Toasters of the World, UNITE!!!

I think I may be a minimalist.

For some, vacation may be about excesses - an overabundance of sun. . . food. . . family . . . drinks. . . games. . . loud and raucous laughter. . .

Not for me.

I search for order out of chaos. . . solitude from the swarm . . . and silence over shouting. A stray coffee cup has me itching to clean it. A sloppily-hung beach towel affronts my eyes. A blaring television, an insult to my ears. (Good thing Mr. Drip Dry's favorite past-time down here is watching the Golf Channel - gotta love those broadcasters. . . they all whisper. . .) And although my favorite word is akimbo, that's not really how I want my world to be.

And so it is that each time I'm here, I can't keep myself from purging unneeded/unwanted/ outdated/outlandish stuff from my parents' beach house.

Every once in a while we have to ask ourselves. . . do we really need a napkin holder that says Hold 'em Here, Mate? Sample pieces of carpeting under trash bins? Bookends crafted to resemble Abraham Lincoln? Are toasters so ugly that we need to design elaborate covers for them? And would no one ever guess that it's actually a toaster hiding under that lighthouse???

Toasters of the world, Unite! Do not be afraid to show yourselves! Shed those silly garments that housewives of the world have been dressing you in since the 1950's! Let's hear you! Say it loud! I Toast. . . and I'm Proud!!!

And into the garbage that toaster cover went. . .

I Could Get Used To This. . .

Getting woken up at 6:00 a.m. by Ponzi's Boyf.'s cell phone alarm while away on vacation isn't so bad after all.

In fact, I highly recommend it.

For it gives the awakee some precious alone time to read a sweeping historical novel. . . or blog on Ponzi's MacBook . . . or people-watch (well, you can't really call them "people" in the true sense of the word . . . at this time of day it's "crazy obsessed athletes" or "people with impatient little doggies"watch. . .) or ponder some of life's greater mysteries (like how it was that I never thought I liked crabcakes until just the other day. . . ) all while quietly sipping multiple cups of coffee on the breezy front porch.

Yeah, I could get used to this (especially the MacBook part . . . )

It's Just Me, Here . . . on Vacation . . . Suffering from a Few Syndromes. . .

So driving over the bridge yesterday to get to the liquor store (because Exit 25 is a DRY town - which simply means that all inhabitants must drive to the mainland in order to purchase alcohol and bring it back) my husband suddenly switched lanes and I let out a little Yelp!

You're easily frightened you know, he said to me.

No Shit, Sherlock! I replied. That's because I suffer from TDSS!

What on earth is that?

Teenage Daughter Stress Syndrome . . . and you already know that!

Now, my husband is well-aware of the fact that I suffer from this well-documented ailment. The trouble is that its symptoms have been . . . let's say . . . a wee-bit more apparent during this vacation week because some of the stresses have been out of the ordinary. . . you know. . . the kind that don't always crop up at home. . .

Take - for instance - the drive here.

The ever-plotting Ponzi wanted to prove to her parents that she could negotiate the two hour drive to The Shore by herself (ammunition for a not-so-distant argument, no doubt) and so we let her drive us in the minivan. Because my husband called shotgun before I did, the dog and I were relegated to the back seat.

I'm proud to say that the dog didn't scream once.

I can't - however - say the same for the other back seat driver. . .

Or how about Trigger's drive down by herself to meet us on Sunday evening?

Trig. . . you seemed to get here in record time. How fast were you driving???

Oh. . . I don't like to look at the speedometer when I'm driving, she answered me. It makes me nervous. I just pick a car and then I pass them. Then I pick another car and pass that one. . .

Could someone please remind me just who it was that taught this child how to drive????

And then there's the dreaded beach.

I used to like the beach until the fateful day that Veggie and Trigger almost drowned. And I used to tolerate the beach until the day I had to go out and rescue Trigger and two of her friends from a raging rip tide.

Now I go to the beach only when required by law.

Besides, would you want to sit next to your scantily-clad teenage daughters when their only beach reading consists of The Hot Issue of Cosmopolitan - whose cover boasts of the following hot topics . . . The Orgasm Whisperer - Every Woman Needs One! . . . or how about . . . Guys Rate 125 Sex Moves. . . or perhaps . . . What You Should Never Let Your Gyno Do. . . or . . . Secrets His Sex Style Reveals . . . .

Now I am dangerously close to turning the big Five-O, my friends, and this is the first time I have ever heard that guys actually had sex styles! Oh, I knew all about the Orgasm Whisperer (What??? You mean you don't have one???) and the sex moves. . . but I never knew about men's sex styles. I may have to steal that issue when they're not looking. . .

I even got fooled by the title of one article which read, Five Things That Can Blow a Job Interview. (Can't imagine why - in heaven's name - my mind wandered to the gutter on that one. . .)

And so you see that when - like me - you suffer from TDSS, vacation is not all fun and games, my friends. . . . not all fun and games. . .

And the only known cure?

Well that brings us full circle back to the purpose of that drive over that bridge. . .

Oh. . . and it seems that even the dog is as stressed as I am - for she is suffering from SPS (Safe Potty Syndrome) and can't find an acceptable place to do her business (as we call it) and so insists on dropping it a turd at a time as she walks . . . imagine trying to look all beachy, cool and sophisticated while stopping to pick that up every third or fourth step. . .

Don't you wish that life were a tad easier at times????

Exit 25

I'm leaving you for a while.

Beachin' it.

That's right - vacation! And here are my instructions to those I leave behind. . .


To the Churchgoers . . .
Nobody die. (Okay, depart from this world if you must, but you will not get a funeral of distinction. . . )

To Trigger Who I Trust Beyond Words . . .
('Cause if I say I trust you, you just might feel compelled to earn my trust. . . .)

No parties!!!

No orgies!!!

No funny business. . . Period!!!


To my Sister and Parents Who Live Next-Door. . .
Watch Trigger!

To my Sister Who Lives up The Street. . .
Keep your eye on Trigger!

To the Cat. . .
I cleaned your litter box, you picky thing. . . no go watch Trigger!!! Oh, and enjoy your week without the dog. Who you gonna pick on now???? Perhaps someone your own size instead of our giant lab????

To the Cleaning Service Who Will Come on Wednesday. . .
If you see any evidence of any hanky-panky, call me! You have my number.

To the Guys in the Liquor Department of My Favorite Grocery Store. . .
No, I haven't fallen off the face of the earth, just gone away for a while. Oh, and can you tell the guys in the produce aisle for me? I'm sure they'll be going through withdrawal too.


To the Mail Carrier. . .
You probably won't notice a difference anyway, 'cause we're never great at emptying that mailbox. Just shove it all in there like you normally do.

To All My Blogging Friends. . .
I may, or may not, be posting for a while. Depends if I can pilfer wi-fi from any of the neighbors.

This Just May Qualify As Random. . .

I'm sure you've guessed by now that A Mom on Spin would never win any awards for her culinary skills, but I'm here to tell you that - despite the fact that not one of my vegetarian daughters was here for dinner tonight. . .

this. . .

plus . . .

and this . . .

on this. . .

topped with this particular item. . .

and accompanied by this. . .

. . . may be the best damn thing I've ever tasted in my life.

Just saying'. . . .

Oh. . . and as a follow-up to yesterday's post. . . Mr. Drip Dry is watching for any symptoms of Lyme Disease.

The first reader to guess the reason for the butt arrow gets to . . . well . . . be satisfied in knowing they were right! ('Cause I'm quite sure no one would ever want to win a prize that was associated with my husband's butt. . . )

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because they're big and fluffy! he answered.

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

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

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

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


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

Well, you get the picture. . .

Seatbelts on Wheelchairs and Words that I've Written

Dear Dad,

Welcome home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now we have this.

The aftermath of The Fall.

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

Tough. . . all of it.

So excuse us if we hover.

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

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

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

Love always,

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

Can You Hear Me Now???

Dear Mr. President of Verizon Wireless,

I love you.


Actually I think my husband loves you.


Or perhaps we're both in love with the customer service rep my husband spoke to on the phone yesterday . . . you know. . . the one who told him about your Family Freedom Plan, or some catchy name like that . . . (we don't care what you call it, as long as it makes me do cartwheels. . . ) with unlimited text messaging - no matter whether you're texting in or out of network. . . so each one of Trigger's 10,000 ( that's right I said ten thousand. . . ) monthly text messages will be covered under the plan?????


And that's not all. Do you know what else? (I'm guessing you're an educated man, Mr. President of Verizon Wireless, so I'm going to throw some latin phraseology in here, 'cause my daughters sometimes read my blog and there's something I don't want them to know. . .) Well, that lovely customer service rep actually agreed to ack-bate-day the activation of our freedom plan and everse-ray the latest $400 in exting-tay arges-chay!!!!!Don't you see why we love her?

And you too. We love you too!


And the guy on the commercial? You know, the one who looks a little nerdy and says Can you hear me now? Yeah, well we're his biggest fans now. And the ten thousand people standing behind him who represent The Network? We just adore them! Especially the guys swinging from the phone poles. As a matter of fact, we love them all so much we're going to send each and every one of them a text message to personally thank them for being a Verizon wireless employee. And we won't get charged a penny. . . even . . . if for some strange reason your employees choose another service provider!

~~~~~~~~~

And if you're looking for more witty and entertaining correspondence, go on over to Kat's bungalow and see what others are writing about.

Oh wait! It has just come to my attention that I have to add another little piece of correspondence to my husband. . .

~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Mr. Drip (Dry)

Was it not just this morning that we agreed that Ponzi was not going to get a new phone unless and until she had the cash in hand to pay for it???

Hello????

How was it that you fell prey to her promissory schemes once again? Don't you know that - even if we garnished that child's imaginary wages from now until the day she dies - she will never repay all of the money she owes us????

Why not? you ask. . . because. . . as we both know. . . she has no job!!!!

I am hereby removing you as an authorized decision maker on our new Verizon Family Freedom plan. Let's face it. . . . Veggie's going to have to be the brains of the family from now on!

Signed, your lovely wife . . . .

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

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

Take One!

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

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

Verizon Rep: And what problem would that be?

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

Rep: Well are you Veggie?

Frazzled: No, I'm not Veggie.

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

Frazzled: Yes, you are correct on that one.

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

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

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

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

Rep: Okay, let me look. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rep: 6,000.

Frazzled: WHAT???

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

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

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

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

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

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

enter. . .

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


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


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


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


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


Frazzled: We're just not doing it now!


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

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

A Mom on Spin's Theory on Grumpy Old Ladies

I have recently developed a theory on why some old ladies are grumpy.

Think of it. . . we all know that these ladies weren't born that way. Sometime - when they were younger - they must have smiled. . . and danced. . . and loved. . . and laughed. They must have cooed over newborns and puppies and mini-muffins and pink baby booties. They must have been awed by a spider's web . . . a sunrise. . . a dust bunny.

Let's face it, something must have happened to morph these ladies from happy and productive individuals into the Granny you see trying to hit someone with her cane in the produce aisle! And I think that perhaps I have discovered what it is.

Perhaps she raised a teenage daughter or two.

Perhaps her daughters were vegetarians and her husband, a carnivore.

Perhaps sometimes she felt like the dog was the only one with any manners.

And Perhaps - long ago - those daughters lied to her . . . and stayed out past their curfews . . . and went to concerts. . . and unauthorized parties. . . and cut school. . . and stole her vodka. . . and lied about detention.

Perhaps those daughters treated her as nothing more than a human ATM machine - draining every dollar out of her bank account and every bit of energy out of her soul.

Perhaps they lived on choka-broka-macho-facho-lattes and mani/peds and iTune downloads.

Perhaps they were always needing money for gas.

Perhaps - even though her mother told one daughter that she was the only one authorized to drive the car - she repeatedly let her boyf with the right arm in the sling drive instead.

Perhaps dealing with the Auto Mechanic, Division of Motor Vehicles, and the local parking authority began to unravel her.

Perhaps she even kept a list of her daughters' misdeeds under her pillow.

Perhaps once they embarrassed her by getting caught drinking beer on a church trip. Her church. I mean her place of employment!!!

Perhaps, before she knew of their misdeeds on the church trip, she had shopped for them at the conclusion of Her Perfect Week - vowing to stock all of their favorite things in the house . . . nuts, berries, tampons, yogurt, coffee, energy bars, bottled water, razors . . . you name it, she purchased it . . . and after one of them searched through the kitchen, she snidely quipped How come you didn't get vanilla yogurt? You know I don't like white chocolate raspberry anymore!

Perhaps little things like that made her cry from time to time.

Okay. . . perhaps they made her cry quite often.

Or perhaps those daughters racked up a $430 cell phone bill one month and a $520 bill the next. But perhaps neither of those bills won the prize for most expensive month ever, 'cause nothing beats the one that rolled in at Seven Nundred and Nifty Blue Scholars!
Perhaps things like that phone bill made her drink sometimes.
Okay. . . perhaps they made her drink . . . quite often.
And Perhaps - before she even finished dealing with her mid-life crisis - this same mother found herself tired.

And cynical.

And overwrought.

And overwhelmed.

And - yes - a little bit cranky. . . and irritable. . . and cross. . . and grouchy. . .

And perhaps one day she woke up, looked around, and thought. . . Whose kids are these anyway????

And then, Perhaps, she even started her own blog. . . .you know. . . . kind of like a Public Service Annoucement to warn young parents to eat their offspring while they still could. . .

But by then. . . perhaps . . . it was too late for the poor mother, and she was destined to live Grumpily Ever After. . .

So that's my theory, and I'm sticking to it. . .

Bad "Car"ma. . .

I'm officially posting a Rambling, Run-on, and Random Tuesday Thoughts post today (even though it's Monday) and titiling it Bad "Car"ma . . .

If you want to see more Random Tuesday thoughts, click on over to Keely's (tomorrow, that is. . .) and join in.

~~~~~~~~~~

• Don't you hate in when you wake up in the morning to the familiar smell of homemade popcorn (a.k.a . old smelly burnt oil) and are quickly greeted by the sight of a kitchen and family room left in disarray after you went to bed? Wouldn't you just love to leave Ponzi a big note showing your discontent and telling her to clean it up fast?

• Or when you snoop on-line to see if Trigger has completed her math placement exam as promised (a pre-requisite to her college orientation tomorrow) and she still hasn't. . . no matter how long you've been bugging her to do it?

• And how about when, just for fun, you open your on-line banking to peek at your cell phone bill and see that it rolled in as a whopping $520 for just one month? Don't you hate it when that happens???

• And how about when your husband calls you at work to tell you that he talked to the mechanic, who thinks he knows what the problem with Roberta is this time, and wants to take the car home overnight just to be sure, but can't unless you pay $60 for him to perform the overdue state inspection, which he would be happy to perform but is unable to because he cannot find not a valid insurance card in the glove compartment due to the fact that the replacement ones you ordered haven't arrived in the mail yet?

• Or how about when your Catholic Priest of a Boss gets informed that your two teenage daughters were among the minions who got caught drinking on the church trip to Appalachia even under your husband's watchful eye???? Bless me Father, for my daughters have sinned. . .

• Or when, out of the goodness of your heart, you go to drive a 450 pound woman to the office of temporary assistance to update her food stamp card and your 1999 minivan starts to buck and sputter on the way there and you're absolutely convinced that there is no way you're going to make it and you try to talk her into calling a cab for the return trip, but she's too timid, so you wait the hour and a half with her, but pour her into a cab at the end anyway cause you're afraid to have the car break down with her in it 'cause you didn't bring her motorized wheelchair and she can't walk more than five steps without having to rest? Are you not amazed when that happens????

• And how about when you finally get your car to the dealership (not the same mechanic who has Roberta, mind you. . ) and they say Hey, do you know this car's overdue for inspection? or Hey, would you like us to put on a new hubcap??? Don't you just not feel like 'splaining the insurance card part, but do feel like you driving down to Appalachia and moving into one of those trailers yourself?

• Or when, after a long tiring day, your sister picks you up from the car dealership and you arrive back home to find those old smelly popcorn dishes still in the kitchen sink and you call Ponzi repeatedly to no avail because she doesn't answer - only to find out hours later that she's been in the house and napping ever since you got home???? Aren't you glad you didn't resume the walking around the house naked you did when you knew no one else was home????
  

Now, don't you agree that any of these scenarios would be painful on their own. . . but when they all occur in the same day, it's even more than Bad "Car"ma. . . it's the peace and quiet of My Perfect Week unraveling faster than a roll of toilet paper on Mischief Night!!!!


And don't you just hate it when that happens????

Oh, and thanks to Veggie (who has indeed surfaced in the UK for all who were worried about her) for coining the "Car"ma phrase. . . creative phrasing must be genetic. . .

Silly Sunday

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



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

The Reason that Francis Now Dances

There once was a young man named Francis,

who hailed straight from Wichita, Kansas.

He strongly desired,

to learn and acquire,

the moves to the new-fangled dances.

So Francis then made up his mind,

to master each step he could find.

He learned every move,

got into the groove,

and shagged every bump, hop, and grind.

He started with the Bunny Hop,

then added the Jerk and Bus Stop.

The Cha-Cha and Swim,

were easy for him

and so were the Time Warp and Bop.

And then our friend added the Twist

the Hitch Hiker - which used his wrist,

the Hammer, the Smash,

the Potatoes of Mashed,

and Monkey were next on his list.

And then came the Pony and Limbo

which left him all short and a-trimbo.

And then the display,

of the YMCA,

with limbs all aloft and akimbo.

And now our good friend we call Francis,

who hails from a town down in Kansas,

is a dancing machine,

and can always be seen,

around the town boppin' and prancin'!

I'm a Lousy Chicken Stalker

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

No, I mean it. . .

Guess.

Who.

Let me give you a hint. . .

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

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

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

But - alas - there was only one problem.

I chickened out.

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

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

And where was the Perfect One anyway?

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

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

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

While a strange case of hives developed on my torso.

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

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

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

Froze, I tell you.

I Froze!


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

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

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

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

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

Or perhaps it was something else!

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

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

Dear. . .Anyone Who Cares to Listen

Even though I've been writing letters all week, I still have a thing or two to say. . .

Head over to Kat's to see the other letters heading to the post office today . . . .

~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Allstate,

Having this week to myself has given me the chance to catch up on a little paperwork. And I must say that I was truly dismayed to discover that you had not updated our insurance cards - for the cards we carried in our glove compartments all expired at the end of March.

What's that?

My fault?

Don't you know that I would never let something as important as that lapse???

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

Dear Auto Mechanic Guy (whose repair skills may or may not be sucky - depending on whether you charge me for the tow back to your shop. . . and actually fix the car this time. . . )

Thank you for informing me that my daughters' Jeep, Roberta, was overdue on her state inspection also. I can't - for the life of me - imagine why my daughters didn't notice!

And, of course - if they had - I would have taken care of the situation right away.

Now get your head back under Roberta's hood . . . the girls will be back with their nail guns tomorrow!

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

Dear Division of Motor Vehicles,

Thank you for your timely response to my renewal of White Ice's registration, so I can now proceed to get her inspected.

But - next time - could you send the renewal form out in a neon envelope? If you had, I would never have let something as important as that lapse. . .

~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Mr. (or perhaps, Ms) Ziplock,

Thank you for making those ginormous bags where I can stuff the mail when it comes. . . 'cause it looks so messy and disorderly out on the counter. And, what's more, the bag is see-through so I can always see every little item that needs my attention.

~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Mr. Clean,

Thank you for staying with me this week. I'm so sorry to lose you as a housemate. Is there nothing I can do to convince you to stay around a little longer? Have you ever really tried getting along with the rest of the family????

I have Ziplock bags. . . . perhaps we could store them inside. . .

~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Mr. (or perhaps Ms.) Stouffer,

I just want to warn you that sales of your frozen Macaroni and Cheese will be declining next week. My husband will be returning home and I have to eat like a human.

~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Mr. Fish Eye in a Box,

I just want to warn you that sales of your Pinot Grigio will be going up next week. My teenage daughters will be returning to the homestead and I - no doubt - be drinking like a fish.

~~~~~~~~~~

And all of the above are affectionately signed,

Dear Daugther Who Texted Me from Appalachia

Dear Daughter Who Texted Me from Appalachia,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Mr. Rotten Auto Mechanic

Dear Mr. Guy-Who-Was-Supposed-to-Fix-My-Car;

I know it's only Wednesday, but I can't wait until Friday to complain.

So, Mr. Guy-Who-Was-Supposed-to-Fix-My-Daughters'-Car-Which-They-Fondly-Named-Roberta . . . when I paid you $400 to repair the car, I foolishly assumed that you had actually fixed the cause of the stalling, and so thought I would be safe to leave my trusty 1999 White Ice Minivan home for a change. . . especially when I was was meeting a few friends for drinks on the town.

Little did I know that - after three glasses of wine - your suckiness-at-auto-repairship would rear its ugly head and I would become stranded at a traffic light with a stalled car.

If it were not for my excellent survival skills, Mr. Rip-Off-Who-Poses-as-an-Auto-Mechanic-Guy, I might have been in some serious trouble . . . for I can see it now. . . Yes, Officer. . . I just found out that this car is four months overdue for inspection. . . and Yes, Officer. . . I've had a few glasses of wine. . . but, don't worry, it was happy hour. . . and that means they were only filling my glasses halfway. . . so it's really only like I've had a glass and a half. . . and No, Officer, I don't have Triple A, because I let that lapse. . . if you could see the bills I have to pay. . . . and No, Officer, I can't call my husband to come pick me up 'cause he's away on a church trip with my daughters. . .and I'm left home here all alone on my perfect week. . . which . . . of course . . . did not include cars breaking down and threats of blowing wine breath into your breathalizer . . .and that. . .Officer. . . is the truth. . . the whole truth. . .and nothing but the truth. . . so help me, God. . .and speaking of God. . . did I tell you I work for a church?????

And - even though I narrowly escaped that fate by keeping my foot on the accelorator at all times - let me just warn you here and now Mr. Nuts-and-Struts-for-Brains, you have not only pissed me off, but have alienated the Car Gods as well. . . . for when my daughters get home from their mission trip to Appalachia, I'm going to set them loose on you, and you better run fast 'cause rumor has it that now they know how to use a nail gun!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drip Dry: Yeah?

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

~~~~~~~~~~

So remember how this is My Perfect Week?

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

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

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

Drip Dry: Oh my God! You have one!

Mom on Spin: What?

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

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

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

Mom on Spin: Ouch!!!!

The "a" in "ahhhhhhh"

It's here.

Well, the "a" is, anyway.

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

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

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





And so begins My Perfect Week, my friends.





And God help anyone who tries to mess it up!

Dear Car Gods

It's Friday, so it must be time for another episode of Dear So and So. . . thunk up by Kat at 3 Bedroom Bungalow. Go visit her to read some other fascinating correspondence. . . .

~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Car Gods,

Please excuse me for not knowing your names, but - from my limited understanding of ancient mythology - I'm assuming you must be fairly new to the scene. Oh. . . and I'm also assuming that you must be gods in the plural sense, for no mere god could keep track of my daughter's comings and goings. . . .

Anyway. . . I am writing to you because my little family unit is in very poor automotive health at the present time.

As you probably know, our dear Roberta - after having been stranded in a stranger's driveway all last week while Veggie left for parts unknown, only to return and whisk her up and down the Northeast Corridor for the next three days - has suffered from a breakdown (we think she's a bit of the nervous type. . . but, you know, who wouldn't be traumatized in the hands of my daughters? I refuse to even get in the car when they're driving. . . I can't imagine being the instrument by which they . . . I can say no more. . . ) So, poor Roberta got towed away last night and has been hospitalized for the long holiday weekend until a mechanic shows up on Monday morning to help her.

Which leaves my three daughters to argue over Percy.

Now, Percy may look smart because of all of the cousins' pricey college stickers on the windshield (which came with him at the time of purchase) but even Percy does not have an advanced degree in mediation. And I'm afraid that our poor little Toyota Camry has been witness to some pretty mean-spirited carjacking in the past few days, as the battles between Ponzi and Trigger have escalated to new heights. (Oh. . . and, by the way Car Gods, if you ever see Ponzi's boyfriend. . . you know. . . the one with his right arm in a sling from the broken collarbone. . . driving one of our cars again, could you please eject him quickly from the driver's seat before my husband finds out and ensures that his other arm is place in a sling as well????)

Now where was I?

Well, if the story Ponzi tells me was correct. . . some nice police officer (perhaps the very same one who helped tow Roberta away???) informed her yesterday that Percy had a flat tire and, wasn't it lucky that Ponzi's boyf happened to be in the car 'cause he put air in the tire for her - averting yet another automotive disaster????

But, let me tell you Car Gods, after two chance encounters with police officers yesterday, it's a damn good thing that neither of them saw me driving White Ice.

Now, after looking around for someone to blame for my minivan's current dilemma, I've pointed the finger squarely at the New Jersey Division of Motor Vehicles who dared to have their on-line site "under construction" during the long holiday weekend. Now I ask you. . . how else are slackers like me supposed to renew their 1999 Dodge Grand Caravan's registration which expired on June 30th? Don't they know that I always procrastinate, renewing on line three days late and then printing the receipt, carrying it around in my glove compartment to say Here officer, I really did renew it. . . I just haven't gotten the actual card yet. . . See ??? And what's worse. . . this year's debacle includes a little state inspection that hasn't been performed and whose little "6/2009" sticker is sitting in the corner of my windshield for every police officer from here to eternity to see. . .

Oh my!

So here we are, Car Gods, on a long holiday weekend . . . with five licensed drivers in the house. . . forced to share 1 and 3/4 cars (I guess three out of four tires aren't bad. . . Oh. . . and did I tell you . . . my husband doesn't really like to "share" his Jeep. . . so much so, that it doesn't even rate a name. . . it's just referred to as Dad's Car. . . )

But will you be smiling on me on Monday, Car Gods, when - having already waved goodbye to Ponzi, Trigger and my husband on Sunday as they leave for a service trip to Appalachia - I drop Veggie off at the airport to depart for the UK and return home (all alone!!!) and have four cars to choose from for the remainder of the week?????

I hope so! Oh, I hope so!!!!

The Reason Veggie Has a Sore Butt

I almost titled this post. . . And to think I used to worry when she stayed out past midnight!
or perhaps. . . And to think I never thought I'd get that child potty trained!
or even. . . Why I'm glad I learned to let go. . .
What the hell. . . I'm sure you don't care to know what I almost named this post. . . but I need to tell you right now that her butt is not sore because never got potty trained. . . you have to read to post to understand exactly why Veggie's butt is sore. . . I know. . . if I don't shut up. . . you'll never get a chance to read the post. . .

~~~~~~~~~~


Before leaving for her job in England (notice I didn't say. . . moving to England. . . cause I'm in denial. . . . ) Veggie and her friend planned a road trip to say goodbye to their good friend in Colorado. I thought you might like a little review of her whirlwind trip. . .

Sunday

Veggie: Okay, I'm leaving for Maryland now to start my big road trip. I'll call you each night from the road.

Monday

Veggie: I made it to Chicago. We even stopped in South Bend to see Brad.

Tuesday

Veggie: But I didn't need to call you tonight. I told you before we left. . . we're spending two nights in Chicago.

Wednesday

Veggie: Omaha. . . Of course that's the one Nebraska. . .

Thursday

Voicemail: Hi Mom and Dad, it's Veggie. We broke down in Nebraska and we're spending the night at a Holiday Inn. The car will be fixed first thing in the morning. . . .



Friday

Veggie: We finally made it! We're in Colorado! We had to drop Steve off in Wyoming first. . . .

Saturday

Voicemail: We're on the way to Susie's grandparents' house in Kansas. We think we'll probably be there around midnight. . .



Sunday

Text Message: University of Kentucky! We'll be back in Maryland tomorrow!

Monday

Veggie: I picked up my car at Susie's, but I'm not going to come home right away. . . . Amy doesn't know it yet, but I'm going to Annapolis to say goodbye to her.

Tuesday

Veggie: I'm driving to D.C. to see Matt. . . I'll be home tomorrow!

Wednesday
Ponzi: Oh, I forgot to tell you. . Veggie was home for about an hour and then Jenny called her and she needed to go pick her up in Connecticut. . . but then she called and said they're taking the train into the city. . . she'll be home tomorrow. . . she promises. . .

Thursday

Veggie: Yes, I'm home. . . . Dinner? Well, I may not actually be home for dinner. . . .