Liam's Grandma or Maggie in Real Life

Liam's Grandma Talks About the Economy

Here's my most recent video on the economy - and more....

Go here: 

Oh, what wisdom you will find from Liam's Grandma!

It's All About the Laundry

Yessirree.  That's what life is about.  Just ask Liam.  It's all about the laundry....

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

ECHO, ECHo, ECho, Echo, echo .....

Yes, once again, here is that apologetic blog post where I stand, head down, eyes lowered, twisting my toe in the carpet and twiddling my thumbs before I say, "Yes, I've been a bad girl.  A very bad girl.  I haven't blogged in over a month."  And you shake your finger at me and say, "You're not going to improve your writing that way, young lady!"  And I cringe and say, "I know, I know, BUT..."  And you say, "NO 'buts!!!'" (Mom used to talk to me that way).

So, as I said, here I am, after not blogging for well over a month, because I keep saying that I haven't had time.  I suppose it is, as the saying goes, "relative."  I haven't had time, relative to the time spent making soap.  I haven't had time, relative to the time spent taking care of my grandson.  But my grandson is my first priority and he has been with me the better part of 80 hours a week now that my daughter is working and going to school.  And God Bless her for that.

Unfortunately, when time is at a premium, the price has to be paid somewhere.   Like the fact that I haven't had my hair cut in almost two months.  Look at me, I scream!  Just look at me!  The "no time," coupled with an inability to sleep, leaves one (mainly me) looking like Patty Smith.  The only difference between me and Patty Smith is that she can sing; I can't.  I shave my armpits; she doesn't.

So here I am, looking like Patty Smith, late on a Friday night (because I can't sleep), sitting in my frumpy, yet comfortable robe, wondering why I waste so much time.  I have friends who would say, "You're kidding."  But I'm not.  I waste so much time, it's not funny.   And it's because I must have some kind of Adult ADD.  And, please, don't start sending me emails, hate mail, murderous snail mail about Adult ADD.  I know it's nothing to laugh about.  But somewhere, somehow, I have something like it, if not IT itself, and I'm not sure if it's kid-induced, menopause-induced or husband-induced, but if it's not ADD, then I'm smack-dab in the middle of some huge nervous breakdown or ... even better... a dream... where I wake up and find out that this was all a huge mistake and I'm really some exotic, beautiful woman with the firmest breasts that ever existed (size 38DD no less!), living in one of her 14 mansions on a private beach (any private beach with blue water and nobody around will do), a cabana boy who really is her ex-husband, but she keeps him around because she really does like the guy but he has this unnerving habit of leaving the toilet seat up.  

Anyway, she wakes up, wipes the sweat from her brow and says, "Oh my God, I have got to start going to Church!"  

The reality is, however, that it isn't a dream.  I'm not a 38DD with the firmest DD you ever saw, so I have to accept the fact that I waste time dreaming about it and, because of whatever issue I have, I can't take full responsibility for my wasting of time.  Anything I do I certainly can do VERY quickly.  I can make soap quickly, I can cook quickly.  I can get all of my chores done QUICKLY.   I am very efficient.  But my own mindblower is that if I didn't have this out-of-control disorganization, I truly think I might be up for some sort of award.  A Pulitzer Prize even.  Maybe some sort of Nobel Prize.  Because even though, in any given day, I can take care of a 2 year old for 14 hours, make 6 pounds of soap, make a gourmet dinner, run errands, clean the bathroom, do 3 loads of laundry, answer emails, run two businesses (yeah, I make soap, but I've never told you about the other business I have and have done for the last 11 years because I'm afraid you'll think I am absolutely insane...), I take the most circuitous routes there are to get my work done.  

I'll give you an example and then I'm ending this nonsensical, write-about-nothing post....

A day in the life of Maggie consists of getting up, making coffee, feeding the cats, starting to unload the dishwasher, checking email,  playing with the cats, going back to the dishwasher, checking Facebook, starting to make husband's lunch, vacuuming the living room, finish unloading the dishwasher, continue making husband's lunch, running upstairs to cut soap, coming back downstairs to throw a load of laundry in, pouring another cup of coffee, finish making husband's lunch, playing with cats, checking email, returning client phone calls (on the business you don't know about which is, OK already, ... I have a dog walking/pet sitting business that earns great money [but, most of the dough goes to my employees because I have no freaking time to do the job!!!], getting two stuffed animals to stand at the door and jump around when grandson arrives, making breakfast for grandson, getting partially dressed (yes, partially - pajama bottoms off, pants on)...sitting with grandson while he eats more...continuing the partial dressing....socks on, robe off....play with grandson awhile...finish dressing (bra and shirt on)....brush teeth and it goes on and on and on and on.

I can't do anything from start to finish.  My sister and I have talked about this.  She is successful as well, but can't finish something from start to finish without doing something else TO SAVE HER LIFE!!!

So I waste time.  So what.  But it frustrates me and the people who work for me in the dog walking business.  Those poor people deal with things from me like, "What day is it?"  "Why are you there?  Oh, right, they changed the schedule."  Or the phone rings and one of the wonderful people who works for me says, "Maggie?  I'm at the meeting.  Where are YOU?"  And I say, "Oh, I'm stuck in traffic," as I run to the bedroom, throw off my T-shirt and change into something presentable, race to the car and drive off into the sunset, forgetting the address of the house we are supposed to be meeting at and, sheepishly call my employee, as I turn in the wrong direction, and ask for the address.

Thanksgiving Prep

It's that time of year again when we throw everyone and everything into the car and drive for 7+ hours to our place in New York and put on Thanksgiving Dinner amidst constant interruptions by a 2 year old and everyone else.  

I love cooking Thanksgiving Dinner.  It's always a challenge for me to make sure everything is ready at the same time and, believe me, I've gotten it down to a science.  I like these kinds of challenges.  Other challenges, not so much - like shopping for the items on my grocery list that, unfurled, winds once around the grocery store and back again.  

OK...this may come as a shock to some of you, but I hate going to the grocery store.  By the time I get to the last aisle, I'm about ready to leave the cart and walk out.  When you think of the whole process, it's a complete work out.  You go in there, grab a cart, load everything in, double back again for the things you missed, stand in line, run back to the dairy department for the sour cream, get back in line and thank the man who held your spot, load everything onto the conveyor belt, do your own bagging because Selma just had to have a cigarette break before someone got hurt, load the bags back into the cart, truck them out to the car where they are LOADED INTO THE CAR, drive home where they are LOADED INTO THE HOUSE (and no one is ever around to help with that), and then put everything away.  

Most of the time, on these long shopping forays, I just want to stand in the middle of an aisle and scream "I can't do this anymore!" at the top of my lungs until someone calls an ambulance and takes me away for that long awaited rest in a softly padded room with a warm blanket.  Which makes me wonder about nervous breakdowns.

Over the years, I've heard a handful of people say, "Oh that was before my breakdown," or, "Well, you know," as they speak in hushed tones, "that was after her nervous breakdown and after that whole breast implant thing and then she decided that she was really a he and, my GOD, what do you do with those large breasts now?  She was better off before the Pamela Anderson makeover.  Talk about back to the drawing board..."

I mean, how does someone have a nervous breakdown?  What is it anyway?  Standing 1/4" away from the wall, talking to yourself, nervously waiting for the walls to open up and swallow you whole?  I don't know.  Perhaps I don't want to know.  But, occasionally, trying to prepare for big events seems to bring me close to the brink of making friends with the wall or the string that's hanging from my sleeve.  

And, so, this Thanksgiving, we'll fill the car with groceries, a 2 1/2 year old, a bunch of toys, aspirin, Tylenol and a flask of Vodka.  We'll drive 7 hours, stopping only to give the little one time to stretch his legs and allow me to run quickly for a bathroom break.  We'll load ourselves back into the car amidst howls from the 2 1/2 year old who thought we were THERE and is now about to have a nervous breakdown of his own.  We'll arrive Tuesday night somewhere around midnight and the sleeping 2 1/2 year old will think it's morning when we UNLOAD THE CAR and we'll have to give him a good 30 minutes to check the place out again, remark about the laundry room (because he loves laundry), turn on and off the ceiling fan, have a quick snack and, amidst further howls, Nimmy will CART him off and LOAD him into bed and pray he falls asleep soon.

Thanksgiving is about a lot of CARTING, LOADING and UNLOADING and an occasional NERVOUS BREAKDOWN.  But the best part of Thanksgiving is being with family, seeing their beautiful faces, their warm smiles, hearing their laughter, doling out hugs and eating like there's no tomorrow.  It's about a fire in the wood stove, and stories that we've heard over and over again.  It's about playing games that only a toddler loves but games that bring the rest of us back to the basics of life, reminding us that life really is simple.  It is what we make of it.  It's not nervous breakdown-worthy - it's special, it's wonderful, it's a gift.  And family is the biggest part of it.  

Now, where's my grocery list?  I've got to color my hair.  What will I wear?  How much will my husband and I bicker on the way?  Is this sore throat going to be gone by the time we leave on Tuesday?  I'm hungry.  I'm crazy.  I'm having a nervous breakdown....

Happy Thanksgiving, with love, to you and yours.  - Maggie

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma

Remember Me?

I haven't posted in awhile.  Almost a month to be exact, but I've been working on a new project.  Can you guess what it is? 

 

This is what happens when you turn 50, have a mid-life crisis, enter menopause and take care of a 2 year old on a regular basis.  You go a little crazy.

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma

 

Dealing with Temper Tantrums

Need I say anymore?

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma

Married Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

M:    We don't.

D:    Then put on some clothes.

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

D:    People can see you.

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

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

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

D:    Why is your hairbrush out here?

M:    Where's my hammer?

D:    I'll use my bare fists.

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

D:    I'm gonna send you to the moon.

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

Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma

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

Maggie is on vacation.  I will be back in about ten days.  Meanwhile, enjoy yourself by sifting through my idiotic life by viewing older blog posts.  Happy Summer!