Liam's Grandma or Maggie in Real Life

Proposition 8

Liam loves cows.  And baby kitties.  Occasionally, he will do his "Oo, Oo," point at the computer and say, "Cowies?"  So I bring up Youtube where we happily browse for mooing baby cows and their mamas.  And he especially likes a video of a kitty jumping into a box.  It never fails to amaze me how children can watch the same thing 5,276,982 times, look at you and say, "Again?"

Something to note about Youtube is that when you initially bring it up, there are some featured videos posted as stills.  Last week, on the very front of Youtube was a still of Jack Black in Jesus drag.  The caption read, "Prop 8 - the Musical." 

As I started typing in the search for "baby cows," Liam pointed to the still and said, "Jesus?  Oo.  Oo."  I said, "No, honey, that's not Jesus."  He insisted and started bouncing in his seat and jabbing his finger at the screen.  So we played it.  He was thrilled to see Jesus on the screen and I was thanking God that he had no idea what they were singing about.  There were cast members from Saturday Night Live, Neil Patrick Harris, and a variety of other actors putting on this 3 minute skit.

Fast forward to Friday morning.  Druck is in the bathroom engaged in his morning constitutional and Liam is at the computer insisting we take a look at Jesus again.  While the musical is playing and Liam is bobbing to the beat, suddenly, a bellow comes from the other room.  "What are you letting him watch????"

I scampered to the bathroom door, hands clasped, and nervously said, "It's ok, dear.  He thinks Jack Black is Jesus."

"What?"

"He's only 20 months old.  He has no idea what they are singing about.  He just likes the beat."  I exhaled loudly and rushed back to the computer as they sang and danced across the stage singing about Prop 8 and separation of Church and State. 

Before getting to the computer, however, I dropped to my knees and held my clasped hands to my forehead, whispering, "Lord, God?  Please don't hold this against me.  He thinks he's seeing Jesus.  It's good that he loves Jesus.  Please, please, don't hold this one thing against me.  Please?"

When I looked up, Liam was happily bobbing to the music and, when it ended, he turned to me and said, "Again?"

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Getting Commercial

OK, I'm going to get a little commercial on you here.  I just did some research and am shocked at what I read.  Did you know that most baby products, skin care products, fragrances, deodorants, toothpaste, etc., contain either phtalates or paraben - or both? "So?" You might be saying as you get ready to click to a more entertaining blog.  But wait.  For your sake, please read on.  And I won't get commercial on you until the end.

Phthalates.  Phthalates are esters of phthalic acid and are mainly used as plasticizers (substances added to plastics to increase their flexibility, transparency, durability, and longevity). They are primarily used to soften polyvinyl chloride.  People are commonly exposed to phthalates, and most Americans tested by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention have metabolites of multiple phthalates in their urine.  How does this  happen?  There are many ways, but what most of us are unaware of is that they are contained in baby products and hair and nail care products.  Why?  Many cosmetic companies use this chemical regularly in everyday products  because they cling to the hair and nails to give perfumes, hair gels and nail polishes more staying power. Are you kidding, you ask???  NO.  Do your research. Long term effects of usage of products containing phtalates include damage to the liver, kidneys, lungs and reproductive systems in animal studies.  But the FDA doesn't regulate this and companies are not required to put include this on their labels. 

Phthalates can be absorbed through the skin or inhaled. So the next time you are spritzing your hair or painting your nails - think about it.  Your scalp and nails are absorbing this lethal chemical.  And what's worse is if your kids are hanging around, they're breathing it in as well.  Not good. 

Scientists at government agencies in both the U.S. and Canada agree that exposure to the chemicals could cause a wide range of health and reproductive problems in people.  A recent study by the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) found that five percent of women between age 20 and 40 had up to 45 times more phthalates in their bodies than researchers initially hypothesized. CDC found phthalates in virtually every person tested, but the largest concentrations -- 20 times higher than the rest of the population -- were found in women of child-bearing age. Meanwhile, another study, led by Dr. Shanna Swan of the University of Missouri, identified developmental abnormalities in male infants correlating to high phthalate levels in their mothers’ bodies.  What can you do about it?  I'll tell you at the end of this blog when I go commercial on you.

Parabens.  Parabens are found in almost every skin care product I came across in my bathroom cabinet.  This is one reason I don't use them anymore.  I use them for another purpose (see further on down).  Parabens are a class of chemicals widely used as preservatives in the cosmetic and pharmaceutical industries. Parabens are effective preservatives in many types of formulas. These compounds, and their salts, are used primarily for their bacteria killing and fungicidal properties. They can be found in shampoos, moisturizers, shaving gels, personal lubricants and toothpaste.  They are also used as food additives.  And they are found in large numbers of baby care products. 

There is scientific research showing that parabens have been found in breast cancer tumors and may contribute to the cause of breast cancer and other types of cancers.  

Let's face it - our skin is the largest organ in our bodies.  Don't tell me you didn't know that.  If you didn't, take a look at yourself.  It is a living, breathing, functioning organ that does all kinds of wonderful things for us.  It not only absorbs oxygen and helps to rid the body of toxins, but that beautiful organ that we take care of with all kinds of lotions, fragrances and deodorants, absorbs everything we put on it.  Everything. 

So what can we do about this?  Buy products that we know do not contain these poisons.  It truly  makes me wonder about the rise of autism in this country when I read how these poisons are absorbed in the body and can cause reproductive defects and birth defects as mothers are totally unaware that what they are putting on their hair, nail and skin is toxic, not only to them, but to their developing fetus.  Of course, time and research will be the answer.  Until then, we can do the necessary things to protect ourselves and our children.

And now for the commercial:  Arbonne products do not contain any phthalates or parabens.  They are botanically based, thoroughly researched, natural products that work.  I became a consultant two years ago because I loved their anti-aging products.  But as time went on, I became a fan of their balancing cream which has eradicated my hot flashes, night sweats, mood swings and other things that are a major pain to a menopausal woman.  I love that their makeups and nail polish are phthalate and paraben-free.  I love their shampoos and their health products.  And I keep the bad products that are cowering in my bathroom cabinet to bring with me to my demonstrations to show others how simple things such as shower gels, lotions and hair products contain poisons that, over time, will tragically effect your life and the lives of your loved ones.

You can see more about Arbonne at their site.  If you contact me personally, I will give you a 20% discount on your first order.  I believe in their research and the products they offer that much. And it doesn't matter where you live.  We ship via good ol' UPS. So email me and I will give you unlimited access to all kinds of great things - that will not poison you or your children.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

When Pigs Fly

I have no idea if I had the swine flu or not.  I think not.  But people are so crazed over this swine flu thing that they think anyone who is sick has it.  And, well, I'm one of those people who is on that hysteria wagon - except when it comes to me and whether or not I had it; I simply worry about everyone else. 

Now, some 10 days since the onset of this thing, I still have vestiges of the cough, the sore throat, the glassy eyes, and the state of confusion.  Scratch the last part of that sentence.  I am ALWAYS in a state of confusion. The illness simply justified it.

I took a photograph of myself about 5 days into it and sent the photo, via text message, to my sister-in-law.  That was the most frightening photo I have seen in a long time.  Of anything.  And my sister-in-law is recovering nicely in a rest home where they promised her that the satanic photo was completely destroyed and an exorcism of the highest caliber was performed on her phone.  And they guaranteed that no one would ever hurt her like that again.  At least that's what my copy of the restraining order said.

That photo was so scary that it had to be only through blind love that my husband, children and grandchild could remain in the same room with me.  Not since I saw the previews of "Throw Momma from the Train" have I been so frightened.  In fact, I never watched that movie for the sheer fact that I couldn't handle seeing the woman who played Momma.  She freaked me right out.  When the previews would come on the television, I'd be all over the couch feeling around the cushions, the pillows, my husband's hair, looking for the remote to get that off the screen.

With that said, you know I won't post that photo here.  In fact, I deleted it right after I sent it to Robin and regretted sending it to her immediately after doing so, and for good reason, as previously stated.  I'm not photogenic as it is and with the flu, accompanied by a 5 pound weight loss off of a 125 pound frame (due to the flu), hair that hadn't been styled (at the time) in 4 days (I showered, ok? But there was no use of hair products for 10 days straight), skin that was pale, lips dry and cracking, and one eye seemingly bigger than the other (can eyes have swollen glands???), well, truly, I was a sight all right. 

And the older I get, the worse I respond to symptoms.  Like the coughing.  The other day I coughed so hard, I peed in my pants a little.  When it happened, I froze while in my "cough-induced doubling over" pose (not to be confused with yoga's Downward Facing Dog) and felt my eyes get as big as dinner plates (even the one with the swollen gland).  Could it be?  Did I?  How bad is it?  As I hobbled, cross-legged to the bathroom and peeled off my pants, it wasn't so bad.  But it took time because I wasn't going to re-dress without a shower.  20 minutes later and as the second wave of coughing descended, I was prepared.  I sat on the couch, cross-legged, my hand between my legs, with pressure applied.  Now is that crazy or what?  But it worked.  Had anyone walked in the door at that moment seeing me bent over, legs entwined like a pretzel, holding my privates, and coughing until my eyes watered, they might think I was performing some type of masochistic sexual maneuver.  Only thing is, I wasn't enjoying it.  Not one bit.  And it was obvious.

What I learned from this experience is that the flu, like so many other things that come and wreak havoc in our lives, serve a purpose.  They humble us.  Because when we're sitting as still as possible, holding our crotch, coughing until tears fall like rain, and a booger the size of New Hampshire has apparently settled itself just inside your right nostril, right where a swipe of the hand won't catch it so you have no idea it's even there because you're too afraid to even look at yourself in the mirror, but the Green Peace guy at the door can't seem to speak proper English through all of his stammering because he is so upset about that booger the size of New Hampshire that, try as he might, he can't take his eyes off of it, kind of like not being able to look away from a bad accident, and you think that the reason he has scampered off is because you vehemently say, "No solicitors, PLEASE.  I'm sicker than a dying dog on it's best day," and you close the door, dust off your hands as if you've had some freaking accomplishment that day because, for crying out loud, you can barely get off the couch let alone answer the door and chastise a Green Peace guy.  And then when you finally decide to go into the bathroom and give yourself that smile of confidence in the mirror as you pass by on your way to the toilet, you stop in mid-gait and realize that something bigger, more powerful and more heinous than any words you could ever say were what scared off that Green Peace guy.  

And, after slinking back to the couch for Round 3 of your coughing seizures, you realize that nothing can be more humbling, more bubble bursting, more self-esteem deflating than a booger the size of New Hampshire.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

New York Travels

I attended my high school reunion last Saturday night for a few hours and then went and finished the evening at my neighborhood reunion down the street.  Yes, this is a photo of me singing "Wild Thing" like no one has ever heard before.  And no one, once they've heard my version, ever wants to be able to hear, think or remember ever again.  In fact, I've heard of people being institutionalized for a period after listening to my singing.  Mostly for psychotic episodes that seem to be laced with a pining to ram sharp objects into one ear and out the other.  I guess you could say my singing should come with a warning label attached - kind of like prescription drugs.  "Not recommended for pregnant or nursing mothers as there have been instances where miscarriage occurs or lactating ceases.  If you are over the age of 35, deafness may occur accompanied with a longing to harm or maim anyone blocking your path to the door.  May cause vomiting if ingested audibly for more than 15 seconds.  If diarrhea, fainting, head spinning or hair loss occur, stop listening immediately and contact your doctor."  This particular evening, I saw none of those occurrences, but I think I saw the wait staff giving inoculations at the rear of the bar just prior to my taking the stage.

It seems that life always has bizarre twists and turns to it, but the older I get, the more I believe that some of us steer into strange odysseys all on our own.  Mostly because we welcome variety and partly because, at least for me, the less I worry about what others think of me and the more I care about not suppressing who I am, the better off I am emotionally. That's not to say that in every instance I can let my hair down and be myself.  But I'm learning.

I arrived in New York Friday evening, via Canada, because it's quicker.  It's always interesting conversing with border guards.  I have gotten to a point where I like to "engage" them; especially after the time one guard ransacked my vehicle and picked through my bras, panties and socks like a chimp looking for nits.  You'd think I was built like Pamela Anderson and was hiding a bomb the size of South Africa in each cup the way he went through my lingerie.  Finally, I snatched my Victoria's Secret underwire out of his hands and said, "Enough already.  You saw the self-help book on the back seat, the Bible, and the book about herbal remedies.  Aren't you guys supposed to be trained in profiling?  My mom's sick, I'm praying, and I'm losing my mind.  That's all." He looked stunned and I felt like I was going to pass out -  because I knew that either I had crossed a line and was in big trouble, or he was merely a kindly soul, interested in women's underwear and willing to take pity on me - especially after realizing he hadn't found the Holy Grail of lacy, voluminous brassieres.  Instead, he'd gotten the booby prize (literally) in my hopeful, yet "still-commanding-a-presence," 34B's.  He decided to let me go, but not before recommending a good book to read about grief and dying. 

Just when it felt like I had been swallowed by a black hole and I'd never come out the other side to New York, I made it and was asked by that border guard whether I was bringing anything into the country valued at more than $1,000.  "Just me and my car," I said wearily.  Two days later, as I once again entered Canada on my way back to Michigan, the question was whether I was bringing anything declarable into their country.  "Just this huge pimple here," I said cheerily, pointing to the burgeoning growth between my nose and upper lip - something that began the day of my reunion and sent me into a panic.  I mean, I'm 49 years old.  I can't remember the last time I've had a pimple and now one decides to show it's ugly face on the day of my high school reunion some 32 years later?  High school memories seemingly were back with a vengeance in every way, shape and form.

When the guard continued to stare at his computer screen, never once glancing my way, I continued.  "Honestly, this one deserves a first and middle name," I chuckled and glanced up the highway.  He darted a look back, shook his head, gave me back my passport and said, "All set." 

Druck says to leave these people alone.  He says they get stand-up comedy (or drive-through actually) by thousands of people everyday.  I disagree.  Because I've had my own share of their version of stand-up comedy and so, it's the least I can do for these men and women who occasionally put me through the wringer with their idiotic questions and their own lame jokes.

Was it worth the trip?  Let me say that I vacillated as to whether to go or not up until the last minute.  Mostly because I don't do well in large groups and partly because I don't do well in small groups either.  I'm inherently shy.  If I were born a cat, I'd be feral, always watching from the edge of the woods, looking at the cats sitting in the windows inside their warm cozy homes, well-fed and loved.  I'd sit there, wishing I could summon up the courage to walk up to someone's patio door and see if they'd find me lovely and worthwhile and want to take me in.  But my feralness would take over and I'd fear the rejection more than the possibility of the door opening.  I'd rather stay outside the group and feel just a little cold and a lot lonely than to take a chance and see if someone would let me in.  Because, for me, rejection is more painful than frost-bitten nights at the edge of the woods.

32 years later, I took a chance and stepped inside the warm VFW hall where the reunion took place.  My heart pounded and I did only a little stammering. 

Unfortunately, earlier in the evening I had fallen asleep on the couch and woke up way late, uncertain as to whether it was 6:15 am the next day or 6:15 pm the night of the reunion.  Initially, I thought, "OK.  I slept through that.  No reason to cry over spilt milk."  Then when I realized it was 6:15 pm, I thought, "Too late.  Can't go.  Get some take-out and stay home."  After pacing back and forth for about 30 seconds, I decided to go, causing me to sprint around in a panic.  I was late to the reunion and, on top of that, I hadn't eaten much all day.  When someone walked up to me to say all kinds of nice things and engage me in conversation, I had a plate of food in my hand and my feralness took over.  Feeling faint, I talked for a minute and then said, "I have to sit down and eat before I pass out."  She nodded and I ran off to eat, but I discovered that I could barely swallow my food. I didn't see Margaret again that evening and I still wish I had connected with her.  I wanted to talk about so many things with that woman, and if things had gone differently (not dozing off, making sure I ate properly), I would have enjoyed her company. 

Afterward, I found myself wandering and talking to people and, as the night progressed, I felt better.  I felt calmer.  Because these were all good people.  Some told stories of things we had done together which made me realize that while I have changed over the years, many things about me haven't, and most of those things are quite comical.  

So was it worth it?  Yes.  In every way.  It reminded me that people change, people grow, we tolerate and accept more about ourselves and others.  We take each day for what it is:  a gift.  And we learn to share the gifts we have already attained with others, and learn not to fear rejection of those gifts. We also learn to accept the gifts of others graciously.

I can't wait for the next reunion.  Because next time, I'll set my alarm, will eat like a pig all day prior, and I'll look for my dear friend, Margaret.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

High School Reunion

 Leaving tomorrow for my high school reunion.  We're celebrating our 50th birthdays - not an actual "out of high school" milestone.  It'll be one of those whirlwind weekends.  Leaving tomorrow, driving for 7 hours.  Saturday will be spent with my dad during the day and the evening at the reunion.  Later that evening, I will depart there to meet up with neighbor friends to celebrate another reunion.  I'll drive home on Sunday.

I have not seen almost all of these people in over 30 years.  Thankfully, we have reconnected through Facebook.  I'll try to take pics of people, places and good food.  I'll miss Liam, though.  Each day with him has its own predictability flavored with brand new things: Liam running and hiding behind the sheers in the living room, standing perfectly still, hands clasped, waiting for someone to look for him.  If we don't come quickly enough, he'll call out, "Ee-yum (Liam)?"  It's our cue to drop everything and go look for him.  It's a little difficult when you can see him right there and he is watching with an impish grin on his face until we suddenly and amazingly find him. 

Yesterday morning, I made him pancakes for breakfast.  Afterward, as he sat atop the dryer watching Poppy iron himself a shirt for work, I stood and marveled at two of my three favorite men in my life (the third being my son).  When Poppy asked Liam if Grammy had made him pancakes, that beautiful child, eyes fixed on the ironing project, pointed to his little mouth and did a loud and emphatic, "Mmmmmmmmm!!!"  That said it all.  With one little sound. 

I'll enjoy my weekend but will be anxious to get back to my family. 

Until then, my wishes are for each of you to enjoy your own families this weekend.

- Maggie

Liam Dreams, Love and the Song at the End....

"Love is of source unknown yet it grows ever deeper. The living may die of it, by its power the dead live again. Love is not love at its fullest if one who is living is unwilling to die for it, or if it cannot restore to life one who has died. And must love that comes in dream necessarily be unreal? For there is no lack of dream lovers in this world. Only for those whose love must be fulfilled on the pillow, and for whom affection deepens only after retirement from office, is it an entirely corporeal matter." - From the Peony Pavilion

Love blooms - often from the moment we first set eyes on a person. Sometimes, the person is unseen - for 9 months.  And, as those 9 months drag on, we fall more and more in love with the little one we expectantly wait to greet. 

I remember my daughter asking me, "What if he has abnormalities?  What if he is born retarded or without some fingers or arms?"  I responded solemnly and sincerely, "We will love him anyway.  We will take care of him and nurture him and help him to grow in whatever manner we need to." 

I try to take a lesson from that in everyday life as well.  As we go through life, we encounter all kinds of people.  People with physical ailments, mental ailments, and some who are just plain different. We don't know their story.  We don't know why the cashier just can't make eye contact today (the love of her life just left her and to look into anyone's eyes might cause her emotional collapse?), or someone is riding our ass in traffic (rushing to the hospital to be by the side of a loved one?), or the teenager rushes past, knocking your bag of groceries to the ground (his Crone's Disease is acting up again?).  We don't know their stories.  So maybe it's best to just take some time to offer love in these situations.  By not angrily snatching the change from the cashier, by not flipping off the driver, and not yelling after the teenager. 

Believe me, we feel better for it when we let go of the anger and let go of the hate; when we accept life for what it is and realize that we are all in this together.

All for Love:  Copy and paste for a beautiful ending to today's post:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XgDfzvQPDFM

KID TESTED.....AND FAILED

A few days ago, I was going through things that I should have sorted through long ago because, at this point, my son's old closet is piled to the ceiling with boxes, trashbags filled with everything but real trash (although that is debatable), and clothes.  Many of these things are filled with stuff that no one has any idea what to do with. For example:  I uncovered the following items in the last box I opened:  one old sneaker (without laces), an empty matchbook, a lacy red bra (Son, we need to have a talk), a very long leather shoelace, several gum wrappers, a variety of paperback books, plastic bags, an old spiral notebook and, for lack of a better word, the only adjective I can come up with is "interesting" when I mention the photographs (Son?  We need to talk).

Of all of the items in the box, the one that interested me the most was the spiral notebook because it was one that I had used over the years to communicate things to my kids (and vice versa) when we were running at the speed of light to soccer games, work, school, etc.  Some notes in particular caught my attention.

My note:

Do homework, unload dishwasher, vacuum living room and dining room.  Do NOT leave the house before this is done.

The response note:

Mom, I couldn't do my homework because I left my books in my locker by mistake.  So I had to go to Nicole's to use her books and do homework there.  Also, her mom sprained her ankle and needs help with housework. 

Observations:  (1)  How does one leave their books and homework in their locker BY MISTAKE?  I mean, you obviously had them in your possession and had to access the locker and physically put the books in there.  (2)  Nicole's mom sprained her ankle?  I remember one incident when I was in bed with food poisoning and all I got was, "I need a ride to so and so's.  Do you have money for a cab if you can't take me?  I'm hungry.  Are you going to be better by dinner time?  I can't ride my bike.  It's too far.  What's for dinner?"

My note:

Reminder:  You are grounded.  Do not leave this house.  If you are not here when I get home, there will be consequences.

The response note:

Mom, Nicole's boyfriend broke up with her and she is really depressed.  I had to go be with her.  I love you!

Observations:  (1)  Child?  Nicole's boyfriend was the boyfriend she stole from you and you had wished she'd die.  (2) You're going to be even more depressed than Nicole when I catch up with you.  Because you are now grounded until your 82nd birthday.

Over the  years, there are a few things I have learned as a parent.  Like making notes of all calls that come in (thanks to the very useful caller ID).  I'm serious - take down every single number that comes to the house.  If your child has a cell phone, wait until they are sound asleep at night.  Then sneak their phone from them and go through their directory of numbers. 

I used to keep a separate address book with all of the kids' cell and home numbers (yes, I even got home numbers on occasion when someone was grounded and the cell phone was taken from them and SHRIEK! they had to call from their home phone). 

On rare occasions, when kids are being sneaky, they block their number, so be alert and get those numbers when no one is grounded, no one is trying to sneak out at 3 am, etc.  They will come in handy later when you get up at 4 am and glance in your kid's room and see that instead of a human on the bed, there is a football with a pom pom for hair and a bunch of pillows hastily wadded together under the covers.  I mean, really, do you think I would believe your hair would go from dark brown to fuschia in a matter of hours?  Or that your skin color would tan 15 shades darker?  Well, ok, maybe that isn't so far fetched, but again, being aware is half the battle.  Having those phone numbers when you're in the car at 4:30, driving around from house to house, helps.

And my favorite note from my son (when he was a young naive 15 year old):

Mom, I went to Matt's house for the night because his parents are out of town and they didn't want him here by himself.  I will call you later.

My response:

I waited until 10 pm and called Matt's house.  No answer.  At 10:30 pm, my son called. 

Me:  Where are you? (Note:  Caller ID was blocked).

Son:  I'm at Matt's house.

Me:  OK, well let me call you right back.

Son:  Why?

Me:  I'll call you right back.  (Hang up - call Matt's house.  His mother answers sounding very sleepy).

Me:  Matt's mom?  This is Chip's mom.  Is he there?

Matt's Mom:  No.  I thought he was at your house with Matt. 

Me:  Uh, no.  Chip is supposed to be at your house because you are allegedly away for the weekend and he is keeping Matt company tonight.

Mom:  Interesting.  That's what they told me about your house.

Needless to say, when a nervous Chip called five minutes later from the party he was at, I told him in my fully possessed Linda Blair voice, "I'm coming for you.  NOW.  And Matt's mom is coming for him.  And while you're waiting for us, you can think about how much better it will be for you when you start telling the truth.  After you've been grounded and relegated to litter box duty for the next 8 months."

Did it work?  Sometimes.  But the important thing about being a parent is to remain vigilant.  No matter that you occasionally only get 3 hours of sleep on a Friday night (and not because you're the parent of an infant).  No matter that you get a police officer knocking on your car window because you're staking out a house, reviewing in your mind when and how you're going to make your approach and drag your kid out of there.  By the way, the police officer?  He was a good assist that night, the party was broken up and I was only accused of being a narc by 12 angry kids to which I replied, "What 'til next weekend!" 

As an aside, what kind of crazy parents leave for the weekend trusting that their teenage kids aren't going to throw a party that usually gets out of control, things get stolen, fights break out, etc.  It is a rare teenager who can be trusted in such a way and to those parents I say, how'd you get so lucky?

Thankfully, I haven't had to pull out my Linda Blair voice in quite awhile.  But my kids are in their 20s now.  Not that that matters.  It was not two weeks ago when I left a note to please, if you are here in my house, eating food, dirtying dishes, clean up after yourself and, put your dishes in the dishwasher.  The note I got in return said, "Mom, sorry, I was in a hurry.  And the dishes in the dishwasher were clean so I couldn't put my dirty dishes in there."  I stared out the window for a moment, shook my head and took myself out to dinner.

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

WRITING (or lack thereof)

Maggie hasn't been writing much lately.  Chalk it up to reading and discussing and fighting/slaying right wing dragons who seem to fly in her tower window every now and then.  A maiden gets tired, ok?  And those burns from the hot air that comes from those dragons' mouths, well, I'm recovering.

I'll be writing soon.  About pathcouli.  Or border bullies. Or both.

Dinner anyone?

 My mom came up with this recipe years ago (like 40 years ago), and I hardly ever make it anymore because my husband is a vegetarian.  Occasionally, if he is out of town, I'll whip this up.  It's basically beef stew made on the grill.  You could also substitute the beef for chicken but I think it is best as a beef stew.  As with all of my recipes, these are approximations because I just cook and throw things together (unless, of course, I am following someone else's recipe for the first time).  Here it is:

1.5 pound stew meat cut into bite size pieces
1 small pkg of fresh baby carrots
5 celery stalks, chopped
3 large potatoes, peeled and cut into cubes
3 large onions, peeled and cut in half
3 cloves of garlic, diced
1 can of Campbell's tomato soup
5 sheets of tin foil - pull the foil out of its container about 12 inches out.

1.  Mound about a cup and a half of meat on each sheet of foil.

2.  Systematically mound about 6-8 baby carrots, 1/4 c. celery, 1/2 c. potatoes on top of the meat.  Place a half an onion in each pile.

3.  Open the can of tomato soup.  Sprinkle the diced garlic on top and stir it into the can of soup, mixing well.

4.  Dollop about 1 1/2 tbsp. of the soup/garlic mixture on top of the meat and veggies.  Keep going around until the can of soup is empty.

5.  Pull two sides of the tin foil up evenly until they meet and then roll it down evenly, closing it in on the "stew."  Roll each end up as well to close, but don't close it down  too tightly.  Leave some space because you will now prick a fork in the top of each "bag" to allow steam to escape.  Each little foil bag is now ready to be placed on the grill which you should have preheated.

6.  Grill on lower heat for about 25 minutes.  Check one of the bags by unrolling and pricking the carrots and potatoes with a fork.  When the veggies are tender and the meat is cooked through, it's ready. 

This is a delicious meal that can be served over noodles, rice, or alone.  The combination of the tomato soup and the juices from the meat and veggies is a distinct mouth watering flavor.  You can make each bag bigger or smaller, depending on the voracity of your family's appetite.  Enjoy!

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma

Electrifying

We have been in the "Home Renovation Stage" for the last 14 years.  When we bought this house, we saw all the possibilities.  A  huge kitchen, four bedrooms, two full baths and a decent back yard.  The loft overlooking the living room, cathedral ceilings, and a corner fireplace added to the charm. Fast forward 14 years and this house has become the bane of our existence.  It is livable, for sure.  It is not, however, cosmetically where we want it to be.  And, while we have replaced the roof, siding, windows, front yard, driveway, hot water heater, carpeting and redid the patio and one bathroom, it is far from finished. 

The biggest sore spot is and always has been - the kitchen.  Our kitchen is large and probably could be used as a dance area for a small wedding.  But. It is. Hideous.  I won't even post a full photo of this room.  Not any kind of photo, in fact.  The floor is vintage 70s green linoleum.  The cabinets are vintage 70s DARK.  The oven quit working a year ago July.  So you can imagine how many times I've thrown that at my husband when he hasn't been thrilled with the dinner I make.  "It's been a freaking YEAR without an oven.  You are a vegetarian.  Which makes it difficult in the first place to come up with variety - and protein.  Now I've been dealing with no oven for over a year." And he keeps saying, "We'll get a new one when we redo the kitchen." 

My neighbors recently banded together and created a not-for-profit organization called, "Maggie's Stove Quest -OR- Kill the Husband, Whichever Comes First."  They are insisting that the lot of us stand together in solidarity, go to Home Depot and get me an oven or, in the alternative, sign up, at least on a temporary basis, with the mafia. 

"I mean, what's he going to do?  DIVORCE you if you go and get a lousy oven?" 

"He wouldn't survive one month in my house.  Not a week in fact!"

"Oh, he wouldn't survive a DAY in my house!"

"Who the hell does he think he is?"

"I'd quit cooking."

"We're going.  Together.  And we're picking out the best [and most expensive] oven they have!"

Just when I'm panting and foaming at the mouth, ready to storm off to Home Depot waving my check book and willing to take down any man who gets in my way, that little angel on my left shoulder whispers, "Oh, stop now.  Be patient.  Settle down.  You'll get your stove in due time.  After all, this is a good life lesson for you - patience.  It's a virtue, you know."  After smacking her several times in rapid succession and knocking her into next week's drama, I smoothe my clothes, put the checkbook back, and try to be a good wife.  And pretend that it's no big deal trying to make eggplant parmesan without an oven.

But we are making progress.  We have decided on cabinets, lighting and paint color.  First, however, Druck needs to do some rewiring.  So yesterday, he brought in this old radio from the garage, plugged it into a kitchen outlet, and turned it on - LOUD.  Liam was visiting, and when we all began dancing to "Legs" by ZZ Top, I assumed this was solely for Liam's entertainment.  When Liam and his mama left, I went about my business and turned down the radio.

While in my bedroom, pulling sheets off the bed, I noticed that the radio was blaring again.  So I went and turned it off.  Returning to my room, throwing sheets and pillowcases into a pile, I hear the radio come back on but, not only that, it is cutting in and out.  Deciding there must be a short circuit, I return to the kitchen.  "Bizarre," I whisper, scratching my head, and decide to just unplug the thing. 

I head to the living room to pick up toys when I hear Druck's footsteps and voice in the kitchen.  "What the hell?" he says.  Of course, I don't associate any of that with the radio so, when the radio comes on again, I shoot upright and stand very still because sometimes when one stands very still, some sense can be made of things that, to most other people, would have made sense five minutes earlier.  Because Druck is nowhere to be found and the radio keeps turning on and off, I return to the kitchen and, standing there with my  hands on my hips, staring at the radio like it's going to look at me and shrug or give me some kind of explanation, I once again unplug it, vowing to mention to Druck that his radio has problems and to quit plugging it back in because who wants to listen to music like this anyway? 

Not 15 seconds later, Druck comes stomping into the room looking annoyed.  "What are you doing?" he says in an accusatory tone. 

"I think there's something wrong with this radio," I reply.  "It keeps turning off and on.  I think there's a short."  He says nothing, swipes past me and plugs the radio in.  Again.  "DON'T TOUCH IT." 

How was I to know he was checking circuits for his electrical rewiring project?  All he had to do was tell me.  And as for that angel on my shoulder?  Last I saw her, she was standing on the corner, thumb out, bruised, angry, and yelling, "To hell with patience.  Margaritaville, here I come.  See ya later, Suckas."

Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma