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

Bugs

This morning, I was minding my own business, pacing while waiting for my husband to leave because that's how my mornings are.  Not that I'm in any hurry to get him out of here, mind you, but as the morning routine winds down after making the coffee and greeting the sweet guy who is squinting in the morning light as he trudges, unsteadily, to the coffee pot like an android returning to its leader; and, after I make his lunch and stay out of his way while he tries to get his  morning legs going, I pace for the final part of our morning - the kiss goodbye. 

This morning, I was standing in the hallway, while he foraged in the bedroom, looking for his glasses, when he came out, looked me square in the eye, paused and said, "You don't want to go in there.  There's a huge bug."   Reacting as any woman might do (?), I scream and start backing up, eyes wide, going into a panic.  At the sight of this, he falls onto the floor, LAUGHING.  I say, "Oh dear God.  Are you joking?  Don't play me like that.  Don't!"  He replied that no, he's not joking and that yes, there is a huge bug in our bedroom. 

So, naturally, I scream again and start to hyperventilate and say, "What the hell are you doing on the floor?  Get it OUT of here before it gets away!"

"Do you want to see it?" (He says between gasps of laughter).  I make another attempt  to breathe and scream, "NO, I do NOT want to see it."  My legs are weak and I stagger to the arm of the couch and crumple down, putting my head on the arm, as he shrieks in laughter STILL.  But I know that my husband would not say that this was a huge bug if it were not because he is an outdoors kind of guy and this thing would have to be the size of a bird for him to say it is huge. 

As I lay on the floor, trying to revive, he returns to the bedroom and I hear him open the screen.  "Uh oh, it's on the run," he remarks.  Again, I scream.  "Close the door," I yell.  "CLOSE THE DOOR!" (He does not). 

After a minute, I hear nothing.  And my neurotic mind is conjuring up an image of this thing actually being a rabid bat and maybe it's bitten him and he's fainted and I have no idea what's going on in there except I know that I can only crawl at this point and I wonder if I should go check on him.  "Dear?"  "Yes."  "Are you all right?"  "Yes, but you should really see this thing.  It's a big moth."  "Maybe it's a bat," I reply.  "It's as big as a bat."  I let out another small anguished cry.  "Get a towel," I say.  "Throw it over him."

Finally, I hear the screen closing and pull myself to my feet.  He emerges from the room, triumphant.  "You got it?"  He nods.  I plant a huge, powerful kiss (or all I can muster of power at this point) onto his lips.  "Thank you."

Which reminds me of years ago...

We were living in a small basement apartment while my husband was working full-time and going to school full-time.  I was working full-time and taking care of a baby.  One evening, after giving Christopher a bath, I wrapped him in his little hood towel and carried him out of the bathroom, into the hallway when I thought I saw the carpet move.  Wait.  It wasn't the carpet moving.  It was a big MOTHER of a spider, light brown in color, like the carpet, with LOTS of hair and .... and ... and... JOINTS.  Yes JOINTS.  Oh dear God.  Why in the world create such things?

My heart raced fearfully and I knew I had to protect my child.  I carefully set him in his crib, all the while watching that bold thing standing on the carpet as if to say to me, "I dare you."  I removed the towel from my son's little body and grabbed a tin cup that my father-in-law had gotten for him while he was in Cape Cod.  I threw the towel over this tarantula and started pounding with all my might.  Suddenly, the monster raced out from under the towel and was on the go.  I didn't scream because I didn't want to scare my son.  I quickly grabbed the towel and threw it over the large animal again and pounded as hard and as viciously as I could, gritting my teeth the entire time. 

Breathless and sweaty, I waited.  Nothing.  I watched for movement under the towel.  Nothing.  Slowly...very slowly, I lifted the towel.  That thing was mashed into the rug so far, it quite possibly could become a permanent part of the carpet.  I placed the towel back over its lifeless body and gave it a few more pounds - just in case.  Then I called my husband who was at work.  I was frantic. 

"You are NEVER going to believe what just happened."  I relayed the entire story.  He listened calmly.  "Where do such things come from and why are they in OUR apartment," I cried.  "Do you think he has any brothers?"

"Well, yes.  He probably has brothers but we live in a college town so I am sure they are away at school." 

"OK." I say, trying to take comfort in something that made no sense whatsoever but I had to get back to my son.  I left the body there for my husband to clean up.

There were no more incidents of such things in our apartment (at least none that I saw) but we did see another one or two in the storage room across the hall and I refused to go into the storage area after that. 

Meanwhile, this morning, after the Attack of the Killer Moth, I resumed my pacing and my husband, still looking for his glasses, grabbed me by the shoulders and planted a firm kiss on my mouth.  "There," he said.  "Now you can go relax while I try to get out the door."

"I love you," I say sweetly.

"I love you too," he replies with a quiet close of the door.

We all have our little quirks, don't we?  What are your biggest stupid fears?

Copyright 2011 Liam's Grandma

Married Life

You really have to know my husband and me to understand us.   As many of you are well aware, I sometimes share conversations between Druck and me for humor's sake.  But innocent, unsuspecting people who have never really spent time with us might be appalled at the way we talk to each other.  [Side Note:  The conversations I am about to share only occur when Druck and I are alone - so no need to worry about psychological damage to children and the elderly].

Let me preface this by saying that Druck and I rarely take each other seriously.  Unless, in the course of our bantering, I slam a door, stomp a foot, glare, and yell, "I'm being serious here now!!!"  At which time, he straightens up, tries to remove the smirk from his face, and gives it a huge college try at paying attention to what I'm saying (which, is a challenge on his part and which, I might add, has benefited me at times, because what I often say to him goes in one ear and out the other and has occasionally played in my favor.  Like the time I forgot to tell him something very important and, can I add, it was something very important, and I said, "I told you, but you, being you, never listen to me, so what's your point?" And then I breathed a huge sigh of relief when he bought it, hook, line and sinker).  

Druck and I have been married nearly 30 years and, with those 30 years, have come many lessons.  But one of the biggest ones, as previously stated, is to not take life so seriously.  Granted, there are moments when things get serious and must be taken and dealt with thusly; and, certainly, in our most intimate moments, we're not being humorous, although there have been times when, in the midst of an intense makeout session, one of us bursts out laughing and the moment is lost, at least temporarily, until we can get serious again.

Yesterday morning, he got on my nerves.   I can't recall what it was about because we have learned to keep moments of frustration to a minimum.  But my response to his annoying behavior was, "I'm gonna ram a spear through your face if you don't knock it off."  He barely heard what I said and continued on with what he was doing.

Later, I simply made an observational comment that, "I've recently noticed that, for some reason, you've been keeping your shoes on while walking on our brand new carpet.  What's up with that?"  To which he replied, "Where's my hammer?"

Because we have no air conditioning (a story that, if I'm left to dwell on too long will cause something SERIOUS to occur in this household - like a serious argument and a serious contemplation of filing legal papers - only after offering my husband as a volunteer forest ranger for that hard-to-fill position located deep in the woodlands of Northern Siberia), our windows are open most of the time.  It's summer, after all, and it's hot.  Scorchingly hot.  

So one night while he was trying to adjust the fan so that I could feel it, he stood by the window while I directed him.  "Are you feeling that?" he said.  "Not yet," I replied.  "A little higher.  A little lower.  Oh yeah.  Oh yeah.  That's perfect.  Thank you."  When he climbed into bed, we looked at each other, coming to the realization that the neighbor and her friend were sitting out on her patio in the back.  "You know what they're thinking," he said.  "Well, if we had A/C, this wouldn't be a problem," I retorted.  

Druck is a very modest man.  And then, he married me.  The other day he mentioned something about my mother teaching me modesty.  I said, "Yeah, well, that lesson went right out the window."  It's not to say that I am not a lady.  I leave the house nicely coifed, nicely dressed, smelling good and smiling at everyone I see.  My mother and grandmother taught me to sit straight, walk tall and exude a confidence.  My dad taught me to think of myself as royalty so that anyone who comes in contact with me will think I'm special.  I must admit that while each of us struggles with our own self-esteem issues, at my own worst times, I try to bring mom, dad and grandma's lessons to the forefront of my own neurotic, assessment of self-worth.

One lesson of modesty that I must have been absent for relates to walking around the house in my underwear.  I have no problem with that during daylight hours because people just can't see into the house from the outside when the day is light.  Granted, I have done it on an occasional evening, but rarely.  Why walk around in my underwear?  It's not intended.  Sometimes the phone rings and it's in the kitchen instead of the bedroom where I'm getting dressed.  Sometimes a cat is screaming at the front door.  Sometimes I forgot that I was cooking spaghetti 40 minutes ago and I dash out of the bedroom like my ass is on fire worrying that the kitchen might be too.   

Druck thinks this is outlandish.  My response is that you can see more of me while wearing my bikini, so, again, what's your point?  He says he doesn't want me walking around the yard in my bikini either, which I wouldn't, but, in the privacy of my own home?  When the kids aren't here?  When no one can see in?  

Last time I did that, the conversation went like this:

D:    What, do we live in a trailer park?

M:    Is this what people who live in trailer parks do?  And what do you have against them?

D:    I don't want to live in a trailer park.

M:    We don't.

D:    Then put on some clothes.

M:    It's the same as wearing a bikini, for crying out loud.

D:    People can see you.

M:    Who?  Do you really think people are standing around outside with their binoculars trying to see into this house?  This house?  

D:    You never know.  If there's a show, they'll watch.  

M:    Fine.  I just came out here to get my hairbrush anyway.

D:    Why is your hairbrush out here?

M:    Where's my hammer?

D:    I'll use my bare fists.

M:    Not with a hammer in my hand, you won't.

D:    I'm gonna send you to the moon.

M:    Is that a threat or a promise because, you know what?  Once I get there?  I'm wearing only my underwear.

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma

Vacation, NOT STAYcation...

Here we are once again, to that time of year where I'm gearing myself up mentally and physically for the trek up into Canada with my husband's family--to rough it (that link back there is not a link to Canada's tourist website, by the way...it's a link to last's year's saga). 

For some of you, the definition of "roughing it" is camping out in the wilderness, in a tent, with no toilet, no shower, no running water PERIOD.  Honestly, for me, roughing it is staying at a Motel 6 or, worse, a Holiday Inn. 

I often feel bad when I look at my husband - a man who loves the outdoors as much as he loves to breathe, eat, and play soccer.  I feel sorry for him because he's married to ME.  I admit that I love the outdoors too - as long as the temperature is between 70 and 80 degrees Fahrenheit, there are no flies, no ants, no mosquitoes and NO spiders.  Occasionally, everything works in my favor and it's not too hot nor too cold out there, and there's enough breeze to keep the mosquitoes at bay.  I don a baseball cap to keep those bastard flies from buzzing around my head and use my homemade anti-bug soap to keep my skin smelling like lemon and lavender to keep any brave mosquitoes and other insects off of me. 

I've tried over the years to pretend I like camping and have even thought that maybe if I just did it and relaxed about everything, including the sounds of things sniffing around the tent as I try to sleep at night and the mosquitoes that still buzz in my ear, even though they don't dare land, I might grow to enjoy it  But for GOD'S SAKE!! I'm 50 years old, and it's apparently just not going to happen.  A few years ago, I stopped pretending.

Thing is, this annual vacation isn't camping, per se. We rent a bunch of cottages that are located on a little peninsula on a gorgeous lake in the Province of Ontario, Canada.  Not far from Kingston, to be more precise. 

But the scenario is this:  many of the window and door screens have holes in them (mosquitoes), the door to our cottage has a gap between it and the floor (more mosquitoes and a couple of chipmunks) and opening the silverware drawer causes a flurry of activity (big black ants).  The mattress literally stinks like major BO - and fishermen.  For any fishermen out there reading this (although I have yet to meet a fisherman who has any interest in me or what I write), this is not meant to insult you, but I know you understand when I say, YOU STINK. 

Needless to say, I wash everything again before I eat off of it, lay sheet upon sheet over the bed, and spritz myself with bug spray before getting into that bed (the bug repellent soap works, but because I only take a shower every other day while there [another story altogether], the fragrance fades, replaced by the lovely scent of sweat which, apparently, mosquitoes love).  I don't swim in the lake because, well, it's murky and there are things in it that I can't see and there are long green plants that sometimes grab my feet. And, yes, even my tough-as-nails sister-in-law bathes in bug spray and there's a photo to prove it.  

Let's face it, I have huge problems.  My brother-in-law dubbed me the "Female Woody Allen" many years ago.  Again, I feel for my husband.  Quite honestly, I probably should have paired up with someone who loves to travel and stay in posh hotels, who owns a yacht where I can sunbathe all day on its deck, a yard with a built-in swimming pool and a cabana boy, and, of course, a gourmet kitchen (because I do love to cook).  I'm sure my husband's wish is, at least occasionally, for everything I'm not.  But we never go there because we do love each other and there truly are incredible things about the other that each of us swears we can't live without.  That is, of course, until I say I'm never going to that godforsaken place again and he thinks it's ok to make me wait 17 months to get a new stove and then...yes, then, we go to our imaginary worlds and imagine who the other might be. Or imagine ourselves filing those papers.

I sat on the couch this morning before Liam rose, holding my cup of coffee in my hand and staring at the wall.  Which is what I do when I'm worrying about something.  Walls are so non-intrusive.  Then I texted my sister-in-law and told her I was feeling anxious about vacation.  She reassured me.  Because she knows me.  She knows I'll be ok.  She knows I'm a flake.  She knows I'll pack that beautiful lacy skirt and high heels just in case we get to go somewhere glamorous.  Just like I do every year and, just like every year, we never do.  But I'll pack it anyway because I like to be prepared for unexpected things.  Like the unexpected knight riding in on that white horse who lifts the lid of his helmet, revealing an incredibly gorgeous, understanding, loving face, and says, "Baby, hop on, let me take you away from all of this and I promise you, you'll never cry again, you'll live in comfort for the rest of your life, people will always be pleasant, there are closets upon closets of high heels and room after room of jewelry armoires filled with all kinds of bling, the temperature is always 76 degrees, there are no bugs, there's a gourmet kitchen, and, guess what, we have a pool!  With a cabana boy who brings you pina coladas at the snap of your fingers!  And your husband can live with us for as long as you want.  I'll even go camping with him."

The reality of it all is that life is good. it is what it is and it's here to enjoy.  Perspiration, bug bites, foul odors and yucky showers included.  I always survive and, oh, by the way, they do have a swimming pool on the premises.  It's not built in, but it's chlorinated.  I'll give up my perfume for chlorine any day if it means I don't have to set foot into the lake.   And, to my family, you know that I always, at the end of our week together say, "Let's do it again next year!"  You KNOW that.  Because I'll spend time with family any day, anywhere, as long as we are together, happy and healthy.  And someone's got my back.

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma

Photographs compliments of Robin

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

The Olympics AND FENG SHUI - Right in Your Own Living Room

Why watch the Olympics when you can experience, first-hand, all kinds of stunts, jumps, falls, thrills of victory and agonies of defeat in your own living room, hallway, garage?  Which leads me to today's big question.  One that really only recently came to the top of my list of stupid things I must know, and moved right from position 9,872 on my list all the way up to #1, in an enlightening instant.  Mostly because my husband was questioning my style of Feng Shui last week which, quite honestly, I never thought there was a style of Feng Shui, per se, but, rather, the art of putting Feng Shui into your style. 

So here it is:  Why is it that when a man stubs his toe, bangs his knee, rams a hammer through his thumb or bumps his head, he has to injure himself even more by flinging himself across the room, throwing himself onto the floor, gripping the appendage and rocking himself back and forth in a fetal position, his face all contorted in pain as if he has just had a limb sliced off with a butter knife? And it's not just the little stub from that coffee table that was apparently crossing its legs when he walked by and didn't pull its toes in to avoid contact with the man.  It's when they play soccer, basketball, baseball, football, you name it.  They get jabbed, and they're throwing themselves down the field like they were just hit by a bullet-shaped semi pulling 4 tons of cargo and traveling faster than the speed of light.

Last week, in the calm of the evening, after I had donned my jammies and robe, I remembered that I had forgotten to feed my ever patient kitties.  I went to the back closet/pantry and bending over, fished through things, looking for a different can of food because I, like most insane cat owners, like to provide my cats with variety, interesting conversation, and the latest updates on the weather. 

While holding that position and scanning for the perfect menu item, my husband entered the hallway on his way to the bathroom and noticed me - in what he apparently thought was a very magnificent pose, if you can imagine someone bent over, head in the closet, wearing a white terry cloth robe covered in pink rosebuds and mumbling to herself that she thought the can of turkey and giblets was in here somewhere. 

Making a sound not unlike an excited animal, he sashayed down the hall towards my protruding butt which I wiggled for emphasis as his outstretched hands were about to grab their prey.  Sadly, before his hands made it to their destination, he was catapulted off-course when his baby toe came in hard, direct contact with the vacuum cleaner.  The vacuum cleaner that, yes, I had put there earlier in the day on its way to its place in the garage.  There's a whole long story as to why the vacuum cleaner didn't make it those 3 extra feet into the garage, but why bore you any further. 

And now it gets interesting.  Usually, when one is walking forward and stubs their toe, and that someone is a man, you would guess that if that someone was walking forward when the calamity occurred, based on the laws of physics, he would, in the event of catapultion (is that even a word?), be thrown forward.  Somehow, Druck defied the laws of physics and, after stubbing his toe and making a low-toned comment that I could not decipher, he was actually thrown backward, onto the floor, gripping his toe, writhing, rocking and wincing in pain.

"Are you OK?" I said, straightening for a moment before ducking my head back into the closet.

Druck:  "I gotta tell you," he said through clenched teeth.  "Your style of Feng Shui leaves much to be desired."

Maggie:  "Placement of the vacuum cleaner does not have anything to do with Feng Shui, dear.  The vacuum cleaner is not a piece of artwork."

Druck:  "You could have fooled me."

M:  "And that box of baby wipes that have been sitting there?  In front of the vacuum cleaner for TWO WEEKS that YOU put there?  What do you call that?"

D:  "I did not put those there."

M:  "Yes, you did, when you emptied my car after I went to Costco."

D:   "Well, I had no idea where to put them.  So, tell me.  Where do you want me to put them?"

M:  "I don't care."

D:  "I can't put them somewhere if you don't tell me where to put them."

M:  "Believe me.  You really don't want me to tell you where to put them right now."

And so it went with me finally locating the can of turkey and giblets, grabbing the vacuum cleaner and putting it into the garage and Druck hoisting up the box of wipes and trodding off in a huff, walking NORMALLY, despite the carnage that had just happened to his baby toe. 

As for me, I still can't find the wipes.

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma

Turning 50 - Part Deux

I was going to write an entire saga about turning 50.  But, at 50 years of age, I don't have the energy.  Or the wit.  Or even  the memory of what I ate for dinner last night, so having a 50 year old try to recall what occurred a couple of weeks ago is not going to happen.  Instead, I'll leave it to photos as proof.  Or, who knows, maybe the memories and the writing will just start flowing.  After all, I did take my "50+" vitamin this morning.

Here is a photo of the gown I apparently wore to the office that morning.  I changed into regular clothes after awhile, mostly because I was cold.  Plus, while I have to admit there are times when I enjoy shocking people, an office building is not the place to wear an evening gown.  But, dang-it, I try to wear this gown whenever I can because I like to dress up - even though it's a rare occasion (or there is rarely an occasion to put it on) - mostly because we are not jet setters.  So that means we don't get featured in big spreads in the newspaper when there is some sort of ball and people who think they are important go to rub elbows with other people who think they are important and then they all think they're important and then, those of us looking at the photos in the newspaper think they must be important, and it's a huge ego boost.  That's not my life.  

But I did get a big surprise.  Druck announced he was taking me to Chicago for the weekend to do whatever I wanted.  And that included, if I wanted, getting my own room while he slept somewhere else, like, say, on another floor.  I decided I'd like to share a room with him but thanked him for the option and, as the time to depart got closer, I told him I'd rather go to Grand Rapids.  This was because Grand Rapids is 2 1/2 hours away and Chicago is 5.  Since we weren't leaving until Friday night and we had to return on Sunday, I wanted to shorten the time in the car as much as possible. 

We stayed at my favorite Grand Rapids hotel, The Amway Grand Hotel, which is one of the most beautiful old hotels I have ever been in.  It reminds me of a lovely hotel we stayed at in Nice, France a few years ago but, I must admit, I like this one better.  We ate divinely at the 1913 Room where they set something strange in front of me and I stared at the waiter, dumbfounded.  I don't even remember what he called it.  But it comes prior to your soup and salad (which also has some sort of name to it, but again, I am not one of those who normally goes to the ball so I don't know the lingo).  Druck knows this stuff.  He dines elegantly with scientists from all over the world on a regular basis.  He knows what intermezzo is during a meal, for example.  So he explained to me what everything meant.  Snort.  And, while Druck and I dressed up in all of our finery and I even brought my evening gown (which I have had for about 13 years but have only worn 4 times), I decided not to wear it and instead decided to just wear a simple black dress with black beads, matching earrings and bracelet.  Druck looked dapper in his suit.  Neither one of us take good photos and Druck has been way overworked and incredibly stressed.  And he left his hair gel at home by mistake.  Gasp. But believe me when I tell you that the man is gorgeous.  Has the body of a 30 year old, a brilliant mind, incredible wit and humor - and dimples to die for.  Did I tell you how he left his hair gel at home?  DOUBLE GASP.

The great thing about being married to someone for almost 29 years is that you are so comfortable with each other that if a belch sneaks out unexpectedly, it's not like you have to worry that he's never going to call you again.  He doesn't even look up from his plate as you surprisedly hold the cloth napkin to your lips and glance around the room to see if anyone else noticed.  Thankfully, the chamber music must have been loud enough or perhaps the other patrons thought there was some calamity, like the dropping of a huge pan, in the kitchen, that it seemed ok.

We spent a lovely day Sunday soaking up beautiful weather and touring the Meijer Gardens.  This place is incredible.  We had been there once before but it has something like 180 acres of grounds that are lavishly overflowing with incredible botanicals of every kind.  I wanted to go again to see more. One of these days, I'll post photos from that.  Maybe.  Or I'll just move on to something else.

My sister-in-law was right when she told me that there's something about turning 50.  You realize that most of us have lived half of their lives and you realize how important it is to live the second half (or quarter or two-thirds) more wisely.  I want more time with my grandson.  I want quality time with my husband.  I want some things that are just not tangible.  And I aim to get it.

When I stood up and faced 50 head on, I realized that I have been with Druck longer than I have been without him.  It's not always been easy.  But he is the man I love.  He knows me.  I know him.  And he accepts me like no one else.  Because, hell people, I can finally admit that, at age 50, if this guy has stuck around all these years, he is a Saint.  Mostly because I am different than probably anyone he's ever known.  And perhaps that's why he's stayed with me.  He'll take the weird-ass crap from me just so he can experience the incredible things I bring to him every single day.  Because sometimes the things I bring to the table are worth a laugh or two and break up the monotony of everyday living.  Like the day I called him at work, all unnerved because I had been thinking about estate planning. "Dear?"  "Yes," he sighed.  "I was just thinking about the fact that we still have a mortgage on this house and what if something happens to both of us and our kids don't know what to do and they don't care and, well, you know, they probably wouldn't know or wouldn't care about the fact that if they didn't pay the mortgage, the house would be foreclosed on and the taxes have to be paid, you know, and I just think they'll lose the whole house.  What are we going to do about that?"

After a short sigh, a little pause and some agitated breathing, he said, "Who gives a shit.  We'll be dead.  We won't care.  They're on their own." "Oh, ok.  Right.  Thanks." I loosened my white-knuckled grip on the phone and he went on.  "Now you go run along and call me back when you think of something else to worry about."

Click.

Click.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Mid-Life

Druck and I are almost 50.  Does that tell anyone anything? For the last several years, I have been going through that pre-change of life thing.  Ups and downs, fatigue, mood swings, night sweats.  And for you male readers out there, sorry, but reading this might make you realize that while you always thought your wife's world revolved around you, it's not the case - at least not in my household anymore.  Because now your wife is dancing with a complete stranger called Man O'Pause and he's getting on her nerves.  Stepping on her toes. 

She didn't ask for this dance partner.  It's one of those things allegedly owing to Mother Nature.  And why is Mother Nature to blame for this?  When we live in a patriarchal society, worship a male God and male basketball teams (there is women's basketball too, by the way), why blame a woman for this?  It's always the woman's fault.  If something's going to go awry, blame the woman.  Blame the woman for getting thrown out of the Garden.  Blame the woman for not feeling so great because she's dealing with menstrual cramps.  Or she's got morning sickness when she's carrying your baby.  Or, zoinks, the pain of labor and delivery that would probably knock Mike Tyson out on the first contraction. 

OK, so I got a little off track here.  My point is that a woman's journey is a process.  Filled with lots of joy, love, happiness, beauty.  And hot flashes.  I mean, seriously, why hot flashes?  And why menopause?  It's a known scientific fact that most men can father children well into their 90s. Look at Larry King, for crying out loud. 

So men get to keep their hormones (at some level) and we don't.  Instead, we lose our estrogen levels, lose our progesterone levels, which causes loss of bone density, osteoporosis, and a variety of other things that I will not go into here because I like to still consider myself somewhat attractive despite the odds.  Why be a downer.

The reason I am writing this is that, despite the dificulties of this "process," I find some occasional humor in it.  Like the fact that I met a friend and her husband for breakfast the other morning and, during her conversation which I absolutely cannot remember because I was fantasizing about human flight, without the use of mechanics, I went into a major panic attack.  Finally, when she stopped talking, I excused myself and went to the ladies' room where a boy of about five was in one stall and his mother in the other.  "Mom!  Is someone in here?  Mom!  Are you still in here?!"  My fantasies changed from human flight to that of super human strength where I would rip that door off its hinges and shriek, "How many times does your mother have to tell you she's in here!  Can't you see her feet under the stall, you little idiot?"

And last night, when I was coloring my hair for the second time in two weeks, I realized that even though Druck is not going through menopause, he IS.  Because while I color my hair, he stains things and does all kinds of home improvements.  Last night he was staining the trim around the sliding glass door.  And, based on our conversations, it sounds like tonight he's going to be ripping out some ceiling and doing some rewiring. 

I color my hair.  Druck does home improvements as a way of keeping me in a state of heavy sedation.  Talking to your wife about home improvements and actually doing them can lull even a rabid woman to some level of normalcy.  Until that new dance partner dips her the wrong way or surprises her with a new step.  Then the fangs come out.  Or she colors her hair a different shade of brown.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Pillow Talk?

Last night I came walking into my bedroom, book in hand, and stopped dead in my tracks. Druck was laying across the bed with one of the decorative pillows from the living room rolled under him.  When I say rolled, it was folded almost in half, tucked and squashed.  For the male readers out there, you may not understand this issue, so let me make it very clear:  decorative pillows are not for your use.  They are not functional pillows.  They are not to be laid upon, sat upon, or used as lap desks.  They are there to accent a room, or a piece of furniture. 

When I froze in mid-step, he looked at me and said, "What?"

"What are you doing with that decorative pillow?" I squeaked, gingerly approaching the bed like a lion stalking its prey.

"I'm laying on it," he replied innocently, and went back to watching television.

"No.  You're not."  I took the pillow and gave it a yank.  After fluffing it and fixing its edges, I spoke again.  "How many times have I told you that these pillows are off limits for you? You have ruined more than one decorative pillow, so knock it off."

"I bought the pillow.  I can use it."

"NO.  YOU. CAN'T.  You have several other pillows available. Don't touch the decorative ones."

"Are you telling me I can't use this?"

"That's what I'm telling you."

Too tired to walk it back out to the living room, I set it on the floor, against the wall, and laid down beside him.  I opened my book, ignoring his icy stare.  After several seconds, he leaned in close to me and said, "The next time you're not around? I'm going to use that pillow."

I set my book down and said, "Oh yeah?  You wanna know what I'm gonna do the next time you're not around?  I'm gonna rub my bare ass all over your pillow.  The one you sleep on.  And put it back."  

---a pregnant pause. . . Please wait while your party is located as his mind digests what was just said------

And now, Druck finds words....

"Oh yeah?  The next time you're not around, I'm going to comb my ass with your toothbrush and put it back!  And then, when you're brushing your teeth and you're wondering what that smell is, just remember that it's NOT YOUR BREATH."

I set my book down, looked him squarely in the eye [through my own pregnant pause], and burst out laughing.  I laughed so hard that for some reason I found it necessary to point my left leg straight up in the air and arc my toes toward the ceiling.  It seemed to help oxygen flow better into my lungs. 

This morning, while readying for work, I walked into the bedroom and, before I even glanced his way, he yelled, "I'm not hurting the pillow!"  He was sitting on the bed, pillow on his lap and his laptop on the pillow.  And he was cowering.

"You don't take my threats seriously, do you?" I said, shaking my head.  "Just wait."

"You wait."

I returned to the bathroom and, before leaving, put my toothbrush where he would never look for it.  Because he, like all men, is afraid of "that box."  I opened the cupboard under the sink, and slipped my toothbrush into a box of tampons.  Being a woman is truly a powerful thing.

"You wait," he shrieked as I smiled and headed off to work.  

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Infidelity Unplugged

I was at another blog site recently where the topic was Jon and Kate Plus Eight (also now known as the "Gosselin Saga").  If you aren't aware of who they are, neither was I until their photos were splayed all over various Gossip magazines, which even the most innocent of bystanders can't help but see while waiting in the check-out line at the supermarket.  And, of course, while I was waiting for the cashier to quit droning on about her mole removal operation to the customer ahead of me, I picked up one of those magazines. 

So, recently, the topic came up as to Jon and Kate's impending divorce because Jon was unfaithful to Kate and, naturally, there are all kinds of rumors and gossip swirling around the media about who is to blame, and questions such as: what about the mistress?  For crying out loud, what about the kids????

Anyway, my take on this is that both parties are to blame - Jon and his mistress.  NOT Kate, the wife.  You don't decide to have a fling when you are married.  Sorry, people.  It isn't right and, while we sometimes get caught up in a moment, that moment passes and reality sets in.  I don't care what kind of person Kate is.  If there are troubles in your marriage, get counseling.  There are many alternatives to an affair. 

Years ago, I had a friend who had some young and beautiful children and, while her husband hadn't cheated on her, he relayed to her that he was attracted to another woman.  She didn't know what to do with this and thought about separation but, ultimately, she stayed with him and they worked out their problems.  Which is a rarity when such a thing occurs.  I, personally, wanted to take a mob to the house, pull him out of his bed in the middle of a nice dream about this "attractive" other woman and hang him from the rafters of their attic by his...well, you get the idea.

Anyway, the "other" woman in this case was a younger, childless waif and had never been married before.  I was angry at both the husband and the potential mistress.  Angry at him for thinking this younger girl wouldn't eventually ask him to take out the garbage, offer up his sperm and father more children, pay the bills and come home when expected to.  And angry at the candidate-for-other-woman for thinking she could just swoop in and charm another man away from his wife and their children - children who needed him.  Who did she think she was anyway? Mata Hari?  We all know what happened to her now, don't we?  Snort.

Some people simply feel it necessary to go through these romantic gyrations every so many years because they like the rush of a new relationship and all that it entails.  They imagine candlelit dinners, walks on the beach and passionate, wild, never-before-had sex.  They think that this time, they've found the "one," but sheesh, how many times are you going to go out seeking and then thinking you've found the one before you realize that the first one was the one to begin with!

When people are running around playing house with each other, throwing caution to the wind and dishes on the floor because they watched Bull Durham and think it'd be wonderful and  memorable to have sex on the kitchen table (very uncomfortable), they forget that, in a couple of years, such amorous states of mind and body wear off.  Sex on the table, or on the stairs or in the back of a car cause thrown-out backs and, when they finally wake up to this, they realize they haven't taken out the trash in a very long time and something stinks in here!

So, men, get over yourselves and your ideas of getting a younger, sleeker model.  She purrs real nice at first, but she needs maintenance just as much, or more, than your wife does.  She wants your time - a lot of it.  Your wife just wants you to take out the trash, do a few family things and just be there.  The other woman doesn't understand that your kid has a soccer game every weekend and a baseball game on Thursday nights.  Your wife just expects you to show up at the games.  She doesn't expect to be wined and dined.  She doesn't expect you to put gel in your hair or lose 15 pounds (don't even get me going on the gender bias there - I'll save that for another blog).

Mistresses, don't play in another woman's backyard.  Or you might just be mowed over by a taste of reality when the time comes and the divorce happens.  And then you'll be having her kids over on the weekends and be expected to entertain, cook and smile.  Because they are, after all, your lover's children.  And now, they are no longer normal rambunctious kids, they are out of control kids with emotional problems because their parents split up.

Finally, the same holds true for married women.  Don't go there. Rekindle romance with your own husband.  The one you made a commitment to love, honor and cherish and to remain faithful to.  After years of marriage, it would be a lie to say people aren't tempted to stray.  But it's what you do with your temptation that matters. 

Remember if you put half the energy back into your own marriage that you might be willing to put into sneaking around, you'd probably have a marriage that lasted a lifetime - filled with love, joy, children and .... yes, those wonderful grandchildren.  This is much better than running on empty and always looking over your shoulder and trying to cover your tracks.  Life is too short to be so nervous all the time. 

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma