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

Guest Author - Paloma Paz

I have often, over the years, asked for guest authors to add some variety to my blog.  Well, today, I am pleased to post a writing by my dear friend and author, Paloma Paz.  Thank you, Paloma, for your contribution to Liam's Grandma!!!  Comments welcome!

AN UNEXPECTED TRIP

BY PALOMA PAZ

I thought I was safe.  I spent more hours at work than I should have for the past four years.  The industry in which my employer operated was rapidly consolidating.  As an attorney, I spent a solid amount of time in those years on acquisition teams, buying companies as small as a single plant to and as large as being worth a few billion.  During this period, I averaged a twelve hour work day, nearly seven days a week, further compounded by a two hour round trip daily commute and an average of only five hours of sleep each night.  I loved the work, but wished there was less of it.  Perhaps slightly more than the work, I really, really loved watching my savings pile up.  Money had always been my cozy chenille comfort blanket.

I thought I was safe.  Yet my mind and my body began to protest at around the three year point.  I treated my family to a colossal crying jag after Thanksgiving dinner one year, got into a heated one-sided shouting match with my sister (you can guess who did most of the shouting), and angry snips seemed to spurt from my lips with a frequency close to the speed of light.  I put on twenty five pounds thanks to a regular high carb, higher chocolate diet in a vain attempt to create more energy to function.  I rarely exercised.  I wanted to quit my job.  My God, did I want to quit.  The job market has been particularly poor for attorneys, and I did not want to leave a job without having another one lined up.  I knew I couldn’t outright quit because then I would not be eligible for unemployment.  I had so few hours available to look for another position, but I searched whenever I could.  I felt trapped. 

I thought I was safe.  After one large major acquisition, a new CEO was hired.  With this change came along the various terminations and demotions of senior management as the new CEO made room for his team.  In the next months many changes were made in key management positions.  I figured that the law department was small enough and disconnected enough from key operations that no changes would be made.  My health continued to decline as I developed hives on my torso.  My doctors tested pretty much everything testable, but couldn’t find anything wrong.  The only logical conclusion I could come to was that I was beginning to morph into a cheetah with red instead of brown spots.  While this could have been alarming, I thought how delightful it would be to grow some serious fangs and outrun the wind.  No colleague would dare race to my office at 5:30 pm on a Friday with an “emergency” if I could flash my fangs. 

I thought I was safe.  As I continued to morph into an overweight, crabby cheetah, my life short circuited after being informed by my boss on a warm, sunny June day that due to management changes, my job was eliminated.

Holy crap. 

I was not safe.  I wish I could say that I gathered up my spotted cheetah pride, and with grace and elegance shook my boss’ hand and thanked her for the opportunity that she gave me.  After all, she was one of the most talented attorneys I knew and I gained many skills by having worked with her.  After a few moments of stunned silence I did indeed thank her for the opportunity…with tears streaming down my face and a nose full of snot. 

I was not safe.  I had been let go.  I, who had given far too much in four years, was let go.  I, who sacrificed health, time with family and friends, and happiness to ensure that every bit of work I touched was completed with excellence, was let go.   My company provided me with a severance package and good references.  For the first time in my adult life, I had no job.  I learned the hard way that excellence alone is not enough to safeguard my position.

I was not safe.  I grew up poor.  My parents had low wage jobs, and whenever one of them would lose a job, we would lose our home or car or be hungry.  In experiencing my family’s struggles through unemployment, I learned a simple mathematical equation: unemployment = very bad things will happen.  I educated myself with a vengeance, believing education to be a talisman protecting me from ever being worried about the origins of my next meal or whether my car would disappear into an adept repo man’s hands in the secrecy of night.  I never wanted the fears of homelessness and hunger that starred almost nightly in my childhood dreams to be my living reality as an adult.  I thought I had protected myself with the fool-proof solution of education.—I got a doctorate for goodness sake.  But no.  A bloody, stinking, expensive doctorate cannot guarantee employment.  So much for that plan.  [Yes, I think I hear post docs, new PhD’s, and scads of unemployed lawyers from around the world belly laughing at my naivety between guffaws and snorts right about now…].

I was not safe.  Despite the severance package , excellent saving and investing habits, and the fact that my husband remained employed, I spent the first few weeks of my unemployment waiting for the horror that I knew would come.  Day in and day out I was expecting…well, I’m not sure what I was expecting other than a terror I could not foresee.  I became a robot of money conservation to fortify myself against the unknown.  Not a single penny could be spent that was not required by urgent necessity.  I constantly unplugged everything that wasn’t being used, including the microwave, coffee pot, and the washer and dryer.  No, I justified to myself, I wasn’t going off the deep end.  We should be conserving energy anyway; it’s better for the environment.  My poor husband was less than enthusiastic about my implementation of new economic sanctions, but thankfully he cut me some slack and let my fear run its course.

Maybe I am safe.  More than two months had elapsed and nothing bad had happened.  No repo man made off with my Chevy.  The bank did not throw us out of our house.  We did not starve.  We did start buying meat only on sale and watching the weekly ads closely.  The use of coupons is now so engrained a habit that it might be built into my genetic code.  Instead of uncorking a wine bottle, we usually pour from a box.  On the rare occasion when a bottle is uncorked, I find myself savoring it and paying more attention to the bouquet, the feel of the wine in my mouth and the flavors as they flow over my tongue.   We don’t eat out.  We brown bag lunches, and I am building confidence as I try cooking in earnest for the first time ever.  The only thing better than the cost effectiveness of cooking is the improved nutritional value and taste of the meals we eat.

Maybe I am safe.  I have caught up on much needed sleep.  I am spending more time with my husband enjoying simple pleasures, like fires in the fireplace, listening to a much loved (and dust covered) CD or watching a favorite movie for the gigamillionth time.  I am having lunch and coffee with friends, and I am touched to find that not a single one of them would allow me to pay.  I lost my status as an aspiring cheetah when my hives disappeared.  I started to exercise again.  I am writing again.  I must admit to myself that being unemployed has been less stressful than staying in a job that was too much for me.  I never thought this would be true for me.

Maybe I am safe.  It took a long mental and soulful journey for me to admit to myself that I cannot be an eighty hour a week, high charging executive, that my body and my soul have limitations on what and for how long I will be allowed to work.  Since I was a girl and understood that I was my own best advocate, and ambition led me to climb the professional world higher than I thought possible.  Yet I came to realize that all ambition does not have to be plowed into hitting the corporate jackpot.  I can be ambitious to have a more balanced career, time for important people in my life, time to exercise, and time to write.  For me, ambition is no longer the ability to get a job with a glorious title and spectacular paycheck.  Now ambition is having the courage to choose my life’s course by understanding what I want, and mustering the courage to decline opportunities that are not what I want.

Maybe I am safe.  As if to test my new understanding of the role of ambition in my life, I received the opportunity to take almost the same job as the one I lost, in the same industry in another city, with the ability to move into the senior vice president role.  The salary was spectacular and the cost of living in the area was so low that the pay would have been a considerable raise.  I wasn’t tempted to take it.  I thought it would be hard to pass on the offer.  I thought it would be the employment equivalent of passing on a lifetime supply of Godiva champagne truffles.  It wasn’t.  I kindly and calmly thanked the HR Director for considering me, but I decided to move in another direction.  No fireworks hailed my bravery, no heavenly chorus applauded me for vanquishing my unhealthy yearning for the big corporate executive life.  It was a simple, peaceful “no” that flowed as gently as a hidden brook.  I felt good about the decision, and I was glad that I could make a decision that put the interests I identified as being important to me above the interest I merely thought or was compelled to think was important to me.

Maybe I am safe.  I understand that while unemployment can be a frightening thing, it isn’t an automatic financial and emotional death sentence.  For me it has become a welcome opportunity to identify the myths that have been ruling my life and leading to overwork and unhappiness.  I needed the downtime to think and evaluate my satisfaction with my life and its direction; for four years I cut this side of myself out of the picture.  I understand how unhealthy this was for me to do, and I earnestly apologize to myself for being neglectful.  I resolve to not have this lapse in judgment again.

There is no guarantee that the outcome of my journey to find the right job for me will be a happy one.  There is no guarantee that we will keep our home or that we will have good credit.  There is no guarantee that our savings will last.  But for today, I know what I want my life to look like, and I have a wonderful spouse and family and friends to share it.  Today I have a roof over my head, lights and heat, food to eat, and two very cuddly cats who think it’s about time I stopped the work nonsense and devote much, much more time to them.  I have a cup of tea in my hand, words flowing from my fingers and acceptance of the unknown.  I am safe.

Copyright 2012 Paloma Paz

 

Life

Sometimes life is a breeze and we sail on it like a bird, wings spread, feeling the lift as the air pulls us up, up, and up; or the way a leaf must feel as the wind plucks it from a tree, swirling, dipping, rising - wildly out of control - feeling the crisp breeze against its unfurled points, not caring where the wind takes it or where it may land, but only enjoying that moment with the breeze.

Other times, life is a wind storm, threatening to crush us against whatever it can smatter us to as it mercilessly works and doesn't give up, almost as a wildly out of control lover beats his wife, girlfriend, significant other, and doesn't know when to stop.  The storm's victim, whilst in the throes of the battering rain and howling wind, is uncertain whether he/she will live or die, for life - or death - is in the hands of the powerful storm.  Or so one thinks.

When things get rough in your life, it's ok to roll up for awhile.  It's ok to sit in a comfy chair in a fetal position and stare blankly at the wall.  During such times, the greatest thoughts are borne.  Ideas, new promises, new resolves, and, eventually, the ability to say, "I have got to get out of this chair."  And, somehow, you do.

 Copyright 2011 liamsgrandma

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright 2011 liamsgrandma

Thoughts on Life and Beyond

Last week, I was a bit freaked out about a prominent vein that seemed to suddenly appear in the lower part of my calf.  I told my husband to look at it...now.  "Look at that!  What is that?  It's making me sick.  What is that?  It's disgusting!  I feel like I'm going to throw up!" 

"Well then stop looking at it!" he yelled. 

Since I turned 50, something happened to me.  I have become neurotic about things like bulbous veins, receding gums, hair color, excess cortisol, and whether or not my green eyes will turn brown (my grandmother told me this one:  one day, yes, one day after I turn 50 and have no hopes [say what?], those lovely green eyes will turn brown because that's what they do when they lose their lustre...and my mother added, "No, mom, it's because she'll be so full of shit by then that..." Oh how I love my family...may God rest your sweet souls, mom and grandma). 

But there are positive sides to being over-the-hill, middle-aged, past prime and having, as grandma said, no hopes.  My spiritual side seems to be growing and I am becoming more curious, investigative and ponderous about getting it right this time around.  I have been trying to meditate more, pray more, seek more and worry less.  Key word here is, "trying." 

Part of my worry is that if I don't get it right, when I finally buy the farm and cross over onto the next plane, "they" are going to drop kick me back into some Godforsaken place, screaming, "Do it again!  And don't come back until you get it right!"  [sound of door slamming].

Let me tell you:  I do not want to come back to planet Earth.  I can barely take it right now. 

I recently read the book, "Many Lives, Many Masters," by Brian Weiss, at the suggestion of a dear friend.  We talked about the book just after the death of her sister, Alison, who also was, is, and has been, a dear friend of mine for over 30 years. 

When Lauren suggested the book, I was unsure.  A bit skeptical.  A bit hopeful.  And more than a little frightened.  The book, however, was a major page turner and it answered many questions I've had about life, death, and beyond.  Whether the book is accurate, or believable, is up to the reader and his or her own belief system.  It convinced me of many things, not the least of which was that my dreams about Alison were real.  That she really did have something to say to me and that, perhaps, I hadn't created it on my own; rather, Alison had done the creating.

When her brother spoke at Alison's funeral, he said, "I speak at this point for Alison:  'You don't have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body.'" 

These past few weeks since her death, that message has continually come back to me in various forms.  Recently, an older book mixed in with newer bestsellers at Border's Books stood out on the rack.  I picked it up and, having heard of it before but never really knowing what it was about, I began flipping through its pages.  It began to make sense to me.  Someone was trying to tell me something. It was a fiction novel about the soul. 

Later that evening, staring at the veins that had somehow gone back to their rightful place (although I was keeping a watchful eye, just in case...), I wondered about various thoughts, dreams, ideas.  There is no coincidence, someone told me not long ago. 

And then, a movie that my husband and I watched (and he had chosen without my knowledge of the movie until he had popped it in and pressed play) grabbed me and brought those thoughts to the forefront again.  Never mind the fact that the movie was a strange comedy.  But, its theme encompassed spirituality, living, dying, being born again.  I thought about it for days afterward.

The other morning, while pondering the twist of my right index finger and wondering why in the hell I have such ugly feet, I decided that there are messages all around us.  Everyday.  And there are answers.  But because of our own fears and because of strict teachings, we have been fearful to think about other possibilities - such as everlasting life beyond what catechism taught us. 

And then...I saw her last night in a dream.  She told me something.  Nothing special.  At least not that I am aware of, but something.  I sat with her, bathed in light, and it made me smile to see her teeth glint and sparkle as she smiled back at me.  It was then that, without words, she spoke again, and I knew she was all right.  She was where she wanted to be. 

Unfortunately, when I woke this morning, the prominent vein was back again,  I was still 50, and those many stressors currently going on in my life sprang back to the front of the lineup of things going on in my head.  Despite all of that, I've learned to be grateful for dreams and for the comfort they can provide, grateful for people we love, for people who teach us lessons, for karma (or, as my dad would say, "God'll get him for that"), for trusting my instincts, and for loving unconditionally, even when I sometimes want to throw in the towel and isolate myself from the rest of the world.

Having continued to grow spiritually and learn more and more, like a snowball rolls down a mountain on a moist snowy day, getting ever bigger, I have one major neurotic fear at this point.  That my vehement exclamations over the years stating, "In my next life, I'm gonna be a nun!!!", may just come true.  I need to start meditating on that one.  NOW.

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

Dress Rehearsal and Zumba

I know, I know - I haven't posted in quite some time.  Having a blog is like having a relationship.  When I came here to write, the main page looked at me blankly as if to say, "Where the hell have you been?"  It's a love affair, this writing thing, and I have deeply neglected it.  But, to answer its question, I've been right here, working my day job, caring for my grandchild and trying to maintain some semblance of sanity.  Which brings me to Zumba.

Last week, I had a real taste of what hell is like when I agreed to join my neighbor at a Zumba class.  "It's really tough," she'd said.  "But it's so much fun.  You work off your frustrations, do dance moves and the pace is fast."  Fun?  Dance?  Fast-paced?  Sounded like a piece of Heaven to me.  So I said, "Sure." 

And I was more than ready for it by the time Nancy pulled into the driveway to haul me off for my reprogramming.  She'd said she was picking me up at 6:45.  But, by 6:30, all hell broke loose around here.  I had to make more pasta for the dish I'd prepared for dinner because I realized I hadn't made enough fettucine.  I rushed to refill the pan and figured out the timing as I raced to set a chair in the laundry room for General Liam, who was demanding he have a moment alone with the washing machine.  In this house, the best way to entertain our little two year old is to set a chair in the laundry room and let him talk away to his stuffed cow as he explains the intricacies of a washer's agitator and the sounds a machine makes when it is actually on.  Meanwhile, my daughter was repeatedly asking whether I had found a needle and thread so that she could attempt to hem her pants.  The pasta had to be stirred, Nancy was in the driveway, and I ran out the door without any shoes (AFTER dumping the pasta, of course.  There's another separate story about forgetting that somewhere around here, down about the third paragraph). 

Looking at my feet and back at Nancy, I stopped and put my hand up as she nodded while I ran back inside to grab my sneakers, hug Liam again and rush back out the door.  As Nancy backed out of the driveway, I put on my shoes and she calmly said, "Where's your mat?"  "Oh God," I replied.  "If I have to go back into that house..."  "I have an extra one," she announced and pulled into her driveway.  Thankfully, Nancy lives right across the street. 

As it turned out, I forgot my water but I insisted that I was not going back for it and told her to just go.  We were a minute late and they had already started.  We dropped our mats, weights and purses and ran out to the floor.  The mats and weights are used at the end of class. 

Let me just say that this thing called Zumba is hell in disguise.  Created by Satan, sponsored by demons and taught by sadists.  Basically, it is some sort of exercise/dance class with all the trappings of a murder/suicide.  The instructor moves at the speed of light with dance moves I've never seen, let alone done, and I'm supposed to follow and keep up? 

During class, I was always at least five moves behind everyone else and more than once I caught myself facing a completely different way than the rest of the class.  Looking over my shoulder, they'd be facing the instructor and doing something completely different than the dusting-off-the-negativity-from-my-shoulder-and-wiggle-my-hips move I was doing a nanosecond ago.  And, not surprisingly, the teacher made a comment that went something like this:  "Are there some people here who have never done this before?"  No, of course not.  I have always had a burning desire to make a fool of myself. 

By the time we got to the "mat and weights" part of the class, I was fantasizing about a speedy death and that dying on the floor of a middle school wouldn't be so bad.  I realized I could no longer speak coherently and the sweat was saturating my "Peace" t-shirt.  I later commented to Druck that this surprised me since I have never been much of a sweater.  "No, you  haven't," he agreed.  "You're more of a cardigan."

So when we went to get the weights and mats, I turned to Nancy and said, "Great!  Meights and wats!"  She said, "What?"  I said, "Neights and mats!"  Then.... "Mever Nind."  I took several deep breaths and pressed on.

After coming home, taking my shower and readying for bed in an old, yet still alluring t-shirt and fashionable capri sweats and, having stood at the road and talked to two neighbors for a minute whilst I pulled in Liam's big wheels and red ball, I came inside and looked in the mirror to notice that my t-shirt was on inside-out and my sweats were on backwards. 

Which brings me to the various wardrobe mishaps I've had over the years.  I'd love to hear some of yours in the comments section.  Here's just a very small sampling of things that have happened over the years to me.  Can anyone relate?

Working in a large law firm in Rochester, NY, and being the mother of two young children did not mix very well.  I had to get out of there by 5 pm.  But working in the litigation department all but screams 6 or 7 pm, at the earliest.  Being a fabulous multi-tasker (you have no idea what I have going on behind the scenes right now as I type this and jump up and come back again to type some more), I always managed to do it. 

One day, I had donned my brand new wrap-around skirt (remember those?).  It was a lovely shade of brown and came just below the knee.  I wore my high-heeled Candies and Ruth L. told me I had Barbie doll legs when I wore those shoes (kisses to Ruth).  As I raced down the hall to the copy machine with a monstrous file, I heard a very loud TWHAP!  Conscious of the time, I kept running - until the horror came to me.  My lovely wrap-around skirt had unwrapped and was laying about 5 offices down the hall in the middle of the floor.  Thankfully, I had the wherewithal to put on a slip that morning because, many days, I just went without.  Nowadays, no one wears a slip unless what they have on is totally see-through (then again...).

I stood there for a moment, in my slip, blinking at the sight in front of me and set the file down.  As I stood there, Doug F. (who I worked for), stuck his head out of his office door, looked down at the skirt, back up at me, broke into a huge smile, shook his head and closed his office door. 

Fast forward a few more years to Syracuse, NY.  I usually had to get ready for work in the dark because if I didn't dress before the little ones woke up, I might truly go to work with just a slip (not consciously).  That day, I wore a black shoe and a blue shoe to work (Hi, Eric).

Jump ahead to Boston, MA.  While working as a litigation paralegal, I needed to go pick up a very large file that was at the court house.  I had to make copies of the file and bring it back.  No one told me it was as large as it was.  It packed two huge accordion files (called red ropes in law firms).  I had that same old half-slip on, mind you, but by now, the elastic around the waist was all stretched out (having worn it through pregnancies and allowing my kids to wear it and tie it around their little shoulders, etc.), so I tucked it into my underwear to keep it on.  Now, I realize that many of you would be saying, "Why didn't you just go buy a new slip?"  Working full-time in Boston, with two small children and a commute time to and from work every day of one hour each way is why!  By the time I'd get home at night, cook them a good dinner, help with homework, supervise showers, then sit and have a snack with them and a story and, oh yes, the Cosby Show, I was too tired to go shopping for a freaking slip.

Anyway, there I was, in Government Center, walking down the steps of the court house when, suddenly, I felt my slip coming loose.  It was inching its way down my legs.  I couldn't pull it up because I was carrying two monstrous files.  Instead, I bent over, pressing the files against me to hold up my slip, and hobbled into the nearest public facility - Avis Rent-A-Car - where two young women were standing behind the counter, all smiles.  Until they saw me.  "May I help you?"  One young woman asked.  Frantic, I replied, "May I please come behind the counter?"  "What?" Her face became pale and fearful. 

I was in such a panic, I blurted out, "My slip is falling off, I have these two huge files and I just can't go on like this.  I'll buy a new slip this weekend, I promise.  But for now, can I please come back there?"

"Why don't you just use the Ladies' Room," the other one piped in and, with a wave of her hand, directed me to it. 

"Oh, wow.  Thank you," I said, setting the files down on the floor and walking to the restroom.

There's another story about that slip here.

A couple of years later, I was managing a law firm on Berkley Street in Boston.  Now, believe me, there have been times when someone has outright called me GLAMOROUS.  And, believe me again when I say that I have spent YEARS trying to analyze that.  Because I have never seen myself as glamorous. 

One morning, I was racing around the house, packing lunches, making sure I had the right color shoes on, and I zipped down to the basement to pull out, yes, a CARDIGAN, not a sweater, per se, but a cardigan from the dryer.  It was, indeed, a sweater that could survive a washer and dryer because I am not one who likes going to the dry cleaners - it's just another thing to do.  So I threw on the cardigan, kissed the kids good-bye ( husband took them to school), and raced off to catch my bus and then two trains to get to work.

As I stood in the office kitchen, breathless and patting myself on the back for another small feat accomplished (i.e., getting to work on time), the managing partner walked in as I poured myself a cup of coffee.  I croaked a weak good morning and felt a little nibble at my back.  I froze as I heard it.  The static electricity sound and the tugging on my back gave it away.  I turned slowly to see him holding up a very long, very white sweat sock.  "Is this yours?" he smiled.  "No, it isn't," I said, grabbing it, thanking him and scampering off to my office.  

And, finally, although certainly not the last of the wardrobe faux pas's, came the time when I wore a very big blousey blouse to the same office as the sweat sock debacle.  As an aside, my mother had given me this huge colorful blouse, which I normally wouldn't wear, but since she gave it to me, I felt obligated.  The problem with it was that my little 34B size did not in any way, shape, or form, fill that thing out.  So, I did what any other normal woman would do and I stuck a shoulder pad in each bra cup to help fill out the blouse. 

That afternoon, as I was standing in the doorway of Bill C.'s  office, talking to him and Ann F. about some important matter, Ann slowly walked over to me and gave a confused look.  "What?" I said.  She reached over and plucked something from the collar area of my blouse.  "This yours?" she said, and handed me a shoulder pad.

I cleared my throat and, thinking fast, said, "Why yes.  It's a shoulder pad.  It must've come loose." 

"But there isn't one on the other side," Ann noticed.  "Where's that one?"  She and Bill looked from one of my shoulders to the other and back again.

"I have no idea," I replied, before saying a quick "Excuse me," and hustled back to my office, closed the door and removed the other shoulder pad.

Some of us are put on this earth to build bridges, canals, run countries and negotiate huge, impactful contracts.  Others are placed here as relief pitchers - as in "comedy relief."  It took me years to understand my purpose in life, and now that I have figured it out, I don't care if I put my underwear on backwards or wear two different colored shoes.  I don't care if, while I'm talking to my grandson and opening a bottle of sparkling water at the same time, I shake it up because I forget and think I'm shaking up a little milkshake for him and, when I open the bottle, it sprays all over the two of us.  It took me years to be ok with these kinds of things.  It took me years to say, "Listen, you'll never be glamorous (at least in my mind), you'll never be a physicist, and, even though you can beat the best of them at a political debate, you'll never ever be President."  I'm ok with that. 

Meanwhile, I signed up for seven more weeks of Zumba.  Stay tuned.

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma

Bree

Being a writer, or one who loves to write, I have always been observant of my surroundings.  When others notice a lovely flower, I like to stop and study its stamens and the grains of its petal, the hue and tone of color and its overall health.  Because sometimes it'll come back to me when I'm writing about the color of a young girl's skin and those petals are absolutely IT.  Or the green I see in a young tree's leaves is the green I use to describe the hero's eyes. 

But it's not just colors I observe - it's mannerisms, it's speech inflections, it's phrases, comments, jokes and words.  I observe the way two people interact with each other, and I contemplate and watch one person observing another and their reaction (or lack thereof).

I was getting my hair trimmed a couple of weeks ago and my hairdresser told me about a friend of hers she knew back in Russia long before my hairdresser moved to the US.  The four words that she told me this other woman said to a cab driver grabbed me, and I realized that those four words belonged in the interaction between my heroine and her future lover in the novel I am writing.  But not only did those words find a spot within my writing, I created an entire separate character around those four words.  For some reason, she's a fiery redhead with porcelain skin, and eyes the size of saucers.  She is not the heroine in the story; instead, she is an antagonist.  While my hairdresser relayed details of that evening so many years ago, a new character was created - one who I never knew would exist until that moment. 

And that, dear friends, brings me to Dunkin' Donuts.  Why, you ask?  I have no idea.  But it's my blog and I'll traverse the random thoughts of my mind and throw it down on paper (or computer) however I like.

I go to Dunkin' Donuts 3-4 times per week for a small iced coffee, with cream and just a smidge of sugar.  It's my only treat.  And I don't sip it through the straw - I slurp it right from the rim and occasionally grab an ice cube between my lips and crunch it up in sheer icy enjoyment. 

There is a young girl who works there, possibly around 20-22 years old.  She's been there for over a year now.  She is petite, pale and quiet.  Her mousy hair is pulled back under a cap and she avoids eye contact.  Her arm has a long scar on it and her attempts at trying to hide it tell me she did it to herself. 

Despite her quiet demeanor, she works confidently, knows the job well, and treats the customers with respect.  She is a hard worker and is loyal.  I know this because she is always there and they can count on her. 

Being a person who loves interacting with others and creating my own stories around those interactions, I always smile at the girl and ask how she is today.  She rarely smiles back, but shyly and briefly makes eye contact with me and says that she is "good." 

I created a bit of my own story around this girl whose name I do not know, but who I have given the name, Bree.

About a month ago, I walked into Dunkin' Donuts to get my usual.  In fact, most of the employees already know, when they see me, what I'm there for.  They smile and call it out before one of their co-workers can, and I giggle and nod my head as I approach the counter. 

Bree was on the register and, as I took the iced coffee from Krishna, and set it down on the counter to pull out my money, Bree spoke.  "I really like your earrings," she said.  A jolt of adrenalin shot through my body and I kept my eyes lowered for a second before meeting her eyes and said, "I beg your pardon?"  "I really like your earrings."  She smiled back at me.

I raised my fingertips to my earlobes and realized what I was wearing.  "Well, thank you.  I get so many compliments on these earrings.  My sister-in-law, Janet, made them for me for Christmas this past year.  Aren't they fabulous?"  She nodded in quiet agreement. 

I left that day and went home to email Janet a request for another pair of those earrings for Bree.  Next time I'm in New York and see Janet, I know they'll be ready and I'll hardly be able to contain my excitement until I get back home to race up to Dunkin' Donuts and give them to Bree. 

We hear that a smile is contagious.  We read those email requests to smile at one person - just one today - because you may change a life.  I don't know Bree's story, but the one I have created in my mind is a difficult one; one that has taken several turns, and has had many ups and downs. 

I may never know anymore about Bree, and she may never know me anymore than being the woman who looks intently into those eyes and asks her how she is today.   When I give her the earrings, she may just put them in a drawer.  She may be too shy to wear them.  Or, she may take them out many times, turn them in her hands, and put them back again.  But maybe one Friday evening, she'll put them on and go out, feeling beautiful - just like I do when I wear mine.  And I hope when she does, she'll know she is special and is worth feeling beautiful. 

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

I Have a New Friend

As many of you know, I enjoy making soap.  The feel of homemade soap on my skin is luxurious and it does more than just clean me and make me smell good.  Did you know that while our skin needs to be cleansed, it also needs to keep its own oils to maintain good health, and that most commercial soaps wash away most of those good, essential oils?

Healthy skin receives a regular flow of something called sebum.  Sebum is an oily substance secreted from our sebaceous (skin) glands.  It helps to keep the skin from drying out and, basically, waterproofs our skin.  We need this stuff to keep our skin healthy and to allow our skin to "breathe." 

An excess of sebum causes natural bacteria formation and creates the odor associated with not bathing, and the oily hair associated with not shampooing.  Between washings, sebum lubricates and softens our skin, trapping bacteria for us until we wash it away with soap. 

Commercial soaps are bad, bad, bad for our skin.  First, most commercial soaps have had the natural glycerin removed - an essential ingredient in maintaining our skin's good health.  They take out all of that fabulous glycerin and use it in other products - mostly cosmetics.  Their soap leaves a film on the skin that doesn't allow skin to breathe and it traps bacteria between the skin and that film.  Don't be fooled by commercial companies, with great marketing and packaging, who tout their wondrous soaps for your skin.  It isn't true.  On the other hand, natural soaps have all of their glycerin intact and they don't add things such as damaging preservatives or low-grade coloring.

So what does this have to do with my friend?  Well, be patient and let me tell you.  

I am on a few soap messaging lists where I go to commiserate my bad batches and celebrate my great ones with others who love to make soap.  We pose our questions there, we post pictures of our successes (and failures) and we learn from each other.

Recently, when I posted a photo of what I thought was going to be a very bad batch and was lamenting...as in what in the hell did I do wrong this time????...I got two things out of it.  First, I learned that my batch of soap was fine - the vanilla turns the soap brown.  Which I knew.  But when I sliced it, it was only brown on the outer edges, not the inside.  I learned that this is a process and, eventually, the entire bar would be brown.  It was true!  Live and learn.  That batch is finally ready and I have some very small samples (I made a small batch because I changed my recipe and wanted to be sure it'd work).  The fragrance, Vanilla Sandalwood, is heavenly.  If anyone would like me to send them a free sample, please email me privately.

The second thing I got out of this message board is meeting Colleen. After my hysterics over my Vanilla Sandalwood and then the elation of finding out it was fine, she emailed me to say she saw that I live in the same city as she does and would I like to get together for coffee to talk SOAP.  As always, I am cautious when any unknown (and even sometimes known) person contacts me out of the blue on the internet.  We emailed back and forth a bit and I decided that meeting her would be fun.  

We met at a local coffee shop, each of us bringing samples of our soaps.  When Colleen first walked in, she knew I was the one she was looking for.  She saw my soaps on the table and walked right up.  We began talking and, after awhile, she said, "I gotta ask you.  Are you eccentric?"  I felt a rush of adrenalin as panic set in I and wondered what was it that I might have said in just those few minutes or, was it, perhaps, my attire, that gave it away?  I swallowed hard and croaked a weak, "Yeah." 

I studied her eyes and wondered if I was going to be relegated back to making soap by myself when she blurted out, "I knew it!  We're all eccentric!  Anyone who makes soap has to be a little crazy!"  I relaxed, smiled and nodded in agreement as we continued on about our soaps, our recipes, fragrances, swirling soap, layering, and about the woman the next town over who is selling her own soaps, hand-over-fist, and they are exquisite!  Before we knew it, two hours had passed and it wasn't enough time to talk SOAP.

About a week later, I went over to Colleen's house for what my husband called a "playdate."  I brought all of my soapmaking supplies with me in a big box.  Colleen said we could use her molds, her pots, thermometers and scale.  Which was very kind, because soapmaking is messy.  And the cleanup is no fun.  

Upon my arrival, we went into her den and sat, cross-legged, on the floor, staring at her computer (which was also on the floor and which made me realize even more that she and I would become great friends) while we calculated our recipe in grams.  We went back and forth a bit and each of us finally came up with a good mix of oils.  The soap calculator provides information, based on what we want to put into our soap, as to how hard, bubbly, creamy and cleansing our bars will be.

We finished our calculations and, after saying hello to her seemingly catatonic dog, Brody, we left him upstairs, sitting against the wall and staring at the other wall, while we ventured into the basement.  There we measured our oils and lye. 

We returned upstairs and, I told my husband afterward, that was the most fun I'd had in a long time.  We talked non-stop, sometimes talking at the same time and I could've sworn she must have been a part of my family in a previous life or something, because I felt like I had known her for years.

Getting old is no fun.  It's hard to meet new people and even more difficult to find things to do.  I'm not a jock, I can't knit, I can't dance (even though I love to), I can't swim.  The only thing I think I can really do is cook well, write mediocre, and make soap so-so.  But I'm getting better at the soap and it's great to have a friend to bounce ideas off of. 

Colleen and I are getting together with her friend, Ann (another soap addict), one evening this week.  We are going to try to swirl again - at least I am.  The batch I tried to swirl at Colleen's house didn't swirl.  It just laid on top of the soap.  So I have all of these fabulously smelling rose-scented bars of soap that look like a train wreck.  I'll use them anyway, but I'm going to get it right the next time we are together.  I think there's a saying that goes something like, "Don't cry over unswirled soap...."  

Meanwhile, if you'd like a small sample of my Vanilla Sandalwood, email me at:  [email protected]

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma