Liam's Grandma or Maggie in Real Life

High School Reunion

 Leaving tomorrow for my high school reunion.  We're celebrating our 50th birthdays - not an actual "out of high school" milestone.  It'll be one of those whirlwind weekends.  Leaving tomorrow, driving for 7 hours.  Saturday will be spent with my dad during the day and the evening at the reunion.  Later that evening, I will depart there to meet up with neighbor friends to celebrate another reunion.  I'll drive home on Sunday.

I have not seen almost all of these people in over 30 years.  Thankfully, we have reconnected through Facebook.  I'll try to take pics of people, places and good food.  I'll miss Liam, though.  Each day with him has its own predictability flavored with brand new things: Liam running and hiding behind the sheers in the living room, standing perfectly still, hands clasped, waiting for someone to look for him.  If we don't come quickly enough, he'll call out, "Ee-yum (Liam)?"  It's our cue to drop everything and go look for him.  It's a little difficult when you can see him right there and he is watching with an impish grin on his face until we suddenly and amazingly find him. 

Yesterday morning, I made him pancakes for breakfast.  Afterward, as he sat atop the dryer watching Poppy iron himself a shirt for work, I stood and marveled at two of my three favorite men in my life (the third being my son).  When Poppy asked Liam if Grammy had made him pancakes, that beautiful child, eyes fixed on the ironing project, pointed to his little mouth and did a loud and emphatic, "Mmmmmmmmm!!!"  That said it all.  With one little sound. 

I'll enjoy my weekend but will be anxious to get back to my family. 

Until then, my wishes are for each of you to enjoy your own families this weekend.

- Maggie

KID TESTED.....AND FAILED

A few days ago, I was going through things that I should have sorted through long ago because, at this point, my son's old closet is piled to the ceiling with boxes, trashbags filled with everything but real trash (although that is debatable), and clothes.  Many of these things are filled with stuff that no one has any idea what to do with. For example:  I uncovered the following items in the last box I opened:  one old sneaker (without laces), an empty matchbook, a lacy red bra (Son, we need to have a talk), a very long leather shoelace, several gum wrappers, a variety of paperback books, plastic bags, an old spiral notebook and, for lack of a better word, the only adjective I can come up with is "interesting" when I mention the photographs (Son?  We need to talk).

Of all of the items in the box, the one that interested me the most was the spiral notebook because it was one that I had used over the years to communicate things to my kids (and vice versa) when we were running at the speed of light to soccer games, work, school, etc.  Some notes in particular caught my attention.

My note:

Do homework, unload dishwasher, vacuum living room and dining room.  Do NOT leave the house before this is done.

The response note:

Mom, I couldn't do my homework because I left my books in my locker by mistake.  So I had to go to Nicole's to use her books and do homework there.  Also, her mom sprained her ankle and needs help with housework. 

Observations:  (1)  How does one leave their books and homework in their locker BY MISTAKE?  I mean, you obviously had them in your possession and had to access the locker and physically put the books in there.  (2)  Nicole's mom sprained her ankle?  I remember one incident when I was in bed with food poisoning and all I got was, "I need a ride to so and so's.  Do you have money for a cab if you can't take me?  I'm hungry.  Are you going to be better by dinner time?  I can't ride my bike.  It's too far.  What's for dinner?"

My note:

Reminder:  You are grounded.  Do not leave this house.  If you are not here when I get home, there will be consequences.

The response note:

Mom, Nicole's boyfriend broke up with her and she is really depressed.  I had to go be with her.  I love you!

Observations:  (1)  Child?  Nicole's boyfriend was the boyfriend she stole from you and you had wished she'd die.  (2) You're going to be even more depressed than Nicole when I catch up with you.  Because you are now grounded until your 82nd birthday.

Over the  years, there are a few things I have learned as a parent.  Like making notes of all calls that come in (thanks to the very useful caller ID).  I'm serious - take down every single number that comes to the house.  If your child has a cell phone, wait until they are sound asleep at night.  Then sneak their phone from them and go through their directory of numbers. 

I used to keep a separate address book with all of the kids' cell and home numbers (yes, I even got home numbers on occasion when someone was grounded and the cell phone was taken from them and SHRIEK! they had to call from their home phone). 

On rare occasions, when kids are being sneaky, they block their number, so be alert and get those numbers when no one is grounded, no one is trying to sneak out at 3 am, etc.  They will come in handy later when you get up at 4 am and glance in your kid's room and see that instead of a human on the bed, there is a football with a pom pom for hair and a bunch of pillows hastily wadded together under the covers.  I mean, really, do you think I would believe your hair would go from dark brown to fuschia in a matter of hours?  Or that your skin color would tan 15 shades darker?  Well, ok, maybe that isn't so far fetched, but again, being aware is half the battle.  Having those phone numbers when you're in the car at 4:30, driving around from house to house, helps.

And my favorite note from my son (when he was a young naive 15 year old):

Mom, I went to Matt's house for the night because his parents are out of town and they didn't want him here by himself.  I will call you later.

My response:

I waited until 10 pm and called Matt's house.  No answer.  At 10:30 pm, my son called. 

Me:  Where are you? (Note:  Caller ID was blocked).

Son:  I'm at Matt's house.

Me:  OK, well let me call you right back.

Son:  Why?

Me:  I'll call you right back.  (Hang up - call Matt's house.  His mother answers sounding very sleepy).

Me:  Matt's mom?  This is Chip's mom.  Is he there?

Matt's Mom:  No.  I thought he was at your house with Matt. 

Me:  Uh, no.  Chip is supposed to be at your house because you are allegedly away for the weekend and he is keeping Matt company tonight.

Mom:  Interesting.  That's what they told me about your house.

Needless to say, when a nervous Chip called five minutes later from the party he was at, I told him in my fully possessed Linda Blair voice, "I'm coming for you.  NOW.  And Matt's mom is coming for him.  And while you're waiting for us, you can think about how much better it will be for you when you start telling the truth.  After you've been grounded and relegated to litter box duty for the next 8 months."

Did it work?  Sometimes.  But the important thing about being a parent is to remain vigilant.  No matter that you occasionally only get 3 hours of sleep on a Friday night (and not because you're the parent of an infant).  No matter that you get a police officer knocking on your car window because you're staking out a house, reviewing in your mind when and how you're going to make your approach and drag your kid out of there.  By the way, the police officer?  He was a good assist that night, the party was broken up and I was only accused of being a narc by 12 angry kids to which I replied, "What 'til next weekend!" 

As an aside, what kind of crazy parents leave for the weekend trusting that their teenage kids aren't going to throw a party that usually gets out of control, things get stolen, fights break out, etc.  It is a rare teenager who can be trusted in such a way and to those parents I say, how'd you get so lucky?

Thankfully, I haven't had to pull out my Linda Blair voice in quite awhile.  But my kids are in their 20s now.  Not that that matters.  It was not two weeks ago when I left a note to please, if you are here in my house, eating food, dirtying dishes, clean up after yourself and, put your dishes in the dishwasher.  The note I got in return said, "Mom, sorry, I was in a hurry.  And the dishes in the dishwasher were clean so I couldn't put my dirty dishes in there."  I stared out the window for a moment, shook my head and took myself out to dinner.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

WRITING (or lack thereof)

Maggie hasn't been writing much lately.  Chalk it up to reading and discussing and fighting/slaying right wing dragons who seem to fly in her tower window every now and then.  A maiden gets tired, ok?  And those burns from the hot air that comes from those dragons' mouths, well, I'm recovering.

I'll be writing soon.  About pathcouli.  Or border bullies. Or both.

Drama Queen

I recently was accused of being a drama queen, or, to put it more succinctly, someone who is always having a crisis.  First, if you know me, you'd know that isn't true.  Yes, there are many crises going on - not just for me, for everyone.  It's called life.  But I don't get crazy about them.  Second, you have to remember that I am a writer.  A creative writer.  So when I blog about something, I write for entertainment's sake and, while what I write is true (unless of course, I am posting an excerpt from my long-awaited novel), please don't confuse my emotions.  I, like everyone else on this planet, do have issues.  I handle my "issues" a few different ways:  (1) by compartmentalizing and putting them away to bring out only in therapy, or in a lone rant, or occasionally (poor dear man), on my husband; (2) keeping a smile because I have no desire to burden others; and (3) through writing.  Writing is one of the ways I handle "issues."  And I usually do it with humor.  Unless it is something of a very serious nature. 

One might take my humorous meltdown about Henry the 8th as having issues or always being in crisis mode.  All I can say is that if you think that, then you're at the wrong blog.  I laugh at my meltdowns, I laugh at my wardrobe malfunctions, I laugh at my mistakes.  I have learned that if you take life too seriously, it will kill you.  If I can't laugh or make others laugh, what's the point?

If you want to find some real jaw dropping drama (and humor), why don't you go live for awhile at www.dooce.com.  Or, if you just want drama, go to www.mcknob.com.  There is another blog I regularly frequent, and interact with its readers, but I won't post its name here.  I don't want to share it with those who are finger pointing.  Because I like going there often and (woot!) I leave comments there.  So I'm keeping that one for myself.  

My blog has garnered me new friends, an editorial position with a national magazine for which I also write regular articles, and, well, apparently, a few enemies. But the animosity is one-sided.  Those who are upset with me or my blog (apparently), should really talk to me rather than stay in the shadows and talk about me behind my back.  I often wonder why people do that - talk about others behind their back?  To gain an army against that person who has no idea that foul words are being talked about him/her?  (Unless, of course, someone spills the beans).  And why do that?  Why try to spread the hate?  To feel better about yourself or to feel superior? I have neither a superiority complex nor an inferiority complex.  So, whatever makes you feel better, go with it because I'll just keep being me.  Mostly harmless.  A bit neurotic.  Always loving. 

I am respectful about my writing and will continue to be so.  I don't hold grudges even though some wear theirs like a badge of honor.  But I will continue to be who I am, always striving to be better, and will hope that others will accept me.  I learned long ago, through the always sage advice of my mom, that you can't be liked by everyone.  And you have to accept that in order to survive. 

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Name Dropping

When the officer pulled me over, I was in a hurry.  "Did you know you were speeding?" He leaned and gave me a sideways glance.

"I was not speeding."

"Ma'am, you were speeding."

"I was going 5 miles over, if that."

"That's speeding."

"Would it help if I told you I know Doug Wiley?"  I held my breath.

"What?"

"Doug Wiley.  He's my friend's brother.  He works for the same police department as you.  The short, balding guy.  I think he works the night shift.  But he's been around for awhile.  I know him."

He shifted and smiled.  "I know Doug.  But what does that have to do with you?"

"I know him because I'm friends with his sister."

"And?"

"It works for his sister.  I guess not for me, huh?"

"License and registration."

I handed him my papers and he returned to his vehicle for an eternity.  All I could imagine was a SWAT team surrounding me and Harrison Ford stepping out of one of the cruisers, hand on his gun.  I relaxed somewhat by reminding myself that Harrison Ford would never step out of a cruiser on my behalf, let alone approach me.  My arresting officer would be Dom Deluise.  

When he finally returned and handed me back my papers, he smiled.  "Look, if you just show up for court and object, it'll be dismissed.  I won't be there."

"So what's the point?  Why even give me this?"

"You were speeding."

"I was not speeding.  What's my defense?"

"Pardon?"

"In court.  What's my defense?"

"Doug Wiley."  With that, he sauntered back to his vehicle.

"A favor?" I called out before he got back into his car and paused, hand on the door handle.  "Don't tell Doug what I said about him?  Please?"

A flash of teeth broke into a broad grin, and he was gone. 

Now don't even tell me you don't know where this went. 

Fashion Sense

Not long ago, I videotaped myself in a prone position which, in itself, speaks volumes because these days, usually when I am in a prone position, I am either severely injured or suffering from insomnia.  The latter was true when I made this video talking about fashion. 

Since I am still trying to learn the ins and outs of my camera, the one my husband bought me for Christmas which was not the one I asked for but, he claims, is just as good as the one I did ask for, and somehow, I am not believing him, I haven't had any photo shoots yet.  It's also somewhat difficult photographing one's self.  There is a timer on the camera, yes.  But it's not the same as taking time, getting the perfect lighting, pose, etc., and snapping a photo knowing that the clothing is being shown right.  My goal, you may recall, is to photograph "fashion sense" for women 50 and over.  Granted, I won't be 50 until November, but I'm close enough. 

Be patient and we'll get there.  I have to find an amateur photographer willing to take 20 minutes here and there to do my bidding.  I can't ask my daughter to be that person.  She'll tell me to get over myself.  That it's not about me.  That I'm not so hot and that people really don't care anyway.  Like I didn't already know that about myself.  And like that isn't why I haven't been in therapy for the last 10 years?  Well, and also to talk about YOU, dear child, and how to handle you without the kid gloves.

For now, the best piece of fashion I came across was a t-shirt I saw when I was sitting on the roof of a very popular, very busy beachside bar/restaurant in South Carolina.  My friend, Laura, actually pointed it out to me.  A woman, seemingly  confident in herself, sat at a table with friends, laughing and engaging in loud conversation.  It takes confidence to wear such a t-shirt as hers.  I want that confidence. 

When I glanced over, my lips curled into a smile and in that aha moment, I realized that I had to have one of those t-shirts.  Because it described my life in six small words:  I BRING NOTHING TO THE TABLE.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

I Ask You: Is This the Face of a Deranged Woman?

I snapped this photo of myself tonight after a near meltdown, the likes of which can only be compared to the China Syndrome - or worse: a 4 x 4 room, severely lacking in ventilation or proper lighting, containing Al Sharpton, Sarah Palin, James Carville, Sinead O'Connor, John McEnroe and 19 not-yet-napped pre-schoolers with no means of escape.  I snapped the photo because I felt that I had become, in a matter of about 30 minutes, The Changeling.  I was sorely disappointed when I realized that I couldn't frighten a flea in that moment and was somewhat freaked out by the look of calm across my face.  Almost clinical.  Sterile.  Frontal lobotomy-ish. But showing definite signs of foundation cracks in that otherwise tough veneer called Oil of Olay (or Oil of Old-Age as my sister-in-law calls it).

So I'm a mother.  But I'm also a grandmother.  And while I totally dig this grandmother thing and feel as though I can handle it way better than I handled motherhood, I have my moments.  

This weekend, Druck and I spent a considerable amount of time watching/babysitting/parenting/grandparenting Liam.  On Saturday, Liam and his mama stopped over.  And that was our Saturday.  While Grammy entertained Liam with singing, dancing, cartwheels, and a solo ballet performance from the Nutcracker Suite, with only a minor assist from the cat, Liam's mama managed to disappear into thin air, better known as silently retreating up the stairs, to the bed, and falling asleep for 3 1/2 hours.  

On Sunday, Liam and Catherine a/k/a "mama" were over for lunch and, when mama left to go see a movie at 4 pm for 3 1/2 hours, Liam stayed behind as Grammy and Poppy took turns playing co-pilots to Liam as the captain of a parked car, lifeguards of Liam in his role as an Olympic Medal swimmer of the kiddie pool, and impressive triathlon competitors as Liam disappeared around the side of the house, past garden hoses, through bushes and making a surprisingly quick Louie to the backyard again.  

When mama came back for dinner and mealtime conversation, family pleasantries were exchanged, until it was getting to be about that time. Grammy wearily said, "Time to go!  No visitors tomorrow.  I need a break." 

Grammy arrived home from work today at 5:45 to SURPRISE!!!  Liam and mama here.  Again!  What Catherine doesn't realize at her tender age of 25 is that her mother is experiencing what is known as perimenopausal symptoms. And why they don't just call it pre-menopausal symptoms is beyond me. Everything would be so much easier to understand if they would just name things right.  Like menopause. Why menopause?  Why not womenpause?  Is it a forewarning to men to just not go there?  To not even set foot in a room with a menopausal woman?  Why do they put men in the middle of everything that has to do with a woman - there it is again. Menses, amenorrhea, dysmenorrhea.  I could go on, but this is not the point of this particular blog. Although I will say that the only appropriate usage of men in a medical term would be mental because last I saw my husband, he was cowering in the corner in a fetal position, sucking his thumb, asking if all women were like this during menopause. There it is again.  Seriously.  But again, this is not the point of the blog.   

So in my hormone-induced, kid-agitated frenzy to feed my cats who, although they are all neutered, can yowl up a storm come dinner time, I headed to the garage to feed/placate/shut their freaking pie holes and caught my heel on the rug just outside the door.  Without reliving it, suffice it to say, it wasn't pretty.  When I finally emerged from the garage, I was a changed woman...wearing dainty hair ornaments/morsels of Friskies Tuna with Beef and kitty litter up my right arm, stuck there luxuriously by the gravy of the FRISKIES TUNA WITH BEEF.   

After washing and cleaning up as best I could, because my employee was calling me from her cell phone from her car while she sat in the driveway because I told her to call me when she arrived and I'd run a check out to her, I went out and all that darling woman said to me was, "I love your jewelry.  Is that lia sophia?"  To which I smoothed my hand gently over a hair full of gravy and a few pieces of meat that I apparently missed when I shook it out over the kitchen sink, and responded with "thank you" and "YES.  It is lia sophia."  And then she said, "And I love your skirt!"  I glanced down and saw that there was gravy on my lovely colorful peasant skirt.  "CRAP," I said.  "I've got cat food all over me.  And I've got sauce cooking on the stove.  And Liam just left with his mama but is coming back.  I gotta go."  With that I turned and raced back into the house.

And that was that.  

So what is your point?  You ask.  

I don't know.  I'll write about that later this week.....

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Vacation..........

Returning from vacation is hard.  I spent part of last week in Canada on a secluded lake with family and family friends - fighting mosquitoes, deer flies and spiders the size of small rodents.  What that did for me was make me realize that I need to work on being a better person because I had one of those "aha!" moments as I was departing Canada and driving back to our house in New York.  And the "aha!" moment was that this will be my hell if I am not a good girl:  wading through swamps, fighting off mosquitoes the size of large dragonflies, and getting stuck in huge spider webs, the owner of which is an arachnid the size of the one from Stephen King's novel, "It."  And my slow tortuous death as I am pierced and devoured by those monstrous venom-filled fangs will replay itself over and over again like the movie Groundhog Day except it will be "Maggie's Hell Day in Eternity."  In fact, that spider, who probably has a cottage of its own, freaked me out so badly that I have gotten past some issues I've had of late with God and have focused on what's important in life; namely, never taking one moment or one person for granted.  Loving deeply.  And forgiving.  And not doing anything that might make me hell-worthy.

This is not to say that I did not enjoy my time "roughing it," despite the spider named Raoul who lived near the dock and who my smartypants sister-in-law, Janet, refused to kill as I headed in towards shore from a nice kayak trip one sunny afternoon. 

"If you think I'm coming in there when I can see that thing from 30 feet out, you're crazy!"

"It won't hurt you," Janet sang out with a broad smile as she continued to "study" it from a safe distance.

"It has fangs," Debbie called nervously.

"All the more reason to turn around and keep paddling until I get back to New York State," I replied, wondering if a whack of my paddle would be enough to render Raoul unconscious, at least until I de-kayaked. 

It wasn't until Janet decided to bravely give Raoul a poke with a long stick and he lunged at her that they understood what I was talking about.  Janet went hoarse when she screamed and Debbie pulled a muscle and, as she hobbled away from the shore toward her cottage holding her back, I called out, "I told you."  Meanwhile, Raoul scampered back to the edge of the dock and lay in wait.  For me.

Rather than take any chances, I got out of my kayak several feet from shore and walked it to the shallow "children's area" where I pulled my craft out of the water, removed my water shoes and immediately went into my own cottage and poured Debbie a stiff drink. 

I love our family, love kayaking, love swimming (in the swimming pool on the property, not the lake), and love cooking - just not in the middle of nowhere, landlocked by huge snakes, spiders and mosquitoes willing to take me away to their nest atop a 60 foot tree and suck my blood all night, throwing me to the turkey vultures only after every ounce of plasma is gone. 

But I try very hard to be everything my husband and family want me to be, and more.  I try to accept the big black scurrying ants in the silverware drawer.  I accept the chipmunk sitting on the couch when I walk in from outdoors who looks at me as if to say, "you again?" or "where's the remote?" as just part of the ambience.  And I only had to plug my ears and make high-pitched gurgling sounds once when my nephew, Matt, had to relay the gory details of what happened to the 3 pound wide-mouthed bass my brother-in-law caught.  This would be the details of the death process as Adam was filleting the bass and what the bass continued to do even after its head was removed.  After making all kinds of noise, holding my fingers in my ears and stomping my feet as I sat on the couch, Matt went silent.  The look on his face told me that he feared I may be having a seizure - or worse.  When I realized he was through and I returned to the present, smoothed my hair and took a cleansing breath, I proceeded to tell him that I did not ever want to hear of such trauma again.  Not even if he were a published author of a New York Times Bestseller and I was at his book signing/reading.  I didn't want to hear that chapter.  Ever.

On Wednesday, I left "Paradise" to return to New York to spend some time with my dad.  I packed up my car, hugged and kissed my husband and various family members, and whispered to my husband, "Try to get out of here a day early if you can," and was off - in my car with the A/C on, windows up and the iPod blaring with my favorite music.  I rolled down my window as Matt walked by and said, "Bye, honey, I'll miss you.  I hate to leave, but I gotta see my dad," and I floored it.  I was outta there with a quick "Hasta la Vista, Baby," or, in layman's terms, "See ya later, Suckas!"

I arrived at our home in New York at around 8:30 pm, brought my things inside, and took a long, hot shower.  Then I sat on the couch with a big glass of ice water, basking in my loneliness and lamenting the fact that I am such a lousy-ass wife for leaving my husband behind.  "Why are you such a freaking mutant!" I shrieked.  Then I caught a whiff of the luxurious hair conditioner I had put in my hair  - the one that smells like a pina colada.  I settled back into the couch and thought it was ok.  I had just spent 5 days in the woods on a lake with species of bugs and reptiles I never knew existed. It was OK to return to civilization and visit with my dad - who feels exactly the same way I do about camp life. 

When I called the family back in Canada to let them know I'd arrived safely in NY, my sister-in-law told me that everyone was milling around our little cottage, all mopey because I had left.  "We miss you, Gnarl," she said (yes, that is appropriately her nickname for me).  "I told Druck that you're like a little firefly.  You light everything up.  We're in the dark here without you.  You're like a big beautiful dragonfly with landing lights...."

That.....made the trip...all worth it.  To know that even though I am some sort of strange mutant, I am in a family of people who accept such a mutant strain as myself and . . . they actually love it.  They miss it when it's not there. And they take care of it when it shrieks in agony over a drawer full of skittering ants.

That night, I went to bed and, as I lay down, I thanked God for the people who love me and accept me, despite my woefully lacking abilities.  I also thanked God for makeup, jewelry, pretty skirts and curling irons.  And then I dreamt happily about ballroom dancing, yachts and a cottage in the South of France, stocked with Bordeaux wine and all kinds of delicious cheeses and breads.  Finally, I dreamt that the Raouls of the world, mosquitoes and black ants were relegated to a hell of their own.  Where monsters lunged at them, crawled around in their drawers (or ant hills) and sucked their blood. 

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma/Photographs except the last one credited to my sister-in-law

God? Karma? Yin and Yang? What?

I was chatting on-line with a someone last week, who I will only call a dear friend, so that she isn't put into the spotlight all across the world-wide web, because some people just don't like that.  I won't refer to her as a family member or what type of family member or anything like that.  Just a "friend" who we will call "Gloria." 

Anyway, Gloria was lamenting the fact that she had saved for years on a teacher's salary, a little bit here and there, and was finally able to buy that dream car:  a black classic mustang convertible.  This thing was fabulous.  I even rode in it a couple of times. 

So, Gloria goes up to visit extended family for a weekend near Albany recently and, her first morning there, another "friend" mistakenly forgets that Gloria is parked in his driveway and, on his way out to get bagels, he put his car in reverse.  Which is a natural thing to do.  Then he veered to the right to avoid backing over his dog.  Then he plowed into the Mustang driver's side door.

When he returned from getting bagels, he went in and told Gloria what happened.  Being a bunch of kidders anyway, she didn't believe him.  He shrugged and they had bagels and enjoyed the rest of the morning.  Until Gloria went out to get in her car. 

So our discussion went like this:

Gloria:   I can't believe it.  I still want to cry.

Me:  This is annoying is what it is.  Like, did he forget your car was there???

Gloria:  No.  No.  He was trying to avoid hitting the dog, he said.  He has a camera in the back of his car so not sure what happened there.  He said he has felt bad all day but it was SO weird when it happened.

Me:  Well, like a person can't put on the brakes to avoid hitting the dog???

Gloria:  I know.  Anyway, it's done now.  It seems like it's always something.

Me:  I know.  Why does it seem that some people just SKATE through.  Like "Tootsie."

Gloria:  I know.  I just want some peace and tranquility.

Me:  Gawwwww. 

Gloria:  And the skating through...that's a question I always have. 

Me:  This morning I was driving back home from walking Boomer...oh wait, it was after I got my hair cut, and I drove by this neighborhood that is so beautiful.  Full of older homes, mature trees, porches, boston ferns...and I got all teary-eyed.  I thought, "Some people get to do this NOW.  I have to wait until I die and get to Heaven and then, with my luck, just like social security, pensions, etc., God will have changed the freaking rules!  And I'll live in a trailer down by the river.  With no bathroom."

Gloria:  I'm chuckling.  I can't help it.  You could be like me.  Get a beautiful house and someone will drive through it.  

Me:  And they'll drive through just when I sit in my $2,000 chair with the biggest freaking Cosmopolitan ever in my hand and just as I'm about to take that luscious sip, they'll smash me into the next room.  And that's when I'll find out my husband has been surfing porn all these years because he wasn't expecting me to come flying through the wall into the next room where he was sitting doing just THAT.

Gloria:  LOL.  It's the yin and the yang of everything - I get a dent in my car but had a great time with family.

Me:    It's always a trade off.  Hold on...I have to go find some salsa in the frig for Druck.  You need a map to find anything in there.....

Gloria:  The yin and the yang.  Oh the parallels!!

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

As the World Turns -or- as the Hor Mones

I am in a state of sheer craziness.  My hormones are all out of whack and, yesterday, I was sitting in the freaking public library at dinner time because I didn't want to go home.  "So," you say, "this is your idea of a fun getaway?"  Sorry.  It's better than going to the nearest bar and ordering a double scotch on the rocks and sitting there by myself while some TV drones above the glass mirror that hasn't been washed since the Red Wings won the trophy, and I gag on second-hand smoke blown in my face by some guy named Hal wearing a grimy Carhart who thinks this is finally his night. 

"Well, why weren't you going home?" (you say).  BECAUSE.  Because I have been in a fragile state of mind all week.  A state of mind that says, I just want some time - time to sit and stare at the wall, or to sit and read some unintelligent writing or to do whatever it is that I want to do.  I don't want to come home to people who don't live here anymore, who are milling around the kitchen, making themselves protein shakes, looking through cupboards, and rifling through my mail while I am trying to squeeze my way to the stove to make something that resembles a dinner.  All the while suppressing my state of mind and wearing that fake smile I learned while watching The Brady Bunch  during my childhood.  At least Carol Brady taught me something, for crying out loud!

Quite honestly, I thought I had this mood thing under wraps.  The Carol Brady smile, the Harriet Nelson helpfulness, the Livvy Walton mannerisms.  But when I went in to go to bed the other night, the sight before my eyes told me another truth.  I walked into the bedroom to find my husband on his side of the bed, curled up in a fetal position, wearing a bicycle helmut and spooning his Louisville Slugger. I can't be sure, but I think he was pretending to be asleep.  Smart man.

In case you haven't guessed (because maybe you are a MAN reading this and don't know the first thing about women and what we want, what we need and what makes us tick even though we've been telling you since at least the early 1960's), I am in between the PMS part of my life and the post-PMS part of life, better known as menopause. I didn't say I was menopausal.  I am in between those areas which I guess makes me a 'tween.  And the only way I can describe it was how I described it on Facebook recently that I am standing on the ledge of a very high building, holding a meat cleaver and six feet of beaded something or other I found on the way up here, ready to take out the pigeon standing next to me who apparently also had a very bad day and is sharing the same ledge and I'm looking back and forth between the meat cleaver and the beads trying to decide whether to hack him to death or strangle him.  The pigeon, of course, can be used as any metaphor you'd like.  I'm not giving any names.

Meanwhile, after returning home from the library, I found even more people here, people who were making iced tea, peanut butter sandwiches and filling up the sink with dirty dishes, at which point I turned to my husband and said, "I'm outta here," and left again, this time going to Macy's and almost buying (key word:  almost) this bracelet (poor quality of photo due to taking photo with my phone).  I carried it around for a good 15 minutes, fondled it, ogled it and imagined what clothes it would go with.  And then I put it back. During that time, my  husband texted me three times asking if I wanted to go out and get a bite to eat whereupon on the third text, I thought I'd better let him know I was still alive, as was everyone else within arm's reach of me, and we met for dinner. 

Returning home for the final time, I found that one of my children had cleaned up the kitchen without being asked or guilted into it, and had left without a trace.  At 9:45 pm, I finally found some peace - until they come back at around dinner time again tomorrow evening.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma