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OK, my hair is currently bright red. See photo. I have also attached a photo of myself with blonde and brown hair. Please let me know which you prefer at the end of this entry in the comments section. It would help my mid-life crisis go a little smoother.
As many of you know, we make our permanent home here in the metro Detroit area. But we also have our entire extended family and second home in Upstate New York where we go to relax, unwind and, as Druck puts it, I "tend" to him with delicious meals, soft words, loving looks and an agreeableness he just doesn't get here in Michigan. Evenings are spent playing doctor in front of the fire (yes, it continues to be cold enough in the evenings to build a fire), and enough time and distance settles in where I can start loving my kids again. I must say, however, that right at this very moment, I am tempted to remove that last statement because someone here is accusing me of lying, so a "raised voice" match has taken place (and I get up early in the morning to have time to myself for what reason again?). Let me end this paragraph by stating that I am not a yeller. But when someone accuses me of lying, especially one of my own children and he or she does not quit, I go a bit ballistic. This generally occurs when the accuser continues on her accusations which are totally false and have to do solely this particular morning with whether or not and which one of the cats peed on her shoe.
On a more pleasant note, this weekend was spent chasing down antiques, chasing down a two-hot Virgin Mary (the non-alcoholic counterpart of its more desirable Bloody Mary) with two glasses of water which left me with a stomach ache so bad that we had to cancel our follow-up doctor's appointment in front of the fire, and chasing down a mouse who had taken over as a squatter since the last time we were there.
Liam remained home with his mother and Druck and I celebrated our 27th anniversary in style, or at least in the country living style of swatting away dive bombing flies in our meadow as we mowed and planted, brainstorming on how to make a humane mousetrap, constant wiping down the countertop after our country mouse visited (which was often), and the final creation of an intricate mousetrap which did, indeed, work as we rushed out to the kitchen at about 10 pm on Sunday evening, to find Country Mouse in the mainly City Dwellers' piece of Tupperware, moving it around on the counter as if he was driving the Pope Mobile.
After capturing the unwelcome guest, we discussed whether to drive him down the road and let him go, or whether Druck should just run him across the street. I told Druck that whatever we decided, we needed to do it quickly because he was going to run out of air.
Druck: This mouse can last two days in this container.
Me: Are you crazy? He'll be dead in five minutes. It's air TIGHT, dear. That's why they make these things - to keep air out and food fresh.
Druck: I'm serious. He'll live for two days.
Me: No he won't. And you call yourself a scientist.
While I insisted that the mouse be driven down the road, Druck, with flashlight in hand, took him to the field across the street. When he returned, he told me that the mouse had started running back towards him, onto the street and that he had to chase him back into the field. I reiterated that he should have driven our guest down the road to make a new life for himself. Men never listen. Whether it's traffic directions or rodent directions, they just never learn.
PS: My hair is finally growing back. For those of you who are new here, you can read the blog entitled, "Why Did I Cut My Hair - I Look Like a Squirrel," although it's just a rant about the temporary insanity of a middle-aged woman.
Copyright 2008 liamsgrandma
A Happy Memorial Day to all of our veterans and family and friends of veterans. I don't think there is anyone who doesn't know a vet.
I'll be in New York for the holiday and am very much looking forward to it. Will post again on Tuesday.
Liam's Grandma
I have some of the best neighbors ever but, like me, they all have their quirks and, like me, with quirks come small annoyances.
One woman, in particular, is the Quirk Queen of the neighborhood. Sprocket is a wonderful person, but is extremely eccentric. When she is deep in thought, you could drive your car, filled with whooping teenagers, through her garage and out the other end, turn around and plow back through her family room and she'd never take her eyes off of the TV.
A couple of summers ago, Sprocket decided to replace her old patio with a new brick design. After that was finished, she commenced landscaping. She ordered a truckload of dirt and had it dumped between our house and hers. This would have been ok, except for the fact that no work started on the landscaping for at least a month. And the truckload of dirt sat there on our grass. "It's going to kill the grass," I said to Druck. He told me it'd be fine and not to worry about it. So I didn't.
Meanwhile, time went on and it came to pass that Sprocket needed to mow her lawn. In order to get from her front lawn to the back, she would have to go through/over the massive dirt pile. Instead, as I sat in the living room, I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw her crossing over our front lawn with her lawn mower, blades going, engine blaring. She made a beeline down the other side of our house, through our backyard to hers. There was, what one would call, a path of destruction where her mower left it's mark. I called Druck at work and told him what had happened and that we now had a path from her yard, through our front yard and around to the back. He told me it'd be fine and not to worry about it. So I didn't.
An hour later, Druck walks into the house and, just as we begin to discuss the day, we hear what sounds like a speedboat coming around the side of our house and see Sprocket making her exit back over our front yard, creating yet another path. Druck, being a fairly tolerant man, goes to the window, shakes his head and says, "What is she doing?" "Don't worry about it," I snort.
"That's it," he exclaims and disappears into the garage. I wait several minutes and then go outside to see him shoveling a path through the dirt pile for Sprocket's next lawn mowing foray. Afterward, he shows Sprocket her new ingress to the backyard for future grass mowings.
By the time landscape work began, foot high weeds had taken hold of the massive dirt pile and, when the dirt was finally hauled off of the grass, there wasn't any grass left. "I'll reseed the area," Sprocket said with a wave of her hand. The patch was never reseeded, not by Sprocket and not by Druck and where the once mountainous pile of dirt stood sits a mangy mixture of cracked earth and weeds.
Copyright 2008 liamsgrandma
When I placed the little man on his changing table, and an odor was already rising even before the diaper's grand opening, I ignorantly asked him, "What'd you eat today?" To which I immediately thought, "You dolt, you know what he ate today." Backup. "What'd your mommy eat today?" And all the while, he is smiling and gazing at me just like the cats do and, like the cats, I give him anthropomorphic speech abilities and thought patterns that he cannot yet possess like, "Did I do good? Do you like my gift?" (OK, I understand that some of you think cats can never possess those qualities, but I beg to differ).
And it all ends with me opening that gift from Liam and looking into his proud eyes and saying "Wooo-WEE! Woo! That is NASTY!" To which his eyes open wide, his lower lip curls under and a wail comes out of him like I haven't yet heard. Grammy needs to learn to keep her opinions to herself.
Copyright 2008 liamsgrandma
I just received an email from my dear friend, Donna, who asked if I had seen the ABC national news interview with a fellow blogger whose claim to fame is "viciously vulgar mom," or something of that nature. I don't get it. Why is it that if you are vulgar, you are noticed? Why do the Sam Kinnison's of the world make it big and the "clean guys" are still struggling? By the way, while I value all life, I wasn't particularly upset when Mr. Kinnison passed on and took the Fiery Train straight to hell.
My blog is, by no means, Polly Purebred material, but you won't find vulgarity in my blog. So here is a call to Good Morning America, the national news, The Today Show, Oprah and all who will listen - how about the rest of us who prefer to be just a bit more normal, or perhaps abnormal, and who put those morals that our parents and the Good Book instilled in us first in every aspect of our lives?
Granted, I am no angel. While I have only been with one man (my husband), I have also danced atop a table for my 40th birthday celebration. While I never swore until I was 21 (like that was the magic age to say, "damn?"), I flirted playfully across a room with a man just minutes before leaving a party on the arm of my husband (yes, it was from a distance of at least 15 feet and, quite honestly, he started it when I thought maybe I was someone he knew but didn't realize that we were engaged in a flirtation until it was just about over and I only got two eyelid bats in before being dragged out the door). While I was careful to never let my children watch the Simpsons until they were teens, I have seen (hold your breath) Nine and a Half Weeks and Eyes Wide Shut. While I have never had an affair, I have led a line dance through the kitchen of a Syracuse, NY bar/restaurant, twice in one evening, as the onlooking chef and cooks stood in disbelief as I passed by, wriggling to the tune of "All She Wants to Do is Dance." And, while I have always been a rather stern parent, I have delighted in slowing the car to pick up my children at the curb, only to floor the accelerator just as they approached, taking off, around the corner and screaming with laughter. Truly one of my favorites (and one of their least favorites of my antics). That kind of fun doesn't stop when your kids are grown. I just did that to one of my kids a couple of months ago. And he thought I had forgotten all about that one.
I'm not vulgar. I have dressed up in a physician's coat with a black "merry widow" outfit beneath, hair swept up, and thick glasses donned, to call my husband into my "office" for a check-up. That's romance, not vulgarity. And finally, for today, in years past, I have put my kids to bed quietly, because daddy is more stern than mommy. But, because I couldn't bear to say good night, and figured maybe, just maybe, we could get away with it, we spent many an evening jumping on beds and slapping each other with fluffy pillows. "Someone's gonna get hurt," came the admonishment to the children. "Will you please not get them riled up at bedtime," came the admonishment to me. Giggling, I'd tuck them into bed, sing them their song, kiss their foreheads and pretend to be sorry when I went downstairs for another tongue lashing.
Blogs can be entertaining and life can be entertaining without vulgarity. Granted, I respect anyone's hard work, but I just choose to succeed in a better way, even if that means giving up the possibility of fame, fortune and the American Dream in the manner that others choose.
Copyright 2008 liamsgrandma
