Tag: life

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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Back to the Blog!

~ Judy ~ 1 Comment

My, how time flies. I got lazy and skipped a week of blogging. Then another, then another. People started to complain. Well, things got away from me, as things will do if you aren’t paying attention every minute of every damn day.

For example, I started dating this man and, despite the fact that I wasn’t at all sure he was my type, I’m still dating him, which is a little time-consuming and a lot weird. I keep thinking we need to discuss why this may not work, but he won’t stop talking long enough for me to tell him. If there were a talkers marathon, I’d sign him right up and start taking odds. By the end of the evening, I have abandoned all hope of gaining control of the conversation.

Okay, that wasn’t entirely truthful. He sort of isn’t my type except for being bald and funny. For some unnatural reason, a sense of humor as dry as the Gobi Desert appeals to me. That and the fact that I can’t offend him. Not that I try to offend him – I don’t try to offend anyone, but let’s face it, it happens. The man is nearly unoffendable. You gotta like that. Also, he’s a former smoker who cheats, and since I’m a former smoker who will cheat at the drop of a match, the dating continues, just two people being a bad influence on each other.

And speaking of imponderable guy stuff

In the news: a recent study suggests men in their mid-forties are afflicted with “hotness delusion syndrome.” Apparently there are about 15 percent more women than men in this age group now, and too many women chasing too few men can mean only one thing: a whole lot of guys thinking they’re hotter than they are. Or so the theory goes. It isn’t my demographic, of course, but I can see where it might have validity. We all know that for every woman who detests shopping for swimwear, there’s a guy walking the beach in a Speedo and black socks carrying fifty extra pounds and thinking he looks just fine.

Too Much Ketchup

~ Judy ~ 1 Comment
SURROUNDED BY WOMEN

Last week was interesting. Daughter Jill and family stayed with me for four days while the painter and carpenter were busy at their house. The invasion discombobulated me a little. I kept forgetting to take my calcium tablet before bed. Also, I forgot what I had in the refrigerator because I’m not used to seeing that much food in there. Mysterious food. The kind I never buy.

But other than that, things went fairly smoothly. The grandkids were on their best behavior. I’m sure there were threats along the way, but I don’t need to know about them. One evening it was just them and me around the dinner table, when the conversation, as it will, drifted to Christian’s food allergies, a subject on which every female in his family is an expert. It began when he was squeezing ketchup onto his plate and, as I recall, went something like this…

Maria: That’s too much. You aren’t supposed to have that much ketchup.
Christian [still squeezing]: Leave me alone, Maria. I can have ketchup.
Grace: He can have ketchup.
Maria: [To Christian] Stop that. Mom said you aren’t supposed to have that much.
[To me] Mom doesn’t let him have that much ketchup.
Grace: He can have ketchup. Ketchup isn’t in the nut family.
Maria: Ketchup is in the tomato family. He can’t have that much.
Christian: I keep telling Mom I don’t have food allergies, but she doesn’t believe me!
Maria: [To Christian] Ketchup is in the tomato family. Remember when you had that spaghetti sauce? Your eye got like THIS.
[To me] Mom doesn’t let him have that much ketchup.
Christian: Ketchup isn’t in the nut family.
Maria: [Heavy sigh accompanied by eye rolling]
Grace: Chili is in the nut family.

Too many nuts in the family, if you ask me.

Dating: It’s A Lot Like Not Dating

~ Judy ~ 1 Comment
THE IDEAL MALE. WHO KNEW?

So I’ve been at this online dating thing a month or two now, and it’s amazing what you can learn in such a short time. For example, I have learned that I am attracted to bald men with beards. I have never been particularly inclined toward either bald men or men with beards. But a bald man with a beard is apparently a different animal.

What I’ve learned about men is that they probably are as uncomplicated as they say they are. Women are always trying to figure men out, as if they harbor deep and inscrutable secrets from birth to the grave. “For the love of God,” we ask, “what’s he thinking now?” Unfortunately, what he’s thinking is probably what you think he’s thinking. Also, it’s highly unlikely he will stop thinking it. Move on, woman.

I’ve also learned that men have some odd notions about women. Many complain about women who only want to go out with them for a free meal. What is that about? I know literally hundreds of women, and I can’t think of one who’s that hungry. Even lobster loses its appeal if you have to look at a stranger and make small talk through the entire meal. So, personally, I think men are just off the wall on this one. Pass the clarified butter.

And then there are the people who have simply been doing this too long. You can tell because they don’t care what they say anymore, like this man:
“Okay, it’s become clear to me that I’ve set the bar too high. Looking for a woman with a face, arms and legs. Arms and legs should preferably come in pairs and be of roughly the same size, i.e., arms should be same size as each other (same for legs), rather than arms being same size as legs. Graduation from grade school preferable, though not essential. You should not have worked as a bouncer at a biker bar.”

As for the whole online dating experience, the primary lesson seems to be: 1) you will receive messages from lots of very nice people you have no interest in whatsoever; and 2) the handful of people you do find interesting won’t be interested in you. No point in feeling bad. You don’t know these people, they don’t know you, and God knows what anyone is looking for. Sometimes you’re tempted to write some guy just to give him a clue. (“You are 65 years old – you might have better luck if you broaden your search beyond women under 45.”) But, of course, you do not.

And, yes, I’ve had only the one “date” so far. One per decade…seems about right.

Pages from Grandma’s Diaries: Christian, part 2

~ Judy ~ 2 Comments

Nov. 21, 2008
Called daughter Jill last night to talk about the upcoming weekend. As usual, it was a multitasking nightmare on her end – i.e., talking to me and making turkey sandwiches while getting the kids to come to the table, stay at the table, and not fight over the condiments. While his sisters were content with turkey, Christian, of course, wouldn’t have it. Said he’d make himself a grape sandwich instead. Jill, who goes with the flow now, said fine but he’d have to wash the grapes first. This momentarily stunned him, as in his four years on earth no one has ever given him permission to wash food before. But he did wash the grapes (in the bathroom sink), cut them up, put them on bread and maybe even ate it, who knows. He’d do it.

Nov. 4, 2009
All the grandkids, ages 2 to 9, went trick-or-treating on Saturday (an Indian, a Superhero, Snow White and a China doll). Everyone remembered their manners and said thank you when they were supposed to, until they got to the house where a man answered the door holding a big bowl of vegetables while his wife stood behind him with a camera. “What would you like?” he asked the kids. “An onion, a carrot or some broccoli?” The three little girls were speechless. Christian looked at the vegetables, turned around and said, “I’m outta here.”

Jan. 20, 2010
If you ever start to think you’re indispensable, get yourself a grandchild. I haven’t seen the kids for a while and was missing them a little, so I called over there yesterday and Jill put Christian on the phone.
“Hi, Christian,” I said. “I miss you!”
“Oh, Grandma,” he said, “I miss you too. Here Maria, talk to Grandma.”

March 26, 2010
My son-in-law Bret couldn’t come over to hunt mice last weekend, so I couldn’t go down the basement to wash clothes. Five-year-old Christian spent the night on Saturday, but he’s a little young to hunt and I wouldn’t want to scar him psychologically. I may have to bite the bullet and go down there soon. Or I may just buy more socks.

You’d think Christian would want to go to a movie or McDonald’s or the Science Museum once in a while, but all he ever wants to do is play. With me. Even though I’m no good at it. Even though I approach play with great reluctance and the sure knowledge that I’m going to be hurt. I will be hurt, because all toys fight. Not just Spider-Man and the robots but the toy animals and the K’Nex and the videotapes and lumps of Play-Doh. Dixie Cups make an excellent army – just line them up and smash them flat. I think what he likes is that I’m always willing to be the roundly defeated loser. You can’t get that with a lot of playmates.

Pages from Grandma’s Diaries: Maria, part 1

~ Judy ~ 4 Comments

This is my very first grandchild, Maria. Isn’t she beautiful? She’s ten now. Everything I needed to know about being a grandma, I pretty much learned from her. Not in any big “Aha!” moment, but in a lot of little moments until, finally, she owned me.

When she was about two, Maria and her mother came over one day unannounced. I was kneeling on the floor in my room going through some clothes, when I heard her little feet on the stairs. She ran in and hugged me hard around the neck. “Grandma,” she said, “Grandma.” As if I’d just pulled her back from the abyss.

And that is how they tighten the rope around your heart.

Another time, when she was still too little to know better, she introduced me to a woman who happened to be washing her hands in the same public restroom. “This is my grandma,” she told the woman, as if it was something the general public needed to know.

And that is how they pull on the rope and rip out your heart and lock it away in a box somewhere.

Then sometimes (when it was still just the two of us – no Christian, Grace, Cosette or Baby Bret) out of the blue she would say, “You’re my grandma,” and I had to reply, “I am your grandma.”

And that is how they take the box with your heart in it and drop it in the bottom of the Forever Ocean, never to be seen again.

Dating and Other Self-Destructive Acts

~ Judy ~ 2 Comments
PREPPING FOR THAT IMPORTANT FIRST DATE

So I kind of went on a date last weekend. Well, not really a date, more of a Hi, Stranger kind of thing, but given the time elapsed since my last Hi, Stranger thing, I thought it qualified as a date.

It all started when I came home one Saturday afternoon and found Daughter #1 on my computer checking her online dating service. One thing led to another and pretty soon she was signing me up to receive messages from complete strangers too. Now I’m hanging out in the online world, waiting to get proposals of all kinds, indecent or otherwise, although nothing indecent has been proposed, maybe because men my age have learned a thing or two about women my age. Or maybe they just aren’t in a hurry anymore.

And here’s what you’ll find if you search your average online dating site for men of a certain age living in Minnesota: a lot of pictures of guys holding fish. Big fish. Now, far be it from me to suggest that this might be a metaphor for something else, but what’s the deal? Do they think women find men with large tackle particularly attractive? Are they proving they can put food on the table? The only thing it makes me think is, boy, I’m glad I didn’t have to clean that big stinky fish.

Another thing you find is pictures of men with their machines – cars, motorcycles, boats (plenty of boaters in these parts). Sometimes the men aren’t even in the photo – it’s just a picture of a car, motorcycle or boat all by itself. I went so far as to add a clarification to my profile: “I am not a boater. If you’re looking for someone to be that special ‘first mate,’ best look elsewhere.”

So anyway, I had this Hi, Stranger experience last weekend, which was not unpleasant, but the most interesting part of the whole thing was the feedback from Daughters #1, #2 and #3, who apparently are under the impression that they have the right (nay, the obligation) to weigh in on something this rare and this enormous. I didn’t mind the phone calls clamoring for details, but I did get a little miffed by comments like, “Good for YOU, Mom!” Like I might just be the most pitiful excuse for a date in the seven-county metro area. Which I am not. I am a darn fun date. I can hold up my end of a conversation, you better believe it.

Anyway, Daughter #1 tells me this is how things work nowadays. So, okay, I can hang out with the online daters for a while. Winters around here are almost endless.