Liam's Grandma or Maggie in Real Life

"Finding Joy" or "Becoming a Luxurious Nut"

Finding Joy can be difficult when we are surrounded by life's daily barrage of ups and downs.   As I drove to work this morning, blasting the tune, "Love Grows Where My  Rosemary Goes" loud enough to drown out my tone-deaf shrieks that I occasionally insist is singing, I tried to comfort myself by remembering things I have done in the past to bring myself solace.  Some of them have kept me snickering, some have bolstered my confidence, some have gotten me into trouble, and all of them help me to realize I am human and if we don't start seeking joy and truly living life now, will we ever?  I hope that you will also try some sort of "joy-inducing idiocy" to relax, and stop to smell the roses or the grass or the smoke that occurs when you set a pan on fire.

Take time to enjoy nature.  Lay out in the backyard in the freshly mowed grass on a summer's day, eyes half-closed, feeling the warmth of the sun on your face, the warm breeze fluttering through your hair and the ants crawling down your back as you realize you have laid on a small but very active ant hill.  After your screaming has subsided and you have no idea where your shirt is because you mistakenly flung it into the tree, go back and stomp the bejeepers out of that ant hill.   Be sure to put another shirt on, however, before doing this (yes, I did make sure I was fully clothed when I went back outside). 

Summer evenings are so luxurious when they are cool and a light breeze is blowing, keeping the mosquitoes away.  When my husband is out of town, I have occasionally grabbed a blanket and laid on the chaise lounge beneath the stars on the patio, sleeping like a baby as the cool fresh air fills my lungs and lulls me to dreamland.  Caution to those of you who are animal lovers or have cats.  Do not, I repeat, DO NOT, mistake a skunk for one of your cats and reach out to pet the thing as you roll over to the side of the chaise and see him under the patio table.  "Here, sweetheart, come see mommy."  Thankfully, I realized in time that the dark object turning its butt toward me and lifting its tail to spray was a skunk as I flung myself off of the chaise and, legs twisted in the blanket, slammed against the house with a womp.  Yes, he sprayed, but he didn't get me as I scrambled to get inside, falling onto the kitchen floor with my legs still tangled in that vicious blanket.  Still, I enjoyed every moment of being out there - up to that point - and have slept out there since then; I just don't try to pet anything. 

Challenge your macho man neighbor to a spur of the moment sprint down the street at twilight on a sultry summer's evening.  My legs are longer than any man's I have ever known and I can fly, people.  So, while out to dinner one evening with my husband and my neighbors, Macho Man was touting his running virility.  I snorted at his confidence.  When we drove home, we got out of the car, I slipped off my heels and said, "OK, big boy, let's have at it."  We sprinted down the street and, while he did beat me, it was by mere inches - less than 6.   Had I not been in my barefeet, we all know the outcome would have been different.  And the endorphin release was great. 

Go pick up one of your kids, a spouse, a friend or an enemy.  Just before they grab the passenger door handle,  take off.  Then go back and do it again.  Repeat at least twice or until they are stomping and screaming at the curb.  And make sure you look in the rearview mirror every time to see their expression.  It changes a lot and, if you can let go of the fear of what they're going to do to you once they get in the car, you will be screaming with laughter at the sight of surprise, anger, irritability, etc.

Prank phone calls are a wonderful way to make friends.  Or was that enemies?  Call your brother, your sister, an in-law, a neighbor.  Ask them in a husky voice what they are wearing.  Or ask them that old one:  "This is the General Electric operator.  Can you please tell me if your refrigerator is running?"  Believe it or not, some people still fall for that.  Note:  Make sure to dial *67 before calling the number so your number is blocked.  And with today's technology, Caller ID is great (when it's not blocked).  Last year, my brother-in-law called and I picked up the phone and with the loudest soprano I could muster,  I belted out a Beverly Sills version of "Haaalllloooooo!!!!!!"  I carried that note so long and so loud, allowing lilting drops and falls that would make Pavarotti scream for mercy.  He immediately hung up.  I stood there, hands clasped and giggling, waiting for him to call back.  I repeated my opera but this time there was a long pause and then, "Is that you?"  Well, of course it's me.  You should know me by now.

I will never forget the toast my father-in-law made to me and my husband on our wedding day:  "To my son and his bride...May your wildest dreams become your life."  I took those words literally and am trying to live a good, honest, WILD life or, in the alternative, becoming the Luxurious Nut.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Repeat of War - Then, Now, Always

I am running this one again, hoping our new administration will make some changes regarding the war.  Praise to all of our service men and women out there risking their lives - for US and our country that we love so dearly.  I hope you will watch 'til the end as it cuts my heart out when I see the last frame.

I have one disagreement with Bruce, however - it is right to have blind faith in God.

Dress for Success?

As I was reading a friend's recent post to Facebook discussing 25 random things about himself, he mentioned a much anticipated interview in which he donned his best suit.  He went on to say how well he thought the interview went until he noticed, afterward, the dryer sheet protruding from his shirt cuff.  That statement brought back some great dressing faux pas's I have had over the years.

In or about 1994, I was working as a manager for the Boston office of a national law firm.  My office had a circular window that went from floor to ceiling with a view looking up Boylston Street.  The green monster of the Red Sox stadium loomed in the distance as one of the many landmarks within this "view to die for." 

That year, I was a stressed out, harassed mother of two who lived somewhat as a single mom while her husband worked on his post-doctoral fellowship with a dual appointment at Harvard's Department of Genetics and Massachusetts General Hospital.  We saw Druck on Sundays and that was pretty much it.  My days consisted of getting the kids up early in the morning and readying them for school.  Druck would walk them to school since I had to be off to work well before their time to leave.  I would walk down to Concord Avenue, take the bus to Harvard Square, where I would catch the Red Line (subway) to Park Street and change trains to the Green Line which I took to Arlington Street.  Coming home was the same thing - in reverse.

Some days were crazier than others as I'd race out of that office at 5 pm to try to make it back to Harvard Square and catch the 5:20 bus. It was imperative that I got the kids from after-school-care by 6 pm; otherwise, the blonde lady with the glasses would be standing at the end of the driveway on the crumbling curb with my kids, all three waiting impatiently for my arrival.

Everyday seemed to have some kind of hitch, not unlike most people who are parents in a big city or who use public transportation, or who are just parents PERIOD.  Either the bus was late, it broke down, or my slip fell off, which is what occurred one spring day as I raced wildly to catch the train.  That particular day, the managing partner kept me a few minutes past 5 to discuss the budget for the year until I finally blurted out, "I have to go."  "What?" he said, somewhat taken aback by the volume of my voice.  "I must go.  Now.  I'm sorry.  My kids.  You understand."  I gathered up my things, raced down the hall, threw everything into my briefcase and took off like I was on fire, trying to outrun the flames licking at my heels. 

As I sprinted to change trains at Park Street, it seemed that my running had become somehow constricted as if I were running the bean bag race back in 7th grade gym class.  And because I was that stressed-out, harassed mother of two, it didn't click right away that my half-slip was about to become no slip as it slowly meandered down toward my ankles.  My focus was only on catching that train and nothing was going to stop me until the slip was almost around my ankles and I noticed people were staring at me as I reached the platform. 

It took all I had to look down because I knew what the looks were about.  Sure, I could pretend that I had been selected among a group of women as the next Mrs. America and the talent scouts were descending upon me.  Or I could face reality and, as I sheepishly shrugged, smiled, and glanced down at my ankles, I deftly stepped out of the silky piece of lingerie.  With a swift kick of my left foot, I slung that slip up onto my arm and, with the dignity my mother told me to always possess, stepped up into the train and sat down with a huff.  After stuffing my slip into my briefcase, I made a mental note to never ever wear anything that I had worn during my maternity years.  In fact, I would go through my drawers and make certain to get rid of all of those stretched out things that I thought I could somehow salvage after expanding the elastic waistband from a size 3 to 53 and continue to use years later. 

My desire to be frugal by folding and scrunching the top of that slip into the top of my pantyhose taught me two things - (1) wear lingerie that fits; and (2) discard all clothing worn during pregnancy immediately after childbirth.

Copyright 2008 liamsgrandma

Who's in Control Anyway?

As I left Church this afternoon, having led my women's study, I watched two of the pastors walking through the parking lot, talking and planning where to go for lunch.  Their breath, visible as they trudged along, spoke of the coldness of the day despite the bright sunshine.  As I drove towards home, mounds of snow flanked the roads and I realized that we Michiganders, and all those who endure such harsh winter weather, do it because this is our life.  This is where we live and how we live.  And we accept it.   We cannot control it and so, we rise each morning, dress for the weather and head outdoors to wherever we need to be.  We complain a bit about the cold and compare notes with officemates as in, "Can you believe how cold it is out there?"  "It's going to go below freezing tonight."  "You are kidding me."  And then we go on with our day.

In parts of the country, there are people who have been without power for over a week since the cold, snow and ice descended upon them - yet again.  And still, they endure.  It's there, but it doesn't control us.  It doesn't define who we are on a given day.  If only all of our problems were like this.  If only we could accept our lots in life, just as we accept these cold winters because we know there is nothing we can do about it.

How much easier my own life would be if I would let go, just as I let go when I get up, look at the outdoor thermometer, sigh, roll my eyes and wrap my bathrobe tighter around my waist as I prepare a pot of steamy coffee.  Just as I let go when my cat throws up on the carpet yet again and I get the paper towels and the Oxy Clean.  Just as I let go when I forget that I left the spaghetti pot boiling and I go to get the mail and meet my neighbor there where we stand talking for 25 minutes until I remember the spaghetti and I drop half of my mail and leave a bewildered neighbor as I run, screaming to the house, to find everything boiled down to a pot of mush and I have to start over again.  Just as I let go when I pull the towel off of my head and see what I thought was going to be a nice brown and instead see a bizarre glinty shade of pink and I thank God for a comedy troupe of office workers who like it when I come in looking like a transvestite who had a bad night.  I can let go of these things. 

Some things are more difficult to let go of.  The friend who is sick with cancer and, try as we might to alleviate their pain or lift their mood, we can't.  The child who has gone astray and won't return to what we consider "normal" even though we cry and pray until we are completely exhausted and look like, as my mother used to say, "death warmed over."  The baby whose head size is in the 97th percentile and now his MRI results show the possibility of an abnormality and his Grammy is thinking, "God, I just can't take anymore."  The financial stress that so many people are going through because of loss of jobs and an economy that begs us to just pull the trigger and put it out of its misery. 

I often forget about my faith when things get out of control, or should I say, out of my control.  I forget that I am a passenger in the ride called life and that there is Someone, much mightier and more knowledgeable than me, in the driver's seat. 

I am trying to let go.  Of so many things.  I am trying to be the passenger and not a backseat driver.  I am trying to just go along for the ride with the top down, my hair blowing wildly as life comes at me from all angles.  I'll keep you posted on how I do and maybe you'll do the same for me.

Copyright liamsgrandma 2009