèche.

A song so sweet and elegant rose up on angels’ wing,
floating through the soft night air, its mission now to bring
Good News to lowly shepherds who, startled at the sight,
hurried then to witness this wonder in the night.

A star at once appearing, heralded his birth,
announcing that the Son of God now dwelled upon the earth.
Astronomers and Wise Men then journeyed far to see,
The King of Kings, who this young child was destined now to be.

Prophecies at last fulfilled through one young woman’s “Yes,”
and darkness ever-conquered by a small, unlikely guest.
And through it all, the baby slept upon a bed of straw,
his parents keeping vigil, while treasuring it all.

So on this Christmas morning, amidst the games and toys,
listen for glad tidings in the laughter and the noise.
In the multitude of presents, find the treasure rare and true,
the gift of God’s salvation that he now gives to you.

Look to the sky at evening in search of brilliant star.
Hear the angels’ tender hymn streaming from afar.
Welcome Jesus to your heart, and feel the Peace he brings.
Pause a moment on this day to Praise the Newborn King!

A Mom on Spin

© December, 2005

Rant and rave - teenage daughters - take two

Now where was I?

Oh yes, the last time we spoke I was complaining about my daughter's lack of cleanliness and the fact that I filled two lawn and leaf bags with errant clothing from the floor of her bedroom yesterday. (If, by chance, you have happened on this post and did not read yesterday's post entitled Rant and rave - teenage daughters - take one, please scroll down, read it, and make a silent resolution to be more faithful in the future.)

So there I stood along with my husband - staring at two large garbage bags and a pile of 18 baths towels on the floor of my daughter's bedroom.

Now what???

Quite honestly, we really hadn't thought about the next step.

We'd taken her jackets, her jeans, and her skirts.

We snatched up pajamas and bathrobes and skirts,

tank tops, and tube tops, and bras my-oh-my

sweatpants and thongs of enormous supply!

So what should we do with these two bags of clothes?

When our daughter sees them it might well come to blows!

But her mother, you see, was so crafty and slick,

she thought up a plan. . . and she thought it up quick!

Then, just like the Grinch spiriting the Who's toys and Christmas decorations up the side of Mount Crumpet, my husband stuffed those two overflowing bags into the back of his car and drove away.

Do you remember how little Cindy Lou Who innocently asked the Grinch why he was stealing her tree? Santy Claus, why? Why are you taking our Christmas Tree, why????

Well, the daughter in this story was not nearly as meek when she called at work to question me about the whereabouts of her clothing.

I'm not really sure I could trace the exact downward spiral of the phone call, but it ended with something like (well actually, it concluded with my daughter hanging up on me, but her parting words went something like. . . .) You better go see a shrink, because there's something wrong with you if you have to steal all my clothes!

And that, my friends, was the nice part.

And so, in a subsequent conversation, I recommended that the best and fastest way for her to get her clothing back would be to start by laundering the 18 bath towels. After that task was complete, we would talk about the rest.

And then I went to my favorite establishment to cry in my wine while my good friend listened.

When I returned home, I found my ever-patient husband holding my daughter's hand while she laundered those towels - upon the sight of which I headed directly to my bed.

And this morning, that husband of mine plopped the two bags of clothing on the floor of the laundry room and promptly left the state on a business trip.

So here I sit this evening . . . listening to the distant rustle of those garbage bags as my daughter pulls out each and every article of clothing in order to place in the washing machine; for the final verdict was that a minimum of three full loads of laundry had to be washed, folded, and put neatly away before her friend-who-is-a-boy can come to visit tonight.

Happy washing, my darling. . . Happy washing!

An ode to a non-teenage daugther

Believe it or not, my oldest daughter is turning 21 tomorrow. How I have waited for this day! I am so excited that I feel the need to write a little ditty. . .

Hurray to the one who arrived five weeks early.
She's darling and charming and lovely and whirly.
I remember her birth just like yesterday,
for she's the first one who brought disarray.

I thought her so cute with her hair in a tonsure.
Who was to know she resembled a monster?
Those chipmonk-ey cheeks, head cocked to one side,
you just might just confuse her with Frankenstein's bride.

And though now she sports many symbols of peace,
we'd go to the mall and she'd shop on a leash.
She'd sing-song her way through racks of good clothes,
telling the world that she picked her nose!

And soon she grew into a most graceful tyke,
breaking her wrist while riding her bike.
Breaking one arm when she fell down the stairs,
the next time she fell, the boardwalk was there.

No wonder when this one was all set to drive,
her mother prayed hard that she'd just stay alive.
Though, sadly, it's true that Zack's time has now past,
Roberta's real cool and she drives pretty fast.

Arthritis and countless diseases. . . disorders. . .
the near-to-death drowning in ocean's deep water. . . .
declaring out loud her distaste for all meat. . .
calling home drunk from Rome's darkened streets.

Yes, raising this daughter has been, at times, trying -
the drama, the pain, the tears, fights, and crying.
But now she's "of age" and I'm glad she is mine
to run to the store and buy Mommy some wine!

Happy 21st Birthday!