Liam's Grandma or Maggie in Real Life

Tax Day...or...Survival of the Fittest

NOTE:  This post first appeared in Liam's Grandma in 2010.  Not much as changed since and revisions have been made to be true to today. Liam's Grandma thought it would be fun to reminisce a bit and just wallow in the same old misery all over again. 

Hey, if you're American and you pay taxes, then you know what most of the country is going through.  With that said, there are those rare Americans who, just as with their Christmas shopping, get their taxes done early:

"Oh, I got my taxes done on January 1.  Well, no, I didn't actually submit them then, because my employer didn't get my W2 to me until the end of the month, but I estimated and just got it all ready...you know - plugged in some of the numbers and such." 

Yes, there are people like that.  Christmas shopping done in July, the tooth fairy has left money before the tooth is out, the lawn is fertilized in 3 feet of snow, AND taxes are done before they even get their W2s.  I am not a big fan of people like that.  Mostly because it makes me look....well....inadequate.

So you know where I'm going with this.  I, WE, happen to be a couple who waits until the absolute last minute to file taxes.  Why?  Oh, sheesh, I don't know...hold on while I run to pull the sheets out of the dryer and, on my way, make 14 return phone calls, take the trash out, scrape that Play Doh out of the rug that somehow got there even though it's supposed to stay in the kitchen, write the article for Saponifier magazine, work on my novel, go the gym, and.....brb.  

I don't even prepare the taxes...that's my husband's job.  But, while he is in accountant mode, I have to be on standby.  Like not more than 30 feet away from him.  Because he screams out questions like a doctor asking for his scalpel from the nurse who hasn't yet scrubbed up and they are in an emergency situation out in the middle of nowhere and she's all he's got.

Today, Russ stayed home to do the taxes.  When I heard that this was the plan, my heart began beating rapidly.  Like the kind of adrenalin rush I would imagine an EMT gets when he arrives on the scene, yanks the defibrillator from his bag and yells, "CLEAR!"  I had the adrenalin rush - big time - because Russ was staying home TO DO THE TAXES.  And they had to be done TODAY. 

I met with a friend this morning and after that, arrived home and he was already in tax mode, which meant I had no time to prepare - as in: no time to make snacks, light candles, put on a calming yoga CD and stand behind him, massaging his temples and responding to various questions like, "Why, why, why...."

Instead, our tax day went something like this:

Russ:  "Oh my God.  This program incorporated our personal AND your business categories into one report.  I can't work like this.  How can I work like this?"

Me:  "I know, I know.  I just noticed that yesterday when I was entering December's receipts for my business." (NOTE:  Shut up people.  Yes, I realize it's FREAKING APRIL and I only just updated my receipts and expenses).

Russ:  "Oh my God...."

Tax Day is a big event in some areas.  Several years ago, when we lived in Boston, April 15 involved getting on the bus at around 11:00 pm, switching to the train (Green Line) and going to the huge Post Office in, I believe, Government Center.  The experience was right out of a David Lynch movie. Upon arrival at the post office, you'd be greeted by doormen in tuxes, nodding a hello and wearing a big smile.  It was like they were cheering you on as you crossed the finish line, exhausted, sweaty, and ready to drop. 

As people rounded the corner and got in line to have their envelopes postmarked, another tuxedoed man sat at a Grand Piano, playing lovely music (no, I am absolutely not kidding). The white tiled floors looked less sterile amidst the decorated tables mounded with free donuts, cookies and other pastries.  And there was free cider, juice and Kool-Aid available for even the most discriminating palate.  The place was decorated with streamers with people sitting at tables, enjoying their post-finishline beverage as they cooled off, replenished their carbs and electrolytes, and conversed with strangers - all of them brought together for one hellish reason: TAXES. 

Here in Michigan, I am unaware of any such hooplah.  Last year, when Russ finished the taxes and I wrote our return address on the envelope and popped a stamp on it, he sank back in his chair and closed his eyes as I sprinted to the car toward the finish line.  In an age where submitting taxes is usually done with a click of a button, it's not true for anyone who owes taxes - because you have to get that check to them PRONTO.  And we owed some money to the State.  So, after finding out which post office was open late, I sped off to Meijer's, a local grocery store chain that also has a mini post office inside. 

When I arrived, there were about 9 people ahead of me and one clerk.  No food, no drinks.  No guys in tuxes to greet me and cheer me on.  No piano player.  Not that I was expecting it anyway, but I was pleasantly surprised by the very understanding, kind clerk who took each taxpayer's envelope and handled it as if she were holding family jewels. I listened as she called "next in line" and the next marathon runner boldly stepped forward and looked into her eyes earnestly.  Before handing over the envelope, every single person stared long and hard, searched her face, and queried, "Will this be postmarked April 15?"  To which she smiled, nodded and repeated the same line over and over, "Absolutely."  The patron watched as she walked over to the date stamp and brought that red stamp down like a judge bringing down the gavel. And then, THEN, each person said, "Do you mind if I see the date?"  "Not at all," she smiled and walked back to the counter, held up the envelope and murmured some kind words as the disheveled, confused runner walked away in exhaustion.

As I approached the counter, I held the envelope to my chest in both hands, studied her gentle face and calmly said, "Will this be postmarked April 15?"  "Absolutely," she replied, as I exhaled slowly, and gingerly handed it over.  After she stamped it, I called, "May I see the date?  Please?"  "Of course," she said and smiled as I studied it carefully.  "Stressful, isn't it?" she said as I nodded and replied, "Yes.  Stressful.  You should see my husband.  I hope he makes it."

Last year, I told my sister-in-law, Robin, about my jaunt to the post office.  She had been a high school English teacher for 30+ years and retired last year.  Anyway, she did the morning announcements over the PA system and led the Pledge of Allegiance.  Robin told me that when she said, "Good morning, students!  Today is Friday, April 16," and began reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, she giggled.  And giggled her way through the Pledge, all the while thinking of me, the evening before, nervously gripping my envelope and asking the woman at the counter if I could see the date stamp.  Apparently, her giggling infuriated the American History teacher who, being a staunch Republican, found no humor in her less than stellar Pledge of Allegiance performance.

Robin accompanied me many years ago to one of the Boston performances of Tax Day and so, she knows all too well the humor in it - including Russ and I arguing back and forth over who is going to traipse down to the post office at an ungodly hour of the night with me finally relenting because, after all, he is the brains behind this duo and he prepares the taxes which is more exhausting than sprinting to the post office. 

When Robin continued giggling through, "There is no detention today, the yearbook committee meets in Room xxx," the secretary became curious.  "What's so funny?" she asked.  "Oh, it's a long story," Robin replied.  "One that begins in Boston back in the early 90's."

Let that be a lesson to us.  Again and again and again.  Next year, the Christmas shopping will be done in AUGUST.  The lawn will be fertilized in FEBRUARY.  My novel will be finished by the year 2018.  I will put my 33 year old wedding photos into a wedding album before my 34th anniversary.  Hell, who am I trying to kid?

And now, after a rigorous day of arguments, threats of divorce and castration, I wait downstairs while he finalizes the returns to see if I need to make a mad dash to the post office yet again.

Copyright 2014 liamsgrandma

The Liam and Nimmy Show - Episode 1

Well, here you go.  I know, I know, the world is waiting to shower us with all kinds of awards - best reality show, best actress in a difficult role, best actor demonstrating realistically how annoying children can be.  It goes on and on and on....

 

Copyright 2013 liamsgrandma

Saying Goodbye to Dad - His Eulogy

Many people have either asked for a copy of the eulogy I said for Dad that I decided to share it here.  I love you, Dad. 

For Stephen Drojak...1/25/30-8/27-12

            Today we celebrate a beautiful, long, productive, and happy life.  We celebrate the life of my Dad, Stephen Drojak.  When a person has lived such a long and good life as my father, it is difficult to  choose what to say on his behalf. 

            Dad was the youngest of 9 children.  His Ukrainian parents immigrated to the United States in the late 1800s and raised four daughters and five sons with lots of hard work and a huge garden that took up their entire back yard.  As a child, I marveled at row upon row of varying vegetables and never appreciated, until much later in life, the work my grandmother put into maintaining the garden which provided their daily food.  They used fresh food during the summer months and grandma would can as much as she could to hold them through the winter months.  They were survivors, learning to live on very little during the Great Depression.

            My father grew up on Linden Avenue in East Rochester.  The house is still standing and I glanced at it the other day as my brother, sister and I pulled out of the parking lot of the Northside Inn, a place where the Drojak family spent a good deal of time over the years due to the fact that they were good friends with the owners.  The Drojaks are still well known to several East Rochester business owners, including the multi-generational family who continues to own and run the Northside.  In fact, when my parents were dating, Dad often took Mom there and showed her off.    

            Dad enlisted in the Korean war at the tender age of 19, but rarely, over the years, would he speak about his time there.   It wasn’t until the end of his life that he would provide us with small snippets of his experiences.  One of the most heart-wrenching moments was when Dad told us that when he and his fellow soldiers approached the shores of Pusan, the Lieutenant told them to look up toward the hills.  Dad saw many men watching them from a great distance.  The Lieutenant told them, “They are going to try to kill you.  It’s up to you to stay alive.”  When they reached shore, Dad recounted to us the horror he experienced in seeing so many dead and rotting bodies laying in the water and on the shore.  It was there, during that story, that Dad’s voice broke and he couldn’t continue his tale.

            Dad earned two bronze stars in the Korean War.  One, a meritorious medal and the other, a medal of valor.  Despite being wounded in that war, he survived and went on to do incredible things with his life.

            He worked for Eastman Kodak Company for over 30 years and, at the beginning of his career, he met our mother.  They married and had three children.  I still remember my sister and I, so young, standing on the sidewalk, watching for Dad, who would walk to and from work everyday, to round the corner at the end of our street at dinnertime.  We would see Dad, and he would see us, stop, crouch down low, and stretch out his arms as we ran to him, eager to be enveloped in his embrace. 

            Dad tried to instill in his kids a love of nature, respect for others, and respect for ourselves.  He insisted that we behave well wherever we went and it was of utmost importance that we had clean faces, combed hair and clean clothes.  He held us to a high moral standard, all the while demonstrating his own high moral standard as an example to us.  My father was a gentleman in every sense of the word.  Since his passing, when I have received calls from family and friends who knew Dad, the two words that I’ve heard the most are “gentleman” and “class.” 

            Probably the most endearing trait that Dad had was his incredible sense of humor and his quick wit.  Even as he lay in his hospital bed, when the radiologist came in to take an xray, Dad looked at me and said, “How’s my hair?  Is it combed ok?”  Even then, Dad made me burst out laughing as he readied himself for an xray picture.

            My sister, Pat, likes to tell of the time she drove him to his doctor’s appointment and the doctor asked if he was experiencing any dizziness or seizures.  Dad replied, “Only when my wife tries to get romantic.” 

            That is how our Dad was.  His quick wit and upbeat personality carried him and his wife, Jean, through some very difficult times these past few years.  And it helped to lighten our own hearts and relieved some of our worry. 

            Dad coined the term, “Life is a Dance” long before those books came out called “The Dance of Intimacy” or “The Dance of Anger.”  Dad told me long ago that life is a dance and you get better the more you practice.  And I know that, in a sense, Dad danced with each one of us three kids the way we needed to dance and needed to be taught to dance through life.

            For myself, I look at my own life, as a young child, new to the world and its experiences.  At weddings, Dad would hold my hands and have me stand on his feet as he slowly waltzed me around the room, watching me, holding me tight and teaching me the steps.  As I got older, he’d put his arm around my waist and hold my hand out, teaching me how to follow his lead.  By the time I was in my late teens, Dad and I could cut up the floor together pretty well with the cha cha, the jitterbug, a slow waltz, or free style.  I loved a fast song because Dad would whoop and holler and every now and then he had this move where he’d dip in towards me, shout, “Ca-cha!“ and dart back out, grab my hand and spin me around.   There were times when it was difficult to follow dad’s lead, but I got better.

            I’ve realized that what Dad told me is true.  Life is a dance.  With those first lessons, he laid the foundation for how he thought I should dance.  As I got older, he taught me to follow his lead because, after all, he was the educator, teaching his daughter how to behave in life.  And finally, he and I came together, mature in our dance moves, understanding where the other was going and following or leading, depending on the dance. 

            Learning to dance is painful sometimes.  Sometimes one partner wants to dance one way and the other wants to go another way.  Dad I and occasionally experienced this over the years, and now and then, we butted heads.  We sometimes would go for periods without speaking to each other because he could be a hothead and I have been known to be a bit stubborn and slow to come around when I feel wounded.  Eventually, though, one of us would make that first move and nervously go back out onto the dance floor, extend a hand, and see if the other would accept.

            Dad and I never apologized to each other.  We never talked about our feelings or tried to iron things out.  It just wasn’t the nature of our relationship.  Instead, we learned from one another and changed who we were just a bit, danced a little more in rhythm with the other to show that understood.  We showed that we were willing to acquiesce, just a bit to make the dance a bit smoother.

            Spending time with Dad right before he died, staying at his house with him, cooking for him, sitting with him, was a gift.  Because we were, in a sense, dancing that last dance together, more of a slow dance, one in which he followed more and I led more.  In taking the lead, I let him know that eventually, it would be OK to sit out the next dance and let go.   Dad did that this week.  The dance has stopped but his legacy will live on forever.

Copyright 2012 liamsgrandma

Dad

I'm sitting at my dad's computer as I write, about to down a pint of Haagen Daaz's (sp?) chocolate ice cream.  But first, I wanted to write about Dad.  He's in the hospital and I feel him slipping away from me and my siblings. 

Before I get to Dad, I need to mention two of the few people who reside in my group of "My Most Important People In the World."  I give my parents most of the credit for cultivating a rich, memorable childhood for us, but without my siblings, my childhood and adulthood would be devoid of so many good  things.  I am grateful for them and our closeness then, now and always.  It's true that we are typical siblings.   With three of us, however, there always was an "odd man out."  And the other two ganged up on that odd person (who generally was me - LOL). 

But last night, as I sat in the waiting room with Pat and John while the nurses cared for Dad, we were giggling, making remarks, and acting as if no time had passed over the years when we were annoying the hell out of each other, or playing ding-dong ditch on unwitting neighbors, in a team-spirited fashion. 

But back to dad.  Over the years, I have remembered and held close many things that dad has said to me.  One of them is his phrase, "Someday you'll thank me."

 When I was in the 7th grade, I was shy, skinny and lanky.  Those three ingredients made for a volatile cocktail of teasing.  And I got teased - BAD.  One evening, I said to Dad, "I hate school.  I can't wait until I get out of there and work."  Dad said, "I don't want to hear that kind of talk; you're going to go to school and love it because once it's gone, it's gone.  And you can never return.  Remember this and one day you'll thank me."  Several years later, I did.  Things got better and I enjoyed high school incredibly.  I was still shy, skinny and lanky, but I got better at dealing with it.

One summer evening, at the tender age of 14, my brother and his friends were sleeping out in the backyard and my mom had said that my sister and I could camp out too.  I had a crush on one of the boys.  At that age, hormones are raging and the thought of being out under the stars all night with a boy I liked seemed so romantic.  My dad lowered the ax and told me and Pat we had to come in for the night and that this was just not acceptable.  As I stomped up the stairs to bed, he called out, "One day you'll thank me for this!"  Yes, Dad, I do thank you, because I remained a good girl and respected the boundaries you put in place.

One evening, when I was 18, I was at the home of a friend.  We were playing Yahtzee on her bedroom floor, completely innocent of any wrongdoing.  My parents had always told me to be home by 10:00, even at the age of 18, except on Saturday nights when I could stay out a little later.  It was summer.  What the hell.  I wasn't home by 10.  They knew where I was. 

At 10:15, there was a knock on the door; it was my mother, come to retrieve me.  We walked home in silence and, as I walked in the door of our house, my dad was sitting there, in his white leather chair, watching TV.  I angrily slipped off my shoes and stomped off to bed, and he called out, "One day you'll thank me!" 

On a summer's day in 1978, after being in Tennessee visiting a friend, Dad and I were driving home from running errands.  I often went with Dad while we ran errands because I really cherished the time with him.  And sometimes he'd buy me a milkshake.  Anyway, at the time, I had had a high school sweetheart who had broken up with me and it was painstaking for me to deal with.  I never seemed to get past it.  Even now I still dream of him, even though I am quite "past it/him."

Dad and I were driving down the road and were in front of our house when I saw the ex-boyfriend and a friend walking down our street.  I yelled for Dad to stop and I jumped out and yelled, "Baby, Baby, Baby!!!!"  Dad had just begun to drive towards our house when he slammed on his brakes, flung open the passenger side door and yelled, "Suzanne, get in here!"  I obliged and slinked into the seat beside him and looked straight ahead.  "You are a LADY," Dad said, "Now act like one."  He pulled into the driveway and said, "Get in the house and go up to your room and think about that for awhile.  Someday you'll thank me."  I was 18.  I went to my room.  I thought about it.  He was right. 

Dad has taught me many things over the years, with many more "Someday you'll thank me's." 

I don't begrudge Dad (and mom) for not allowing me to live a typical teenage life.  But it wasn't even that; I obeyed them because I loved them.  I knew, early on, that my parents were my teachers, and they were good role models for me.  No one is perfect, but my parents did pretty well, especially based on their own hardships growing up. 

To my Dad: Someday is here, and I'm thanking you.  And I love you.

Copyright 2012 liamsgrandma

 

Thanksgiving Prep

It's that time of year again when we throw everyone and everything into the car and drive for 7+ hours to our place in New York and put on Thanksgiving Dinner amidst constant interruptions by a 2 year old and everyone else.  

I love cooking Thanksgiving Dinner.  It's always a challenge for me to make sure everything is ready at the same time and, believe me, I've gotten it down to a science.  I like these kinds of challenges.  Other challenges, not so much - like shopping for the items on my grocery list that, unfurled, winds once around the grocery store and back again.  

OK...this may come as a shock to some of you, but I hate going to the grocery store.  By the time I get to the last aisle, I'm about ready to leave the cart and walk out.  When you think of the whole process, it's a complete work out.  You go in there, grab a cart, load everything in, double back again for the things you missed, stand in line, run back to the dairy department for the sour cream, get back in line and thank the man who held your spot, load everything onto the conveyor belt, do your own bagging because Selma just had to have a cigarette break before someone got hurt, load the bags back into the cart, truck them out to the car where they are LOADED INTO THE CAR, drive home where they are LOADED INTO THE HOUSE (and no one is ever around to help with that), and then put everything away.  

Most of the time, on these long shopping forays, I just want to stand in the middle of an aisle and scream "I can't do this anymore!" at the top of my lungs until someone calls an ambulance and takes me away for that long awaited rest in a softly padded room with a warm blanket.  Which makes me wonder about nervous breakdowns.

Over the years, I've heard a handful of people say, "Oh that was before my breakdown," or, "Well, you know," as they speak in hushed tones, "that was after her nervous breakdown and after that whole breast implant thing and then she decided that she was really a he and, my GOD, what do you do with those large breasts now?  She was better off before the Pamela Anderson makeover.  Talk about back to the drawing board..."

I mean, how does someone have a nervous breakdown?  What is it anyway?  Standing 1/4" away from the wall, talking to yourself, nervously waiting for the walls to open up and swallow you whole?  I don't know.  Perhaps I don't want to know.  But, occasionally, trying to prepare for big events seems to bring me close to the brink of making friends with the wall or the string that's hanging from my sleeve.  

And, so, this Thanksgiving, we'll fill the car with groceries, a 2 1/2 year old, a bunch of toys, aspirin, Tylenol and a flask of Vodka.  We'll drive 7 hours, stopping only to give the little one time to stretch his legs and allow me to run quickly for a bathroom break.  We'll load ourselves back into the car amidst howls from the 2 1/2 year old who thought we were THERE and is now about to have a nervous breakdown of his own.  We'll arrive Tuesday night somewhere around midnight and the sleeping 2 1/2 year old will think it's morning when we UNLOAD THE CAR and we'll have to give him a good 30 minutes to check the place out again, remark about the laundry room (because he loves laundry), turn on and off the ceiling fan, have a quick snack and, amidst further howls, Nimmy will CART him off and LOAD him into bed and pray he falls asleep soon.

Thanksgiving is about a lot of CARTING, LOADING and UNLOADING and an occasional NERVOUS BREAKDOWN.  But the best part of Thanksgiving is being with family, seeing their beautiful faces, their warm smiles, hearing their laughter, doling out hugs and eating like there's no tomorrow.  It's about a fire in the wood stove, and stories that we've heard over and over again.  It's about playing games that only a toddler loves but games that bring the rest of us back to the basics of life, reminding us that life really is simple.  It is what we make of it.  It's not nervous breakdown-worthy - it's special, it's wonderful, it's a gift.  And family is the biggest part of it.  

Now, where's my grocery list?  I've got to color my hair.  What will I wear?  How much will my husband and I bicker on the way?  Is this sore throat going to be gone by the time we leave on Tuesday?  I'm hungry.  I'm crazy.  I'm having a nervous breakdown....

Happy Thanksgiving, with love, to you and yours.  - Maggie

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma

Conversations with Druck, Chapter 2

My husband and I recently celebrated 2 years of wedded bliss and 27 years of sheer agony, which leads me to my firm belief that there are some keys to the success of a marriage:

First, appreciate one another.  All of us go through each day, rising and going off to our various places:  some go off to work, some to school, some to daycare, some to the bar.  It's just a part of our daily routine.  What we often forget is that, when we go out that door, most of the people within the household are going in five different directions.  We're all in different buildings, or even different towns.  Our kids and grandkids are out of our sight until we all come back together again at the end of the day.  And we take it for granted that that will happen. 

I try to remind myself not to take anyone for granted.  When Druck walks out that door in the morning, I hope I'll see him again later.  I'm not being morbid, I'm just not taking that fact for granted, though I don't dwell on it.  But I make sure his morning is as good as I can possibly make it, i.e., making sure there's good stuff to eat and, occasionally, if I'm feeling generous, making him a nice breakfast.  Unfortunately, he, like a pet dog, reaps the benefits of Liam living with us because Nimmy regularly makes Liam a good breakfast (and he usually helps with that chore - he is a fabulous egg scrambler, I must admit). 

I always provide Druck with a lunch, a kiss, and a "have a good day," as he walks out the door.  Liam and I usually wave out the window until his car is out of sight and I breathe a sigh of relief that there's one less person to take care of for the moment. 

The next secret to a good marriage is: don't sweat the small stuff.  His underwear on the bathroom floor are hardly a reason to go whacko.  Him using my decorative pillow as a lap desk is a different story, however, and I'm working through the whole accessory issue in therapy.  The big phrase here is, "I'm working on it." 

We had a close call the other night with the decorative pillow saga and I held my ground when he started pacing around the house looking for a pillow to use as a lap desk once again.  "Do not touch those pillows," I insisted.  He responded by informing me that he was going straight to the store to buy his own decorative pillows.  "Not pretty ones," I shouted, which halted him in his tracks.  "Why not?"  "You're just going to ruin them."  "If I want to buy pretty decorative pillows and ruin them, I WILL."  With a snort, he left the room as I called, "Why waste your money on pretty ones?  I'm sure you could get ugly ones for a lot less.  Because you're just going to ruin them anyway!!!"  My poor therapist. 

I think we've both learned that we just have to let go of some things.  He lets go of the fact that I am out-of-control disorganized, and leaving the house takes me about 10 minutes and four more trips back into the house before I can actually pull out of the driveway.  "Where are my glasses?"  "They're on your head."  "Where are my car keys?"  "They're in your hand."  When I return the third time for my shoes because I'm about to go meet a new client in my fluffy white slippers, I notice that he's gripping them in his hands and shakes his head and sighs heavily before handing them over.

I've learned to put up with his snoring, his putting his dish in the sink (when the dishwasher is 3 inches to the right of the sink), his refusal to take ballroom dance lessons with me, his refusal to watch a "chick flick," his refusal to accompany me to social gatherings (did I ever mention the fact that he didn't attend my 40th birthday party thrown by neighbors and friends because he hates social settings?), and numerous other things which we won't go into right now because I don't want to get into anymore trouble than I'm already in.

On the weekends, Druck and I try to spend quality time together.  Sometimes we travel to our place in New York; other times, we stay here and play with our grandson.  But we try to get out of the house, at least for a few hours, alone, together. 

Sunday, we left for awhile after dinner.  The intention was to go get a cup of decaf coffee, sit, enjoy conversation, look at each other, smile and giggle.  But, as is often the case, he gets under my skin at the last moment. 

"Where do you want to go," he asks, as if we hadn't made a plan.

M:    "I thought we were going to Biggby Coffee because I have that gift card."

D:    "I don't want any coffee."

M:    "Not even decaf?"

D:    "Nope."

M:    "Then what do you want?"

D:    "Nothing."

M:    "How about a smoothie?"

D:    "Nope."

M:    "Then let's not go there."

D:    "Well, where, then?"

M:    "I'm not sure, but I will say that right now you're riding my nerves like a bad surfer on a rough wave."

D:    "Okaaaaay."

M:    "You know, I have to tell you that, by this time in my life?  If we had just met?  And this was our first date?  I'd never go out with you again."

D:    "Oh, well, isn't that nice.  If I said that to you, you wouldn't speak to me for days.

M:    "I just want to get a big lovely old house in the Village of Northville, sit on one of those wraparound porches and listen to the wind."

D:    "Where'd that come from?"

M:    "I want to do that."

D:    "I'm never moving to Northville."

M:    "Why NOT?"

D:    "I don't like it there.  You know why."

M:    "Listen, if I ever sell that damned novel and I make, oh, just even a million - no movie deal, nothing else, I'm moving to the Village of Northville!"

D:    "And I'm getting a condo in the City.  I'll come visit on occasion."

M:    "Fine with me."

D:    "I'm getting a cat."

M:    "You're what?"

D:    "You heard me.  When I get my condo, I'm getting a cat."

M:    "You don't even want the cats we have now!  And you say you're getting a cat."

D:    "That's right."

M:    "Let's go to Border's Books for awhile."

D:    "They have coffee there."

M:    "I know.  I love you.  But I'm still getting the house with the wraparound porch in Northville."

 D:    "I love you too.  And I'm getting the condo in the City.  With a cat." 

M:    "Sigh."

D:    "Would you like me to get you an iced coffee from Dunkin' Donuts?"

M:    "You know I would."

D:    "Maybe that'll get me another date."

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma

Station Break...but please don't touch that dial!

I'll be posting again very soon...taking care of two baby bunnies who lost their four siblings to some late night cat or raccoon or some other type of massacre.  Their eyes were still shut when I brought them in last week.  Now they're doing great!  For now, I hope you enjoy some of the favorites (in the favorites section) and I'll be back real soon.  The 3 am feedings are the worst.  YAWN.  I'm tired, but Joe and Rachel are very happy bunnies!

The Poo Whisperer

Let me preface this post (to potentially save you beforehand) with the statement:  "Not intended for weak stomachs."  Which means this post is rated "Pre-K" or "For Toddlers Only."  Because toddlers aren't upset at all by talk of poo, butts, weenies or the word, "Ewwww."  They are fascinated with the color, size and bulk of their poo.  And they ask questions about everyone else's.  And, at least in our household, when a big poo is expelled, it is followed by a victorious shout of, "I DID IT!"  In fact, just this morning, I thought I heard Druck's victorious exaltation as I poured my second cup of coffee. 

A couple of weeks ago, I was on my way to get my hair trimmed.  My cell phone rang and it was my daughter calling.  When I answered, I heard some wailing in the background and she told me that Liam had done a huge poo - except that part of it was still there...in his little butt and IT WAS HUGE.  She had him on the toilet and he was freaking out.

First, I have to tell you that, regardless of what it is your child asks of you - a recipe for stew, directions to someplace new, whether or not he/she looks good in that outfit, or what to do about the huge boulder of poo stuck in her child's butt - it always makes you feel good that they are asking YOU.  I remember my mother being the same way when I'd call her and ask for some advice.  It was like she suddenly took over and was some professional cook or a professional marriage counselor or a professional curser (and I'm not talking about the cursor on the computer).  It just feels good when your kids ask for your opinion or for some advice or some cussing out of another person. 

With the wailing going on in the background and listening to Liam saying, "Oh, Nimmy, Oh, Nimmy..." Catherine put him on the phone.  My mind raced wildly trying to figure out a way to talk him through this.  And visions from that scene from one of Mike Meyers's  movies came to my mind when he was in one bathroom stall and Tom Arnold was in another. 

"Liam?  Liam!  You can do this, Buddy.  You can do it.  Now listen.  I want you to lean forward just a tiny bit and push that poo outta there, honey.  Push it out!  Now listen up:  who's the boss here?  You?  Or the poo?  You show that poo who's boss, honey.  You show it.  Push!"

From the other end of the line came all kinds of grunts, moans, cries and...finally!  FINALLY - I heard a little PLOOP!!  Like a stone being dropped into the creek behind our house where I grew up.  

Shouts of great joy rang out from my daughter as she commended Liam for doing it and he yelled, "I DID IT, I DID IT!"

"Liam?"  I said.  "Did you do it?  Did the poo come out?"

"Yeah,"  he did it, Catherine replied.  "Here, he wants to talk to you."

"I did it!  Nimmy, I did it!  The poo come out! THE POO COME OUT!"

"You did it, Buddy?  That's great!  Good job!" 

I hung up the phone and smiled.  Often we question what our purpose in life is.  After all, I haven't done anything spectacular in my lifetime - no trips to the moon (although I've had threats from my dear husband promising that he can somehow get me there - FAST), no great scientific discoveries (except for that amazing mountain of mold inside the ricotta cheese container I found one time in the frig that continues to give me nightmares), no real musical talent (except the voice that only my grandson and partially deaf cats seem to love). 

I had a purpose that day.  I was a great help to someone.  And it made me feel needed.  It made me feel good.  I am the Poo Whisperer.  

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma

Love.....

Love is of source unknown, yet it grows ever deeper.

The living may die of it, by its power the dead live again.  Love is not love at its fullest if one who lives is unwilling to die for it, or if it cannot restore to life one who has died.

And must love that comes in dream necessarily be unreal? For there is no lack of dream lovers in this world.

Only for those whose love must be fulfilled on the pillow, and for whom affection deepens only after retirement from office, is it an entirely corporeal matter.

Preface to The Peony Pavillion

Tang Xianzu, 1598

 
LOVE

Post-Easter Repose

I know, I know - Easter is over!  But the remnants of the day still linger (after all, it's only Tuesday). 

Which brings me to speak about this blog that I love and which I thank my friend, Maureen, for introducing me to.  It's a blog written by an American woman who, some 20+ years ago, met and married a Frenchman.  She writes about family, living in France, antiquing, cooking and more.  I love reading her blog.  I get lost in the beauty of southern France and the writing of this incredible writer.

She recently posted some photos of things related to Easter (Paques).  After writing about some very old postcards, she offered an opportunity for her readers to win one of the postcards.  We could write a story in the comments section about the one we desired, which I did.  This is the one I want.  And this is the story I wrote about it:

The old egg had never come to fruition, never cracking open with new life to bestow upon an adoring mother duck its beauty of new life, new birth. Instead, the little heart ceased and was absorbed by time as the egg fossilized and hardened to a petrified state, its former inhabitant long gone. Its outer shell weathered the elements and the egg took on a patina that only age, sadness and time could create.

Early one morning, as Sophie partook in the annual Easter hunt hosted by her grandmother, she raced happily to the other side of the pond. Surely, her brothers would not dare to follow because the path to the other side was long overgrown and covered with thorns. Sophie often marveled at that far side where summer's heat brought pretty pink roses to those woesome boughs.

Coming too close to the edge of the pond, she slipped in the mud and glided downward, her Easter egg hunt about to come to a watery end. Quickly, she grabbed an old branch and was spared the drenching which she knew would have also garnered her a scolding from Nana Louise.

As she pulled herself up the slippery slope, Sophie noticed something gray and sparkling in the morning sun. The dew had created sunlit diamonds on the small specimen. Sophie gingerly edged to the beautiful trinket and gently cupped it in her hands.

Smiling, she headed back to the house carrying the only egg she needed. It was hard like a rock, but its shape...surely it was an egg.

Papa marveled at the incredible find and Mama and Nana Louise helped Sophie sift through Nana's basket of ribbons. Mama gently pulled some flowers from the beautiful centerpiece that rested on the dinner table and, together, they glued colorful adornments to the oval treasure.

Within minutes, the old, worn, abandoned egg was new again, exuding a beauty unlike any other that had been retrieved that day. Sophie clasped her hands and gazed at its fresh radiance with sparkling eyes.

"May I keep it?" she queried, giving Papa a sidelong glance.

"Oui, ma cherie," he replied with a moustached grin as he stroked his child's flaxen hair lovingly.

Over the years, as Sophie grew, the egg became a part of her own family and their Easter tradition. Each Easter eve, her children would anxiously watch as Sophie gently took the egg out of its velvet lined box, which had become its new home, and placed it in a holder on the mantle. The children would sit and listen eagerly as Sophie told the story of the egg and what it meant to her: a time of resurrection, joy and the promise of hope.

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma