Liam's Grandma or Maggie in Real Life

As the World Turns -or- as the Hor Mones

I am in a state of sheer craziness.  My hormones are all out of whack and, yesterday, I was sitting in the freaking public library at dinner time because I didn't want to go home.  "So," you say, "this is your idea of a fun getaway?"  Sorry.  It's better than going to the nearest bar and ordering a double scotch on the rocks and sitting there by myself while some TV drones above the glass mirror that hasn't been washed since the Red Wings won the trophy, and I gag on second-hand smoke blown in my face by some guy named Hal wearing a grimy Carhart who thinks this is finally his night. 

"Well, why weren't you going home?" (you say).  BECAUSE.  Because I have been in a fragile state of mind all week.  A state of mind that says, I just want some time - time to sit and stare at the wall, or to sit and read some unintelligent writing or to do whatever it is that I want to do.  I don't want to come home to people who don't live here anymore, who are milling around the kitchen, making themselves protein shakes, looking through cupboards, and rifling through my mail while I am trying to squeeze my way to the stove to make something that resembles a dinner.  All the while suppressing my state of mind and wearing that fake smile I learned while watching The Brady Bunch  during my childhood.  At least Carol Brady taught me something, for crying out loud!

Quite honestly, I thought I had this mood thing under wraps.  The Carol Brady smile, the Harriet Nelson helpfulness, the Livvy Walton mannerisms.  But when I went in to go to bed the other night, the sight before my eyes told me another truth.  I walked into the bedroom to find my husband on his side of the bed, curled up in a fetal position, wearing a bicycle helmut and spooning his Louisville Slugger. I can't be sure, but I think he was pretending to be asleep.  Smart man.

In case you haven't guessed (because maybe you are a MAN reading this and don't know the first thing about women and what we want, what we need and what makes us tick even though we've been telling you since at least the early 1960's), I am in between the PMS part of my life and the post-PMS part of life, better known as menopause. I didn't say I was menopausal.  I am in between those areas which I guess makes me a 'tween.  And the only way I can describe it was how I described it on Facebook recently that I am standing on the ledge of a very high building, holding a meat cleaver and six feet of beaded something or other I found on the way up here, ready to take out the pigeon standing next to me who apparently also had a very bad day and is sharing the same ledge and I'm looking back and forth between the meat cleaver and the beads trying to decide whether to hack him to death or strangle him.  The pigeon, of course, can be used as any metaphor you'd like.  I'm not giving any names.

Meanwhile, after returning home from the library, I found even more people here, people who were making iced tea, peanut butter sandwiches and filling up the sink with dirty dishes, at which point I turned to my husband and said, "I'm outta here," and left again, this time going to Macy's and almost buying (key word:  almost) this bracelet (poor quality of photo due to taking photo with my phone).  I carried it around for a good 15 minutes, fondled it, ogled it and imagined what clothes it would go with.  And then I put it back. During that time, my  husband texted me three times asking if I wanted to go out and get a bite to eat whereupon on the third text, I thought I'd better let him know I was still alive, as was everyone else within arm's reach of me, and we met for dinner. 

Returning home for the final time, I found that one of my children had cleaned up the kitchen without being asked or guilted into it, and had left without a trace.  At 9:45 pm, I finally found some peace - until they come back at around dinner time again tomorrow evening.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Random Thoughts or Just Plain Crazy

How often are you standing in line at the supermarket and, because you have nothing else to do but think how much better a slow, tortuous death would be than this, and having written out your list, shopped, and now you have to wait in line while the cashier is holding everything up so the person three people ahead of you can run back to get the Tuscan cantaloupe she suggested rather than the regular cantaloupe because someone told the cashier the Tuscan was sweeter and maybe the customer should put this regular one back and buy the Tuscan because it just so happens to also be on sale. And, because you are too far back in the line to wriggle your way up and grab a dog-eared magazine to browse, you have nothing else to do but stand there and THINK. 

I never realized how many random thoughts go in and out of my head within a span of minutes and how they all seem to link together to make this great big psychotropic hallucination that probably is a self-preservationist type of thing one does when one is standing in a line for so long that she finds herself bordering on the brink of insanity, suicide, or both. 

So I decided to write down as many thoughts as I could remember, which might do a person like me or you or anyone who thinks they are fairly normal, a bit of good.  Because then you'd realize that we are all as whacky as the next person and that if anyone knew the thoughts going through your head at any given time, they would surely commit you.  And please don't tell me you don't do this.  Because if that happens, I'm calling 911.  So here they are, some of my thoughts while in line:

"I gotta figure out a better way.  This is crazy standing in line this long while she lollygags up there, showing the lady in blue her new watch when there's a line a mile long.  Wait a minute.  That sounded mean.  Be patient.  It's a virtue.  But there just has to be a better way around this.  I think I read there are services for this.  But I think it's something like 15% of the grocery bill.  OMG, it'd be way worth it.  Fifteen percent????  Wait a minute.  That's not right.  Crap.  Look at my nails.  This is why I don't like to polish them.  They look good for, what, all of 3 hours?  Wait a minute. I don't think I have any nail polish remover at home.  OMG.  I'll have to stop at the drug store and get some.  I can't walk around with peeling nails.  I'll look like I'm back in junior high.  And of all times to be a renegade and choose fire engine red.  My toe hurts.  Why is it that everyone else can wear shoes like this and I can't?  Maybe they have the same problem.  Look at that guy over there.  I think he's the store manager.  What. A. Ladies' Man.  Jerk.  Swishing his head this way and that.  Like we're all looking at him.  He's acting so sure of himself.  He's like a horrible accident.  You can't look away.  Making such a fool of himself.  Stop looking at him.  I can't wait to get out of here.  I wonder what would happen if someone came in here right now and tried to hold this place up and steal grandma's ring off my finger.  What would I do?  Of course, as soon as the gunman walked in, I'd slip it off and shove it down my bra.  Why don't women think of this on TV or in the movies when they're all laying on the floor and the gunman is snatching expensive watches, rings and necklaces?  I'd slip this sucker off so fast they'd never know.  Wait a minute.  The ring wouldn't even stay in my bra.  Who are you trying to kid?  I'd have to stick it in a pocket and hope for the best.  You never see gunmen frisking people in the movies anyway.  They wouldn't have time for that.  They're always in a hurry.  Oh come on.  Why do I get in these lines.  Always. Always. It's like I have some short circuit in my brain that leads me to the worst choice I could possibly make.  Shopping lines, border lines, and chemistry class.  That was the pits.  I was always last in that stinking line to get the materials for our experiments.  There's a better way for that.  I should have been a teacher.  Just like I planned.  Everything would have been set up on lab day.  No free-for-alls.  Because then the skinny, shy kids like me wouldn't have to fight for a freaking beaker.  But no.  I didn't get my teaching degree because that man I married was in school for half of our lives!!  Someone had to bring home the money, for crying out loud.  Price check?  Are you kidding me?  OMG.  Come ON!!  I have to go to the bathroom.  What if I fake a fainting spell right here and now.  Don't be an idiot.  Then you'll never get checked out.  Oh wait, they're opening another line.  And she's saying, 'I'll take the next person in line.'  That's me.  Wait a minute.  What's going on?  The people behind me all went over there.  Am I invisible?  I was 'next in line!'  That does it.  Now I've gotta get back in the other line and, wait a minute.  .  . "

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Fashion for Grandmas or Anyone Over the Age of 40....Video

OK, so here I am, at the end of the day in this video, and I look worn. But I couldn't sleep because I was thinking about that stupid skirt I put on today that looked great on the model in the catalog but somehow, something got lost when I put it on.  Is it me?  Or is it the fact that I get this strange idea that if I buy that skirt I'll look like the babe in the catalog.  False advertising, I scream!  Put someone in there who looks like me.  Someone whose photograph screams, "Yes, I've lived a long time.  No, it hasn't been easy.  Yes, sometimes I forget to floss.  No, that isn't a pimple on my face, it's the laugh line that is becoming a laugh cavern.  Yes, I want to look good.  No, I don't want to look old.  Yes, that's right, because I like to be fashionable.  And how can I look fashionable at this age?"

Anyway, my point is that the catalogs with women 40+ have clothes that look like something my aunt or my great-aunt would wear.  And they all look too big and too frumpy even though yes, they are colorful and they have business blazers but they are boxy and broad.  So I am on a quest to find some things that women our age can REALLY wear without giving in to that freaking societal mantra that yells, "Look your age."  Sheesh.  What does that mean anyway?  Look your age?  Act my age, yes - which I am working on.  Look my age?  NEVER!!!!  Stay tuned....and I have to say that the only reason I am posting this extremely disgusting video of myself is because it made me laugh at the end when I couldn't figure out whether I was turning it off or not...

Sarah Marie Protulipac ... June 29, 1991 - April 25, 2009

I couldn't let this day pass without posting a special blog for Sarah Protulipac (far left) who was killed tragically on April 25, 2009 along with her sister, Gretchen (far right).  To read about these two beautiful girls, you can go to their memorial site and you can also read the first and second blog I wrote about them not long after their passing. 

Their parents, John and Alison, have always been loving and doting parents who raised their three girls to be respectful,  giving and compassionate.  The girls were very involved with school and Church, and had dreams and goals, just like any other teenage girl. 

This week, John and Alison, along with their remaining daughter, Rebekah, have taken some time to get away and have gone to Florida to be with friends as Sarah's birthday arrives with the painful reminder that they will not be celebrating with Sarah and Gretchen.  

People often say that the first year without their loved one is the hardest.  The first birthday celebration.  The first day of school.  The first big holiday.  Quite honestly, I don't know how any of it gets any easier even after the 2d, 3rd, 15th, 20th or more years after such a tragedy.  I simply do not know how they are surviving and wonder how anyone could.   And to lose not one, but two, well, it seems more than a normal human being could take without a person becoming something of a distant memory of who they once were. 

Because mankind truly is a brotherhood and sisterhood full of compassion and consideration for their fellow man/woman, I am asking you a favor, one which I know you will oblige.  And that is, if you are so inclined, please keep this family in your prayers today.  Or simply in your thoughts if you aren't one who prays.  Send good thoughts to John, Alison and Rebekah.  There is true power in prayer, true healing in faith and true love in remembering. 

Go to the website and, if you are able, click on the link to Sarah and Gretchen's Memorial Scholarship Fund, which was created in their names to help send deserving kids to college.  If you are able to donate something, I know that this family will be eternally grateful.  In this way, the memory of the girls will continue - their smiles will survive the tragedy and will bring hope and futures to others who they will be able to assist, even though they are no longer physically here with us.  If you are not able to donate, leave them a message in the guest book.  I know they will appreciate it. 

And, if you are further inclined, before the day is over, light a candle to remember Sarah's birthday and to honor and remember these two sisters who will be on the minds and hearts of many today, especially the minds and hearts of John, Alison and Rebekah.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Michael Jackson Dies

Disclaimer:  I need to forewarn you that this post may be controversial.  Some may not like what you read, but if nothing else, I try to be honest, not too opinionated, and compassionate.  So I take no responsibility for hurting your feelings or causing nostrils to flare. 

Yesterday, we lost two icons in the TV/movie and pop industries.  Farrah Fawcett, age 62, died of cancer.  Later that day and, overshadowing Fawcett's death, Michael Jackson, age 50, died of an apparent heart attack.  While any death is sad, it never fails to amaze me at how people react to the death of a pop star such as Michael Jackson.  We come together, share stories and talk about the man as if he had been our best friend, our neighbor, our relative, our spouse.  Quite honestly, it blows my mind.  It blows my mind on many fronts, not the least of which is the media bonanza that will take place over the next several weeks, the soaring post-death record sales, and the endless pontifications about what might have caused his death and how this could have been prevented. 

And then, not only will an autopsy be done on the physical body of Michael Jackson, but a much harsher, more detailed, more invasive autopsy will be done on his life, his children, his family and his "legacy."  Please, people.  What is it with the rich and famous that you have to latch onto and can't let go of?  What is it about this whole occurrence that sends people out into the streets, bawling and saying, "Remember when?" Or ends up being the topic of conversation all morning at offices around the world.  And over lunch.  And over dinner. 

Truthfully, and I know I'm treading on thin ice here, but what did Michael Jackson ever do for you?  Indeed, it is sad when a person dies, but to respond as if we knew this man, knew the deepest secrets of his life and to simply, without really knowing him, assume he is one of the greatest people that ever lived, screams, "You're an idiot." I mean, some of you are acting like if you had a tragedy in your life, that Michael, wonderful Michael, would be there, right by your side, helping you through it and showering you with love and money until you could stand on your own two feet again.  He might even pay for your therapy or for your institutionalization because you two are so close.  Sheesh, maybe he'd buy you that house you dreamed of - if he'd only known how much you loved him.

Granted, he made some great music.  Something that has been, and will continue to be, a part of our history.  But the guy was also very very messed up.  Sleeping with little children, fondling them and being involved in a world renowned lawsuit where he was charged that he molested a child cancer patient.  Bad enough that he was charged with fooling around with a child - but a cancer patient to boot? 

Now before you start waving your fists at me and getting out your torches, scythes and pitchforks, yes, I know it's past and over with.  I agree.  I do believe, however, that if this occurred at the hands of a teacher or truck driver or some other "civilian" claiming to be innocent, he/she would have been tied up and hung out to dry.  Something about the celebrity clout that the entire world is willing to just let it go.  Look at OJ Simpson.  Well, I won't go there today.  That's another huge debate for another time. 

So, while we lament the loss of  Jackson and flip around the channels to catch any glimpse of a face that has changed dramatically over the years and a voice that has become that of someone's mother, we ogle him, we pull his memory to our breasts lovingly and adoringly and tell him we love him.  As far as I can tell, Jackson was all about Jackson and what he could get (Neverland, Lisa Marie Presley), who he could acquire and possess (children), who he could use (surrogate mothers), and who he could fool (police and the public in general).

True, I like some of his music (mostly from his younger years when he looked and sounded like a human and not an android), but I'm not going to get sucked into this hype and this mourning we do when someone we don't even know dies and we revere him like he is a god.  I'll save that for Sundays when I worship a real God, thank you very much.

Copyright liamsgrandma 2009

Staying Under the Radar

This morning, as usual, nothing was happening.  I got up early, made the coffee, fed the cats, gave my diabetic-on-the-verge-of-a-heart-attack cat his insulin and heart meds, and then went to pour a cup of that strong morning elixir.  I had just taken a seat on the couch to begin my morning prayer and meditation when my daughter pulled into the driveway with Liam.  I got up, set my cup down on the counter and went to greet them.  At 7 am.

Why is it that everytime I get on the phone, quietly sneak to the bathroom, or sit down with a cup of coffee, thinking I have five minutes of peace, certain people (husband, children, grandchild, cats) suddenly appear, seemingly out of nowhere.  And they need something.  They need it now.  Not five minutes from now.  Not five minutes before I sat down or got on the phone.  Now. 

Last night, I was on the phone, at my husband's behest, trying to iron out some difficulty with Quicken in setting up a business account to sync with the on-line banking system.  So he tells me to get on the phone and call the bank and then he'll help me get it set up because, despite our mutual efforts without phone support, it just wasn't working. 

While I sat there on hold, via speakerphone, listening to the options and pressing buttons as my husband called out umpteen times, "Press that one..," I got confused.  I'm not sure if it was because of too many options, my husband yelling out his commands, or the fact that I'd eaten an entire can of soy beans for lunch, thinking it'd be good for me and I was having some issues based on the 36 grams of fiber in that can (which I didn't know about until I read the label after eating it) and a sweat was breaking out on my brow (which also could have been attributed to the fact that it was still 84 degrees at 9:30 and I have no A/C).  I won't even go into the amount of estrogen I consumed in that can of soy beans and its emotional effects on me by this time.

Anyway, on the third try at phone support, I patiently waited as the recorded voice again walked me through my options.  Just then, my husband decided he had something to tell me.  Trying to listen to the recording, I began waving my hand wildly in the air to gesture, "Shut your freaking mouth or I will kill you."  Alas, I lost concentration and had to hang up.  Again.  Giving my husband the death glare, I started over.  Once again, as I got close, very close to paydirt on the options, he meekly whispered a suggestion.  My head spun around so fast, I swear I thought it was going to keep going and I might start spewing pea soup and all kinds of vulgar words some people have never even heard of.  "If you open your mouth one more time before I get a live person, you will regret the day you were born.  I'm not kidding."  "Well, maybe I already do," he snorted.  I hung up the phone and started over. "I'm sorry to threaten your life like this," I said, "but you are really pushing my buttons."  "The windows are open, you know," he retorted.  "And you're getting loud."

After talking to one customer service rep who spoke in a strange Martian dialect and, since I didn't have my Martian-English, English-Martian dictionary handy, I hung up and called right back to see if we could possibly get someone with at least a Hindi accent.  I was surprised to get a gentleman with no accent at all; he was merely rude.  After he insisted three times that we must be putting in the wrong password and after us going to another window on the computer and to the website and verifying that the username and password were correct, I finally decided that he wasn't a live person at all.  He was a recorded message who couldn't say anything else and, suddenly, I felt very sorry for his wife.  We hung up again with no more information than when we started. 

My husband, determined not to give up, sat down at the computer, mumbling to himself.  I, thinking I was off the hook, went and did something else.  As soon as I began cutting my soap (which I make and which is fabulous), he said, "Hey, c'mere for a minute."  Naturally, this phenomenon of interruption didn't occur the full 5 minutes I waited before moving to something else - just in case I was going to be sucked back into this accounting vortex.  Of course not.  And I stood there, watching and listening, to see if I would be needed before announcing I was going to cut the soap.

Setting down my knife, I dutifully went to his side again and placed my hand on his shoulder.  "Yes?"  "Well, wait a minute now," he said to the computer monitor.  "Just a sec..."  Sighing, I went back to my soap. 

When he stood up from the computer, I said, "My hairdresser loves my soap.  She wants more of it and I told her I only have two varieties left which will have to last her the entire summer because when it's muggy like this, you just can't get a trace on the soap and it's really hard to make.  So I'll probably have to wait until fall to make more."  All the while, he is standing in the kitchen, contorting his face, slow dancing with himself in slow motion jerks, occasionally nodding his head and I realize he has done something big.  Huge, in fact, at least in his mind.  Indeed, he had gotten my account all hooked up.

"What are you doing with that soap?" he said, coming to investigate.

Moral of the story:  If you want attention, get involved in something for yourself.  It draws all kinds of living things to you and causes you to take attention away from yourself.  I mean, how selfish can you be, thinking you have a minute to yourself anyway?  Next, don't expect your husband to be able to remember one word you say.  Ever.  And occasionally use his lack of listening to your advantage:  "I told you about this party over a month ago," (when you had forgotten) or, "I told you I sold the house and we are moving to the Governor's mansion as the new maid and butler...," or "I told you that I am going to live in France for the summer while you stay behind and manage things.  What?  Sorry.  Too late.  The flight is already booked and the cottage is already rented.  Sure, you can come and visit.  Call first."

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Lost in Translation

Sometimes our body language speaks volumes without us saying a word.  The other day, I was talking to a dear friend who happens to be on crutches.  I will not identify this friend for fear someone might tell her husband that we were engaged in some spouse ranting.  Anyway, "Megan" is on crutches and we were discussing our kids and how to handle difficult children.  Apparently, Megan and her husband were discussing their eldest daughter and, as in most marriages, they didn't see eye to eye on a solution.

Megan told me that she became frustrated and, in an effort to put some emphasis on her point (and her anger), she sprang from the couch as quickly as a person with the use of only one leg can do, grabbed her crutches and, as rapidly and as loudly as possible, hobbled up the stairs.  "Somehow," I said, "I think the effect was lost when you hobbled." 

So, until she is two-legged again, perhaps the next time her husband infuriates her, she could just throw a crutch at the wall (or her husband), or maybe kick over a chair with that big boot on her foot.  Maybe she could get his attention by holding one of her crutches like it's an Uzi and point the rubber stopper at his temple, making vicious rat-a-tat-tat sounds.

There is just something lost in translation when we are incapacitated and mad.  For example, don't expect your kid to take you seriously when you've burned your index finger when you went to light the gas burner because, for some reason, your dinner overflowed and put out the flame and you stupidly turned the gas back on while looking for a match and, after finally finding one, the resulting whommpff of an inferno that occurred when you lit that thing incinerated the match and half your finger and now you're trying to yell at your kid for lecturing you on how to light a stove properly but your finger is bandaged up to the size of one of Cheech and Chong's joints and your kid just isn't taking you seriously as you jab at the air telling him not to tell you how to do things. Once again, lost in translation.

Or, the time you decided you were not going to phone again to complain about the fact that the bank keeps charging you a monthly service fee when you are a freaking platinum customer, and you have been over this more than once, and they apologize and then do it again next month.  Instead, you get in your car and, statement in hand, drive up there but it's in the middle of winter and your nose is running and, before you get inside the bank, you wipe your running nose with a swift swipe of the back of your mitten because you left your tissues in your purse which you left in the car, and you go in there demanding some attention and no one can look at you and you wonder why everyone has a look of disdain, disgust and sympathy on their faces, until you get back to your car, having finally gotten this mess straightened out amidst the downcast eyes of the bank rep who, for some reason, seems to be holding back a snicker (and I'm not talking about a candy bar), and you look in your rear view mirror and notice the biggest booger you've ever seen emerging from your nose, but not only that, it's swept up the other side and stuck there like one of those wire nose rings, and all you want to do is die.  That is major incapacitation. And somehow, things get lost in translation and you know it when you drive slowly out of the parking lot, slumped down in your seat and can't help but look in the window at the people standing around the customer service desk laughing and shaking their heads and you want to march back in there and demand all of your money.  NOW.  But not before you wipe the snot off your face.

Or the effect that is lost when you are interviewing with one of the biggest law firms in Boston to become their administrator, running the day to day operations of the firm, and so you get up extra early to make sure everything is perfect.  You even change your outfit three times and then put the first outfit back on before going out the door.  All seems to be going fabulously when, suddenly, you feel a tug in the back of your head.  Itchy, kind of.  Smiling and nodding, you reach back to gently scratch your head and your hand lands on one of the two velcro PINK rollers that are still rolled into the back of your head and you freeze.  The partners are smiling a kind understanding and you can't tell if the look in their eyes is one of pity or amusement.  Deftly, you pull one and then the other out of your hair and set it on the table in front of you, look up, smile, shrug and say, "I'll bet those curls are so tight by now that I don't even need to use hairspray on them." The tense moment seems to relax with two of the partners breaking into uncontrollable laughter and all you can do is wish you were born wealthy and were on some yacht somewhere headed for the ends of the earth where a quick storm might come up and toss you overboard into some permanent state of unconsciousness, but you straighten up in the chair and go on and finish the interview.  Something is always lost in translation when a woman is touting her abilities with a couple of pink rollers bobbing around the back of her head. 

My point here is that if we are going to make a point and have it well-received, we need to think before we act or react.  Presentation is everything.  Remember that.  It'll help get you through your kids' adolescence, your mid-life crises, fights with your spouse and bad hair days.

By the way, I got the job anyway.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

No apologies

Recently, I spoke with someone who asked me if I ever offend anyone with my blog.  They asked me this based on the blog below called "Giving Marriage a Shot in the Arm" where I cleanly and purely speak about romance and sex between two married people. 

Let me say right now that if anyone doesn't like my blog, you don't have to read it.  If you are offended by it, don't read it.  Or write your own.  Some people read blogs or watch shows or listen to politicians just so they can pick apart the person delivering the message.  In the words of Abraham Lincoln, and to prove that you can never please everyone, "If this is coffee, please bring me some tea; if this is tea, please bring me some coffee."  I'm not going to cater to that.  What's on my menu is clear and I am not one of those bloggers who gets foul-mouthed, raunchy or disgusting.  I write with humor, compassion, love and information.

I love writing and will continue to do so.  Please note that after each and every blog there is a comments section.  Use it if you are so inclined - to compliment or to tear down. 

I also have learned to change names, which I occasionally failed to do in the past, and have gotten grief over it.  In addition, I will try to refrain from sharing anything too personal without permission from the person who I am talking about.  I hope this covers all bases.  I certainly am not out to alienate people or offend anyone. 

As for me, I'm going to go slam a glass of ice water, eat my lunch, prepare for my day job and go off to work thanking God for the opportunities that this country provides me, and acknowledge that I am learning (through therapy, thank you very much) that I don't answer to anyone but my husband, my children, my grandchild and, most importantly, to my God.

I am reminded that some people have nothing better to do than to constantly critique and put down others.  My therapist says that that is because they don't like themselves and who they are.  I am not that kind of  person - I like myself just fine, thank you.  And most people seem to like me as well. 

Copyright liamsgrandma 2009

Giving Marriage a Shot in the Arm - - The Sex Talk

Sometimes, after years of marriage (or sometimes after only a few, quite honestly), we get bored.  We get "itchy," and sometimes we even wonder what we saw in our spouse in the first place.  There is an excellent book out that I am going to tout here because I think it would do many couples a lot of good if they were to read it.  But first, I have to tell you that I haven't read the book yet.  Nope. Instead, I listened to my pastor speak of its virtues in Church on Sunday.  You see, we have spent the last four weeks talking about Sex.  And these sex talks have taken place in Church.  

Now, I know that many of you are going to say, "Wait a minute...if it came from Church, it can't be good..."  But before you turn that dial and go back to your regularly scheduled marriage, give me a chance here.  The book I'm talking about is called, "Rekindling the Romance," by Dennis and Barbara Rainey.   And from the passages in the book that Bob Shirock talked about on Sunday, it promises to be an excellent read.

I'm not going to get all preachy here, but I will forewarn you that the book not only gives information on how to rekindle romance in your marriage, it also provides scripture and shows that romance, sex and playfulness are God's desire for us in a marriage.  So deal with it already.

What caught my attention initially had nothing to do with women; rather, it had to do with men.  Dennis Rainey says, "I'm convinced we have a generation of married men who are confused and lonely; they're stuck in a lifeless marriage because they never learned how to cultivate a relationship with a woman that speaks to her romantic need for intimacy."  True, this sentence does say something about women and what is wrong with men's relationships with us.  But what grabbed me was the 'confused and lonely' part.  Is my husband lonely?  Is it because I may not be communicating with him what I need in order to provide him with what he needs (a fulfilling sex life)?

As most of us know by now, men are visual creatures.  And the pastor himself even stated that all we women have to do in a relationship is show up naked, with food, and men are happy.  In fact, they are ecstatic.  Before any of you fellas start stomping your feet, waving your fists and saying, "Wait a minute - that's not what we are all about - we have much more depth than that," shut up and listen.  I'm not condemning you for being, well, a man.  You are what you are.  And us gals are what we are.  You guys need your bellies full and a roll in the hay now and then - with an eager and willing partner.  And as wives, we truly need to be more in touch with that.  Honestly, ladies, if you think back to the beginning of your relationship/marriage all those years ago, neither one of you could keep your hands off the other.  And all you could think of was a moment alone together.  Barbara Rainey says of women, "Your attitude toward your husband's sexuality and sex drive is important because you alone have the power to bless him sexually and affirm his male identity.  Your responsiveness is a major component of how he feels about himself."  That is a great feeling to give such a gift to a man.

And, fellas, as I'm sure you already know, women are more complex when it comes to a relationship.  We need to be talked to, complimented, even assisted with what you might think are ridiculously lame tasks (such as helping bring in the groceries, putting the kids to bed, feeding the dog or occasionally doing the freaking dishes, for crying out loud). These displays of affection mean a whole lot more to us than you think.  It shows us you care about us.  It shows us you love us.  That old saying, "actions speak louder than words," really rings true here.  And it is a major turn-on for us.

Pastor Bob also talked about the seasons of romantic love.  The new love phase, the disappointed love phase and the cherishing committed love phase.  We all know how new love feels so I won't go into it here.  But one thing that struck me is the disappointed love phase.  This phase can take up a lot of our energy.  We spend too much time thinking things like, "If only she didn't talk so much," "If only he liked to dance," "If only she would lose weight," "If only he would shut his trap about my weight," etc.  Something we have to remember is that many of the things we thought were cute about our spouses in the beginning seem to annoy us now.  Get rid of that.  And instead of wishing your spouse had different qualities and instead of thinking about the "if onlys," embrace what he/she has now.  Embrace that you are together and that you have made, and are making, a life together.  Do things for each other - often.  Do things together - often.  Compliment each other - often.  Laugh together - often.

Finally, the committed love phase is the lifeblood of romance.  Make a commitment so that your spouse knows you are there for the long haul.  Threats of leaving or divorce should never enter the marriage equation.  Times will be tough with anyone we are with - so remember that.  The grass always seems greener on the other side of the fence, but those people in that house on the other side of the fence?  They have issues too.   Stop thinking you should have married someone else.  Stop wasting your energy daydreaming about someone else.  Channel your romantic energy, as Bob reminded us, toward your spouse and no one else.  Guys, get away from that pornography.  Ladies, stop flirting with your husband's best friend.  Because if he has a wife and he's flirting with you, chances are pretty good that she is feeling the way you are and he is feeling the way your husband does.

I think that often when one person feels dissatisfied, they never stop to think that maybe their spouse is too.  They surf for porn or maybe they go out with the girls or the guys in search of attention.  Stop doing that.  Give attention where it needs to be - with your spouse - the person you committed your life to.  The person  you really would hate to see lying in a hospital bed terminally ill and wondering why you didn't realize what he/she meant to you before.  It takes effort, but it is worth it.  And also remember that if we wait for the other person to start this thing called change, we might be waiting forever. But when one person changes, it is amazing how the other person will get in sync and suddenly you don't have a flat tire in your relationship anymore.  Things are rolling along just fine.  And things are romantic again.

As for me, I'm off to the store to gather all of the ingredients for one of my husband's favorite meals.  I've got my makeup on, my hair looks pretty good (except for that highlighting faux pas I did last week but he hasn't said anything negative about it - in fact, he hasn't said anything about it, PERIOD) and I've completely straightened the bedroom, washed the sheets, and well, the rest is, shall we say, private - between a husband and wife.  And I'm going to be smiling, energetic and full of life.  I need a cup of coffee.....

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Marriage Longevity

I recently celebrated my 28th wedding anniversary.  Of course, always on our anniversary, we recollect and discuss, at various times during the day, what we were doing on the actual day.  My husband always likes to state the old line, "My wife and I were happy for 21 years.  And then we got married" - at least forty-five times throughout the day and I let him.  In fact, I agree with him.  And then we have a good laugh, thank God for alcohol, and continue our reminiscing.  Which brings me to the whole point of this blog.

I am currently in the process of interviewing selected finalists for Grand Magazine's Sexiest GrandDad contest.  The interviews will appear in the July edition, possibly along with the winner.  Most of the men I interviewed have been married for more than 25 years and some of them married their high school sweethearts.  As I talked to these men about their relationships, I began thinking of the men who were formerly in my own life as my "significant others" prior to making that lifelong commitment to my husband.  

I have dated only 5 "men" during my lifetime although I suppose, at the time, they were not actually men that I dated, and not because I am some sort of sick child molester, but because I dated all of them in my teens.  I did marry my husband when I was 21, so he actually crossed the threshold from boyhood to manhood while I was with him.  And, logistically, one could possibly say that I dated 6 boys (men), but I don't really count Steve, who was 12 and I was 13 when we professed our undying and eternal love for each other, crouching in the low-ceilinged fort he had built down by the creek.  A fort which, not long after our short stint as a secret couple ended, apparently turned into some love shack for Steve, my brother and various neighborhood girls.

The relationship I had with Steve ended pretty much with our second kiss which took place about a mile from home at a pond where he used to fish.  We were experimenting with open mouthed and closed mouthed (but never tongue in mouth) kissing when a shriek rang out above our heads so unnerving that I realized that the loch ness monster did, indeed, exist and, contrary to everyone else's belief, it did not reside in Scotland.  It resided in this particular pond on Hamilton Road in quiet Fairport, New York. 

After Steve and I were able to unfreeze from our liplock, which was made worse by the fear-induced inhale we both took, the sound of which pucker-unlatching could only be described as the kind an angry cork makes when pried from a bottle of very bubbly, very cheap, very old champagne, we realized it was not old lochy.  Instead, it was his sister, Joyce, who was a year older than me.  And believe me, we were deeply disappointed because Joyce's wrath was way worse than anything a monster could do to us.

Steve made the mistake of relenting to her screams and walked apprehensively up the rocky hill towards his executioner as Joyce stood like a demon wraith summoning her cronies from the grave.  Her long, spindly hair whipped wildly in the wind as she held a Medusa-like stance, hands placed firmly on hips.  Her angrily distorted mouth spewed all kinds of naughty words, expounding her ability to cause us inconceivable pain if we did not get our "arses" up there NOW.  I, on the other hand, was no dummy - plus I didn't have to live with her.   With that in mind, I quickly shifted myself deeper into the high grass surrounding the pond, knowing that if she came looking for me, I could outmaneuver her.  I had been to that pond many times before (to skip stones, not to kiss) and she hadn't.  After all, she was trying to be a grown up, for crying out loud, which is pretty much what all 14 year old girls are supposed to do by that age.  I, however, wasn't yet ready to let go of my tomboyhood, and was thanking my lucky stars for this decision and for my confidence in being wily, fast and shrewd when it came to traversing rocky terrain and climbing a tree if necessary.  Right then and there, I regretted even trying to be a grown-up woman, and made a vow to continue being a tomboy for at least 3 more years and to cast off any desire for romance or the intrigue it causes in a body filled with new, freshly-packed hormones.  

Now that you understand why Steve isn't included in the men I've dated, I'll say that those I did date have been married for many years.  I know this because their families loved me, even though the boys apparently didn't, and I kept in touch with moms, sisters, etc., over the years, off and on.  I marvel at the fact that I chose men who not only had the ability to stay with a woman but they actually found a woman willing to stay with them (sorry, gentlemen, but this is my blog after all, and I can say what I want).  

So what makes a happy marriage or what makes a person want to stay in a relationship long after lust and romance dwindle?  From what I know of these relationships and my own, it is a deep-rooted love of family.  It is a respect for one's spouse and an involvement in community things, and all things family.  It is about becoming your spouse's best friend and confidante.  It's about honesty and sharing, and loyalty and devotion.  I have seen this demonstrated in the men I dated many years ago towards their wives and their families.  And I have it in my own life.  These are traits that I believe will get you longevity in a marriage, whether you are a woman or a man.  

So rather than going into a relationship thinking you are going to change a person, look for the things you like that are normal.  Look for a deep love of family, but don't marry a mama's boy or a daddy's girl.  Otherwise, next thing you know, your mother-in-law is moving in with you, curlers, 36-hour bra and all, taking over your kitchen and your husband's time, and your father-in-law is holding a gun to your head if you don't buy his daughter that diamond tennis bracelet you promised her when you were negotiating sex on the hood of the car with your wife and mistakenly forgot to close the garage door, causing the neighbor's daughter to never be the same again when she innocently rode her bike up the drive, and your wife can't even leave the house now. You get the picture.

As for me and Steve, we never made it past first base because, not long after the pond episode, Joyce called me and told me that if I didn't stop seeing her brother, her mother was going to do all kinds of things to me, including forcing me to eat a skinned squirrel, and if I enjoyed that, they'd find something else much worse that I didn't like.  Like I'd enjoy doing that anyway.  I interrupted her when she got to the part about peeling my lip up over my head and making me lick my ass and told her that I completely understood their stance and that I would never.  ever.  never.  ever. look at her brother again.  Steve and I are still friends now - many years later - but I still have a fear of many things because of that day at the pond and its aftermath. Rabid squirrels, Greek mythology, women named Joyce, and Scotland make me break out in a bloody sweat.  And I don't believe Joyce knows that Steve and I are still in touch.  If you see her, don't tell her.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma