Author: Judy

Baby, Baby, Baby

~ Judy ~ 2 Comments

My fourth grandchild, Cosette, is four years old now and into babies. She’s been telling her mother for some time that they should get another baby (“they” in the broadest sense of the word). “God gives the babies,” her mother said. So Cosette prayed for a baby. She prayed until God said, “Okay already, Cosette!” It was a surprise to all of us.

I said, “Great. Now she thinks God will give her anything she asks for.”

So there’s this baby coming, and Cosette calls me regularly with the latest breaking news on the baby-to-be… the baby is 4 inches long, now he’s 5 inches long, now he’s the size of a baked potato. She insists it’s a boy, and given her apparent access to the Unknown, I suspect she’s right.

Cosette has a doll she named Baby Alla (nobody knows why). Baby Alla has every accessory a newborn could need – tiny diapers and wipes, a little plastic bottle, changing table, playard, baby carrier, and a pacifier tied to her wrist with string. She wears one of Toddler Bret’s old onesies for pajamas.

Last week we were playing in Cosette’s room when she had to leave to use the potty. My instructions in her absence were to give Baby Alla a bottle. So I did. I sat on the floor, held the doll and stuck a bottle in its mouth. Cosette looked around the corner. “Talk to her,” she ordered before leaving again. So I did. I sat all alone on the floor, feeding pretend milk to a pretend baby and talking baby talk to it. Lunacy. Baby Alla just laid there of course. That’s all she ever does.

Anyway, come late summer I will have a sixth grandchild. It isn’t something I ever thought about or imagined, and frankly I don’t know if there’s enough of me to go around.

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Holy Cripes

~ Judy ~ 3 Comments
ON THE WAY TO CHURCH IN OUR NEW EASTER OUTFITS. I'M THE SHORT ONE THINKING HOLY THOUGHTS.

I was born, baptized and raised Catholic, and although I don’t show up at church very often, I haven’t heard that I was excommunicated or anything. The reason I seldom go to church is because I went to Catholic schools for twelve years. I am, however, always polite. Anyway, being Catholic is what I know, so I’m thinking I’ll just go with that for the duration.

Fortunately, my God happens to have an excellent sense of humor, because there’s been so much odd news lately religion-wise, it’s almost impossible not to make jokes about it. “Go for it, Judy,” He/She said.

Not the way I remember things
You may have heard about a church in Cincinnati offering drive-thru ashes on Ash Wednesday and figured it was some jivey young Catholic priest wearing an earring who came up with the idea. Actually it was the people at the Mount Healthy United Methodist Church. (Mount Healthy?)

I may not be the holiest person in the chapel, but I’m pretty sure receiving ashes is supposed to symbolize your repentance for the year you just spent sinning and/or generally goofing off. If you can’t take the time to park the car, walk into church and spend ten minutes being anointed, how penitent can you be? Not very darn penitent.

Why would anyone want that?
The heart of St. Laurence O’Toole, patron saint of Dublin, was reported stolen recently from Christ Church Cathedral in Dublin. The holy relic, all that was left of the sainted man, had been on display there since the 13th century. A little morbid perhaps, but so be it. This was the second inexplicable burglary of a Dublin church this year. In January a thief made off with the jawbone of St. Brigid, an Irish abbess who died in 525.

While I’m no theologian, I do recall Sister Olivia telling us that relic stealing is a sure path to hell for all eternity. And why would anyone want old body parts anyway? Isn’t it weird enough that people once thought it was a good idea to cut up dead saints and put pieces of them in a box? How insane would you have to be to want to keep them to yourself?

Don’t like your clergyperson? Do it yourself.
So I was reading about the mysterious Irish relic thefts when an ad popped up for StartCHURCH, a website where you can go to do exactly that, i.e., set up your own tax-free religious institution. Apparently some rather pesky tax laws, along with recent court cases, have made launching your own church “very complex” nowadays. The folks at StartCHURCH will help you with everything from filling out the federal application [form 501(c)(3)] to ordaining your own ministers. “Let Us Do the Work For You!” it urged.

Out of work? Struggling to make ends meet? StartCHURCH may be the answer. How attached were you to that soul anyway?

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Shopping With Maria

~ Judy ~ 1 Comment

It’s been a long time since I went shopping with a preteen girl. I tried it yesterday and remembered why God created menopause; i.e., ten or twelve years after giving birth, you have to take them shopping. This requires more fortitude than you’re likely to have.

Maria and I hadn’t spent any quality time together for a while, so she came over in the afternoon and stayed the night. We had pedicures and she had a manicure (tiny white flowers on every pink nail), got something to eat and went to Target to get her a new outfit. We started in the Girls’ department, but as she’s several inches taller than me now, ended up in Juniors.

Needless to say, the things she was pulling off the racks bore little resemblance to anything I had in mind. We headed to the fitting room with armloads of clothes; then it was just me running back and forth like a mad gopher. This went on for about two hours.

Maria liked everything she tried on no matter how inappropriate. She was particularly smitten with a little black and white striped number that looked like something out of Sweet Charity. Didn’t keep count, but I believe I said “Your mother will kill me if I buy you that” around fifty times. It isn’t easy getting through to an eleven-year-old girl. It’s like the words float out over their heads somewhere and only reach their ears on an intermittent basis.

She was sweet about it though. The pleading was minimal and she never broke into tears. I’m not her mother, after all. Eventually we compromised on a pair of navy blue leggings, a sheer, flowered tunic and a tank top to go underneath. Middle ground to be sure, and she still could pass for fifteen in it.

THE GREAT COMPROMISE

Dear God: This is Judy. Thank you for menopause.

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Down at the DMV & Other Sad Tales

~ Judy ~ 2 Comments
FATIMA MAY BE ONTO SOMETHING

Went down to the DMV yesterday to renew my driver’s license for another four years. I actually put on full makeup and earrings for the occasion, like maybe it would make a difference and I wouldn’t end up with another license photo in which I look like Nurse Ratched. A lesson in futility, of course, but if you think about it, what are the chances I won’t be wearing makeup and earrings when the cops stop me? Pretty slim, I’d say.

These people are not like us
Whitney Houston died yesterday, another sad story of superhuman talent followed by an all too human decline. According to one report, “Paramedics who were already at the hotel because of a Grammy party unsuccessfully tried to resuscitate the singer.” So if you’re hosting a party for the famous in Tinsel Town, I guess one of the items on your checklist is “Invite paramedics.” What world do these people live in?

Let’s try that again
Sometimes even I’m astounded at how quickly I can fall off the smoking wagon. One cigarette and it’s full speed ahead. Of course, there’s no avoiding the need to jump back on. My motivation this time came in a phone call from Daughter #3 this week reminding me how much the grandkids love and need me. Well, I know that. Who wouldn’t love someone who always says yes?

So I picked up some Step 2 nicotine patches at Target today (convinced that I’m not so far gone that I need Step 1), then stopped at the gas station for a pack of cigarettes, because in my case self-control is a delicate balance between ready and not ready.

I swear, in my next life I will not be sitting in a cafe with my girlfriends at age sixteen practicing how to inhale when I’m supposed to be in school.

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Photo: Google Images, coolfunpics.com
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Things I’m Thinking

~ Judy ~ 3 Comments

Doctor…No
I’m thinking I won’t have that bunionectomy after all. I discovered that the recovery can be treacherous, prolonged and painful and realized my foot isn’t that bad. I think a combination of various shoe inserts will do the trick, I really do. Also, I wasn’t crazy about the doctor doing the surgery (here are your options, Judy, pick one or don’t, your hoof is just one in the herd). Shoe orthotics, that’s the thing for me.

This is a holiday?
Went to the grocery store yesterday and Target today. Both were packed, it being Super Bowl weekend, which is second only to New Year’s Eve in sales of chicken wings and guacamole dip. I don’t really care about the Super Bowl unless my team is playing. And since the Vikings haven’t been super for some time, the only thing left would be the commercials, and you don’t have to sit through the game to see them anymore. You can watch them online.

I see there’s another talking baby ad. Am I the only person who thinks talking baby ads are creepy? The only thing more disturbing than talking babies are dancing baby ads, which would give real babies nightmares. Leave the babies out of it, that’s what I say.

The wages of love (or that’s what you get)
With Valentine’s Day around the corner, the other thing you see in stores now are a lot of sales on K-Y and similar products designed to enhance your special moment. You may notice that directly below these shelves are the ones holding an array of pregnancy tests. If you ask me, there should be a big arrow pointing from one to the other. See? This is what happens. Might as well pick up one of each right now.

Real babies are sort of aimless
Gina and the kids will be back today. They were here yesterday while Man Bret was sanding the kitchen cupboards, a six-Advil job that resumes today. Toddler Bret spent a good part of yesterday trying to climb the stairs. He can’t do it alone, of course. He’d kill himself. And he has no purpose in climbing the stairs anyway. When he gets to the top, he just wants to come down again. This is what he likes because he’s 18 months old and has all the time in the world.

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2012 – Year of the Bunionectomy

~ Judy ~ 2 Comments
AVAILABLE WITHOUT A NOTE FROM MOM

Have I mentioned how annoying it is watching your body fall apart after age sixty? Oh, that’s right. I do it all the time.

My personal illusion of immortality was shaken this week when I had to schedule a bunionectomy on my right foot, the result of a lifelong addiction to improper footwear.

When I was young, I thought only hillbillies living in the Ozarks and walking around shoeless eleven months of the year got bunions. Am I related to Li’l Abner? No, I am not. But it turns out that shoeless people are probably the ones least likely to have bunions. Them and the women who wear wide, sensible shoes with thick rubber soles. Walk around in pointy-toed heels for forty-five years or so and see what happens.

A bunion is not an out-of-control callus. It is a cuneiform bone deformed by years of pressure, not unlike the ancient Chinese practice of foot-binding deplored by enlightened people everywhere. I don’t know if that particular form of torture is still going on in a remote geisha house somewhere, but I do know you’d have a hard time getting young women in America to part with their fashionable 6-inch heels. This is not an exaggeration; high-heeled shoes today are six inches and higher. It is a mystery how anyone wearing them stays upright and mobile.

I’d tell them… Keep it up. One day an unfeeling podiatrist will be sawing off part of your foot and sticking a pin in it to keep your toes from falling off… but they wouldn’t listen, and I couldn’t blame them. I have a closetful of cute shoes I intend to wear again, yes, I do.

SO WRONG

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Photos: Google Images, orientvisual.com, parentingclan.com
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Holiday Roundup

~ Judy ~ Leave a comment
WHAT'S NEW YEAR'S EVE WITHOUT A GUY DRESSED UP AS SPIDER-MAN?

Another round of holiday festivities is behind us. They always seem to wrap up just about the time you think you can’t take much more family fun.

Spent New Year’s Eve at an ice skating party with the grandkids. I don’t skate myself, for fear of breaking something I still need; I am there mostly to finance the venture. Along with the overpriced concessions, there were people dressed as cartoon characters and tables where local groups and businesses handed out free stuff. Which was nice, but it’s a little disturbing to see your 11-year-old granddaughter walking around wearing a bracelet that says “Recovery Works!” 

After the skating, daughter Gina and the grandkids came back to my house to spend the night. They donned party hats, played “Auntie Jessica’s Socks” (a game made up from materials at hand) and drank sparkling grape juice out of wine glasses (your choice, red or white). The toasting went on a while, as they really like the part where you clink glasses. 

Meanwhile, we didn’t have the usual Christmas Day brunch at my house. We had Lebanese food, which used to be our Christmas Eve tradition but wasn’t this year, a situation that did not sit well with the Daughters, who are like one-quarter Lebanese but you’d think they were all born under a cedar tree in the hills overlooking Beirut.

I’m accommodating. I dug out my 1972 Lebanese Cuisine and my mother’s old recipes (Mom was 100% German but a great Lebanese cook, probably because she knew when to stop already with the cumin). While cooking up a Lebanese storm, it dawned on me that just about every dish calls for onions and cinnamon. Throw in lamb and you can make just about anything you want. I don’t recall any of my relatives buying onions in bulk, but I chopped, grated and chopped more onions, until I started to wonder how my ancestors ever coupled with anyone outside their ethnic group. Thus a family tradition begins.

And of course, December is the month when school kids everywhere face the floodlights and sing. Cosette’s preschool program included the usual four-year-old boy who sat down and refused to participate and one girl who up and walked away during “Away in the Manger.” Cosette sang every word and did all the hand motions. When it’s time to step up, Cosette does not drop the ball.

Then came the elementary school program, an unstoppable stroll down Candy Cane Lane which put all the students in the school on stage simultaneously, most in their pajamas. I’m starting to think costuming may be the most important consideration when picking a grade-school script. Who can’t come up with Christmas pajamas? They’re colorful, themed and come in every size. Maria sat with the pajama-clad fifth-grade girls (enthusiastic singers all), Christian sat with the pajama-clad first-grade boys (not your most focused group), and Grace sat with the other animals in the kindergarten section. Gracie was a Kitten. Of course.

Forget the holidays. Time now to cocoon in our snug and cozy homes until winter relents and we can venture forth again. Time to make our New Year’s resolutions. And don’t think you can skip it this year. You are far from perfect.

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Catching Up With the Kiddies

~ Judy ~ 3 Comments
GOD KNOWS WHAT THE FIVE OF THEM ARE THINKING.

The grandkids keep growing up. There’s nothing you can do about it.

Maria is 11 now. She’s pretty good-natured considering the hormonal shift. And some things don’t change, like her obsession with my shoes. I went up to my room after she left last week and they were everywhere – heels, pumps, flats, my new Josef Seibel boots. She has a particular fondness for a pair of purple satin slippers. I found them under the sofa the next day.

Christian is seven. He doesn’t give kisses anymore. Well, he was never crazy about the custom, but now it’s complete anathema, even if a parent berates him (“You kiss your grandma goodbye. She’s your grandmother. Christian, I mean it”), which pretty much kills any pleasure you might have gleaned from being kissed by a seven-year-old boy. Sometimes when he isn’t paying attention, I kiss him on the top of the head.

Grace is six. Still adorable. Kind of quiet and thoughtful, when she isn’t singing and dancing around. Jill and the kids were at my mother’s a few weeks back. Mom, who has advanced Alzheimer’s, doesn’t recognize us anymore and is fairly unaware of her surroundings. Still Gracie found cause to scold her siblings for fighting: “Don’t bother grandma. She’s having a good day.”

Cosette, now four, is in a daily race to get everything she has to say said before bedtime. Conversations are mostly one-sided and, because her speech is full of adult idioms, can be a little unsettling. You start to wonder what kind of creature you’re talking to. She still phones me with important updates. Yesterday she called to report that Bret Jr. had vomited and Ursa (the dog) started licking it up before Daddy could get there and take things in hand. I’m at work, mind you.

Toddler Bret, 17 months old, is utterly frustrated that people can’t understand him, but as coherent speech still eludes him, he has to settle for dragging you around and pointing. He is of the opinion that his sister is the funniest person alive. When she repeatedly chewed up crackers and spit them out on the floor so Ursa would lick them up, he almost had a conniption. Ah, yes. Good times, good times.

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Shut Up, Hello Kitty

~ Judy ~ 2 Comments
THE OFFENDING TOY IN SITU

So I had the oil changed on my car this morning. I usually wait until that little dashboard light sets to nagging me – 15% oil life left…10%…5%. It was in negative numbers before I got to it this time. I have a little Honda that’s very forgiving.

Of course, when I got to Tires Plus, they sold me the $14.99 inspection package (check the filters, top off the liquids, yada, yada), because God knows how long it’s been since any of that was done. And of course, the filters were filthy and my tires have about 40 percent tread left. I had the filters changed.

While I was sitting there filing my nails and waiting for them to finish, it occurred to me that the Hello Kitty phone some grandchild thought they wanted and then abandoned in the back seat might be driving the mechanic crazy. It’s an annoying little toy, very loud and very touchy. Driving over a bump sets it off. Waiting at a stoplight doing nothing sets it off. If it gets jammed next to something like the ice scraper, it never shuts up. This is its full repertoire of phrases:
Hello!
I’m a Hello Kitty!
You’re fun!
How are you?
(garble, garble, garble)!
Bye bye!

For some reason, I have let this nonsense continue for several months, when obviously I could have retrieved it from the floor in back at any time. That’s okay. I was out of there in less than an hour.

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Where Did You Come From? Where Have You Gone?

~ Judy ~ 4 Comments

It will be two weeks tomorrow since Jim died, my hands cradling his head, six months and twelve days from the day we met. As it happened, the end came so quickly that there was no one else there. People say sometimes you can feel the spirit leave the body, but I never did.

It was an unusual situation. We’d been dating about two months when he was diagnosed with lung cancer, and the prognosis was never good. He gave me “permission” to walk away, but I just kept hanging around until it was impossible to go. Now and again he would ask me, “Where did you come from?” But what could I say? I only lived fifteen minutes away.

So many questions. Who was in need? Who was sent? I know it was a comfort to him having me there in his last months, and I believe when he passed over to the other side, if there is an other side, he did so peacefully. In the week that followed, I spent a lot of time with his kind, wonderful family, went to the funeral and the cemetery and Shiva. Now there is a new normal. And still I find myself asking: Where have you gone?