Go Go Grandma

lips-297365_1280I have to tell you, I am so totally excited about becoming a Grandma I can hardly stand it.  Not that I’m trying to wish away my life.  I’m not.  I’m thoroughly enjoying being a mother and with my youngest only in first grade, thoughts of the next generation are probably a bit premature.  Still, it’s nice to have something to look forward to in life, and also it’s good to have some clearly defined goals.  I’m here to tell you that when it comes to being a grandma, my goals are clear as crystal.

First and most importantly, I’d like to be ambulatory.  I had my kids a bit later in life, and so sadly this is a valid concern.  But I do love an active grandmother.  One of my own grandmas was quite excessively ambulatory, to the point where she once crashed her car on the way to the dog races, taking out a retaining wall in the process.  Oh, how we all love that story.  She went to the dog races anyway.  God bless her gambling little heart.

Perhaps this could be my car!
Perhaps this could be my car!

I would also like to wear bright red or fuchsia lipstick, pretty much all the time.  Maybe even purple on occasion.  And then I would like to kiss my grandchildren’s little faces, at least once every time I see them, so that my then-grown kids will say, “Mom!  How many times do I have to tell you to stop leaving lipstick marks all over the baby!”  And I will say, “Well, I’m shooting for at least as many times as I had to tell you to get your homework done/get dressed/get your teeth brushed etc.  So, a lot.”  I think that will be really fun.

Another thing:  I want to be very comfortable in my clothing.  I already am, for the most part, mainly due the existence of elastic-waisted apparel such as yoga pants and leggings.  So fingers crossed that they’re still in style 30 or so years from now.  I also envision a lot of blanket-type attire, and when I go out, I will wear as much sparkly jewelry as I can feasibly combine with any particular outfit.  Maybe there will even be a few pieces of sparkly blanket-type clothing.  Who knows!  All I do know is that when I am dead, I want my children and grandchildren to shake their heads and howl with laughter as they go through my things trying to find an heirloom or two.

Just a little thing from Cartier.
Part of my future Cartier sparkly animal collection.

As for the laughter, I’m hoping it’s not a thing that happens only after I’m dead.  No, I’d prefer my grandchildren to think I am hilarious while I am still alive.  Once, my own grandma jumped out of a window after locking herself in her bedroom.  She was pretty old at the time but thankfully had the foresight to throw all of her pillows and blankets out first, thus providing for a safer and more comfortable landing.  I got a phone call from my mother that day:  “Well, Grandma jumped out the window.”  Now that was funny.  To tell you the truth it still makes me chuckle.

One thing I regret – if you can have regrets in advance – is that I probably will not be doing a whole lot of baking.  I can’t imagine that I’ll have time, between the book tours and baseball games and so forth.  Don’t get me wrong, though.  I will most certainly have cookies and other baked items at my house, it’s just that they will come from a bakery and not from my own loving heart.  But I think that’s fine.  If my grandkids want my house to smell like sugar cookies, I will tell them there are candles for that and to go buy me one.  Also, I am hoping that my kids will feed their children in a much healthier manner than the manner in which they themselves have been raised.  In which case, any old cookie will probably be a big treat for them.

Homemade, schmomade.
Homemade, schmomade.

You know one other thing I won’t do, is to always be imparting some life lesson or other, except maybe by accident.  It’s really only the accidental lessons that kids listen to, anyway.  You can beat them over the head with whatever moral of whatever story, and within minutes there they are, running off to do the stupid thing you spent half an hour sermonizing about.   I’m pretty sure I won’t have the patience for that kind of crap.  Lead not by word but by example, that’s what I always say.  Or will say.  When the time comes.

As for my own kids, I will probably drive them crazy.  I hope I will drive them crazy because I kind of feel like I owe them that.  “God,” my kids will say, “you drive me crazy.”  And I will tell them, “Good.  That’s how it’s supposed to be.  Your parents get old, they drive you crazy, that’s just life and so suck it up, Buttercup.”  But my grandkids will be blind to all my faults.  They can come visit me and we’ll play Boggle or Scrabble, swear words will be permitted, and we’ll eat our bakery cookies in the glow of our sugar-scented candle.  Assuming one of them actually does buy it for me, but I know they will.  Because I will be that kind of Grandma.

Blogging Is Like Being a Porn Star. Sort Of.

  • clapper-board-152086_1280If you are a blogger, you’ll already know this, and if you’re not, you’ll just have to take it from me when I say that being a blogger is exactly like being a porn star.  Minus the nudity.  And the on-camera sexual activity.  Also I would suspect that your average self-respecting porn star makes substantially more money than I do as a blogger, and on top of that, I seem to be lacking in the “stardom” aspect. But aside from those things, it is exactly the same.  Really!  Keep reading and I’ll tell you why.

First of all – well, think about it.  I don’t know about you, but if I were a porn star I would almost certainly prefer world annihilation over having my kids one day stumble upon my filmography.  Having a blog is a similar feeling.  My kids hate when I write about them, they hate when I talk about them.  As a matter of fact they sometimes hate when I talk to them.  Like they ask me to volunteer for their classroom parties, and when I do, they make me promise not to speak to them.  Other mothers walk into the room and their kid is all Mommy Mommy Mommy!  Whereas my kid sits there trying to look mystified, like – hmmm, wonder whose mom this is?  Don’t recognize her at all!  I don’t get it, because I really thought the “embarrassed by parents” phase didn’t kick in until maybe the tween years.  Maybe the tween years are starting earlier now?  I don’t know.  The things I don’t know about raising kids could fill a book.  Or a blog.

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Other kids when their parent walks into the classroom.
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My kids when I walk into the classroom.

Anyway, the greatest sin to my kids – even greater than saying hello to them at the school Halloween party – is to write about them for public consumption.  I understand that, I really do, and so I respect it.  I never write anything embarrassing, or at least, anything that I think they would be embarrassed by.  At the same time, I respect my right to talk about my own life.  Much like a porn star, this leaves me in a situation where I fear for the day my children ever find and investigate my work.

My parents are another concern.  Not so much my dad – due to the Alzheimer’s Disease, even if he was angry about something I wrote he’d forget about it within seconds, so with him I am pretty much off the hook forever.  My mother, on the other hand, might be a bit more sensitive about certain things. So I have to be careful.  Who else worries that their mom might be upset over something they’d done at work?  Me and porn stars.  That’s about it.

Strangely, my in-laws worry me more than my parents, which I guess might be true for some of the porn industry workers as well.  First of all, my parents know that I swear.  If there were such a thing as a Professor of Swearing, my dad would have been tenured by the time I was in kindergarten.  My in-laws, on the other hand, have been somewhat more sheltered.  But I feel like if I’m going to write true things, well, sometimes the “F” word is the truest thing I can write.  All inhibitions thrown to the wind and so forth, similar to a porn star and also similarly embarrassing when your in-laws decide to visit your blog the day you published “Be Nice, Motherf***ers.”

My husband.  Weirdly enough this is the one example where life as a blogger does not feel porn-star-ish at all.  I respect him and I try hard to avoid writing anything that might belittle him or make him feel bad.  Sometimes I ask him, “read this and tell me if you’ll be mad if I publish it.”  And then he usually says, “Yes, [sigh…] but do it anyway,” and then I say, “Oh, good, because I accidentally already did.”  I am pretty sure porn stars aren’t running their footage past their spouses for approval.  I am also pretty sure they aren’t omitting certain hilarious details from their work out of respect for their husbands and wives.  Then again, what I don’t know about the porn industry could also clearly fill a book.  So why am I writing this post at all, you ask?  Good question, and it leads me to my next and final point.

This is not me. But I do like her legwarmers.
This is not me. But I do like her legwarmers.

The final way in which being a blogger is just like being a porn star is this:  the risk to my future dignity.  Actually even the risk to my current dignity.  There are a million reasons why I could never be an actual porn star, top among them being the fact that I would know I look stupid in every single second of every single video.  I can quite literally think of nothing more embarrassing.  Writing about yourself is a similar if totally different type of exposure.  I’ve actually had commenters say things like “why did you even write this, we don’t care what you think.”  I would like to assure those commenters that with every new thing I write, I press the publish button feeling certain that no one on earth cares what I think and therefore, this whole endeavor is stupid and pointless.  The next logical question being, of course, then why do you do it? No one is forcing you.

And the answer is, because I like it, and because I hope one day someone will pay me lots and lots of money for it.

You see what I’m saying?  Exactly.  JUST LIKE A PORN STAR.