The Pizza Place Chick

Pizza Place Chick (Hereafter known simply as PPChick) Hello. . . Your Local Pizza Place. Can I help you?

Me: Yes, I'd like to place an order.

PPChick: Will that be for pick-up or delivery?

Me: I'll pick it up, but will you stand outside and throw it in my car so I don't have to park?

PPChick: Okay, sure. What do you want?

Me: I want a large order of your macaroni and cheese. I've seen it on your menu but I've always been ashamed to order it. . . but you see . . . the rest of the family won't be home tonight. . . and I always save my macaroni and cheese pig-outs for when I'm all alone and no one can judge me . . . you know what I mean?

PPChick: Yeah, I know. . .

Me: And - truth be told - I've had a really bad day . . . and I need that comfort food now!

PPChick: What was so bad about it?

Me: Well the first thing my eyes were drawn to when I went downstairs this morning was a parking ticket magnetized to the refrigerator . . . compliments of Ponzi, I'm sure. . . and then I purposely arrived at work a half-hour early but the people I was meeting showed up forty-five minutes late. . . throwing off my funeral timing completely . . . and I mean . . . completely. . . . it was the last of five funerals. . . knock wood. . . and then the office worker who I thought was coming never exactly showed up. . . and then there was a lot of turf warfare going on. . . very un-church-like if you ask me. . . and then when I got back home there were dishes in the sink. . . I ask you. . . is there no one in the family who can put a dish in the dishwasher?. . . not one?. . . well . . . anyway. . . then the pizza-resistance (pardon my pun) came when I went to the mailbox and received yet another rejection letter from a literary agent in the mail . . . I don't know why the hell those people have no taste. . . I could make millions for them. . . but I guess you don't want to hear all of this from me now. . . do you?

PPC: So. . . about the macaroni and cheese. . . when do you want to pick it up?

Me: Well, when will it be ready?

PPC: I don't know! We haven't made it yet! I've been on the phone with you the whole time!

Me: Will you just call me when it's ready?

PPC: Yeah!

Me: Do you need my number?

PPC: No. . . we have caller I.D.

Me: Okay. . . You'll call me. . . right? You won't forget? Promise me you won't forget???? 'Cause I'm not giving you a tip if you forget. . .

PPC: No, I won't forget!!!

Me: So how much will that be?

PPC: Let's see. . . with the family discount, it comes to exactly three dollars.

Me: That's it?

PPC: Yeah, Mom! That's it! Can we get off the phone so I can place your order now?

Me: Okay. . . Bye honey. . .

PPC: Bye Mom . . .

Me: And Trigger?

PPC: What?

Me: Are you always this fresh to your customers on the phone??? No wonder no one's been putting any money in that tip jar!!!

The Grim Reaper

Not for nothing, but I've been a little overwhelmed with funerals at work lately.

But even if I have personally planned five funerals in the past week, it gives me no excuse to count my chickens before they've hatched.

You see, Friday morning we received the news that my all-time favorite retired hippie priest who resides in our rectory for half of the year (yes, I said hippie priest 'cause there's no other pithy way to describe a 68-year-old priest with a pony tail who spends the other half of the year in his home in Belize . . . ) well, anyway, we received word that he had collapsed in a Chicago train station waiting to board a train back home. And the words I heard were: He's in a coma and on a respirator, but they won't leave him that way for long.

Enter The Grim Reaper.

Knowing that - upon a previous hospitalization - the same priest had sent me to his room to retrieve legal documents from his personal strongbox, I marched into his room, unlocked that box, and rifled through his paperwork looking for an advance directive, power of attorney, or living will (all of which I found, by the way. . . )

And then I saw it.

The envelope labeled Burial Instructions.

Should I?

Well, I'm ashamed to say that The Grim Reaper opened that envelope and read its contents. (Although, in The Reaper's defense I need to make one point perfectly clear. . . nowhere on that envelope did it say Open in the Event of my Death. . . or Upon my Demise, Read this. . . . no, it simply read . . . Burial Instructions. . . )

But I ask you. . . at that particular moment in history did The Reaper need to know the hippie priest's wishes for the disposal of his human remains?

I'm not sure she did.

And how - from her comfy position in a little Catholic church in New Jersey - did The Reaper plan to convey the information about said remains to those attending to him in Chicago?

I don't know.

Was she going to phone the hospital morgue and say Whoa! Be careful! It says right here that he doesn't want his body carted about?

I think not.

The Grim Reaper should have just let God do his job.

But it turns out the The Reaper doesn't always think before she acts. . . and - speaking of carts - perhaps she even puts the cart before the horse sometimes . . . especially since the second call we received from Chicago (two hours after the first) was to tell us that he was being brought out of his medically-induced coma, had opened his eyes, and they were beginning to wean him off of the respirator because they didn't want to leave him on the respirator for long!

Whoops!



So Joe? Hurry up and get better so you can come home, 'cause you're gonna love this story when I tell you. . . and, as per your request, I've got the best place picked out for your wake. We're gonna have a great time!

Oh. . . and Father Densin? You really didn't need to hastily remove your own advance directives from that shelf in your office . . . you know. . . the one that donates your body to science??? Let's just hope I've learned how to exercise a little restraint by the time that document is called for. . .

She's Perfectly Coated. I'm Old, Fat, and Bloated

Dear Perfect-Coated One,



The time has come for us to say a fond farewell.



Until September at least.



For the dawn of summer means that you will no longer stand outside your picket fence each weekday morning, poised and ready to shoo your little darlings onto the school bus.



It also means that I no longer will get stuck behind said school bus on my way to work, leaving me no choice but to observe your perfect family unit in action.

No longer will you need to don a coat. . . a sweater. . . or perfect pair of shoes. . . at that ungodly hour of the morning.

And no longer will I - still sweating after having waged a colossal battle with my own wardrobe malfunctions - need to lay my eyes on you.


No longer will your your sweaters. . . or your shoes. . . or your long blond hair be on display for all to see.

And no longer will I be living my life in sin . . . . coveting my neighbor's wife's goods.




Oh. . . and one last thing. . . I thank the good Lord that your perfect children don't have to go to summer school because I don't think I could bear the turmoil of seeing you in a bikini each morning. . .

Until September, I remain. . .

p.s. If you'd like to see more correspondence, skip on over to Kat's and read some other fab Dear So and So's. . .

New Schooly, Not Knowy. No Airhorn to Blowy.

Since you all liked the title of my last post so much, I thought I might try it again - but this time it pertains to Trigger's High School Graduation.

~~~~~~~~~~

I admit it.

I'm a snob.

Let me qualify that statement. I'm an educational snob.

Not really my fault though. . . I blame it on my Catholic parents. You see, along with my six brothers and sisters, I never set foot inside of a public school building until the day I had to take my S.A.T.'s. . . .

But you don't need to know all this. . .

What you do need to know is that my little family unit broke out of the mold just last summer on the day when my two youngest daughters decided to move from the private all-girls high school to the town's public high school and my checkbook danced a jig with my credit card.

So let's just say that, heretofore, I had always been exposed to a more formal type of high school graduation ceremony. And if Trigger had decided to stick with my old Alma mater for her senior year, she - like her older sister - would have graduated on the sprawling lawn of The Academy in a long white gown, carrying a bouquet of red roses in her carefully white-gloved hands. There would have been sedate and refined applause from the crowd as each name was called, and the whole event would have been crafted to reflect the elegance and refinement with which The Academy was sending these young women out into the world. . .

But - alas - Trigger did not graduate from The Academy this year.


No, last night, Trigger graduated from The High School.

And - after scouring those pre-commencement instructions again today - I feel confident declaring that nowhere in those mailings did it mention that I needed to bring an air horn with me to Trigger's graduation . . .

For the graduation ceremony was held in the town's arena (you know, the one where I last saw the circus? Yeah, that's the one. . . ) and I was totally unprepared for the . . . well. . . circus-like atmosphere that surrounded the awarding of diplomas.

How was I to know that - after the crowd nearly ran a poor mother and child out of town because the toddler was crying during the valedictorian's address - the air horns, megaphones, and police-siren-thingies would come out in force during the calling of the graduates' names and the whole place would be hootin' and hollerin' like we were all at one big ole Texas Hoe Down right here in good old North Jersey????

And when Trigger's name was called, my husband, Ponzi, and I managed to send off a pitiful little clap . . . looking - and sounding - like the groom's stuffy family in My Big Fat Greek Wedding. . .

Damn!

Why didn't anyone tell me?

If I had made the move to the public education system before this past summer (foregoing the estimated $80,000 in tuition which my husband and I have already spent on Trigger's education) I could have afforded the biggest, baddest, boldest air horn on the East Coast!

Thank God there's always Ponzi's graduation next year!

No Sicky, No Stoppy. No Streppy, No Poppy!

Some of you may view what comes next as cruel and unusual treatment of a teenage daughter.

Perhaps it is.

But if you had been witness to even a fraction of the cruel and unusual treatment that has been exhibited toward the mother of this teenage daughter, you would understand the extenuating circumstances that have led me to act this way.

And, before you judge me without a trial of my peers, let me say the following in my own defense:

Just last week, foreseeing a long and demand-filled summer, I laid down the law to my daughters about things they were not allowed to call me at work to ask. And along with the most offensive item - cash (or in the absence thereof - my highly-prized Debit card) came a request from me that my offspring refrain from calling me everyday at work to give me a list of items I absolutely need to stop and pick up on my way home. I reminded them that each of them had a driver's license and the God-given talent to navigate through various stores alone. I also reminded them that - on many occasions - I am utterly exhausted at the end of the day, and unless the requested item is a bottle of Pinot Grigio which I will imbibe without their help, I'm thinking that tasting the new and improved flavor of some coconut custard yogurt can probably wait until the next time I've been to the market. . .

This point being understood and universally accepted, you are now allowed to read the rest of this post - which - once again features a conversation with my dear daughter Ponzi . . . who happens to be, without question, the worst of the work-call-request offenders. . .

~~~~~~~~~~

Call received on my cell at 3:30 p.m.

Me: Hello?

Ponzi: Mom! On your way home you need to stop and pick up some ice pops for my sore throat.

I now interrupt this blog post to bring you the following information, which I should have supplied earlier. . .

Ponzi has been complaining of a sore throat for a number of days, but refuses to let it keep her from all of the social engagements and attempted sleepovers that seem to come along with the last few days of school - today having been the absolute last day of her junior year.

We now return to the story. . .

Me: You know, Ponz, I'm particularly tired today and I don't have any other reason to go to the store on my way home, so I'm not going to get those ice pops.

Ponzi: But I need them! My throat is sore and I can barely talk!!!

Me: What I am willing to do for you, Ponzi, is to take you to the doctor to get a strep test. Perhaps you need an antibiotic.

Ponzi: No! I don't have strep throat! I just need ice pops!

Me: Alright! If I leave work and stop to get you ice pops, will you promise me you won't ask to go out tonight? You're sick.

Ponzi: I'm not sick! I'm going out with Timmy tonight, but I need the ice pops first!

Me: If you're not sick, I'm not stopping. It's as simple as that.

Ponzi: But I need them! I can hardly swallow!

Me: If I stop, you don't go out. . .

Ponzi: Mom! You're not making any sense at all!

Me: You want sense? I'll give you "sense". . . "Since" when did you think it's acceptable to call me at work and harass me about a stupid thing like ice pops?????

I'm so grown up sometimes - aren't I????

And- by the way - I'm quite sure that a jury of my peers would never convict me. . .

To Catch a Daughter

So many of my readers write to me and ask: Oh Mom on Spin, how will will I ever be able to handle my child's teenage years? Will I know when they are drinking. . . or smoking. . . or lying to me about where they are going???

The answers to first two will have to be the subject of future blog posts. . . but as to catching a teenager in a lie? My advice, dear readers, is sometimes just as simple as to . . .LISTEN CAREFULLY . . . for in their rush to get to the party, your darling daughter - or her friends - might very well trip themselves up, and their lies will suddenly become as apparent as the nose on Pinocchio's face.

Take - for instance - my recent conversation with Ponzi. . .

~~~~~~~~~~

Ponzi: Is it okay if I sleep at Suzie's house tonight? I'll be back first thing in the morning for Father's Day breakfast.

Me: Suzie's house? Are you really sleeping at Suzie's house? You wouldn't be sleeping at Timmy's or Tommy's house. . . would you?

Ponzi: Mom! Why don't you trust me?

Me Think: (Because I'm your mother, that's why!!!)

But I really answered: Trust? You want me to trust you this time?

Ponzi: Yes Mom. I want you to trust me.

Me: Okay. Suzie's house. You can sleep at Suzie's.

Ponzi: I swear. . . that's where I'll be!

And all was right with the world. . . that was, until Ponzi and Suzie left for their night out. . .

Me: Now, don't forget. . . you have to be home for our Father's Day Breakfast in the morning.

Suzie: Don't worry, Mrs. Mom on Spin. . . . I'll make sure she's home on time. I have to be back home first thing in the morning too . . .

And if this method doesn't work for you, you can always employ another of my tried and true truth-revealing strategies - feign disbelief at one of her sister's stories and all the lies she has told you will come streaming out of her sister's mouth in self defense. . .

Works every time.

The Morning After

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

But the party has been had.

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

And perhaps - most importantly - the house was cleaned!

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~

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

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

Ponzi: What's it doing there?

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

~~~~~~~~~~

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

Me: I put them in the laundry basket.

~~~~~~~~~~

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~

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

~~~~~~~~~~

and last. . . but not least. . .

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


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


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

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

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

It's Not Easy Being a Boss/Mom

Remember how Veggie has been working for me in the church office for the past few weeks?

Well perhaps it's not a good idea.

The mother/daughter relationship is fraught with enough pitfalls and perils without adding the strains of an employer/employee relationship to it as well - for listen to what happened when a certain employee was late for work yesterday.

Oh, but I'm getting ahead of myself here. . .

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

At 8:00 a.m. I called to Veggie from the foot of the stairs at home. . .

Me: Veg? (I call her that for short, you know . . . it's somehow more endearing. . . ) Veg?

Veggie: Wha?????

Me: Listen. I know you were out until 2:30 in the morning again, but you have to get to work as soon as you can. We've got a big funeral today and I need you in the office before 9:00. I'm leaving now. Did you hear that?

Veggie: Yeah. . .

Me: Promise me you'll get up????

Veggie: Yeah. . . .

So when she still hadn't appeared at 9:25, I placed a call to her in desperation. . .

Veggie: Whaaa????

Me: Did I just wake you up???

Veggie: Whaaa???? Oh . . . I mean. . . . No. . . .

Me: Are you on your way into work???

Veggie: Almost.

Me: (Under my breath, 'cause I never curse out loud. . . especially in the church office. . . ) Jesus Christ!

Veggie: I am not a piece of crap!!!! And don't you call me that again!!!!

And with those parting words, Veggie hung up on me.

But Women Are So Resourceful

Don't think I've posted a funny work story in a while. . .

This morning we sent two people off to distribute communion at a local nursing home - a young seminarian from Cuba, and a seventy-something-year-old woman.

The young seminarian returned with his extra hosts while a funeral was being celebrated in the church. Realizing that he wouldn't be able to repose his share of the Blessed Sacrament right away, the young seminarian set out a white cloth. . . prominently displayed the pyx (container of consecrated hosts) upon it . . . and searched for - and lit - a candle next to it. . .

The seventy-something-year-old woman arrived with her leftovers a good two hours later while I was eating lunch and quipped. . . Here. . . I stored them in my bra for safekeeping and forgot all about them until I went for my physical and the nurse told me to remove my clothes. . .

But she kept them close to her heart, now didn't she?????

The Post-Prom Ponzi Shakedown

7:30 a.m. Saturday morning. . .

Ponzi: Mom, wake up! Where did Dad go so early this morning?

Me: Golfing. Where else?

Ponzi: Oh. . . well how much money do you have?

Me: Why do you need money?

Ponzi: Well, remember how we're going to the shore today. . . just for the day. . . because you wouldn't let me go after Prom and sleep there like everyone else. . . and Susie's dad is driving us down today. . . well. . . um. . . . we just found out we need money to get on the beach.

Me: Don't you have any money left from the other day when you got your hair done for Prom? I gave you a hundred dollars.

Ponzi: Well the hairdo was $85 and I gave her a $15 tip.

Me: A hundred dollars on your hair? How much are you asking for now? Ten dollars?

Ponzi: No. . . not exactly. . . because. . . well . . . just found out about this. . . but because you wouldn't let me stay at the hotel with the seniors. . . well. . . um . . . there's this fee for using the hotel's beach. . . you know. . . because you're a guest. . . of a guest. . . I'm sure it would have been cheaper to have just paid for the hotel room. . . but anyway. . . they give you this bracelet thing. . . and Tammy was there yesterday. . . and she's going back today. . . and she's bringing markers and construction paper. . . so we're probably not going to end up paying the fee at all . . . cause. . . you know. . . we're going to make our own. . . Tammy and Susie say it's easy. . . but I better have the money with me just in case I need it.

Me: How much is it?

Ponzi: $67. For the day pass. It's more if we stay past six o'clock.

Me: $67 just to go to the beach for a day??? It's not worth it. You can keep driving down the parkway to Exit 25. I bought four season passes for $15 each. They're at the house. I'll give you the keys.

Ponzi: But this is with all the senior guys from Prom! Please! Please! Please, Mom!!!! I'll give you the first paycheck of the summer when I get it. . .

Me: But you don't have a summer job.

Ponzi: I know. . . . but when I get one. . . and when I get my first paycheck. . . I'll give it all to you!

The Twilight Zone goes Reality Show

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

1. My husband is a Standford University-educated electrical engineer.



2. Ever since her graduation from college a few weeks ago, Veggie has been working for me in the church office in order to make some money before leaving for her new life in England in July.



3. After saying Goodbye to both husband and daughter in the kitchen yesterday morning, I headed off to work - leaving my cell phone behind. And so I called home when I got to the office. . .

Me: I left my cell phone on the desk. Can you get it and give it to Veggie?

Husband: Let's see. . . . Here it is. . . .Do you want me to swing by and drop it off at the office on my way to work?

Me: No, just give it to Veggie. She'll bring it to me.

Husband: Okay. . .

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

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

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

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

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

Smile! You're on Proma Camera

It's a well-known fact that no matter how panicked. . . frustrated. . . frantic . . . short tempered . . . .or Proma-ed out! a teenage daugther might be, she will stand before the camera and smile like a regular politician. . .



And so they did. . .

let Me Introduce You to My Old Friend, "Proma"

Do you remember my old friend, Proma?

Well, she's back. . .

Times two.

That's correct. I have have two daughters going to Prom tonight.

And today, my friends, has not been pretty. For certain unnamed individuals in our household have been a tad bit uptight today. And no amount of money spent. . . no make up. . . no set of sticky boobs. . . no perfectly pedicured toes. . . will make it go away.

Consider this phone call I received at work today.

Ponzi: Just letting you know that I'm writing myself a note to excuse myself from school at 1:45 and I'm signing your name to it.

Me: Why? Your hair appointment isn't until 3:00. Your nails were done yesterday. You don't need to leave school early.


Ponzi: But I have to pack. . .


Me: Pack? Where on earth do you think you're going?


Ponzi: Tim's house. Remember? I told you the other night.


Me: No, you asked me the other night. And I said we would have to talk about it with your father. We talked about it, and he said no.

Ponzi: You never told me I couldn't go!

Me: Did you ever ask again? Did I ever tell you that you could go?

Ponzi: But you never said I couldn't go. . . .

Me: Well, feel free to call your father right now and ask him. . .

Ponzi: Fine! But I hope you're happy! You've ruined my entire night!!!

Or. . . how about this call received later in the day. . .

Trigger: Mom!

Me: Yes?

Trigger: Do we have umbrellas?

Me: (innocently not understanding the nature of the question. . . .) What do you mean?

Trigger: WHAT DO YOU MEAN. . . WHAT DO I MEAN???? I ASKED IF WE HAD UMBRELLAS. . . EITHER WE HAVE THEM OR WE DON'T . . . WHAT'S SO HARD ABOUT THAT????

Me: Well, I have a couple in my car if that's what you're asking. . .

Trigger: WHAT ARE THEY DOING IN YOUR CAR??? WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO WHEN WE GET OUR HAIR DONE? GO OUT IN THE RAIN?????

Or perhaps this. . . .

Ponzi: Mom! Dad's not answering his cell. . . . YOU TELL ME WHAT I'M SUPPOSED TO DO NOW!!!!


Oh Shit!

In the absence of my craptop I'm using Ponzi's MacBook while she was otherwise occupied and I just got discovered by one of her non-promming friends who popped up saying How could you possibly be online????

Gotta go. . . .

I'm doomed!!!!

I Miss My Craptop

Yes. I said it.


I miss my craptop.


I'm a creature of habit. . . . and my habit is to sit in my little corner oasis of my bedroom on my ficker chair while blogging on my trusty craptop.


And ever since that craptop has been downstairs in my husband's "workshop" awaiting repairs, life just hasn't been the same.


The 1999 rent-a-wreck which I have been attempting to use in its place makes dial-up service seem like the Concorde. . . . I dare not touch the other three laptops in our home which belong to my husband and two of my daughters. . . .and the two family p.c.'s are located. . . well. . . in the family room. . . and somehow it just doesn't seem right to complain about my family while they're in plain sight!


And, as a result, I haven't been religiously posting on my own blog . . . and I haven't been visiting yours!


Let us all wish my craptop a quick and speedy recovery!


For Proma (times 2 I'll have you kmow) has descended upon our household, and I'm going to need your help by Thursday!!!

The Things I Don't Understand About "Progress" Reports

Following is a list of the things that I apparently don't understand about "Progress" reports (as told to me by my teenage daughters. . . )

• Because progress reports are addressed to The Parent or Guardian of a certain child, said child is not required to share them with her parents if she is over 18 because she's the guardian of myself now, Mom!

• If you're missing like an assignment or two certain teachers might just give you an "F" until you hand them in . . . at which time your grade will automatically turn to an "A".

• If you're missing like a couple of assignments, nicer teachers will put an "I" in that slot because they don't really feel like giving you that "F".

• In any event, parents should not freak out! about a couple of missing assignments.

• Everybody else gets "F"s and "I"s on their progress reports too.

• She got a "B+" in her A.P. English course, so she's not dumb, you know. . .

• In fact, these Progress report-things are so un-important, you might as well intercept them from the family mailbox and take them straight to your room to save your parents the hassle of even looking at them!

And so, they did. . . . And I - on the other hand - got to add a new item to The List.

One Morning a Week (It's Like Parent Abuse)

Braja and Amy haven't asked me to participate in their One Morning a Week exchange. . . but they should.

'Cause I could show them what each of them has mericfully avoided - Braja, all peaceful and serene in her Indian village . . . and Amy, all busy in the throes of raising her three young sons.

So I'm barging in - just for today - to show them what my morning was like yesterday (If they want contrast, I'll show them contrast. . . ) and someday in the future, they just might thank me for it.

Oh, and if any of you want to take the role of Me in this one, go right ahead. . .

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

I was sound asleep in my Goldilocks bed at 6:45 a.m.- after battling a long, nomadic, and sleepless night - only to be awakened by Trigger's revelrie. . . .

Trigger: Mom or Dad?

Me: (all croaky morning voicey) Yes?

Trigger: Mom or Dad?

Me: (still croaky - cause, remember, I've been sick. . . ) Yes?

Trigger: MOM or DAD!!!!

Me: Trigg! You don't have to be so loud. I was trying to answer you!

Trigger: Well, I have to be that loud 'cause you're both like practically deaf!

Me: What is so important that you need to wake me up at this time in the morning?

Trigger: I need $75 for my Prom bid.

Me: Is your room picked-up yet? The cleaners are coming today and you promised you'd have it ready by 10:00 last night.

Trigger: But I need the money.

Me: You'll get it when your room is clean.

and so I drift peacefully back to sleep only to be awakened again ten minutes later. . .

Trigger: My room's clean, now where's the money?

Me: I'll get up and get it in a minute

Trigger: You said I'd have it when my room is clean. My room is clean now and I don't have it.

Me: I said You'll get it when your room is clean, not, You'll have it the second your room is clean. . . give me a minute! You're not walking out the door right this moment are you?

Trigger: No, but it like practically takes you ten minutes just to write a check. . .

Me: Shut up!

Trigger: Are you saying Shut up! to your own daughter? That's real grown-up, Mom!




Will someone please promise me something?

When I really do get old and I'm like practically deaf and I start moving a wee-bit slower and it might take me like ten minutes to write a check . . . .can you see to it that I'm never left alone in a room with Trigger? 'Cause I just might strangle her, but it will probably take me like a half-hour to do it! and she might get to me first!

I'm Sorry, Your Calling Has Been Lost. . . . Please hang up and dial again.

True story.


And even though it's a true story, I think we'll still go with the role playing from the other day. You can take the part of Caller.

If, for some reason, you have been secretly hoping for the role of Me (with all of my faults and foibles) I'm sorry to disappoint you, but the role of Me is being played by me today. Shoot me a comment, and I might let you try being Me next time. . . .

In the mean time, let's return to Your Calling Has Been Lost. . . Please Hang Up and Dial Again. . .

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

Me: Good afternoon, Ass$#@$#@$$#$ Church. . . This is Liz.

Caller: Yes, I'm hoping you can help me. I'd like to speak to one of the priests.

Me: Do you know which priest you'd like to speak with???

Caller: No, not really. . . . it's just that. . . well, it's just that. . . . well . . . I've been coming to daily Mass for the past two days. . . and. . . well. . . .I was baptized a Catholic and all that. . . but lately. . . and I mean really lately. . . like the last two days' kind of lately . . . I feel a "calling". . . like God's calling me to do something. . . and I'm not even sure I'm saying this right. . . but I feel like I'm being called to be a. . . well, a . . . . a . . . . Ecumenical Minister.

Me: Oh, you probably mean a Eucharistic Minister.

Caller: Yeah, that's it!

Me: Have you been away from the church for a while now? Are you thinking you'd like to come back??? Is that why you're calling?

Caller: I guess so. . . do you think I can do it? I really think God's calling me!

Me: Well, you were right in the first place. . . you need to speak with one of the priests. . . let me put the pastor on the phone . . . he's sitting right here in front of me. . . he'll be right with you. . . .

Pastor: Hello? Hello? Hello?????

Liz. . . . I'm sorry. . . . I pressed the wrong button and I lost the call. . . . Was it anything important?????

An Update. . .on Me. . .

You know what I just realized today?

I write this blog. . . day after day. . . incident after incident. . . horror after teenage horror. . . and you never get hear the end of my interesting and captivating of stories.

Tell me people. . . how do you sleep at night?

And so, in order to alleviate the heartbreak of your insomnia, I offer you the following updates:

My husband was able to fix the little problem with the sHIfT key on my daughter's-hand-me-down-crap-top, but it has since developed what I fear will be its fatal symptom (a dark and scary screen.) But, all is not lost, my friends . . . I have been awarded my husband's 1998 hand-me-down-crap-top to use in its place. . . you know. . . kind of like a rent-a-wreck while my original craptop is down in his workshop.

I'm feeling much better, thank you. . . . thanks in large part to my new obsession with my Neti Pot. Oh yes . . . and even I had a problem finding the exact box of tissues needed to coordinate with the sick bed. . . .

Ponzi doesn't have love handles. . . but, apparently Trigger does. . .

Tonight's pilfered dinner for my husband consists of sliced London Broil, roasted red potatoes and green beans, along with chilled melon balls and a petite tomato and motz salad with balsamic vinaigrette. (I - on the other hand - had to call out to my ten-year-old nephew to stop his backyard ballgame and ask him to run over some ketchup for my hot dog. . . )

And - in an attempt to add another item to the List - I opened that bag of trash that Trigger took to the garage . . . on her own . . . without anyone telling her to do it. . . and I still found no evidence of a party while we were away this weekend.

What is this world coming to????

OH. . .and p.s. . . . I had two cavities. . . Life stinks. . . doesn't it????