Grandma grumbles

This past week wasn't as bad as this particular week, but there were still a few things that got my briefs in a bunch and caused this grandma to grumble:

1. Rejection. As many of you know, I have an agent. For my picture books. And as many of you may know, the picture book market has gone down the toilet. But after reading (and rejecting) my first book, an editor requested that I write another on a topic she wanted covered. I did, she loved it, and for two months it's been under consideration with her peers (they buy books by committee at some places). Then the house hired a new head who brought authors with him/her, one of whom had a book quite similar to mine. That author and that book get to be published. My book is dead in the water. Decision by the new publisher. My agent apologized, cited the cuss market, said she's no longer even representing picture books because of the dismal forecast for them, and suggested I submit my manuscripts to children's magazines. Which stinks. I want a book published, not a story in a magazine. But I shouldn't complain: At least the picture book manuscripts scored me an agent and we have other things in the works.

2. Tornado coverage. The devastation of the deadly tornadoes has broken my heart and I wanted to check out news coverage Thursday morning. But because we recently canceled cable, I had to rely on network morning news, no CNN. Well, every freakin' network morning news show went on and on and on about the cussing royal wedding. I don't care about the wedding, I care about our folks here at home, wanted to know about folks here at home. Sure, there were brief — shamefully brief — updates on the devastation, but for the most part, I heard only about dresses, and guests, and vows, and wacky people from all over the globe camping out for a prime spot to view the spectacle. But I shouldn't complain: At least I could find all the news I could take online. And at least I'm blessed to not be in the stricken areas or have lost loved ones.

3. Car rental woes. I, along with my immediate family living in Colorado, will be headed to the desert when Mac (ha! first time using that!) is born and Bubby celebrates his third birthday. We'll be there a week, thus needing a rental car. So I reserved the rental car ... and about died when the cussing taxes and fees and miscellaneous charges doubled the price. Honest: The original rental fee was exactly doubled when all that cuss was added. Crazy. I'm paying more for the car than I am for my airfare. But I shouldn't complain: At least we're all able to go visit the newborn and celebrate yet another birthday with our Bubby.

4. Dyslexia assistance. I'm a site coordinator for the local Children's Literacy Center. I manage the tutors, tutors who are not trained to diagnose nor work with dyslexic children. That's understandable, fine, and good, because in the public schools there are special programs for diagnosing and aiding students when dyslexia is suspected and/or confirmed. Right? Wrong! That's not the case, at least not the public school system in which one of my students is enrolled. So a lovely mother struggling to do what's right for her kid and struggling with finances and thus unable to pay the exhorbitant cost of private testing and programs is left flailing and worried sick about her struggling daughter. Said daughter can no longer be in our tutoring program because of resrictions related to IEPs and dyslexia, yet the cussing school system has nothing to offer her, I'm told. I see a child slipping through the cracks right before my eyes and I see her mother's heart breaking and I can't do anything about it. Which breaks my heart. But I shouldn't complain: BS! We all should be complaining about such things. There is no "at least" in this instance, is nothing that reverses this travesty. Which just plain sucks.

Shew! I'm done. Thank you for letting me get that all off my chest.

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What do you need to get off your chest?

Old enough to be a grandma

I often come across women who eschew being called "Grandma." As they put it, they're "not old enough to be a grandma," the distaste heavy on their lips, on their words as they offer the disclaimer accompanying the label.

Well, I am old enough to be a grandma, and it doesn't bother me one bit. Having accumulated the number of years necessary to have borne children who in turn grow, mature and bear children of their own comes with many perks, many privileges, many insights younger women may not be privy to.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I no longer feel it's necessary to sort out my past for the sake of my future. What's done is done, what will be will be. I'm living my future ... and it's far better than I once expected.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I can delight in my daughters as adults, not just worry about them as children.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I know it can happen to me. Invincibility is an illusion of youth; reality rings harder and louder as you age. Which means I always wear my seat belt, take vitamins, look both ways. And I savor the moments granted by my precautionary measures.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I trust my gut instinct more. I finally realize it's right more often than not.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I more deeply appreciate and more thoroughly understand the importance of "I'm sorry." And "thank you."

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I find contentment more often in the small things, have stopped pining for the big things. For the most part.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I no longer stifle my feelings simply to keep others comfortable.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I find truth — sometimes ugly, sometimes freeing — in discomfort. Mine and that of others.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I forfeit the beauty competition, having accepted that I will never again look like I did at 18 nor will I ever look like a moneyed celebrity. (One of those freeing truths mentioned above.)

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I put more effort into accepting others for who they are, less effort in trying to make them who I want them to be.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I like my siblings more than I used to.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I say "I love you" more often ... without hesitation or embarrassment.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I am a grandma. I'm proud to say so, proud to be so.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I feel thoroughly, thankfully blessed and will gladly take the title — and the years — over the alternative.

Today's question:

Fill in the blanks: Now that I'm old enough to _______, I ___________.

Mismatch mishmash

1983 — Seems a lifetime agoI recently considered joining one of those online dating sites. Jim and I have been together a long time — 30-plus years — and I was just curious. He and I talked about it, and he was curious, too. So we'd both join. Just to see.

What we both were curious about wasn't other fish that might be swimming in the online sea of possibility, but of the possibility that, after all these years together, he and I might be matched with one another. If it's possible that others, including computerized compatibility metrics, would consider us a perfect match.

So I asked Brianna, who had dabbled in the sites a while back, how such sites work, if it would be possible for her parents to sign up under assumed names that only he and I would know and see if we were matched. She laughed and said we could give it a shot, but it's not likely we'd be matched considering how different we are in so many ways, on so many things.

And she's right about the differences. We disagree on many things, sometimes vocally, sometimes stupidly. Yes, we have our differences. For example:

Politics — he votes (for the most part) along party lines; I vote with whomever shows the most common sense, regardless of party. Plus, he likes to talk politics; I don't ... mostly because we can't agree, can't even agree to disagree.

Food — he goes for sweets; I go for salty. he likes Miracle Whip; I like real mayo.

Time — his philosophy: we'll get there when we get there; my philosophy: punctuality is a virtue.

Chit-chat — he likes to exchange small talk with cashiers, doctors, servers; I figure they don't genuinely give a hoot so just shut up finish business as quickly as possible.

Sleep — he likes to sleep late; I like to get up and get going.

Animals — he prefers dogs; I prefer cats.

Closet space — he lines up his shoes and hangs all his clothing facing right; I throw my shoes in a pile and all my clothing faces left.

Drawer space — he folds his socks and undies; I say, "you gotta be kidding" (but he's not).

Driving — he likes to pay no attention to what he should take in everything around him while driving; I like to focus on the road. <ahem>

Chores — he likes to relax first, do chores later; I like to get my chores done then relax.

Quiet — he prefers background (or foreground!) music 24/7; I prefer quiet now and then.

Vacation time — he takes it only if forced (by me); I'll take it any time I can get it.

Vacations — he likes to relax, always; I like to see and do all we can in locations we'll likely never visit again.

Money — let's just say we each handle it our own way and leave it at that.

That's just a small sampling of the differences that loom large in our relationship. So large that Brianna was quite concerned about our proposed online dating experiment.

"If you don't get matched up, are you going to get a divorce?" she asked. In all seriousness. Surprisingly serious considering it came from a nearly 30-year-old adult, not a youngster needlessly worrying Mommy and Daddy might not live together anymore.

"Of course not," I assured her, explaining that on the big things, we agree.

"Like what?" she asked, with disbelief I could offer any.

So I listed them. A list far shorter than the ones on which we disagree. But here it is: We agree wholeheartedly on issues related to faith, home, and family. A tiny list, but a list of the things that matter. The only things that matter, ultimately.

In explaining that to Brianna and later considering our conversation, I realized there was no need to experiment with online dating sites to see if Jim and I might be matched. It doesn't matter. Whether others — or computers — consider us a good match is irrelevant. Because we know we are. And that we will continue to be. Always. Forever. Because although we don't agree on much, there's no question that we agree on what matters: faith, home, and family.

Oh, and we agree on one more ever-so-important matter: movies. And a shared distaste for those featuring Jim Carrey. Or the word "Saw" in the title.

So there we have it. Match made. Curiosity quelled.

Bottom line: There's no need to consult dating sites, no need to look elsewhere. Regardless of stats and compatibility, Jim and I will continue to look only at the road we've chosen. Together. Forever.

Case closed.

(Although I just gotta add that I will be doing most of the driving down that particular road, of course, because his eyes tend to wander when at the wheel. Just saying. Okay, okay ... we won't go there ... at least not this time ... not this post.)

Today's question:

How are (or were) you most alike and most different from your partner?

One week

Taxes are due. Despite knowing such things happen when making use of a stash meant for tomorrow, it still stings.

We procrastinated, not wanting to know, not wanting to let go.

Of money.

It's just money, I tell myself as I crunch numbers.

Then an e-mail: Please pray. She's in a coma.

I pray. I crunch numbers.

Hours later, a text: "She's dead." That's all it said.

I pray.

And consider that it truly is just money.

An e-mail: My cell phone's on hold; can't afford it.

Cancellations. No subs. No plan. Times three.

A phone call: She could die, Mom. Please pray.

I pray.

And $30 for half a tank of gas?

It's just money.

A voice mail: He's in the hospital. Can't figure it out.

A text: "I can't do funerals."

Another text: She's in ICU. Broken bones, sternum, neck. ATV.

I pray.

A conversation: The former rental, now residence? Red dust. Brown residue. Taped plumbing. Rusted hinges.

Neighbors ... and Google: It's drugs. It's meth. It's $40,000 average to clean up.

Really?

Really?

Low-blood sugar. Comas. Reverse mortgages. Fears of homelessness. Death. Funerals. A mother binds her toddler with tape and leaves her in the shower. Another drives her babies into the water.

And the ever-present wind.

One week.

The center cannot hold.

Really.

Hope springs eternal. Or so I'm told.

Which buoys a heavy heart. Tethered to hope, it's kept from sinking.

A phone call: There's a new plan. They want more info. We're moving forward. This could work.

A text: "Thanks for today! I'm super excited now! I can really see it all coming together."

A plea: We need you. Can you come? We'll pay.

And 69 days become 22.

Hope springs eternal.

The center can hold.

The center did hold.

This one week.

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

How was your week?

Before or After?

I've learned from the comments here and from visiting the blogs of others that we're all very similar. On the big things. Such as love of family, commitment to hearth and home, and the desire to be the best we can be for those around us as well as for ourselves.

But what about the little things?

Just for kicks, I've created a brief quiz to see how how alike we are ... or not ... on mundane matters, the things that don't really matter at all.

BEFORE or AFTER? (my answers in parentheses):

Do you ...

1. Eat BEFORE or AFTER exercising in the morning? (Before)

2. Wash your whites BEFORE or AFTER your darks or colors? (After)

3. Add your cream and/or sugar — if you use it — BEFORE or AFTER pouring in coffee? (Before)

4. Floss BEFORE or AFTER brushing your teeth? (After)

5. Dust BEFORE or AFTER vacuuming? (I like to do it after, but it depends on if Jim has completed his chore of vacuuming.)

6. Turn off your bedroom light BEFORE or AFTER you've gotten into bed at night? (After)

7. Check Facebook BEFORE or AFTER checking your e-mail in the morning? (After the Grandma's Briefs e-mail, before my personal e-mail.)

8. Put on socks BEFORE or AFTER you put on your pants? (Before)

9. Feed the dogs BEFORE or AFTER you feed the cats? (Before)

10. Put on your deodorant BEFORE or AFTER you're dressed? (Before)

11. Go through your junk mail — USPS mail — BEFORE or AFTER the personal mail? (Before. I go through the stack, divide into piles, pitch the junk, then open the ones that matter.)

12. Read the Sunday newspaper inserts/ads BEFORE or AFTER the newspaper? (I read Parade before the paper. I'm trying to avoid the ads, for the sake of my budget.)

13. When having fruit with your breakfast cereal, do you add fruit to the bowl BEFORE or AFTER the cereal? (Before)

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

How about you? Answer any or all. Plus, any other BEFORE or AFTER questions to add?

Please step aside, ma'am

My pretty teen daughters — June 2003I recently started reading "29" by Adena Halpern. It's the story of Ellie, who, on her 75th birthday, wished while blowing out the candles on her cake to be 29 years old again — and was magically granted the wish.

I've so far enjoyed the amusing story of the cantankerous grandma made young again and her exploits with her 29-year-old granddaughter and 55-year-old daughter.

Ellie's desire to be young and attractive like her granddaughter reminded me of the pivotal incident that led me to realize I was getting old. Or at least deemed an older woman in the eyes of others and involuntarily required to step back as a female garnering male attention and watch as my daughters moved forward.

Yes, it was one incident, several years ago, during what would have been an otherwise ordinary trip to the grocery store.

Now, let me first say that I would never claim to be ravishing, a head turner, one hot mama, or any one of a million adjectives describing a gorgeous woman. Yet I admit to getting a fair share of looks from males throughout the years, as most females of a certain age do. It was never a big deal, nothing I put much stock in. Until I was no longer that certain age, until I witnessed in one fell swoop the move of male attention from me to my daughters and remain that way going forward.

On the day of which I write, one of my teen daughters and I ran into the grocery store to pick up a few things. As we reached the register, I expected cheerful banter with the cashier, a man in his mid-30s. So I opened my mouth, about to say, "How are you today?" But he looked right past me ... and started up the "Did you find everything you need?" conversation with my daughter. It was as if I wasn't even there, except for a cursory glance my way when it was time to pay.

The cashier, clearly closer to my age than my daughter's, didn't talk to her in any smarmy way that had me pegging him a pedophile and wanting to rush my little girl out of there. No, he was simply interacting with who he apparently considered the most vibrant, most conversational of the two customers before him. My daughter pleasantly rose to the occasion; I stepped aside.

It was the first time I'd experienced such an obvious shift — outside of the times I'd watched boys in their teens and early 20s fumble to impress one daughter or another while conducting business with mother and daughter(s), times that don't count. But from then on, it was the norm when in public together, be it dining out at a restaurant, attending performances, shopping in the mall. No matter which daughter was with me, my daughter was the one males smiled at, struck up conversation with, held a gleam in their eyes for. Eyes that dulled when they turned to me to take my order, my ticket, my money. No matter the male's age, no matter the reason for interaction.

I didn't cry over the matter, harbor ill will or animosity. I honestly was okay with the transition from front and center to a supporting role. My lovely, vivacious daughters were coming into their own, and the attention, well, most of the attention wasn't sexual or predatory in any way. (There are always a few creeps outside the norm, of course.) So I didn't mind stepping aside, didn't mind watching my daughters shine. I just found it interesting. And surprising. I always thought age crept up on you, as is the case with crow's feet, hot flashes, and inability to read past 9 p.m. at night without falling asleep. This, though, was sudden, immediate. And it caught me off guard.

I was — and am — completely and wholeheartedly accepting of my age, of the need to step aside. Funny thing, though: Now, years later, I've started noticing more and more looks coming my way. It's surely — and thankfully — not because I'm some cougar in the making.

No, I'm pretty much chalking up the increased attention to the ever-increasing, ever-impossible-to-conceal collection of age spots unattractively converging across my face. It's understandably difficult to tear one's gaze away from the artful display.

Just one more aspect of aging that has caught me off guard. One more I'll surely, eventually, come to terms with.

Disclosure: I received a copy of "29" by Adena Halpern free from the publisher for participation in the From Left to Write book club, with no obligation and no compensation for this post.

Today's question:

If you could magically be 29 again, would you want to be or not? Why?

Friends and food

I have a lovely friend who's just a few centimeters away from having her first baby. She recently posted on her blog a great list of ways to assist a friend upon the arrival of their newborn, a list she was given by an equally lovely friend of ours. Many of the ideas include ways to help out by providing food, lasagne naturally being one of the suggestions.

My family and I have fond memories of lasagne. Delicious pan after pan of lasagne, provided by friends while I was in the hospital for a week nearly 20 years ago. Thank God for friends and for lasagne, as that's what my husband and daughters lived on while I was away.

My return home was met by more friends with more food. Dinner of pork tenderloins and pasta, warm and flavorful from a friend down the block. A huge sliced ham, selections of cheese, and soft sandwich rolls from the deli. And more lasagne, quite different than how I make it but all the more luscious as it was not my hands that prepared it. Again, thank God for friends and food as it's what we all lived on while I recuperated.

I know firsthand how helpful it is to provide meals and more to friends and family recovering from medical issues. Or getting used to a newborn in the home. But I also know firsthand how difficult it is to provide such things anymore. Not because of financial constraints, but because of what folks eat nowadays. Or don't eat nowadays.

Outside of my family — and to some degree, inside my family — nearly every person I know has strong preferences for the types of food they eat. Be it organic or locally grown or low-carb or low-salt or high-protein or no-fat, low-fat or only fats of a certain sort, it's mind boggling. And seemingly impossible to get the right combination for the right person.

Lasagne is no longer what it used to be. Back in the day, the basic dish had basic ingredients: noodles, sauce, cheeses, maybe meat. You couldn't go wrong. Now wrong is about all you can do when making it for someone other than those you make it for regularly. Are the noodles wheat or enriched or gluten-free? Sauce? Are the tomatoes organically grown, and what's the sodium content? Cheese? Don't even get me going on the cheesy possibilities. Or the meat ... or no meat ... or veggie options that would have been preferred over what I may have picked.

Lasagne is a fairly expensive dish to produce so I'm recently reluctant to make it for others when there's the possibility of it being poked, prodded, and questioned by a recipient, who may politely smile and offer thanks then feed it to the dog. Depending on the dog's dietary restrictions, of course.

"Make a giant pot of vegetable soup," reads another suggestion, but it's rife with the same concerns, same dilemma, because I'm pretty darn sure I'd use the wrong vegies, the wrong stock, the non-locally grown goodies that might make noses snarl and tummies roil, despite how delicious it may be. Not that my friend is a snarly kind of gal by any means; we just eat differently.

I'm known for giving food gifts at Christmas: cookies, bars, breads. I'm not tooting my own horn by saying they're all delicious, I'm simply sharing the feedback the goodies have received. I'm pretty darn sure my gifts haven't gone to the dogs ... or the garbage can. But I'm reconsidering food gifts, for holidays and definitely when it comes to helping out a friend, for food no longer feels like a gift. It feels like a landmine. With too much potential for such offerings to explode, leaving both sides with burned feelings of one degree or another.

Bottom line is that because of our vastly different dietary preferences, when it comes to helping out my friend, the new mom, you can be sure food won't be the form of assistance I offer. With food off-limits, though, the assistance suggestion I next considered was the one about buying "6 pairs of black cotton underpants (women’s size____)." But unlike food preferences, panty size is something not even the best of friends share with one another.

Which likely leaves me to opt for the suggestions that include holding the baby while Mom showers, folding laundry, and buying household staples such as toilet paper.

As long as I'm told what kind of toilet paper to purchase, that is. Because, just like lasagne, purchasing toilet paper for friends is no longer as simple as it used to be.

Photo: Flickr/VancityAllie

Today's question:

What are your favorite ingredients for lasagne?