Liam's Grandma or Maggie in Real Life

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.

Dinner anyone?

 My mom came up with this recipe years ago (like 40 years ago), and I hardly ever make it anymore because my husband is a vegetarian.  Occasionally, if he is out of town, I'll whip this up.  It's basically beef stew made on the grill.  You could also substitute the beef for chicken but I think it is best as a beef stew.  As with all of my recipes, these are approximations because I just cook and throw things together (unless, of course, I am following someone else's recipe for the first time).  Here it is:

1.5 pound stew meat cut into bite size pieces
1 small pkg of fresh baby carrots
5 celery stalks, chopped
3 large potatoes, peeled and cut into cubes
3 large onions, peeled and cut in half
3 cloves of garlic, diced
1 can of Campbell's tomato soup
5 sheets of tin foil - pull the foil out of its container about 12 inches out.

1.  Mound about a cup and a half of meat on each sheet of foil.

2.  Systematically mound about 6-8 baby carrots, 1/4 c. celery, 1/2 c. potatoes on top of the meat.  Place a half an onion in each pile.

3.  Open the can of tomato soup.  Sprinkle the diced garlic on top and stir it into the can of soup, mixing well.

4.  Dollop about 1 1/2 tbsp. of the soup/garlic mixture on top of the meat and veggies.  Keep going around until the can of soup is empty.

5.  Pull two sides of the tin foil up evenly until they meet and then roll it down evenly, closing it in on the "stew."  Roll each end up as well to close, but don't close it down  too tightly.  Leave some space because you will now prick a fork in the top of each "bag" to allow steam to escape.  Each little foil bag is now ready to be placed on the grill which you should have preheated.

6.  Grill on lower heat for about 25 minutes.  Check one of the bags by unrolling and pricking the carrots and potatoes with a fork.  When the veggies are tender and the meat is cooked through, it's ready. 

This is a delicious meal that can be served over noodles, rice, or alone.  The combination of the tomato soup and the juices from the meat and veggies is a distinct mouth watering flavor.  You can make each bag bigger or smaller, depending on the voracity of your family's appetite.  Enjoy!

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Electrifying

We have been in the "Home Renovation Stage" for the last 14 years.  When we bought this house, we saw all the possibilities.  A  huge kitchen, four bedrooms, two full baths and a decent back yard.  The loft overlooking the living room, cathedral ceilings, and a corner fireplace added to the charm. Fast forward 14 years and this house has become the bane of our existence.  It is livable, for sure.  It is not, however, cosmetically where we want it to be.  And, while we have replaced the roof, siding, windows, front yard, driveway, hot water heater, carpeting and redid the patio and one bathroom, it is far from finished. 

The biggest sore spot is and always has been - the kitchen.  Our kitchen is large and probably could be used as a dance area for a small wedding.  But. It is. Hideous.  I won't even post a full photo of this room.  Not any kind of photo, in fact.  The floor is vintage 70s green linoleum.  The cabinets are vintage 70s DARK.  The oven quit working a year ago July.  So you can imagine how many times I've thrown that at my husband when he hasn't been thrilled with the dinner I make.  "It's been a freaking YEAR without an oven.  You are a vegetarian.  Which makes it difficult in the first place to come up with variety - and protein.  Now I've been dealing with no oven for over a year." And he keeps saying, "We'll get a new one when we redo the kitchen." 

My neighbors recently banded together and created a not-for-profit organization called, "Maggie's Stove Quest -OR- Kill the Husband, Whichever Comes First."  They are insisting that the lot of us stand together in solidarity, go to Home Depot and get me an oven or, in the alternative, sign up, at least on a temporary basis, with the mafia. 

"I mean, what's he going to do?  DIVORCE you if you go and get a lousy oven?" 

"He wouldn't survive one month in my house.  Not a week in fact!"

"Oh, he wouldn't survive a DAY in my house!"

"Who the hell does he think he is?"

"I'd quit cooking."

"We're going.  Together.  And we're picking out the best [and most expensive] oven they have!"

Just when I'm panting and foaming at the mouth, ready to storm off to Home Depot waving my check book and willing to take down any man who gets in my way, that little angel on my left shoulder whispers, "Oh, stop now.  Be patient.  Settle down.  You'll get your stove in due time.  After all, this is a good life lesson for you - patience.  It's a virtue, you know."  After smacking her several times in rapid succession and knocking her into next week's drama, I smoothe my clothes, put the checkbook back, and try to be a good wife.  And pretend that it's no big deal trying to make eggplant parmesan without an oven.

But we are making progress.  We have decided on cabinets, lighting and paint color.  First, however, Druck needs to do some rewiring.  So yesterday, he brought in this old radio from the garage, plugged it into a kitchen outlet, and turned it on - LOUD.  Liam was visiting, and when we all began dancing to "Legs" by ZZ Top, I assumed this was solely for Liam's entertainment.  When Liam and his mama left, I went about my business and turned down the radio.

While in my bedroom, pulling sheets off the bed, I noticed that the radio was blaring again.  So I went and turned it off.  Returning to my room, throwing sheets and pillowcases into a pile, I hear the radio come back on but, not only that, it is cutting in and out.  Deciding there must be a short circuit, I return to the kitchen.  "Bizarre," I whisper, scratching my head, and decide to just unplug the thing. 

I head to the living room to pick up toys when I hear Druck's footsteps and voice in the kitchen.  "What the hell?" he says.  Of course, I don't associate any of that with the radio so, when the radio comes on again, I shoot upright and stand very still because sometimes when one stands very still, some sense can be made of things that, to most other people, would have made sense five minutes earlier.  Because Druck is nowhere to be found and the radio keeps turning on and off, I return to the kitchen and, standing there with my  hands on my hips, staring at the radio like it's going to look at me and shrug or give me some kind of explanation, I once again unplug it, vowing to mention to Druck that his radio has problems and to quit plugging it back in because who wants to listen to music like this anyway? 

Not 15 seconds later, Druck comes stomping into the room looking annoyed.  "What are you doing?" he says in an accusatory tone. 

"I think there's something wrong with this radio," I reply.  "It keeps turning off and on.  I think there's a short."  He says nothing, swipes past me and plugs the radio in.  Again.  "DON'T TOUCH IT." 

How was I to know he was checking circuits for his electrical rewiring project?  All he had to do was tell me.  And as for that angel on my shoulder?  Last I saw her, she was standing on the corner, thumb out, bruised, angry, and yelling, "To hell with patience.  Margaritaville, here I come.  See ya later, Suckas."

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Drums Along the Mohawk

A couple of weeks ago, Catherine took Liam to get his haircut.  He, at eighteen months of age, came home with a mohawk.  When he walked in the door, my heart sank.  And then I reminded myself that I need to learn to "pick my battles."  Like the battle of whether or not he should wear shoes to the playground on a rainy day when it's 45 degrees outside (never mind it's RAINING out and who goes to a playground when it's raining anyway).  Or the battle of whether or not it is a good idea for him to have a lollipop as an appetizer before dinner.  Or whether or not it's ok to LEAVE HIM IN A RUNNING CAR WHILE SHE RUNS BACK INSIDE TO GET A FEW THINGS.

Realizing all of this, I said what any other grandmother would say in choosing her battles.  "Welcome to White Trash, USA."  To which she replied, "All the mothers at the mall who saw it said, 'Look at the baby with the mohawk!'" 

"And you think that was a compliment?" 

"Of course.  Liam is a trendsetter." 

"Mohawks went out in the 70s," I say.  "I think he's a little late on blazing that trail."

I try to keep my apparent neuroses in check when it comes to this darling child.  But, possibly because my husband and I had Liam with us for a couple of months on our own, and possibly because both Liam and Catherine lived with us for quite awhile, it deepens the bond and the desire for all good things for both of them.  Druck and I can't plead ignorance, because we see them almost everyday.

My brother put it succinctly: Wait until she gets him a tattoo.  To which I replied, "Oh God."

What this relationship has borne in me is a huge fascination for genetics.  Because, if you were to throw me around and knock me senseless for awhile and then introduce me to this woman who is allegedly my daughter, I'd say, "And you have twelve eyes, none of which are used for seeing."  I have spent a little time thinking back to the day of her birth and a few days following, wondering if she was switched with my real child - the one who is like me:  the one who never talked back, did all of her homework, went to catechism every Saturday morning, and slept with but SHRIEK! one man, and that man being SHRIEK! her husband.  But, no, Catherine must be mine.  She has some of my quirks.  She looks strikingly like my brother in his younger years.  She has her father's feet.  And, while she has the mouth of that truck driver I passed on I-94 a few weeks back, I acknowledge that she quite possibly gets that from my mother (a rare occurrence with mom but when it happened, hoo boy...).  Aside from all of those familial characteristics, I have often told myself that she can't be mine.  Truth of the matter is, she is mine.  And I love her deeply. 

Over the years, she has challenged me in every way possible and I am certain that, within the next week or so, she will come up with a new one for me - one that I will be blindsided with and will not be prepared for in any way, shape or form.  Sometimes I feel like I am fighting a demon, trying to outwit, outsmart and outmaneuver her before she gets the best of me.  But Catherine does, indeed, present some form of demonhood that is not her fault.  She suffers from a personality disorder that she (and we) must learn to work with and try to acclimate to because it seems to change like a bad virus from one year - or month or day or hour - to the next. 

I have hope that I can set aside the little battles, like the mohawk, and the questions about what are my thoughts on using Baby Tylenol as a mood stabilizer, etc.  Regular and loving instruction for the things that really matter is what counts.  And, by the way?  I won the Baby Tylenol battle (at least I truly think I did). 

I am grateful to see my daughter and grandson everyday so that I can erode those demons, face them head on and fight them with her, always trying to keep her (and Liam) on a safe path.  In the end, mostly what it is about is patience.  And, always, it is about love.  And, at the very least, it is not about a mohawk.  Because mohawks grow out and no one died from playing in the rain or from prefacing dinner with a lollipop.  There are bigger fish to fry in this saga called Life.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

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

Letter to my Friend

I have a friend whose identity may remain nameless.  I am not sure yet about this, and will decide by the time I reach the end of this post whether to partially identify her. 

"Gloria" and I have known each other the better part of 30 years and, through that time, our friendship has grown.  It has grown into a relationship rooted deeply in love, trust and understanding, the likes of which I can only compare to my marriage with my husband.  Except that Gloria is a woman (as am I) and we have no romantic feelings towards each other because, sheesh, people, we're straight as an arrow.  But what I think of when I think of our friendship is the kind of relationship that used to be cultivated some 200 years ago between two women who took afternoon tea together, talked about their lives, mended clothing together, sat by the fire with their families and told stories for the children to hear. And, when they weren't together, they would write letters.  Beautiful, detailed letters.  It is a relationship lead by respect and admiration.

Gloria and I met in late 1979 when my husband and I first began dating and he introduced us.  She told me that when she met me she thought that I was the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen.  I still blush over this because I can't see it in me one bit.  But she does.    

Druck and I married in 1981 and she and Hank married in 1982.  Our lives went along as we drove through the years, sharing in each other's victories and deep disappointments.  We'd confide in each other about our marriages, trade advice on issues related to our children and support each other through PMS and, later, through menopause. 

When Hank and Gloria went through a trial separation, which Gloria supported while Hank took some time to "find himself," she and I waded through the torments of such a separation from the one she loved.  When she could barely walk through this emotional time period, she came with her daughter to visit us while we were living in Boston.  We spent numerous nights sitting on the stoop of our front porch together, she crying, me, with my hand on her back, patting gently and never forgetting her loud cry, "What if he never comes back?" I assured her that regardless of what happened, she would never be alone.  I knew it wasn't the same as having a marriage, but I knew that we would never allow her to feel alone.

When Hank didn't return, after Gloria found out he was having an affair rather than just needing some time to think, we rallied around her.  Her two brothers spent many a night on the phone plotting Hank's demise, or at least turning him into a bloody pulp, which never happened, but it felt good for them to plan it out.  Her father refused to speak Hank's name for some 12 years after that, but relented and put on a good face when Gloria's daughter graduated from high school, and even made amends with Hank.  It made me realize that separation and divorce doesn't effect just one or two people (namely a wife and daughter), but it tears down and scars an entire family. 

Gloria has been my rock through my own difficulties in dealing with issues related to my childrens' struggles and through helping in the upbringing of our grandson.  We make certain to talk every single day whether it's via the phone, text messaging, email, Facebook (or all of the above some days).  Seems that she has just the right advice for me when I need it and I have it for her.  Sometimes, when we are at a loss, we just listen.  And the other knows that just having that person listen, without judging, is better than all the chocolate in the world or living the life of a celebrity.

Gloria knows that I am a person who goes down various avenues when I am lamenting life or even when I'm just telling a funny story.  She is patient with me.  Like when I go off on tangents:  "And then I said, 'Why did you do that?' because, as you know, when I am talking to him about that, he goes off into some emotional place and shuts the door and, by the way, at the same time I was asking him that, the phone was ringing and the cat had just vomited up a hairball, so you can imagine my mental state at the time...."  Never does she say, "Hurry up," or "You already said that," or "Just get to the point," or "Too much information!!!"  I embrace that and am grateful for it every single time we talk.  Because, hell, I KNOW when I'm going off on a tangent but, for me, that additional information is important to me.  I know it probably doesn't add much, if anything, but she respects that it is important.

I have often told her that I do not know what I would do without her.  And she says the same thing and then we start to get all weepy on the phone or sitting across the room from each other and she yells, "STOP!  We're not going there!" 

She keeps a journal that she leaves open on the table in her living room and anyone is welcome to read and write in the journal.  Often, sitting together on the couch on a cold winter evening, fire burning in her fireplace, we have pulled out some of the journals.  And we have laughed hysterically over the humor that exists among the people in this little group who love each other, and we have cried over memories of stories and writings of and by people who have left this world too soon. 

I cannot express my gratitude enough for this woman coming into my life.  And now, yes, I suppose I have revealed her, and even moreso when I say that one of the most poignant thoughts of her has to do with my telling her that I thank God everyday for bringing my husband into my life because he was the pathway to her.  My eternal friend.  My confidante.  The other half of who I am.  My female soul mate who I will cherish like a gift, a treasure, a beaming sun.  My sister-in-law.  Who always has time for me.  Thank you for being in my life.  Thank you for accepting me, despite my various neuroses and being the "female Woody Allen" as your other brother so succinctly put it many years ago.  You accept all of me, good or bad, and I realize now that when I married your brother almost 30 years ago that you came with the package.  I had no idea what kind of bonus I was getting.  Like winning the million bucks on Wheel of Fortune, or catching the Leprechaun and getting the pot of gold, or opening the dictionary, looking up love, and finding your name in there as part of the definition. 

I love you, "Gloria!" And, by the way, YOU, dear friend, are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma