Liam's Grandma or Maggie in Real Life

Vacation Getaway?

Almost a year ago, my husband and I paid for this year's vacation.  It's a standing vacation that has occurred annually for over 25 years now.  We go to a secluded  place in Canada with the entire family (in-laws, outlaws, children, babies, dogs), and torture ourselves for several days by being surrounded with too many people, in too close quarters, with way too many mosquitoes.  I am the door police, by the way, always on high alert for open doors where mosquitoes and flies can enter.  "Close that door!  Stop standing there with the door open!  Are you working for the enemy?  Do you like sleeping in bug spray?  Do you like something buzzing in your ear all night? Do you enjoy having a fly's saliva on your food? What is wrong with you?  Are you a masochist?  A sadist?  Close that door before I come over there and lock you out.  In the dark.  With the mosquitoes.  I will relish it.  Why?  Because you don't listen.  Ever."  Well, you get the idea.

And then there is the agony they love to put me through when I finally relent and get into the water, get on that Godforsaken tube, and hold on for dear life, so that they can pull me around the lake, whooping and hollering like a band of cowboys who have just caught and roped the biggest cow ever.  Try as they may to knock me off that thing, I do not let go.  I don't care if every nail is broken off of each finger, or if my teeth get knocked out from the violent throbs of that mammoth piece of plastic hitting me in the face as they loop around and go back through waves.  All for the sheer pleasure of seeing me fall off, screaming for help as they circle like a swarm of vultures ready to swoop in on some bloated carrion.   Why I give in to this every year is beyond me except that I must get some sort of sick pleasure out of seeing people so entertained by my own screams of fear and misery. My tormenters are still talking about what happened last year when I slipped off the tube into water where there was a bunch of this long grassy stuff that kept touching/grabbing my legs.   I'll spare you the details of that for some other time, mostly because I don't want to recount right now.  It's too traumatizing and I won't be seeing my therapist for two weeks.

A few years ago, the family decided to have what my mother-in-law refers to as "Hell Week" at a cottage in New York where she and my father-in-law actually reside year round.  Here is a picture of my brother-in-law and I after a day on the boat, back inside, cocktails in hand, harassing Shirley. Without starting another family uproar, suffice it to say that that was the first and last "Hell Week" held at the home of Dad and Shirley. A few years later, almost one divorce, and a few medication adjustments, the family packs it all up and goes north to Canada to wreak havoc on a country other than our own. Shirley stays home.

So here it is, another year, and I am trying to get out of Dodge to be with a pack of lunatics for 7 days. It hasn't been easy this time, however, trying to work around Catherine's schedule and make sure she has rides to wherever she and Liam need to go. Catherine and our son, Chip, aren't joining us this year because of their own schedules, i.e., work, baby doctor appointments, etc. I did, however, ask Chip if he would carefully use one of our cars while we are gone and take his sister and her son wherever they needed to go. He was happy to help us out until he checked with the Secretary of State to be sure that his last ticket had been lifted from his license. Unfortunately, and because the State of Michigan does not look lightly upon those who think they are, and can, drive like Nascar drivers when they aren't, and can't, his license is suspended until he appears in Court next month and they get an opportunity to ask him what he has to say for himself.

So my husband is leaving tonight while I stay behind until Tuesday, when we hopefully have all of the rides lined up for the week and I can leave here with a clear conscience, a light heart and a happy demeanor. For now, I am lecturing both of my children on the woes of false aspirations and understanding that the chances of them becoming Nascar drivers are just as slim as the chances of me becoming the next American Idol.

Copyright 2008 liamsgrandma

Doggone Dogs

A few days ago, I was up early, as usual. I had my cup of coffee in hand and was sitting on the couch, enjoying the fact that no one else had yet risen; the sun was just lighting the yard, and the birds were singing joyfully. This was a very rare moment for me since the day that Catherine and Liam took up residence here. Mornings have often become the most chaotic, but also the happiest, part of my day. This particular morning was cooler, so I had my robe on over my jammies, enjoying the comfort of being curled up on the couch, ready to say my morning prayers.

As I lifted my mug to my lips to drink in the warm, roasted elixir, I stopped in mid-pucker, the cup suspended only centimeters from my lips, and I froze. There, through our large picture window, I saw a lummox of a Golden Retriever galloping up my front yard. In mere nanoseconds, my mind raced, flashing thoughts and pictures through it as I realized that some of my cats were outside. They had been fed their breakfast, and were now searching for a place to lounge amidst the flora and fauna.

In those nanoseconds, that dog stopped and peered into my window where we locked eyes, and I guess I thought that if I didn't move, he wouldn't either. I narrowed my eyes and began to whisper, "Why you little....." Too late. He was off and the chase had begun. I dropped the mug onto the coffee table, leapt over it like an Olympic champion, and flung the door open wide. I saw nothing, nothing at all but the streak of gold in front of me as I ran down the street, through front yards, dodging sprinklers, leaping over hedges and stomping through mulch. But, almost as quickly as the race began, it was over, even though it felt like I had run the entire Boston Maraton.

I rounded the corner of a house, leapt over a sandbox that seemed to jump into my path, and the dog disappeared. Frantic, I was now running through back yards, calling to my cats. As I ran, looking to and fro, two of them galloped past me, tails straight up, and raced home. The other one decided to run alongside me until I tripped on a hose, frightening him, and he also passed me up. The last two of my five had remained in the kitchen, acting as cleanup crew, licking their dishes clean, savoring their own quiet time.

I slowed to a walk as I neared home, face sweaty, hair nappy and bathrobe somewhere down the street, (which I would retrieve only after counting cats). As I glanced over my shoulder, my neighbor was standing in his kitchen, at the sliding glass door, holding his own mug of morning brew, smiling and waving. Breathless, I managed a smile and a half-hearted wave and quickened my step again until we were all safely back in the kitchen.

By then, the day had begun, the house astir with the rest of the family, and, after a head count, I quietly slipped back out front, ran down the street, grabbed my robe and returned home to shower.

Copyright liamsgrandma 2008

Keeping Boss in Shape

My boss is getting ready for vacation and, as always, when one works in a law firm, preparing for vacation is sheer mayhem. 

Arnie had a mediation hearing yesterday morning and was gone longer than anticipated. When he returned, he walked in, disheveled and weary, carrying his overstuffed briefcase like it was a bag of bowling balls.

"How'd it go?" I said, catching sight of the few hairs he has left, sticking up in various directions, as he dodged into his office.

"Just as suspected," he called back. "Not good."

"I'm sorry," I said, and got up to listen to the story. Arnie always likes to relay his tales of woe and victory in the court room and so, I try to accommodate and go in and listen when it seems he wants to talk. I stood beside his desk, hands clasped, nodding and interjecting when he stopped to take a breath. When he was finished, he sat down and I returned to my own office until I heard a panicked yelp from the other room.

"Oh dear God, what is this? We have a Brief due on July 16?" (Arnie had asked me to sum up all of his diaried reminders and due dates that are scheduled while he will be away and to put it on his desk).

"No, we don't have a Brief due on July 16. It's due on July 23. The reminder in the book is that we have to start it on July 16." I got up and returned to his office where he was loosening his tie.

"You almost killed me."

"I do what I can to keep you healthy, Arnie. That probably cleared every ounce of plaque out of your arteries. You should be thanking me for that adrenalin rush."

"Thanks," he said weakly as I returned once again to my office.

Copyright 2008 liamsgrandma

Stress, Spit Up and Hair Gel (Not in that order)

When you put stress, spit up and hair gel together, it makes for quite a comedy.   As always, I rose early this morning, pulled on my jeans and a t-shirt and meandered to the kitchen, rubbing my face and wondering how it takes mere seconds for morning to arrive, but hours to get through a line at Target. 

Catherine had an appointment this morning and so, after starting the coffee, I made certain she and Liam were awake.  I rushed back downstairs to feed the cats, gave one of them his heart and diabetes meds, and  jammed five rollers of varying colors and sizes in my hair and slid some hair gel over each one (I take my showers at night, by the way - it makes it easier in the morning).

I brushed my teeth, poured myself a cup of coffee and took Liam in to visit with Poppy while we waited for Catherine to do whatever it is she does in the mornings (another thing that takes so long, that the waiting is more painful than getting a root canal).  Finally, we were in the car and off. 

Catherine's appointment took longer than anticipated and Liam was screaming in the back seat.  I climbed into the back and we played all kinds of games.  I showed him pictures from my Tea Time magazine, and he especially liked the raspberry tea-infused sorbet on the cover.  We went back to that particular photo three times. When he grew tired of that, I hopped out of the back and we drove off - around and around the block, music playing, Grammy singing and/or pleading, Liam screaming.  Mommy had mistakenly taken his bottle in with her and it was laying, or should I say hiding, at the bottom of her purse.   Frantic and futile searches for the bottle in the car finally forced me to rev the engine and go.

Grammy drives very carefully but likes to hug the corners when Liam is upset. It seems to quiet him when I hug them at 25+ mph.  I have also developed a tactic whereby I quickly turn the steering wheel back and forth when I'm doing a straight shot down the street.  I never leave my lane, but it causes a rocking sensation in the car that Liam enjoys.  I am always cautious. 

The security officer of the building I was circling told Catherine,  "Your mom drives like a Naaaaas-car driver.  The way she hugs those corners and keeps on goin', and what is that maneuver with the car all in motion like that?  She is somethin'!"  Good thing she told me that when she did.  Because I was already going to be late for work and had a few things on my mind about being prepared to go early and not waiting for me to call her before she decides to get out of bed.

Zipping home (at the speed limit), I pulled into the driveway and ran into the house.  Running down the hall, I flung off my T-shirt and ran into the bedroom.  I fell onto the bed, trying to kick off my jeans.  Finally, I flung open the closet doors, threw on some office clothes, ripped out the curlers, fluffed my hair with my fingers, and ran out to give Liam a kiss good bye.  Makeup was going to have to be donned at red lights.  When I picked him up to smooch him, he belched and with it, came some of his bottle that he had on the way home.  I placed the little man back into his mother's arms and ran back down the hall, yanking off my office shirt and throwing it into the laundry room. 

After donning a new shirt, I blew a kiss and ran out the door without my glasses.  Racing back in, I searched frantically for my glasses.  My husband stepped back and pinned himself against a wall as I ran to and fro and whispered, "This is too much...too much...too.....much." 

I found my glasses in the purse that was on my arm, and kissed my husband as he chanted, "Go, go, go.....you can make it...Go..."

I made it to work four minutes late, with a red curler in the back of my head.

Copyright 2008 liamsgrandma 

Massage...Therapy?

Just about a year ago, for Druck's birthday, I got him a gift certificate for a one-hour massage at Utopia Salon in Northville.  The reason for this is long and drawn out but, in a nutshell: Druck gives a talk in Thailand.  The Thai people give many gifts.  One is a Thai massage. He said it felt great.  So, for his birthday last year, I got him a deep tissue massage. He tells me he doesn't want strangers touching him.  I remind him of how much he liked the Thai massage. He says that he couldn't say no when they were handing him the robe.

So, almost an entire year goes by and I am stressed to the max with children, grandchild, eccentric husband, five cats and my orchids are acting up. I tell Druck that if he isn't going to use this gift card, it's going to expire. He says he doesn't want it. I say, "Then I'll use it." Of course, I have never had a massage - ever - except when I have beaten Druck at a board game (winner takes all) and he, the reluctant loser, gives me a 30 minute backrub.

I am not particularly comfortable with anyone other than Druck running his/her hands over me. But it cost me $95.00 and so, I make the reservation and arrive at the doorstep of Utopia where Trepidation greets me in her slinky white slip, arm outstretched against the door jamb, an eyebrow arched and a menthol cigarette dangling from her mouth. I duck the emotion and enter, exhaling deeply, refusing to look back at the wraith snickering behind me. I tell myself it's ok to have a stranger place his or her hands all over my naked body, all in the name of relaxation. I give the receptionist my name and am led back to a lovely area by Jody. As we enter the changing room, I blurt out, "This is my first time," like a virgin being led to the sacrificial altar. "Your first massage ever?" "Yes, ever," I emphasize. "Don't worry. I won't do anything that is uncomfortable for you. Just let me know if something bothers you." She explains a bit more about the differences between deep tissue massage and Swedish massage and tells me to don this gorgeous robe and slippers and meet her back in the "consultation room."

Hurriedly, I strip, throw my clothes into the little locker and, last minute, decide to leave my panties on. I wrap my temporary robe around me and step into the slippers as tinkly clinky music plays in the background. Opening the door and looking carefully to and fro, I flip flop down the hall to the "consultation room" and take a seat. "How lovely," I muse, as I look at the plethora of lit candles and the brown and turquoise hues that overtake the room. Finally, Jody reappears and takes me to the massage room. It is prettier than my own bedroom, and she instructs me to climb onto the table and relax. No small feat for a neurotic mother of two, grandmother of one, wife of an ofttimes seemingly mad scientist, mother of five male neutered cats who don't always get along, and oh, those orchids... Eventually, however, Jody puts me at ease and we begin talking about our families, yoga, religion, good health and joy. That is, until, I say, "I just want to warn you that my feet are a bit rough because I like walking around in my bare feet on the patio, tending to my garden." She moves down the table and says, "Oh, you have beautiful feet! They are fine." She then adds, "And your body is perfect! No cellulite whatsoever. How old are you again?" "48," I croak weakly, blushing 1400 shades of red, realizing that someone is not only running her hands all over my body, but looking too.

When the massage is over, I tip her well (mostly for the comment about my perfect body). As I leave the salon, Trepidation is replaced by her cohort Self-Esteem as she saunters with me to the door, smiles and asks in her Mae West lilt, "Will you be back again?" Probably not. But if you ever go to Utopia, tell them Liam's Grandma sent you.

Copyright 2008 liamsgrandma