Liam's Grandma or Maggie in Real Life

Calmness meets Calamity...What a Difference an "A" Makes

I have a friend named "Lisa A." who, when you first meet her, you can't take your eyes off of her.  She has this way about her - the way she wears her hair, her clothes, the way she smiles and, in doing so, even her eyes seem to smile.  Lisa is good for me because she is my complete opposite.  When she enters a room, she does it smoothly, and with finesse. I, on the other hand, rush in like a whirling dervish and create a mind blowing current before falling, exhausted, into a chair, leaving anyone who has come into contact with me feeling bewildered, befuddled and ... scared.  Or scarred (what a similarity an "r" makes).  

Lisa speaks calmly and deliberately and can soothe anyone with the sound of her voice and an attitude that says, "everything will be just fine."  I tend to be neurotic (NO!!!  Really?), quick to speak (I never knew that about you!), and reactionary (you must be joking).   With that said, right now some of you are seeing a neon light flashing while you try to remember if you gave me your phone number or, even worse, your address and, as you are thinking and rethinking, and saying, "Oh, please God....please...," don't worry - chances are I can't find your phone number OR your address and even if I could, I am mostly harmless.  

This is not to say that Lisa is all prim, proper, pink and posies, by the way.  She's a tough attorney who negotiates for her clients with nerves of steel and a deep commitment to GET HER WAY.  I should know; I used to work for her.  And the beautiful thing that came out of that job was a wonderful friendship, born out of her putting up with little Miss Cuckoo taking up space in the office at the end of the hall.  I'll never understand it, but she took an interest in me.  Perhaps the same kind of interest one who is driving by a very bad accident takes, when she just can't help but slow down, look, stare and wonder.  Maybe even pull over and offer to help amidst the chaos swirling all around her.

The other day, Lisa's mom, Rita, emailed me.  Rita is a big fan and supporter of my soaps.  In fact, I have gotten more clients because Rita not only uses my soaps and loves them, but she gives them as gifts.  

In her email, Rita told me she was going to be on my side of town for a hair appointment on Saturday and wanted to know if she could stop by and pick up more soaps.  Of course she could!!

I told my husband that Rita was coming, which was a good thing.  Because my being 51 years old is equivalent to some sort of neurological entropy where my mind is collapsing in on me and the neurons just aren't communicating like they used to.  Granted, I take care of an almost 3 year old child at least 80 hours a week.  I run two businesses, and have to put up with a crazy neighbor.  I still work very very hard on perfecting my voice due to my desire to be a singer in a rock and roll band, which means that when I'm all by myself, I sing The Yellow Rose of Texas at the top of my lungs, killing off a few thousand brain cells during the high notes.  I am obsessed with my hair and what it will NOT do for me despite repeated attempts, some good, some bad, at changing it to various shades of red, brown, blonde and, an unfortunate green and a twice bright pink (huge error and shrieks coming from the bathroom that woke my crazy neighbor).  The most recent fiasco was an attempt to turn my dark hair red which I screwed up royally and haven't yet fixed because I DON'T HAVE TIME.  Where are we going with this, you wonder.  We are going down the road that talks about the fact that I can't remember things to save my life.   

Fast forward to Saturday, the day Rita is supposed to arrive.  I had the soaps ready for her and was creating some new labels on my computer when the doorbell rang.  I stood up and, through the prism-like glass in our front door, I saw the outline of two women.  One looked like she was holding something.  "Oh great," I breathed.  "The Rapture Women are back."  I yelled up to my husband (who was in his office working on a grant), "We're not answering that - there's a couple of holy rollers at the door."  

Just so you know, I AM a church goer.  I believe in God.  But I absolutely canNOT stand it when Bible beaters come to the door.  I have read the Bible from cover to cover and have come to my own conclusions, but I do NOT appreciate someone else pushing their branch of religion on me.

The doorbell rang - again.  I couldn't believe it.  "Those two are tenacious," I say.  "Next they're going to start knocking!"  And they did.

My husband came downstairs and headed for the door.  "You're answering it?" Well, be nice then,"  I say.  

He opens the door and I hear, "Is Maggie here?"  I walk to the door, and it's Lisa and Rita!  Which totally threw me and then, in my whacked out state of mind because I hadn't been expecting them, even though I was expecting them, but forgot about it, I started rushing all over the place talking in double sentences and asking them questions they didn't even have time to answer before I raced off to grab the soaps.  I came rushing back, handed them the soaps and said, "Hold on!"  I started to scurry off and turned and said, "Look at my hair!"  I bent my head forward and parted my hair.  "A failed attempt at coloring it red!  Oh my God!"  I ran off.

I came back and gave Rita a lotion bar and ran off again to get one for Lisa.  When I came back, we chatted for another minute before I said, "Hold on, let me get you a bag for all of these things."  Lisa said that wasn't necessary, even though it was necessary because they couldn't carry all of those soaps and the lotion bars without a bag!  I heard Rita explain to her why they needed a bag because the poor dear thing was so confused about what she thought I might be getting next that I'm sure she blacked out for a minute.  

Several hours after they'd left, my ever adoring husband burst out laughing.  "What?" I said.  "You were running around making so much noise when they came in that I high-tailed it to the bedroom.  Then, when you came flying into the bedroom looking for another lotion bar, I ducked.  Into a fetal position.  I felt like I lived with Edith Bunker."  

I emailed Rita and Lisa, apologizing for my personality.  "Can you imagine what it would be like if I did cocaine?" They both wrote back and told me they like me just the way I am and that's what makes me me.  It's kind of like what nurses in the Psychiatric Hospital say to their patient who is swinging from the rafters thinking he's a lemur in heat.  "Oh, you're fine, dear.  It's just what makes you, well, YOU."

Copyright 2011 liamsgrandma

ECHO, ECHo, ECho, Echo, echo .....

Yes, once again, here is that apologetic blog post where I stand, head down, eyes lowered, twisting my toe in the carpet and twiddling my thumbs before I say, "Yes, I've been a bad girl.  A very bad girl.  I haven't blogged in over a month."  And you shake your finger at me and say, "You're not going to improve your writing that way, young lady!"  And I cringe and say, "I know, I know, BUT..."  And you say, "NO 'buts!!!'" (Mom used to talk to me that way).

So, as I said, here I am, after not blogging for well over a month, because I keep saying that I haven't had time.  I suppose it is, as the saying goes, "relative."  I haven't had time, relative to the time spent making soap.  I haven't had time, relative to the time spent taking care of my grandson.  But my grandson is my first priority and he has been with me the better part of 80 hours a week now that my daughter is working and going to school.  And God Bless her for that.

Unfortunately, when time is at a premium, the price has to be paid somewhere.   Like the fact that I haven't had my hair cut in almost two months.  Look at me, I scream!  Just look at me!  The "no time," coupled with an inability to sleep, leaves one (mainly me) looking like Patty Smith.  The only difference between me and Patty Smith is that she can sing; I can't.  I shave my armpits; she doesn't.

So here I am, looking like Patty Smith, late on a Friday night (because I can't sleep), sitting in my frumpy, yet comfortable robe, wondering why I waste so much time.  I have friends who would say, "You're kidding."  But I'm not.  I waste so much time, it's not funny.   And it's because I must have some kind of Adult ADD.  And, please, don't start sending me emails, hate mail, murderous snail mail about Adult ADD.  I know it's nothing to laugh about.  But somewhere, somehow, I have something like it, if not IT itself, and I'm not sure if it's kid-induced, menopause-induced or husband-induced, but if it's not ADD, then I'm smack-dab in the middle of some huge nervous breakdown or ... even better... a dream... where I wake up and find out that this was all a huge mistake and I'm really some exotic, beautiful woman with the firmest breasts that ever existed (size 38DD no less!), living in one of her 14 mansions on a private beach (any private beach with blue water and nobody around will do), a cabana boy who really is her ex-husband, but she keeps him around because she really does like the guy but he has this unnerving habit of leaving the toilet seat up.  

Anyway, she wakes up, wipes the sweat from her brow and says, "Oh my God, I have got to start going to Church!"  

The reality is, however, that it isn't a dream.  I'm not a 38DD with the firmest DD you ever saw, so I have to accept the fact that I waste time dreaming about it and, because of whatever issue I have, I can't take full responsibility for my wasting of time.  Anything I do I certainly can do VERY quickly.  I can make soap quickly, I can cook quickly.  I can get all of my chores done QUICKLY.   I am very efficient.  But my own mindblower is that if I didn't have this out-of-control disorganization, I truly think I might be up for some sort of award.  A Pulitzer Prize even.  Maybe some sort of Nobel Prize.  Because even though, in any given day, I can take care of a 2 year old for 14 hours, make 6 pounds of soap, make a gourmet dinner, run errands, clean the bathroom, do 3 loads of laundry, answer emails, run two businesses (yeah, I make soap, but I've never told you about the other business I have and have done for the last 11 years because I'm afraid you'll think I am absolutely insane...), I take the most circuitous routes there are to get my work done.  

I'll give you an example and then I'm ending this nonsensical, write-about-nothing post....

A day in the life of Maggie consists of getting up, making coffee, feeding the cats, starting to unload the dishwasher, checking email,  playing with the cats, going back to the dishwasher, checking Facebook, starting to make husband's lunch, vacuuming the living room, finish unloading the dishwasher, continue making husband's lunch, running upstairs to cut soap, coming back downstairs to throw a load of laundry in, pouring another cup of coffee, finish making husband's lunch, playing with cats, checking email, returning client phone calls (on the business you don't know about which is, OK already, ... I have a dog walking/pet sitting business that earns great money [but, most of the dough goes to my employees because I have no freaking time to do the job!!!], getting two stuffed animals to stand at the door and jump around when grandson arrives, making breakfast for grandson, getting partially dressed (yes, partially - pajama bottoms off, pants on)...sitting with grandson while he eats more...continuing the partial dressing....socks on, robe off....play with grandson awhile...finish dressing (bra and shirt on)....brush teeth and it goes on and on and on and on.

I can't do anything from start to finish.  My sister and I have talked about this.  She is successful as well, but can't finish something from start to finish without doing something else TO SAVE HER LIFE!!!

So I waste time.  So what.  But it frustrates me and the people who work for me in the dog walking business.  Those poor people deal with things from me like, "What day is it?"  "Why are you there?  Oh, right, they changed the schedule."  Or the phone rings and one of the wonderful people who works for me says, "Maggie?  I'm at the meeting.  Where are YOU?"  And I say, "Oh, I'm stuck in traffic," as I run to the bedroom, throw off my T-shirt and change into something presentable, race to the car and drive off into the sunset, forgetting the address of the house we are supposed to be meeting at and, sheepishly call my employee, as I turn in the wrong direction, and ask for the address.