Bad Grandma Resolves! Or Not.

I have made all sorts of resolutions for 2011:

- Lose 20 pounds
- Exercise regularly
- Get my house organized
- Get my life organized
- Do not procrastinate

So far, I have done none of the above.

Dieting and exercise are two things that I absolutely abhor. I am trying to visualize myself twenty pounds lighter hoping that will motivate me but it’s not working – in fact, I now believe there is much beauty in an ample body. The other thing is that when a person is old and wrinkled - body fat fills out the wrinkles – that’s another plus! I have started exercising – I am doing leg-ups while lying on the couch watching tv and toe curls when I am on my computer.

Getting organized is entirely another matter. It seems I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to remember where I put something. It is not unusual to find an item that I thought was lost, or had forgotten I had. I recently found a pair of boots that I haven’t seen for three years, the lifetime warranty for my diamond rings, my strapless bra, and my grandmother’s cookbooks dating from the 1930s.

Grandma’s cookbooks were my big find – they contain much more than recipes, they are manuals for creating an organized and economically managed home – hallelujah!! But, do I need to know that lipstick mixed with a little hand lotion makes a great rouge or how to make thread spool-holder out of a foam wig stand?

Maybe tomorrow, I’ll brush my tongue. Grandma’s book says it will help keep my breath fresh. Baby steps!

Daughter Knows Best (Or Does She?)

After a six month hiatus, I am back.

A lot has happened in that time, my husband and I quit smoking. After FIFTY YEARS of a nicotine addiction, we have now been smoke-free for seven months – a major accomplishment of which I am very proud. Also in that time it was discovered that I have an aneurysm in my abdominal aorta - it is still small enough that the risk of rupture is low. It is monitored regularly and has not changed in size since its discovery, nevertheless, over the past six months I have spent considerable time contemplating my mortality and I am determined to try and live each day with passion, purpose and appreciation. It is not as easy as it sounds - appreciation, yes; passion, not always easy when you are 68 and arthritic; purpose, I’m working on it!

I decided that I needed a project. I have come up with what I consider to be a brilliant idea and my brilliant daughters agree.

I turned to my most brilliant daughter for advice on how to proceed.

Brilliant daughter, in turn, gave me a mini course on branding and marketing. I am not sure I agree with everything she has said to me, but it is almost like we have had a role reversal – and instead of “mother knows best” – it’s “daughter knows best”.

My project is a book and brilliant daughter told me that, for my book be successful, people would have to consider me an expert or, at the very least, have some recognition in the area on which I would be writing. That presents a problem for me because my book is not really a book that you read, but an organizational aid and I probably am the most disorganized person I know – which is why I got the idea in the first place! (Brilliant Daughter/Editor note: I didn't tell you that you had to be an expert - just that readers/users would be looking for some reason to want a book/organizational aid from you. Maybe it would just be because of your sparkling personality. Still. You have to SHARE THAT.)

You see my dilemma.

Left to my own devices , I would have self-published and peddled my book at community markets, through friends and any other way I could think of and I would have had it ready for Mother’s Day (because it will make a great gift). Now, I am not sure – brilliant daughter is successful and knows much more than me about high tech marketing and branding.

(BD/Editor's note: you can still do those things. I just think that you should do stuff online, too. BECAUSE YOU CAN.)

I probably will follow brilliant daughter’s advice and set about establishing myself as an identifiable... what?... wise grandma, ditzy grandma, sexually repressed grandma, quintessential old-fashioned homemaker grandma, thrice-married grandma , grandma who does not want to age gracefully, grandma who secretly wants to be outrageous. I am all of those things and more – so where do I start?

(BD/Editor's note: START THERE.)

And when do I start? Did I include 'procrastinating grandma in the list?' Maybe I’ll start next week.

Thank You For Not Smoking

Over the years, I have tried many times to quit smoking. I have tried cutting down, Zyban, the Nicoderm patch, Nicorettes – all to no avail.

I have found a much more effective way to quit smoking.

It was recently discovered, quite by accident, that I have an aneurysm in the abdominal aorta. My vascular surgeon sat with me and explained smoking has caused the aneurysm and continued smoking will further weaken the artery walls, it will burst and I will bleed to death - he then pulled his chair closer, looked me directly in the eyes and said, “So, quit or die.”

I quit, cold turkey, over a week ago and will never smoke again.

At this point, the risk of a rupture is minimal (11%). I am being monitored regularly and if the risk increases, surgery will be performed.

Thank you to a medical professional who had the balls to be brutally honest.

In all of my years as a professional in the addictions field, I was rarely that forthright. I usually tried to soften probable outcomes and/or consequences. If my doctor had framed the situation with “possibilities,” “maybe’s” and “probabilities” rather than with stark certainties, I might not have been so quick to quit smoking and then I would surely die – sooner rather than later.

This has been a good thing. I am getting healthier, I am saving kazillions of money, my house has never been so clean, and my darling daughter who worries too much can stop.

PS: My husband, who smoked more than I did, also quit and we are both doing great!

Dear Daughter

Dear Catherine:

Today, my darling daughter, it is your 40th birthday.

I can not believe it has been forty years since I gave birth to you. I don’t feel forty years older! It seems like just yesterday that I danced under the light of the full moon (all 195 pounds of me), hoping that an old wives' tale was true. It must have been, because seven hours later you were born.

You know that I have always felt that the anniversary of your birth is more of a celebration for me than for you. It is a celebration of the day your father and I received the most precious gift in the universe; it is a celebration of love, it is a celebration of memories, it is celebration of what matters most in life.

On this day, as I celebrate your birth, my normally transitory memory has perfect recall on the joys and, sometimes, heartache that being your mother has given me.

I remember: an aspiring (but doomed) ballerina, a published writer, an eloquent public speaker, a budding actress, a political activist – and all before you were even twelve! It would take a book to chronicle your journey to adulthood. My participation in that journey has been a privilege. You are my heart.

Thank you, God, for her.

Thank you, Catherine, for you.

Love,

Mom

Mother's Day, The Hard Way

This year both of my daughters were several thousand miles away on the that day I consider more important than Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving or any other occasion on which we celebrate the joy of family and togetherness. One daughter lives several thousand miles away and the other is on vacation.

This is the first Mother’s Day that I have not seen at least one of my daughters. While a telephone conversation is lovely, it’s not the same as a physical presence, the real closeness that affirms the celebration of motherhood – the joys, the heartache, the memories, the wonderful feeling of pride that comes from seeing your child mature into a happy, healthy adult.

My husband and I attended our community’s annual Mother’s Day Fly-in on Sunday, and I felt a huge void as I watched moms and grandmas glow with pride as they shared moments with their children and grandchildren.

I felt alienated from those happy moms. I wanted to shout – “I have children, I have grandchildren – they just couldn’t be here”. I imagined a hundred eyes on me, whispering, “poor lady, being at a Mother’s Day event and not having any children.” Up until this Mother’s Day, I never consciously felt the need to parade my motherhood, I never thought I needed affirmation about the wonderfulness of my mothering, and I don’t often brag about my children (out of respect for those whose children aren’t nearly as beautiful, talented or as smart as mine). This past Sunday, I was tested and failed miserably. I needed affirmation – I needed my children.

This Mother’s Day was a lonely day.

Bad Grandma Reflects On April Fools, And Misses Her Children A Little Less Than Usual

April Fool’s Day should be called “Parents Stay On Your Toes Day”.

I don’t think my husband and I were the brightest bulbs on the block, because every year our children caught us with the same tricks. I still chuckle when I remember his yell from the bathroom - “goddammit, it’s all over my shoes” - as he peed into a toilet bowl that had been covered with saran wrap. I didn’t think it was quite so funny when I sat on a toilet seat that had been covered with Vaseline!

You would think that by the time we cleaned ourselves up after the bathroom tricks, we would be more alert, but no! – ‘cause by now, we needed coffee and cigarettes. It's not funny playing hide and seek with cigarettes - hidden by your prankster (and vehemently anti-smoking) children - when you’re jonesing. It’s even less funny, after finding said smokes, to pour yourself what is by now a much needed cup of coffee and discover, after the first huge swallow, that it wasn’t sugar that you put in the cup!

Most days, I miss my daughters. April Fool's Day is not one of those days.

Happy April Fools Day.

Bad Grandmas Age Gracefully

I watched 70-something Raquel Welch on Oprah yesterday and was immediately very aware of my brillo-pad hands, my fungus feet, my chicken neck, a tummy that even a girdle can’t restrain, and a face that is now covered with what I euphemistically refer to as “huge freckles.”

The theme of the show was glamorous grandmas.

I am sure that there were millions of grandmas who, like me, watched the show and, if their husbands were watching with them (as mine was), kept up a constant stream of commentary along the lines of: “if I had a personal trainer, liposuction and a good plastic surgeon, I’d look like that too!” And: “I could have hair like that if we didn’t have to eat and pay the mortgage.” And then: “you like her makeup? Well, we’ll stop feeding the cats, and you can give up beer.”

My husband quickly told me that he loves me just the way I am. I think it was the beer thing.