The grandma I will never be

Jim and I went to see the Leonardo DiCaprio movie Inception yesterday. The movie looked intriguing (and proved to be that and more!) but the prospect of sitting in an air-conditioned theater during the hottest point of the day was the true lure for us. We needed to escape the heat of our NOT air-conditioned house.

Ironically, things heated up quite a bit inside the air-conditioned theater as we waited for the show to begin. Especially for one grandma who grew unreasonably hot under the collar when two women -- late arrivals seeking seats in the packed house just before the previews started -- dared to ask Grandma to scoot down a seat.

Let me stop right here and say that Jim and I always arrive pretty early to see a movie, just to be sure we get end seats, on the aisle. Jim likes to sit on the end; we plan accordingly. So any time one of the theater staff come into a packed house and ask everyone to scoot toward the middle to create empty seats for late arrivals, we don't budge. We got there early; they got there late. Next time maybe they'll better manage their time.

So yesterday, Jim and I were situated in our end seats, with an empty seat between myself and Grandma's movie-watching partner. There was one more empty seat in the row, about five people beyond Grandma.

"Would you mind scooting down a seat so it would open up two seats for us to sit together?" one of the late women -- a 50-something, clean, well-spoken woman -- very politely asked our row of folks.

"Sure, sure, no problem," pretty much everyone mumbled as they started gathering their goodies and preparing to scoot down one. Everyone, that is, except Grandma.

"I like to sit here so I can put my feet up," Grandma said.

"Pardon?" the polite seat-scoot requester said as the 20-somethings next to Grandma leaned toward her to see if they, too, heard Grandma correctly.

"I like to put my feet up," Grandma reiterated in clipped tones as she white-knuckled her seat and refused to move.

Incredulous, the woman requesting the musical chairs simply said, "Real nice ...." and motioned to her partner that they would need to proceed to the front-row, neck- and eye-straining seats.

Most everyone else in our row clucked a "tsk, tsk" and shook their heads as they resumed their original positions. All while self-righteous Grandma faced forward, ignoring the head shaking.

The sad thing is, if Grandma had simply taken a moment to assess the situation rather than being hell-bent on staying in the seat she'd chosen, she'd have realized that all she and her friend needed to do was scoot down one seat in the other direction, toward me, and she'd still be able to rest her feet on the bar in front of her -- saving face and her tootsies while providing two seats together at the other end of the row, leaving everyone happy and cool and things right with the world.

But no, she refused the consideration, sat strong and firm. She was going to get off her butt for no one, no time, no way. In her own mind, I'm sure, she figured she sure taught that late-arriving woman and her companion a lesson in getting someplace on time in order to get what you want.

What she really did, though, was teach those of us witnessing the rudeness what a real inconsiderate cuss looks like. A real inconsiderate cuss of a grandma, at that. A grandma I will never be. I will never be that rude, never be that cold, never ruin the experience for others simply because I jump the gun and refuse to consider other arrangements and staunchly, indignantly defend my position.

Of course I can say that because Jim and I always choose the aisle seats at the theater, so scooting in just one wouldn't make a difference for a couple or crowd. If anyone were to make such a request, we'd have to refuse ... politely ... and kindly wonder aloud what good one seat would do for two or more needing a spot.

Now if there were an empty seat next to me and one late arrival asked us ever so politely to scoot in and let him or her sit on the end ... well ... I gotta admit that we'd still have to refuse.

But we'd do it politely and -- unlike the Grandma at Inception -- consider other options, offering the lone movie-goer the seat right beside me. No, not on the aisle, but, yes, here is a seat, no scooting required.

And no snottiness necessary. Unlike yesterday's cuss of a grandma, the grandma I swear I will never, ever be. Unless ...

... unless a fellow movie-goer talks or texts during a movie. If that's your thing, I'm warning you now: You better simply shut 'er off and slink away. I still swear to not act like the non-scooting grandma. I'll be worse. Way worse.

For sometimes a grandma's just gotta teach folks a lesson or two. Politeness be cussed.

Today's question:

Where is your favorite spot to sit in the movie theater?

Stats, schmatz

The Daily Beast recently featured an article called 15 Signs You'll Get Divorced. It's filled with stats on off-the-wall traits that supposedly predict the likelihood of marital demise.

Either I'm extra special or the stats are a bunch of hooey. First note that Jim and I have been married 28 years, then consider these figures from the article:

If you didn't smile for photographs early in life, your marriage is five times more likely to end in divorce than if you smiled intensely in early photographs. I didn't smile much in pictures. I was shy. I hated my teeth. Braces would have made a difference. Does that mean those who had braces as a child are more likely to have a successful marriage?

If you have two sons, you face a 36.9 percent likelihood of divorce, but if you have two daughters, the likelihood rises to 43.1 percent. Ummm, we have three daughters. What does that mean for our marital bliss ... or discord?

If you're a woman who got married before the age of eighteen, your marriage faces a 48 percent likelihood of divorce within ten years. I got married at 17. It was the week before my 18th birthday, though, so maybe being within mere days of the magical age made all the difference. But then again, maybe not: The article says those marrying at age 18 or 19 face a 40 percent likelihood of divorce within ten years.

If you're a woman who has recently been diagnosed with cancer or multiple sclerosis, your marriage is six times more likely to end in divorce than if your husband had been diagnosed with those diseases instead. "A study of 'partner abandonment' revealed that husbands are six times more likely to leave sick wives than wives are to leave sick husbands," the article explains. Well, I have multiple sclerosis ... have for 17 years ... and Jim's not abandoned me yet. Although that could be chalked up to the fact that he has a grab-bag of health issues himself, and I think I do more caretaking of him than he does of me. (He might refute that, but don't believe him. You know how men are when they're sick!)

In actuality, I'd have to say that having MS saved me from divorce, at least considering this stat: If you're a dancer or choreographer, you face a 43.05 percent likelihood of divorce.  Shew! Because of the MS, there was no way in cuss I would have ever made it as a star on any dance floor. Thank you, MS!

All in all, I have to say stats, schmatz!

Although ... one can never be too sure. So I plan to keep a close eye on Jim's testosterone levels going forward. Get a load of this: If you're a man with high basal testosterone, you're 43 percent more likely to get divorced than men with low testosterone levels.

I'm off to see if Walgreen's offers a do-it-yourself, testosterone-level-checking kit. I certainly wouldn't want Jim getting too manly on me. I'll keep ya posted!

Today's question:

What's one deal-breaker for you, one sure reason for divorce?

My answer: Being abusive to my kids. (Why wasn't there a stat for that in the article?)

Jumping for joy

It was thirty-six years ago this month that my parents, six siblings and I arrived in Colorado by station wagon from Minnesota in search of a new life, one that might keep my parents' rocky marriage together. I was a preteen and pretty excited -- and scared -- about the new venture. The house my parents purchased in advance wasn't yet ready, so we stayed a week or so in one of the log cabin motels dotting the highway of the tiny mountain town we'd call home.

Across the highway from our cabin was the motel office, and outside the office was the motel's coin-operated trampoline. The trampoline itself wasn't operated by coin; it was the length of the jumper's turn that was dictated by quarter. For 25 cents, a kid could jump to his or her heart's content ... for about three minutes. Then the timer would ding and the next one up would plop in his or her quarter and jump for joy. Bouncing past the bell would result in jeers from the others in line; when there were no other kids in line, the motel owner or his progeny (not much older than my siblings and me) would come outside and menacingly enforce the rules.

Despite the limited access to quarters for a family with seven kids -- and a fear of the crabby motel owner and his kids -- it was the beginning of my love affair with the "tramp," as the trampoline became affectionately called by those lucky enough to become well acquainted with it. When our time at the cabin was up, we reluctantly bid farewell to the motel tramp ... and rejoiced upon seeing the tramp nestled in the ground in the backyard of our new neighbor.

It took us a while in our new digs to feel comfortable enough with our neighbor -- a family of five that included three awesomely hip teens that made me shrink in their presence -- to knock on their sliding door and ask for permission to jump. It was okay to do so, our new friends living near the tramp house assured us, as long as the resident teens weren't jumping themselves. For several months, my siblings and I encouraged our friends to do the asking, as we were the new kids in town and figured we were less likely to get a "yes" from the tramp owners.

We soon learned that regardless of who initiated the request, permission flowed freely and the neighboring tramp was ours to enjoy for hours on end. My new friend and I bonded as we bounced, competing against one another in seat wars, back wars, games of add-on. We'd acquiesce to the older siblings when they showed up -- including our older sisters who had become best buds as well -- as they were much more fluent in trampe-eze. Even my older sister, just as new to the sport as I was, had quickly become a pro, flying through the air with the greatest of ease, performing front flips, back flips, swan dives and one-and-a-halfs.

I longed to be as good as the older kids. I'd peek out the window and watch the resident teens expertly enjoy their trampoline, then put some of their moves into play when it was my turn. Little by little I mastered the front flip, back flip, swan dive and, finally, after a few terrifying turns, the satisfying slam of my stomach on the mat when I successfully managed the derring-do of a one-and-a-half. Double flips soon followed. Never before had I felt so in command of graceful moves, a graceful body.

In hopes of maintaining neighborly relations, my dad eventually purchased a trampoline for our own yard. No longer would seven rug rats be knocking on the neighbor's sliding door, begging to jump. We were thrilled to have our own tramp, but it wasn't the same. It was new and stiff and didn't bounce as easily and as high as the in-ground beauty next door. But we and our friends jumped ferociously, purposefully in hopes of breaking it in, all the while doing our best to ignore the screaming and crying and fighting we could hear through the windows, evidence that it was Mom and Dad's marriage that had been broken, irreparably.

After the divorce, my dad got custody of the tramp. Custody of the kids was a far less desirable affair for him, so with few kids in residence and even fewer visiting, the tramp was never fully broken in. It was eventually sold, and we kids moved on, grew up, never dared to look back.

Except that the lure of the tramp couldn't be forgotten. Luckily Jim -- who also had frequented the coin-operated trampoline in town, long before I ever knew him -- fondly recalled the joy of jumping as much as I did. So together we purchased a trampoline for our daughters.

The girls and their friends spent many a summer day bouncing away and several summer nights attempting sleepovers on the tramp, usually ending in mid-night scrambles into the house because of scary neighborhood noises or dampness from the dew soaking their sleeping bags.

My daughters had their own versions of bouncing bliss that included front flips, seat wars, add-on and a game I never really understood dubbed the Uncle David Game, concocted during an extended visit from my brother. The girls never mastered the swan dive or the one-and-a-half -- at least not that I ever saw. Not because they weren't capable but because I had become an overprotective mom and although I wanted them to experience the incomparable joy of jumping, I worried endlessly that one poorly executed flip would break their neck resulting in certain death or at least paralysis, so I limited the tricks they were allowed.

I myself wasn't allowed to do much jumping on the new tramp either, not out of fear of a broken neck but out of fear of how my bladder may perform, battered and bruised as it had become by three pregnancies in rapid succession. So I'd jump carefully only now and then, do a few knees, seats, backs, a stomach here and there. Sometimes I'd even engage in a seat war with the girls.

But never again did I do a flip -- front, back or otherwise. Never again have I felt as in command of graceful moves, a graceful body as I did thirty-six summers ago when I very first mastered the tramp.

Today's question:

When have you felt the most graceful?

Wanted: Crazy, quirky confessions

The cover of the May 2010 Reader's Digest beckoned me: "Normal or Nuts?" it screamed. "Your habits, quirks, and fears explained." I immediately had to read the article because I think I have a lot of weird habits, quirks and fears and I hoped the article would prove there are folks with far weirder habits, quirks and fears than mine.

Unfortunately, it didn't. Despite the intro comment that "... it's a sure bet that your nutty quirk -- the one you think is freakishly unusual -- is shared by plenty of other people ...", the habits highlighted by the readers were pretty darn normal, if you ask me. There was fear of speaking in public, flying in an airplane, loving one child more than another, talking to oneself, being depressed about layoffs at work, blah, blah, boring blah.

Okay, yeah, there were two truly weird obsessions highlighted in the article: One in which the person didn't like to have his or her feet touch the ground ... except for when they're in motion; and another in which the person pulls out stray arm hairs to ensure all the arm hair is the same length. Yep, those two are weird.

But I was hoping for some enlightenment, actually, hoping for some companionship when it comes to the quirks that make me feel like I'm crazy. Comments from my daughters such as as "You're so weird, Mom" are a regular occurrence, and after years of trying to fit in, I've come to accept that I don't really fit in much of anywhere in any way. I follow the beat of a different drummer, a lone drummer, one that plays a song not many understand. Or so I think. But maybe I'm wrong.

Which is why I'm coming to you all. Because Reader's Digest couldn't help me out, I'm hoping you can. I'd like to propose that today we all fess up to one or two of our quirkiest quirks, our craziest thoughts, words and deeds that we think we're alone in conducting. Then we'll see what the consensus is. Are we all weird? Are we all crazy? Or are we just quirky enough to be charming ... and interesting.

So I'll go first. Then I'd like you all to comment with something that similarly worrisome to you, that you think you may be the only one in the world doing. Nothing too dark, nothing too revealing, nothing so bat-crap crazy that I block you from commenting ever again ... just something that you wonder if others do as well -- or if others think that's just too far outside the spectrum of normal human behavior.

We'll comment back and forth and together we'll see what happens. Who knows? Could be crazy, could be quirky, could be an utterly idiotic thing to ask of my readers. We'll see ...

So here I go with mine:

I absolutely must cover my neck with the covers in bed each night, regardless of how hot the weather may be. If my neck is exposed, I fear a vampire will claim the fleshy space between my head and my body. It has nothing to do with Twilight or True Blood; it goes farther back than that. I've done it since I was a kid ... a kid who grew up unable to take my eyes off the TV when Barnabas Collins had his way with the women and more in the original serial called Dark Shadows. The show was kind of sexy (to a kid, at least), definitely scary ... and obviously quite scarring, as you can tell by my neck-covering obsession more than 40 years later!

Now you tell me: crazy or quirky? And, what crazy or quirky confession do you have to share so we can all weigh in on your obsession?

Today's question:

See above ...!

**Oh my! In researching to verify what year Dark Shadows ran on ABC, I found on Wikipedia that Johnny Depp will play Barnabas Collins in the 2011 movie from Tim Burton. Aack! The neck-covering continues!

Getting comfortable

Some of you may find this hard to believe, considering how much I babble on this blog, but I was excruciatingly timid for the first 20 or so years of my life. I was scared of many things, but most importantly I was scared of other people because in my mind they were bigger, better, smarter, sweeter and certainly better looking than I would ever be.

But then I had kids. And I had no choice but to play Mama Bear. I had to go against my natural instincts and be brave, strong and protective -- for the sake of my daughters. And I got pretty good at defending my family.

Then I became an editor and had to ramp up the courage another notch or two. I had to be brave, strong and protective -- for the sake of my staff. I got pretty good at that, too. (Of course, I couldn't save our department from being cut, but that's another story.)

Because of my role as mom and my role as editor, I learned to not care too much what others thought of me. But in the last two weeks, I've had two experiences that point out that in my current role of grandma I've finally aged enough, evolved enough that I truly am comfortable with who I am, regardless of what others may think of me.

The first involved the Roto-Rooter man. Sounds like this could lead somewhere disgusting, but stay with me ... it doesn't. You see, we have lots of trees on our property, lots of roots clogging up our plumbing system and lots of backups that flooded our basement in the few years we've lived here. So this year I decided to be proactive and have the Roto-Rooter-type guy clean out our system before the backup could happen. Well, turns out the hole for him to work on such things is right below the tree where the mourning doves have returned to nest and hatch their babies. So once the cleaning was done, I pointed out to the guy the mama bird who had sat above his head the entire time. He apparently wasn't much for birding and didn't know what the mourning dove was. So I told him. "They're the birds that do this ..." and I proceeded to do the mourning dove call: "ooh AH hoo hoo hoo." Ten, even five years ago I would never have done such a thing, would have been mortified if such an embarrassing sound escaped on its own, much less vocalize it on purpose. The guy glanced at me sideways and mumbled "Oh, I think I know which one you're talking about," and left it at that. I know he thought I was a nut, but I didn't care. At all. And I realize in retrospect what a giant leap that was for me.

An even bigger leap came this past week. Because we have all those trees I mentioned, when hurricane-strength winds (no exaggeration!) hit town a few days ago, one of those trees broke ... right over the neighbor's fence. So we had to call our trusty tree service dude to make the final cut that would save the fence and save us from our wacky neighbor who still carries the bullet in his head from a stint in Iraq. (A sad, sad story, but again, one for another time.)

Before I go any further, let me say that I have really, really, really dark circles under my eyes. (Stay with me; it comes into play.) They're not bags, just circles, gifted to me by my dad. And I hate them. And I never, ever, ever allow anyone to see me without at least some cover-up under the eyes. When the girls had friends stay the night, I'd get up early to shower and slap on some makeup before the kids awoke. Same goes for when relatives would visit. Even when I was in the hospital for a fairly lengthy visit, I made sure I had my cover-up and a mirror for applying it as I lay in the bed. My dark circles were my dark secret.

But now that I'm older and wiser -- and a grandma -- it seems I don't give a cuss about circles anymore, dark, light or otherwise. For when the tree guy -- who has been to our house several times, all for which I was fully prepared and fully covered -- came to fully amputate our tree, I met him at the door fresh from my morning walk with the dogs, smelling I'm sure not so fresh in my sweaty T-shirt, shorts and ponytail ... and no makeup. Not a speck, not a drop. And I hadn't even considered racing to the bathroom to swipe the cover-up stick under my eyes before his arrival. Because I no longer care.

That, my friends, may be one small step for most women but an unbelievably huge leap for this grandma. Trust me on this.

I make weird bird noises. I have dark circles under my eyes. I am no longer timid. I am no longer afraid of what others think of me.

I am grandma. And I am comfortable with that.

Today's question:

What have you become more comfortable with as you've gotten older?

Wheat, chaff and baby teeth

As I mentioned yesterday, Jim and I spent Saturday with three of Jim's five siblings plus a couple nieces and nephews clearing out the storage shed that held everything from the last apartment Jim's mom lived in, her last home and the place she resided when a stroke unexpectedly ripped her from her life and plopped her down in a hospital bed to wait out her days.

My mother-in-law was always a fastidious housekeeper, a truly tidy grandma. But the unexpectedness of the emergency medical situation meant she never had the chance to tie up her life belongings into beribboned bundles or to even discard such things as drawers full of hair-color conditioner tubes and expired grocery coupons. Which meant her kids had a lot of stuff to go through, a lot of work to do paring her possessions into piles to pass along to her children and grandchildren, honoring her by not pitching it all into the charity bin.

To be honest, it was a relatively quick task as Jim's mom lived a spare and simple life. And, as Granny prided herself on being ever the educator, the task indeed taught me a few lessons about getting my own things and my own life in order so my kids and grandkids have an easier time separating the wheat from the chaff once I'm gone.

Here are a few of those lessons:

Keep a notebook or journal -- placed in a prominent spot -- detailing which possessions you'd like to go to whom. There were thankfully no arguments over my mother-in-law's goods, but we all could only guess what her desire may be ... and I'm pretty sure we missed the mark on at least a few. A will may be the answer, but how many wills go so far as to say which kid gets the red afghan versus the white or the flowered teapot versus the striped?

Always label photos with the names of those in the pictures and the date. As we perused the hundreds of photos, we were at a loss again and again without Granny around to let us know which baby belonged to whom and why one wacky woman wore the getup featuring what appeared appeared to be a bikini-clad sumo wrestler.

Minimize the mementos from your children's early years. Mother's Day gifts made in preschool, unidentifiable art-class and woodshop projects and every scrap of sentimentality have their place, but it's a very limited place. Save only those that really tug at the heart strings, not every crayon-scribbled, glitter-pocked piece of paper.

Speaking of paper, get rid of (most of) it. There's no need to save every single greeting card, every single receipt, every single recipe that one may have intended to try but never did. A paper shredder -- of which we found an unused one in Granny's possession -- comes in handy for such things.

Same goes for toiletry samples and hotel freebies. As Jim and his siblings chuckled about the blue tube after blue tube of the Clairol conditioning cream that comes with the hair color but is far too much for any normal woman to use as directed on the tube, I had to fess up that I have a handful, okay a basketful, of the very same conditioning cream tubes in my own bathroom cabinet. I'll be pitching those ... soon.

Thank you for these lessons and more, Granny. I'll do my best to soon institute them in my life, my home, my piles of stuff. I'll do it in honor of you -- and to nip in the bud the giggles, grins and guffaws sure to come from my daughters if they were to one day discover the Ziploc baggie I have filled with baby teeth individually wrapped in tissues, all deftly pulled from under pillows by this grandma formerly known as the Tooth Fairy.

Today's question:

Which of the "lessons" from above are you most in need of instituting in your life?

Flushing Grandma's potty mouth

I don't swear a lot, but I do swear. Probably more often than I should. Most often of the H-word, S-word, D-word variety.

I never ever use GD, and the F-word only flies in my head ... when I stub my toe, poke my eye with the mascara brush or get really, really, REALLY angry at Jim. But like I said, it's only in my head.

I do try not to swear around Bubby at all, but I'm thinking that I should probably just clean up my language a tad so I don't have to consciously consider what's coming out of my mouth when around him. Yeah, he's 819 miles away, but eventually I'll have grandkids nearby that I see more often and being a potty-mouthed grandma isn't what I aspire to be.

So I've decided I'm going to follow the lead of George Clooney ... as Fantastic Mr. Fox. He cusses all the time ... but he uses the actual word CUSS in place of the cuss words. Take a look:

How cussing cool is that!? I think I even picked up on an F-word replacement here and there. Which means I can actually tell Jim what I'm thinking at those times I'm really, really, REALLY angry and I'll still be a relatively clean-mouthed grandma!

So if I start using the "cuss" word around here, you'll understand, right?

Oh, and if you've not seen "Fantastic Mr. Fox," what the cuss are you waiting for?

Today's question:

What cuss word do you say most often?

My answer: The one most often flying from my mouth is the H-word ... and it's not when I'm reading the Bible.