My Cleaning Lady Drives a Land Rover

The Language of Giggles

2010-11-21T09:01:00.000-05:00

So in my own clumsical way, something about my last post reminded me of one of my greatest loves in life.

Words.

Yes, A Mom on Spin is unabashedly in love with the English language. Yeah, sure, English may not be officially listed as one of the snobby Romance Languages, but it tops the list of Giggle ones. There are countless words in the dictionary that make me smile. Words like . . .

betwixt

and

akimbo. . .

Oh, and I absolutely adore the word askance. (Truth be told, I've recently discovered that I love any word with an "a" placed in front of it. . .words like. . . akin. . . aggrieved. . .and aforementioned. Add an "a" to any word and "A" Mom on Spin will be adamantly "b"smirched with it!)

Curmudgeon. I ask you, is there another language that would have such an appropriate-sounding noun for such a bad-tempered person? Add to it the fact that you can put the adjective cantankerous in front, and even a cantankerous curmudgeon would be begrudgingly beguiled about the sound it made.

Cahoots! I, personally, would be debilitatingly delirious if I were decisively in cahoots with someone. (And while we're hovering over the letter "d" for the moment, I also feel the need to tell you that I feel what might be an unnatural attraction to the word debunk.)

If you're a regular reader of this blog you must know by now that I have been both enthralled and enamored with the words feckin' and fiddler's fart ever since I watched Angela's Ashes for a second time. Enough said.

Kindred. Only kindred souls would be in cahoots with each other.

And how about some of those big time words like loquacious? Obfuscate? Ubiquitous?

Ginormous. There. I have used the word ginormous in a sentence.

Did you know that Mr. Webster only officially approved of the word ginormous in 2007? (Before its entry in the dictionary we were forced to use the equally-giggly humongous in its place.) And this beauty of a word was only able to take up residence in the dictionary after it won Webster's on-line poll of Favorite Words (Not in the Dictionary).

And then, like my own clumsical word that set this whole post aflight, there are the whimsically-mish-mashed words that I absotutely adore in what can only be described as a Suessish kind of way. Words that vocabularians - like moi - have simply made up because they make us smile. These words, like ginormous, may still be officially classified as neologisms, but they still top the list of my Favorite Words (Not in the Dictionary). Words like. . . .

Fa-cocked. . . Fer-clooked . . . Fash-muncked. . .

and let's not forget

. . . beautious . . . confuzzeled. . .schlumped. . . piffulous. . .schmiglet. . . flusterpated. . .slickery. . .and . . . schlopp. . .

So romance-schmance. . . .here's to the Language of Giggles!

Do you have a neologism to share? Have at it. . . .

My Daughter the Philanthropist. . .

2010-11-20T08:50:00.001-05:00

So I signed on to my facebook page after a bit of an extended absence only to discover that Trigger and Ponzi have been writing on each others' walls. Wait, let me be more specific. . .fighting on each others' walls. That's right, leave it up to my two daughters to air their little sisterly tiffs in the most public way possible. . .

And, in the process, I discovered quite by accident that Trigger was coming home for Thanksgiving on Friday and so I threw caution to the wind and commented on Trigger's wall by saying:

Home Friday?
As in THIS Friday????

I also discovered that Trigger had written on my wall - and this specific scribble had something to do with her sorority's charity fund-raising efforts. It read:

Mom you didn't donate to my philanthropy.

Now I owe $30!

DONATE NOW!

to which I replied:

Since when did you become a philanthropist?

YOU are MY philanthropy

and I don't see anyone donating to me, now do I?????

Why doesn't facebook have a button that says "dysfunctional"????

Oh and yes, I still miss the days when Writing on Someone's Wall involved crayons and a spanking, but we just may get back there yet. . .

Hanging with the Plantagenets

2010-11-16T07:25:00.005-05:00

So if you have been lamenting my absence lately, you can blame it all on Drip Dry - for he's the one who insisted on buying me a NOOK for my birthday despite my declaration that I would never enjoy reading a book on One of those things! But once I finished Ken Follett's new 985 page Fall of Giants in glorious hardcover, I was out of "real" books, so I turned my attention to the pseudo-impostor book-nook.

And I haven't come up for air since. . .

That's right. . . No blogging. No facebook. No twitter. No emails (well, except for the 36 or so that begin, Your Barnes & Noble order has been successfully downloaded) because, you see, they didn't have all of these social media connections back in medieval England, and that's where I've been living.

In the High Middle Ages.

That was, until I entered the Renaissance.

Oh, I have read about every king, prince, bastard, and pretender to grace the Court of England since William the Conqueror. I can trace the lineage of every duke, duchess and earl in both the House of Lancaster and the House of York. I can name Henry the VIII's six wives backwards and forwards. I now know exactly what the Groom of the Stool was "privy" to. And I am waiting with bated breath for Philippa Gregory's newest book, One Queen, Two Queen, Red Queen, Blue Queen.

I would love to enlighten you all further, but I think my NOOK is now fully recharged. . .

Face it. . . I'm "D"ficient.

2010-11-08T17:36:00.000-05:00

So I've had a touch of Blogger's Block recently and I think I know why.

Along with some funky auto-antibodies, my rheumatologist recently discovered that I was significantly deficient in Vitamin D. And once I read up on the myriad of ailments that can come from a Vitamin D deficiency, I became convinced that the "D" of Vitamins is truly like a wonder drug.

So now I'm thinking that lack of this essential vitamin just may be responsible for all of the joint and muscle aches that drove me to the doctor in the first place. It could also be the cause of my fatigue and high blood pressure. It may, in fact, be contributing to my elevated blood sugar and "bad" cholesterol - and it could be the very reason I have been self-diagnosed with G. S. D. (Goldilocks Sleep Disorder.) I'm thinking it's also the reason that I drink too much wine and have recently been experiencing a strange craving for nachos. It could even explain why I ate all the Halloween candy, my cat threw up, and my husband left his dirty dishes in the kitchen sink this morning. I think it's also the reason I'm mean to my daughters and don't know my right from my left, and - as long as we're on the subject - I'm practically convinced that only those with sufficient levels of Vitamin D win the Mega Millions.

And so, after a $78 trip to the health food store, I am now on my way to a newer, better, less-painful-and -blogger's-blocked me!

I hope. . .

Unwinceable Me. . .

2010-10-28T08:07:00.001-04:00

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. . .

The Reports of My Apology Are Greatly Exaggerated

2010-10-22T08:22:00.001-04:00

Just wanted to let you all know that I have made amends with Trigger since I last posted about our disagreement over Facebook. (Not that we were disagreeing about Facebook, mind you. We were - instead - "voicing" our displeasure with each other through Facebook.)

The other night I got this terrific pain in the side of my head that jolted through me like a dose of Nurse Ratched's electric shock therapy. And I thought to myself, Oh here it is at last. . . my untimely demise!

But then I thought, Wait! How can I possibly die now when my very own daughter thinks I'm mad at her for dropping that class without consulting me? How will she live with herself after having said all those awful things about me only caring about her G.P.A.? And money? And how hard I work to pay for that college education?

And so, in order to rid my daughter of the guilt-ridden grief that would inevitably ensue, I decided that I would pick up the phone and apologize to her. Better to think that her mother had reached out to her with her last dying breath than to keel over for good without making amends. Right? And who could say whether I was going to be able to send her messages from the afterlife? I may be too busy playing bridge with the angels, or using the clouds as a trampoline, or doing all of that bowling required to make thunder. The poor thing just might be scarred for life!

I simply had no guarantee that the lines of communication would be open for me to set her mind at ease once I was gone, so I picked up the phone and called her. . .

But, just as quickly as that searing pain arrived, it disappeared again (even, in fact, before Trigger answered her phone) and so I was left with a bit of a dilemma: Since my untimely death did not quite seem so imminent any longer, should I still apologize to her? Could I, perhaps, take my sweet old time and give Trigger the opportunity to apologize to me instead? Or should I hang up and simply send her a Facebook message?

Let me just add for the record that Trigger ended up being the only one who "Liked" my last link on Facebook. . .

Could It Be 2Facebooked?

2010-10-18T18:56:00.003-04:00

So the last time we talked about my foray into the world of Facebook, I wasn't quite sure I liked it. I hadn't yet navigated around the whole Fb world and didn't feel comfortable enough in its space.

Truth be told, it hadn't done anything for me.

Not so anymore.

Facebook is my new BFF.

And, at the risk of further alienating Trigger, I'll tell you why. (It's okay if I alienate Trigger right now because this weekend was parents' weekend at Ponzi's college and Drip Dry and I went and bonded with her and so she's now like my second BFF and so I even have one to spare and won't be needing Trigger for a while. . . )

That disclaimer noted, I was simply glancing at Facebook last week and noticed a post that read, Trigger Spin has changed her status. And, like any good gossip worth her salt, my new BFF displayed my daughter's updated status which read: Bye, Bye Art History! Now, I - being the whirlybird parent that I am - happened to know that my darling Trigger was taking an Art History class. I also happened to know that I did not get any phone calls, emails, or texts discussing the possibility of dropping a class in mid-stream.

And this would be the appropriate time to introduce you to another added benefit of this whole social networking scene - Facebook Messages. For where else could a college sophomore - and the woman who risked her life giving birth to her - toss around barbs, insults, hysteria, and accusations while her profile picture remained stoically smiling at her adoring public and her arm firmly planted around her sorority sister?

I'm not sure, but I think they ought to call it Two-Face-Booked. . .

The Hidden Dangers of Mother Harassment

2010-10-15T08:10:00.000-04:00

So I've noticed that some of my fellow bloggers have been sporting a badge that says I'm an L.G. Text-Ed Ambassador. It seems those folks at BlogHer are running a five-week program where various parents discuss teens and texting. And, yes, they're doing a good job of alerting the public to the dangers of mobile bullying. . . sexting. . . and distracted driving. They're also offering tips on how to set ground rules for your teen's phone use and how an unsuspecting parent can decode teen's texting lingo. . .

But what about Mother Harassment? Does anyone else recognize the danger to a mother's mental health when her own flesh and blood lobby a grenade at their mother via a text and then run on to the nearest Frat party, tanning salon, or football game?

And as I read through the posts on decoding texting lingo, one of the acronyms I see brought up again and again is KPC, which stands for Keep Parents Clueless.

Clueless? I could only wish!

The following are some real-time texts I have received from my college-aged daughters over the course of the last few weeks. . .

_________________________

I need lollipops!

I need slippers!

I've lost my phone charger so you better stop trying to talk to me!

I need my rainboots! And three pairs of Ugggs.

Buy me a coffeemaker. I'm spending waaaaaay too much $ on coffee!

I don't know how to fax things!

Did you send my stuff yet?

No problem! (Whoops! Correction . . . THAT particular text was from my niece!!!)

I forgot to send the forms. I'll send them now but I need them back by tomorrow!

How much money do I have in my bank account?

U r supposed to know this stuff!

You told me not to overdraw!

What's my user name and password?

I don't know how to do that!

The food here stinks!

Sleeping? Why r u asleep already?

____________________________

I'll tell you why I'm asleep. . . because I'm exhausted from being your mother and the only remedy I know is to hop into bed and pull the covers up over my head and pretend I no longer exist!!!

And next time, my friends, we'll move on to the Joys of Facebook Messaging. . .

Here Lies Liz. At Least Her House Was Clean.

2010-10-11T09:44:00.012-04:00

So I have arrived back home from my weekend in Massachusetts safe and sound.

And let me tell you that I shudder to think what would have happened if I hadn't. . .

For all weekend long, aside from the whole fear of death through the flailing of limbs and splattering of organs, lurked the obsessive - but very real - thought that my house wasn't clean enough when I left it. Doesn't everybody just dread having the misfortune to die when their house is not in order. . . and then, horror of horrors, what would the next-of-kin think?

Suppose for a minute both Drip Dry and I were to die in a tragic multi-car pile-up the likes of which have never before been seen on the East Coast. In that instance family and friends of unknown origin would be entering my house, rifling through the remnants of my earthly life, holding garage sales, trying on my jewelry, and claiming this very netbook as their own. Do I want them encountering dust bunnies in the process? No! I want them to walk into my house and proclaim, This woman must have had her s**ff together, for I have never seen such a clean house in all my life! For let us not forget, my friends, that the very same next of kin are the ones who would logically be called upon to write the obituary and deliver the eulogy at my funeral.

But for some reason Drip Dry just doesn't get it.

No, my husband subscribes to the theory that leaving the house for the weekend is a simple two-step process. 1) You pack. 2) You leave.

How could anyone in their right mind live by the two-step process? What about the myriad of steps in between?

Why would you skip the step where you clean the dribbled toothpaste remnants out of every bathroom sink lest your grieving family mistakenly think it was an experiment and your obit would read, before their untimely demise the deceased and her husband had plans to enter the candy-manufacturing business?

What about the step where you clean out the refrigerator before a one-night journey? Would you want it known in your eulogy that you had been harboring a jar of capers longer than you have owned your youngest daughter?

And the clothes hangers? Why would a sane person leave hangers on the bed in the wake of packing? Do you want an insurance investigator thinking you somehow lacked the physical prowess to hang hangers back up after placing an item in your suitcase? What does that say for your driving skills?

And how about the bill paying? Do you want the as-yet-unnamed executor of your estate knowing what you paid Macy's for the dress you wore to the fatal wedding? The very same dress, in all likelihood, they would decide to bury you in? Do you want all the guests at the wake to know that the to-die-for-dress in that coffin was on sale for a mere $79???

What about the clean-up-of-every-last-bit-of-dog-hair-lest-the-next-of-kin-find-out-that-the-deceased-loved-ones-owned-a-dog? Does that step mean nothing anymore? (Oh sure, I'm fully aware of the fact that 99% of the time we leave the dog home under the watchful eye of our niece next-door, and that the dog runs around generating more furballs with each passing minute, but suppose the tragic accident were to happen within a half-hour of leaving the house. What then, smartypants?)

So I guess it all comes down to this: Who wants to look down on the remains of their earthly life from within their new heavenly home and see all their good work spoiled by a few dust bunnies?

I don't.

And I'm close to being positive that they don't even allow dust bunnies in heaven anyway. . .

Of course I'm the one who once smugly left her beach house thinking to herself. . .There! If a burglar breaks in and ransacks the house, at least he'll note that it was perfect when he started. . .

Good Grief. . .

2010-10-05T06:38:00.006-04:00

So in my never-ending stupidity I signed up to take a class called The Wisdom of Grief.

Why?

Well if wisdom about such things were my forte, I wouldn't be here writing this blog post today - now would I?

I suppose I thought I might learn something. I suppose I thought I wouldn't mind getting out of the office one Friday afternoon a month. I suppose I thought it would look good on a resume. I suppose I thought I would feel like less of an impostor in the grief field if I did something that might make me the teensiest-bit worthy of the mountain of compliments that families tend to heap on me when I do nothing more than help them through the funeral of a loved one.

When families thank me for muddling through my job in my intuitive clumsical way. . .

Well turns out that my impostor status was quickly revealed at our very first class, however, as the facilitator handed us each a journal and asked us to jot down our feelings about a time we had journeyed with someone who needed our help. And not only did we have to write about this journey, she told us we should be prepared to share our journey with the rest of the class.

Good Grief!

Why didn't anyone tell me that passing Sympathy 101 was a pre-requisite to this Wisdom of Grief course? I have no journeys to share! (Pub crawls, maybe, but bonafide journeys????)

Does this woman not read my blog? Doesn't she know that I never pick up a phone to call a friend? That everything in my life is always all about moi? Would she be shocked to learn that I don't even send birthday cards to my own flesh and blood? That I don't know how to share a cup of tea?

And, as if things weren't bad enough, the rest of my classmates seemed to be happily sharing.

Compassion-filled journey stories.

In a circle.

One by one.

In clockwise fashion.

Working their way to me.

Me!

And the tighter that grief circle got, the larger the Wisdom of Making up a Cockamamie Story loomed in my mind and I resigned myself to the fact that I now needed to add the words Lied in Grief Course to my resume . . .

Friend's divorce? Forget it. . . classmate #2 used that one already. Losing a parent? Too trite. Alcoholic family member? One look at me and they'd see impostor status there as well. . .

The circle tightened.

Good grief, Charlie Brown, I've got it!

Mental illness! I have recently journeyed with someone through mental illness! They don't need to know that the illness is my very own . . right here. . .and now. . . 'cause a minute ago I was going stark-staring-out-of-my-lunatic-mind but have somehow miraculously journeyed myself back in . . .

With a little luck.

And a timer.

Announcing the end of the class. . .

Amen!

And, yes, I know clumsical is not a word, but I like it. And I'll continue using it to my heart's content. . .

Do Your Booths Hang Low?

2010-10-03T11:56:00.004-04:00

Dear Mr. Owner of that Pricey Steak and Seafood Restaurant,

Let me just open this correspondence, Mr. Owner, by informing you that I have enjoyed an excellent meal in your establishment on many an occasion. But never-the-less I have a two-part question for you: 1) Why are the seats in your booths so darn low? and . . . 2) Do you have boobs?

The reason I'm asking, Mr. Owner of the Pricey Restaurant, is that last night my husband and I went to your restaurant because. . .well . . . because today is my birthday and I had a gift certificate. (You see, I never actually pay for my own meals in your restaurant , Mr. Owner, 'cause you're far too expensive for me, but I quite often find myself there at the behest of other people.) And as we were oh-so-graciously escorted to Table 166 by your Maitre d', I could see that we were heading to a beautiful booth in a corner of the main dining room.

A dream come true, you might say. . .

Now, in all fairness to your employees, the Maitre d' cleary motioned that I should sit on the side in the further-most corner (for no doubt he was already aware of the peculiarities of this particular booth) but you know me, Mr. Owner. . . always thinking of others. . . so- birthday or not - I immediately decided I would give the better seat to my husband and proceeded to shimmy into the other side of the booth like a lamb to the slaughter.

The first red flag should have gone up when I hit my knee on the table leg in so-doing.

And when I came to a complete stop and the Maitre d' tried to put my menu in front of me, Mr. Owner, it became painfully clear that there was no place to put it.

That's right, the distance between the back of the booth and the beginning of the table totaled somewhere around eight inches. (That's equivalent to about 20 centimeters for you readers from foreign countries.) And the distance from the seat bench to the table was. . .well, I'm not going to bother running and measuring the distance from my derriere to the bottom of my boobs in both inches and centimeters right now . . . but let it just suffice to say that the table was exactly breast-high.

Now A Mom on Spin has been accused of being many things, Mr. Owner, but I have never been accused of being petite. Or flat-chested. Or slight. Or thin. Or, better yet, concave - which was what a female sitting on this side of the booth needed to be. . .

And there was Drip Dry on the other side, sitting comfortably with room to spare.

A quick measurement of the paneling on the wall confirmed my suspicions that the table was clearly not equidistant to each side of the booth.

A quick shake of the table confirmed my suspicions that it was firmly anchored into the floor.

And a quick glance at the look on Drip Dry's face confirmed my fear that my problem was evident for all to see.

You see, as fate would have it I was wearing my Victoria's Secret Incredible Bra. . . the one Trigger measured me for when she worked there this summer ('cause it's a bra for like large-breasted women, Mom . . . ) so my top-secret-pushed-up-incredible-boobs (their word, not mine. . . ) were all-but laying on the table like the first course in a five course meal. And to make matters worse, Mr. Owner, because your establishment is so elegant I wasn't even given a second to adjust myself, for suddenly the waitress, the sommelier, and the - I don't know what you call him, but the - water-filler guy. . . all swooped down on us like vultures on fresh roadkill.

Sacre maroon!

What to do?

Luckily for you, Mr. Owner, my knee-jerk reaction when faced with any emergency is to head straight for the wine, and so your fleet of employees was deftly dispatched - leaving me a nano-second to put my problem-solving skills to work once more.

And so it was that by the time the waitress returned with that wine, I was comfortably seated on the other side of the table enjoying the view of the dining room.

And Drip Dry? Although he may not have been quite comfortably seated, he at least was able to view his menu.

Is that Poop on the Floor or Are You Happy to See Me?

2010-09-28T21:49:00.002-04:00

Dear Mr. (or perhaps, Ms.) President of PetSmart PetsHotel,

I know you may be surprised to hear from me again so soon again after our last correspondence, but I could not let another day pass without apologizing for the scene my favorite doggie daughter made in your store yesterday. I would have called you on the Bone Booth to offer my apologies in person had I not been so ashamed.

Now before I go any further, Mr. President, I have a question for you: Do you actually take your hotel guests outside to. . .well, you know to. . . do their "business" while their owners are away? Especially the "Big Business" part???

And, assuming the answer to the first questions is Yes, I also have another question for you: Why is it such a long walk from your hotel lobby to the great outdoors?

The reason I'm asking is that a most unusual thing happened as I was retrieving Kasey after my big weekend in Cleveland for my nephew's wedding. Instead of being all tail-wagging happy to see me, she seemed to be fixated on sniffing the floor of the hotel. And before I knew it, a turd of unknown origins had appeared on the lobby floor.

Oh my stars! I declared, Is there another dog around here?

No, only your dog . . . the pet concierege politely replied as she went to grab my sister's dog, who I was also bringing home.

And suddenly there was another.

Turd, that was, not dog.

And that was the moment my little dim-witted brain kicked into high gear. . .

Safe toilet syndrome.

Now Kasey has been known to suffer from the ravages of safe toilet syndrome at times when we take her with us to the shore, but never did I dream that her vacation constipation would rear its ugly head so close to home. And the Pawgress Report the concierge gave when I checked her out stated that - along with being a Party Animal - she had Taken Care of Business while she was a guest in your establishment.

But it soon became painfully clear, Mr. President, that my little doggie daughter had not taken care of nearly enough business while she was on vacation.

Because once I left the lobby of your hotel I found myself pulled forward like a musher through the Alaskan tundra while juggling two newly-sprung dogs and their belongings on a race out of the ginormous PetSmart store. And my unique perspective from the behinds-area allowed me to see, Mr. President, that she and I were about to lose the race for the door.

And we did.

I am ashamed to say that this musher lost the I-Did-a-Poop.

Yes there, in the center aisle of your PetSmart store, my dog took care of an additional full quarter's worth of business on the spot.

At which point I found myself faced with a terrible dilemna.

I had seen a display of doggie bags upon leaving the PetsHotel (indeed, that was how the concierge had taken care of the previous two - at this point we'll just call them - mole hills of doggie poo) but how was I to leave a mountain of dog poo sitting unprotected in the center aisle of a superstore on a busy Monday morning to go and retrieve a clean-up bag, with two dogs and a suitcase full of their toys, food, and belongings no less? But since it was painfully clear that the mountain was not going to move to the bag, I needed to quickly devise a plan to bring the bag to the mountain.

Should I flag down the nearest customer and ask her to watch my poo while I dash to the bag display? Do I enlist the help of the employee cleaning out the gerbil cages and tell him I have a more-urgent task for him? Do I cup my hands, make a pretend megaphone and call out, Clean up in aisle four! and make a run for it????

Now A Mom on Spin has been accused by her daughters of not being many things, Mr. President, but no one has ever said that I am not resourceful. . .

And so it was that I left the suitcase of belongings on the floor of the store right in front of the poo to mark its place. . . kind of like a Caution, wet floor sign. . .and ran quickly to get a bag - tripping over the paw of my sister's poo-ly behaved dog in the process (and don't you think I felt bad about that, knowing all-too-well what it's like to have piggies who wished they had stayed home. . . ) and returned to the scene of the crime just in time to clean up the evidence.

Only to discover that Kasey's hind-quarterly output had been more than one mere bag could comfortably contain.

Holy Crap!

At which point I - along with two newly-sprung dogs, a poo-stained suitcase full of toys, food, and belongings, and a five-pound bag of doggie poo - quickly mushed out of the store . . . leaving only the faint smeary traces of evidence that we had ever been there.

And when we got home, Mr. President?

Well, after the dog had relieved herself two additional times. . . I happened to read the following under the Happy Homecoming section on the back cover of Kasey's aforementioned Pawgress Report:

After you leave the PetSmart PetHotel and before getting into your car, allow your dog the opportunity to relieve himself. Even if he just went in the PetSmart PetsHotel before you picked him up, the excitement of seeing his Pet Parent will probably prompt him to go again.

and again. . .

But I ask you, Mr. President. . . isn't it nice to be loved?

A Little Knowledge. A Long, Long Way.

2010-09-27T08:07:00.006-04:00

So I've heard it said that a little knowledge goes a long way, but they never told me that sometimes you have to go a long way for a little knowledge.

Anyway, here is the little knowledge that I learned while traveling a long, long way to Cleveland this weekend for my nephew's wedding:

If - because of your husband's newly-enforced budgetary restrictions - you make a "reservation" for your college-aged daughter with a cheap airport shuttle, please understand that the reservation is not confirmed unless/until your daughter receives an actual confirmation email. The email informing you that the reservation has been canceled will arrive two days after her flight.
Last-minute-one-way cab fare from the University of Delaware to BWI will cost an average college-aged daughter somewhere in the vicinity of $150. It will, however, cost your daughter $200.
Having to infuse a college-aged daughter's account with emergency transportation funds will cause a busy mother to discover that the same daughter has recently overdrawn her account. She will also discover that another daughter - who is scheduled to travel the next day - has a grand total of $25 in her account.
A quick perusal of her own bank account will cause that same mother to come to the conclusion that it is absolutely imperative that she extract her ATM card from a daughter whose name rhymes with Fonzi because of unauthorized withdrawals which clearly do not qualify as "necessary".
Ditto for the mother's iTunes account.
Even after all of these horrendous discoveries, it is best to continue with the mother's plan for getting a pre-wedding mani-pedi and to also agree with salon employee about needing additional eyebrow waxing. . .to look beautiful for nephew's wedding. . .
It is best to break all-of-the-above to Drip Dry gently . . . or perhaps not at all.
A mother who has never set foot in Dulles airport can successfully talk a second, panicked college-aged daughter through a change of planes. . . once she discovers her daughter's flight has arrived at gate A-4 and her connecting flight departs from the neighboring gate - A-5.
An 82-year-old mother in the backseat of a car complains far less than any number of daughters in the air.
One has a significantly better chance of talking to one's dog on the PetSmart Bone Booth than of reaching her 86-year-old father who has been left in respite care with nothing but a cell phone for his means of communication. (The dog, you see, does not feel the need to turn the phone "off" when finished with a phone call. . . .
One should never wear new shoes to a nephew's wedding . . .unless, of course, you are that guest on the dance floor in a wheelchair.
One of the mysteries of the universe centers around the fact that one can dance at a nephew's wedding for five hours straight - but somehow the walk from the hotel elevator to her room will cause the little piggies who ate roast beef to wish they were the little piggies who had stayed home.
If Ohio is The Buckeye State and a Buckeye is nothing more than a stinky tree, Ohio could just as easily be designated The Pepe le Pew state.
The Keystone State is exactly 320 miles from end to end and is best driven through by texting anyone who ever had the misfortune of giving you their cell phone number.
If Drip Dry weren't so darned cheap, you - like your daughters - would have a smart phone so that a multitude of people could be simultaneously tweeted to the hilarity that is you while on an eight hour ride home.

Wait! This post wasn't all about me? Was I supposed to say something about the wedding? Well it was beautiful. . . just beautiful . . .

And well worth every minute spent in the car. . . every painful morning-after step. . . and every cent that Drip Dry agrees that he should not have complained about. . .

Banned from the Bone Booth

2010-09-22T21:28:00.006-04:00

Dear Mr. (or perhaps, Mrs ) President of PetSmart PetsHotel,

Do you have bedbugs?

I have burning need to know.

You see, my favorite daughter is scheduled to take up residence in your establishment tomorrow and I'd like to know in advance if you have bedbugs. (Not you - personally, Mr. President of PetSmart - I don't really care if you scratch your insides out, I just need to know if your special hypoallergenic lambskin doggie beds are infested with bedbugs.)

I'm feeling a wee-bit perturbed that I couldn't afford to put my favorite daughter up in the swanky Animal Inn while the humans in the Spin Family travel to Cleveland for my nephew's wedding. . . but this wedding is already costing us an arm and a leg and we didn't have an extra paw left over to pay for doggie swank - especially because those paws developed allergies, causing an unplanned trip to the vet yesterday.

And because I already had to shell out $200 on paw allergies, I need to know if I'm going to have to face the horror of doggie bedbugs when I return.

Do you have daughters Mr. (or perhaps, Mrs.) President of PetSmart, Inc.? 'Cause if you do you'll know how expensive it is for an entire family to attend an out-of-town wedding . . . especially when two of them have to be flown in from different parts of the country. And did I mention those little airport shuttle fees? Can you keep a secret Mr. President of PetSmart? ('Cause I know a Mrs. President would be blabbing already . . . ) Don't let The Husband-formerly-known-as-Drip-Dry know, but Ponzi's transportation to-and-from the airport is costing us more than her airfare.

Sacre Maroon!

Do you have a husband Mr. ( I guess with this question I'm hoping you really are a Mrs.) President of PetSmart Inc.? 'Cause if you do, you would also understand the financial pressures I am under here. For instance, I would have loved to have put Kasey up in one of your fabulous hotel suites with 24-hour pet-centric t.v., or enroll her in your doggie day care, or ordered her the Bizzy Bundle, or some sort of individualized turn-down service . . . and God knows I would love to call her each day on the PetSmart Bone Booth just to hear her reassuring little woof . . .

But no. I had to settle for an Atrium room with no amenities.

That's right. . . no snack kongs. . .no treat times. . . no personal training camp. . . if you can imagine, the poor little dog can't even be groomed for success! And can you keep another secret, Mr. President? Don't let on to Drip Dry, but I'm going to splurge and bring the paw medication with me even though it costs an additional $3 a day to administer. But if he discovers that I have signed up for any of those expensive add-on fru-fru services, Mr. President, I fear that The-Husband-Formerly-Known-as-Drip-Dry would quickly become the Former-Husbandly-Known-as-Drip-Dry! (And hey . . . the way things are going around here the night before our big departure, he may destined for that moniker yet, Mr. President . . . I think he may just become that yet. . .)

So please take care of my precious daughter this weekend, Mr. President, 'cause sometimes I'm convinced that she's the only one who really loves me around here. You can call me anytime tomorrow from the bone booth. Thanks to Drip Dry's newly enforced budgetary restrictions, I'll be staying in a flea-bag hotel somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania.

Oh . . and seeing that I might be of the single persuasion as early as next week, Mr. President, I would like to ask you another question: Do you have wife? 'Cause if you don't I'm thinking that you might have enough money to let me - and my favorite daughter - live in the style to which we've previously become accustomed. . .

Bohemian Blogger

2010-09-20T22:49:00.038-04:00

My good friend, Pepe, once said. . . I am the disillusioned.

Pepe's prophetic words, my friends, describe perfectly how I am feeling tonight:   Disillusioned. Displaced. Disaffected. And just a wee-bit . . . Dis-tempered.

So distempered, in fact, that I have declared myself landed in Blogger's Bohemia.

That's right, I am the quintessential Bohemian Blogger.

And let me just state for the record that I have recently googled the term Bohemian Blogger, and - before publication of this post - the term itself doesn't exactly exist. So that, my friends, means that I get to be the first to define its meaning. And if you Wiki the term Bohemian you will find that the term refers to a literary gypsy - an artist who, consciously or unconsciously, secedes from conventionality in life and in art. So a Bohemian Blogger may be one, like me, who has lost her way.

Let's face it. Do you know another artiste who would happily spend an entire weekend immersing herself in the persona and malapropisms of a smelly, delusional, and lecherous skunk while trying (unsuccessfully) to climb the search engine of Pepe le Pew?

No, but a Bohemian Blogger would.

Because a Bohemian Blogger, my friends, is a blogger looking for her identity. A mommy blogger who never really bragged about her kids. A humor blogger who lost her ready-made material when her three teenage daughters grew up and flew the coop. A snarky blogger whose second act vanished when her computer-illiterate boss retired and the mere thought of her new boss reading her blog left her itching to enter the confessional. A Bohemian Blogger has been stranded in no-man's-land. . . looking for a new home. . . .a new target. . . a new raison d'etre if you will. . .

Let's face it.

I am the Hardy without the Laurel . . . the comic without the relief. . the Looney without the Tunes. . ..the Rhapsody without the Merrie Melody.

Because I'm easy come, easy go.

Little high, little low

Anyway the wind blows,

doesn't really matter to me. . .

to me. . .

And let me just state for the record that I never killed a man.

How It Was Aunt Becky Caused Pepe le Pew to Overstoke ze Furnace of Love!

2010-09-18T19:44:00.001-04:00

A Love Letter to My Little Sugar of Plums, Aunt Becky

Permit me to introduce myself.   I am Pepe le Pew, your lover.

A Mom on Spin has whispered sweet nothings in my ear about your attempt to you-know-what the search engine page of you-know-who on the internet . . .and how you told your six million Pranksters to go forth and do the same to other celebrities. Now, while you were waiting on the world to change, our little Spinster quickly decided to set her sights on yours truly to see if she could play the same prank on Ze Engine of Pepe.

Now I ask you.. . . is there but one of your Pranksters who could resist . . . how do you say it . . . Revving ze Engine of Pepe?

No. Of course not.

But then . . . merde!

Now let me just tell you that A Mom on Spin does not always deal with a full dock (if you catch the fish of my drift) and did not realize that Warner Brothers already owned the stripe on my back. Nor did that silly girl realize that ze letter "le" did not count as a middle initial. And so, Tante Becky, it was nearly impossible for our little Spinning Machine to climb aboard the Pepe search engine ladder.

But even worse, our Spin Mom was appalled to discover zat I - your little bucket of love - had jumped ahead of Aunt Becky on the you-know-who search page.   Let me reassure you - my little ack, ack, ack of love - ze Spin Mom did not intend to climb ze search engine page of you-know-who. She only intended to climb ze page of Pepe. Never, in a million of years, did she dream that she - like you - was also climbing on the search page of you-know-who. She knew that engine belonged to you, Aunt Becky, solely to you.

And now zat little washer woman is running away from me faster than ze corned beef runs away from ze cabbage. In fact, she told me she was about to run through the halls of her high school and scream at the top of her lungs . . .

Sacre Maroon! (five)

I fear I may have overstoked ze furnace of love once again!

But I am a creamy puff, no?

It eees like zis you see, my melon baby collie . . .

When Pepe le Pew sets his mind to somezing, his heart follows with a little pitter-pat. And when Pepe's heart eees on fire, zere eees no telling what may happen. For ees there anyone else who can rev engines quite like Pepe le Pew?

No, zere eees not.

And when you play with ze engine of love, Aunt Becky, you must be prepared to pay ze fiddler.

And now, speaking of fiddlers, I must go and find out what zis "Pew" means every time I appear.

So my little peanut of brittles, I hope you will accept my apology sincerest for being so. . . so. . . well so Pepe-ish yesterday.   I am stupid sometimes, no?

If you ever visit Gay Parie please meet me for a boat ride in the lover of tunnels. I will be ze captain and you, Aunt Becky, will be ze first mate. Promotions will follow quickly. For ze arms of Pepe le Pew are upon you now, Aunt Becky, and when ze arms of Pepe are upon you, zere eees no escaping. Especially if your body eees a wonderland.

Until then. . .

Sweeting is such part sorrow

p.s. And one more zing. . . . why do you Want Vodka all the time? Do you not know that cold champagne will warm your heart much faster? Or drink ze wine from ze box! Zen . . . when you are finished, you get to squeeze ze udder!

And remember, my Aunt of Beckys, it eees like I always say. . . All eees love, in fair and war!

Pepe le Pew, A Mom on Spin has John C. Mayer-d You . . . for scent-imental reasons, no?

2010-09-16T22:58:00.013-04:00


It's official! Pepe le Pew has been John C. Mayer-d!

Today, my friends, was a bit of a tough day . . . what with the funeral and all.

Until I decided to Pull a John C. Mayer on Pepe le Pew.

Now the reason I'm Pulling a John C. Mayer on Pepe le Pew is because Aunt Becky Pulled a John C. Mayer on John C Mayer just the other day. And let me reassure you that I wouldn't have dreamed of Pulling a John C. Mayer on my good friend, Pepe Le Pew without reading that post on Mommy Wants Vodka and realizing that Pulling a John C. Mayer had made it into the Urban Dictionary right before my very eyes.

A witness to history, you might call me.

But now I - too - am curious to see if I can scale Google's search engine ladder by mentioning Pepe le Pew like a gazillion times in one blog post.

And, although I don't think Pepe le Pew is on ze Twitter (who do you think he is, Tweety Bird???) I also want to know if I can get ze publiciste of Pepe le Pew mad at me.

Sacre maroon!

Now if you are one of the few folks who don't quite know who Pepe le Pew is, you can wiki your eyes ici, but be warned that Pepe le Pew's publicist will be mad at you, too, because everyone is expected to know who ze locksmith of Love is, no? But let me just state for the record that you would far prefer having Pepe le Pew's publicist mad at you to the big skunk-man himself, 'cause we all know what happens when you annoy a skunk. It eeeees bad. Tres, tres, bad, no?

So come my little peanut of brittle. I will help you.

Theeeeeese are the things I know about Pepe le Pew. . .

Pepe le Pew may be bi-lingual, but Pepe le Pew is most certainly not ze bi-sexuale.

Pepe le Pew is ze only chain smoker I know who can blow smoke rings in the form of l'coeurs.

Pepe le Pew's voice may be that of Mel Blanc's, but his smell is Pepe le Pew's own making.

Pepe le Pew has his own facebook page where Penelope Pussycat is notable for her absence as Pepe le Pew's "ami".

To the best of my knowledge, Pepe le Pew is the only skunk who has been John C. Mayer-d.

Pepe le Pew may also not have a publicist. A pitiful case is he not? Is Pepe le Pew even worth pulling a John C. Mayer on?

Pepe le Pew didn't have teenage daughters. . . unless they were le bastardes of Pepe le Pew.

Being the French snob that he is, Pepe le Pew most definitely would not consume wine from ze box, but never-the-less, I image that Pepe just might enjoy milking ze udder.

As French as Pepe Le Pew appears to be, Pepe le Pew must have had a wee-bit of Irish in his blood because he said: You are ze corned beef to me, and I am ze cabbage to you!

But I am convinced that Pepe le Pew must have been talking about A Mom on Spin when he quipped: Quelle est? Une king-sized femme skunk. Acres and acres of her, and she is mine, all mine!

So spinsters, you - too - can be a witness to history by leaving your comment. Just make sure to reference John C. Mayer and Pepe le Pew or Ze Tante Becky may kill us, no???

Yes.

Turns out Pepe le Pew's publicist must be better than John C. Mayer's after all. I briefly made it to #2 on the John C Mayer page. Pepe's has proved a tough one to climb. Must be Looney Tunes after all. . .or Warner Brothers. . . or the Pepe le Pew favorite, Merry Melodies. . .or the fact that Pepe le Pew doesn't have a middle initial. Does "le" not count????

Wait! Has Pepe le Pew been John C. Mayer-d? Or has John C. Mayer been Pepe le Pew-d??

Zis stinks!

I Hate that Cat Messing with My Chi

2010-09-13T19:51:00.001-04:00

Some might call this a random thought.

Others might call it pathetic drivel.

Yet I prefer to think of it as. . .oh, I don't know. . . a profound pondering of the universe.

_____________________

If bamboo plants are traditionally supposed to bring their owners luck . . .

But the owners' cat eats your plant from top to bottom . . .

Does that mean that the owner is out of luck?

And what - pray tell - would it portend if the same cat were to get diarrhea after eating the plant?

I thought so. . .

The Insanity on My Sleeve

2010-09-11T11:13:00.002-04:00

So Trigger is back home for the weekend.

I know what you're thinking. . . Didn't that child leave for college just two short weeks ago???

Yes indeed my friends, it has been two short, but-oh-so-glorious, weeks. . .

Yet somehow, in her naivete, Trigger didn't realize that I was still reveling in the new-found cleanliness of her bedroom like a pig rolls in mud and so, consequently, had not quite grasped the fact that she might not be the most welcome of visitors. (Proof positive that I don't always wear my insanity on my sleeve people. . .)

And so, as she emerged from the car, I suggested that although Trigger herself was welcome to enter the house, her ginormous suitcase containing the vast array of clothing which was all-but-guaranteed to be spewed about her room within a matter of minutes, might be best left in the car.

Then Drip Dry quickly spit on my sleeve, pulled Trigger's suitcase from the trunk, and used a handtruck to lug it upstairs to her bedroom.

At which point I kissed Trigger hello.

And told her how glad I was to see her.

And quietly pulled her bedroom door closed.

Then climbed the stairs to Ponzi's room to roll in the cleanliness that still dwelled within.

I Know. . . but Does It Hurt to Get Poked?

2010-09-08T18:24:00.002-04:00

So I have belatedly - and reluctantly - joined the world of facebook. And I have to admit that I don't quite get it yet.

Could someone please answer the following questions for me?

Why should I care who other people are "friends" with?

Can I declare a "bestest" friend?

Does it hurt to get poked?

Does it suddenly become "news" if I pinky-swear with someone?

Why should I care who "likes" what?

Is my wall soundproof?

Did I ever really lose all of these people I suddenly must find?

Will prisoners be friending me if Veggie says my profile picture looks like a mug shot

What should I do if I don't have anything on my mind?

I honestly don't get it.

Was facebook created by Mean Girls? Paparazzi? Professional voyeurs? Or is it actually the AP wire service on speed?

I don't know about you, but I miss the days when writing on someone's wall involved crayons and a spanking. . .

Who's That Talking?

2010-09-06T16:10:00.001-04:00

So have you ever been in an empty gymnasium after a big game?

A vacant church after a funeral?

If you have, you know that you can still feel the essence of people long after they've gone. It's like the raw emotion and energy is somehow still reverberating off of the walls with no where to go.

Welcome to my house, ladies and gentlemen. . .

Because it seems that the quietness of my (semi) empty nest is still not sitting right. It's as if the walls themselves cannot believe that a home which once held such life, laughter, mayhem and madness has been suddenly asked to settle into a state of nothingness.

And if the walls could talk, my friends, they just might ask. . .

What happened to those girls? The ones who used to run and play and squeal and stomp? The ones who learned to toddle, walk and run in these very rooms? Who used to giggle as they sang their ABC's. . . clear the living room of furniture to practice their jigs and reels . . . trip over each other in a mad dash each morning as they ran to catch the school bus? Where are those kids who stayed up through all hours of the night doing homework? What happened to those girls who took half-hour showers and snuck into each others rooms to steal clothing? The very ones who used to come home late and tiptoe past their sentry-of-a-father asleep in the living room? What kind of a house do we live in when a whole day can go by without a constant BUZZ announcing incoming texts?

Give me a second here.

Could it be that I miss them???

Let me take a trip to their car and see what it has to say . . .

A Post in which I Give You Just the Facts Ma'am

2010-09-04T11:17:00.005-04:00

So when I say from time to time that I feel like I'm just Spinning My Wheels, I know you assume I'm exaggerating.

Not so.

In an attempt to convince you, I'm going to relay today's story Sergeant Joe Friday style and give you Just the Facts, Ma'am.

Ready for the opening credits?

Dum, Dum, Dum, Dum. . . .

The story you are about to hear is true; the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Fact:   Trigger left for college with a fully functioning phone exactly one week ago today.

Fact: The following day, The Husband Formerly Known as Drip Dry received a message from the Verizon wireless store in her University town wanting to know if he would authorize the purchase of a new phone because her old phone was suddenly irreparably broken.

Fact: He did not reply.

Fact: Hoping to save a little money, we boxed up Ponzi's old phone and prepared to send it to Trigger even though she had never contacted either of us directly to tell us that she no longer had a phone.

Unfortunate Fact: Although this was now her second year at the same university, I still didn't know her address (every time I needed it last year, I'd ask and Trigger would text it to me) and so on Monday morning I sent her an email telling her we knew her phone was broken and instructed her to give her father her address so he could send her the replacement phone instead of buying a brand new phone from the Verizon store.

Fact: I skipped town on Monday afternoon.

Fact: By Wednesday night her father and I both marveled at how she was managing to survive without her lifeline (and, yes, that little bit of information counts as a fact because Trigger is widely known to eat, sleep, and shower with her phone) because he still had not heard from her.

Fact: She finally called home on Thursday morning to give Drip Dry her address and told him that she had discovered an old fashioned land-line phone in her dorm room and had been using that because someone told her that, it was only like eight cents a call.

Fact: And so, on the cusp of the long holiday weekend, Drip Dry was now forced to spend $41 to overnight the phone to her . . . but - hey - it's still cheaper than buying a new phone. . . right?

Fact:   The next day I received a call from and unknown number. It was a panicked Trigger, telling me that they had a hold on her school account and wouldn't let her change a class because we owed them $116.

Fact:   In phone charges.

Fact: For the land-line phone in her room.

Fact: The one she had been calling her boyfriend on all week long . . . for hours on end, mind you. . . . thinking that the charges were eight cents a call instead of EIGHT CENTS A MINUTE!

I guess some silly little co-ed didn't get her facts straight!

And now for the closing credits. . .
Dumb! Dumb! Dumb! Dumb!!!!

Drink. Nap. Blog.

2010-08-31T19:11:00.001-04:00

So because of my irrational fear of small furry rodents in movie theaters I am in the middle of reading Eat. Pray. Love.

And just like Elizabeth Gilbert toyed with the idea of naming her book something else, I - too - batted around a few other names for this blog post title. . . things like. . .

Read. Sweat. Sleep.

Shop. Doze. Imbibe.

or even . . . Spend. Talk. Slurp.

All because my sister pried me away from reveling in my clean, orderly, and teenager-free house in order to enjoy the last days of summer at The Jersey Shore (although if you asked me, it was something akin to a religious experience to enter Trigger and Ponzi's rooms and actually see the floor . . .) but all-the-same I thought I would share a list of the verbs that I am NOT participating in while here at Exit 25 on my mini-vaca:

Clean. Cook. Communicate.

Whine. Launder. Swear.

Worry. Wince. Work.

Yell. Vacuum. Load.

Slam. Feed. Insomniate.

I think you just might get the picture now. . .

Here's to those last days of summer

and a quick prayer that I don't get evacuated by Hurricane Earl. . .

Countdown Expired

2010-08-28T18:13:00.006-04:00

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

And today, my friends, my countdown expired.

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

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

Forget it.

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

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

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

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

It was a sense of orderliness and I liked it.

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

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

And so I waited.

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

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

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

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

And then I cleaned their bathroom.

And then I brushed the dog.

And then I realized that I could purge the refrigerator.

And scrub it.

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

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

I supposed that you could say,

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

before she rushes to sweep it up. . .

A Post in Which I Lament No Longer Lurking in Parking Lots

2010-08-16T21:23:00.003-04:00

I am no longer a young mother.

Now I realize that when you read this most of you will say . . . I thought that lady has been ancient forever! She has daughters who drive, go to college, and drink vodka for God's sake!

It may surprise you to know that, although I may have been ancient in your eyes now for quite a while, I had my personal aha! moment just last week as I watched young mothers hanging out in the church parking lot after having dropped their offspring off at vacation bible school.

I suddenly realized what I no longer have.

Let me just state for the record that - as crappy a mother as I am now - I made an excellent young one. I did everything a mother was supposed to do. . . toted my kids to soccer practice, Irish dancing competitions, ballet lessons, and basketball games. I headed every school and church committee ever dreamed of and spent two years serving as president of the P.T.A. In those days, I even made doctor's appointments for my daughters when required.

And, not for nothing. . . but I didn't work back then - which allowed me the luxury of spending time with my children and doing laundry. And not for nothing again . . . but my daughters were little and the lifeblood that flowed through my veins had not yet been sucked out and left as depleted as my bank account.

But all of that was an aside.

The only little morsel of the last paragraph that matters for the purpose of today's post, is that I also had the time to connect with other mothers. And I hung out in parking lots with them. Everywhere. We dropped our kids off at pre-school, and we talked in the school parking lot. We dropped our kids at choir practice and we gabbed in the church parking lot again. We ran into each other in the grocery store parking lot and couldn't get enough of each other.

What did we talk about?

We talked about the minutia of our lives - like ear infections and strep throats. We talked about our children's teachers and science projects. We talked about P.T.A. committees and yoga classes. And I would be lying if I tried to say say that we didn't talk about other mothers too. I'm ashamed to say that I did. And I would also be lying if I tried to tell you that there wasn't a bit of one-up-man-ship or false bravado in some of those conversations.

And so it is with a real mixture of relief and regret that I have come to the realization that I have graduated to drive-by parenting. I no longer have the time. . . the patience . . .or the interest in the parking lot relationships that used to play a major role in my life. Oh, I still run into those other mothers every once in a while, and we politely inquire about each other's children, but our paths don't cross nearly as often as they used to, and - when they do - we don't linger like the old days.

Is this because we are more mature? Less critical? More private? Less friendly? More stressed? Less caring?

I dare say it just may be that we have moved on.

Most of us are working now. Most have discovered that we can no longer micro-manage our children's lives. Some of us have had major upheavals come crashing down to teach us what it's like to live in glass houses. Some have decided just to live life for themselves. And some of us may just worry that if we told the truth about our lives, the other person would run the other way.

Or, then again, some of us may just be running home to blog . . .