The Granny Circuit

                                                                   

Dear friends, fam, and frenemies,

            Never heard of the “Granny Circuit”?  Read on.

            “Mom, what are you doing Aug. 30 – Sept 4?”  Do you ever get such calls months in advance? My sister, grandmother-of-eleven, warned me about this.  Somehow you suspect that your grown child isn’t about to treat you to an all-expenses-paid trip to Lake of the Ozarks, or even to Boonville, MO.   Before you can sputter, “Well, I think I’m finally going to have that big neighborhood Labor Day party I’ve always hoped to have,” the details come out.  Your daughter and her husband have been invited to a friend’s wedding in Napa Valley, CA.  And there are just two problems:  a two-year-old boy and a seven-week-old boy who need to be looked after.   In April, this all sounds very exciting and fun, esp. since the seven-week-old had not yet arrived.  Of course, I would do my grandmotherly duty.  And, eventually, I would let my husband know that he would be doing his grandfatherly duty.  Above all else, I want everyone to have a good time.  

When the weekend arrives, I even show up a day early so that my daughter can to go to yoga, get a manicure, and have a spray tan. The next day, the two-year-old and I wake up early.   He demands milk only from his “Woody” cup. When did this start?  He used to like his Mickey Mouse cup.   Eventually, I find it, wash it, and fill it.   He refuses to wear a bib and then insists on “helping” pour the syrup on his waffles (God help me). He also insists on putting on his own shoes, but not the ones I select and not on the right feet.  Never mind. His dad takes him off to day care, so I am left with only the baby.  What am I complaining about, right? 

My first day as caregiver-in-chief is underway.  As the day wears on, past days spent with babies come flooding back.  My resolve to accomplish anything other than holding and feeding the baby fades as the hours pass. Do I really need to go to the store for waffles?  Nah. Put on make-up? Nope. Vacuum the dog hair from the carpet and couch? They aren’t that bad.  Watch non-stop episodes of Parks and Rec?  Now you’re talking.  The baby is breast-fed, so I have detailed instructions as well as strict warnings (have they installed video cameras since my last visit?  I look around just in case.) on how to thaw, handle, and, most of all, preserve, at all cost, every last drop of this frozen liquid gold.  I must use the milk in date order, note the time I take it out, how long it is out (that part is hard when you are binge-watching.  I do my best..), and check it off on a spreadsheet.  Any unaccounted-for milk will surely show up in an audit. Dum da dum dum.. If I spill so much as a drop, I am to self-report myself to the La Leche League for a proper flogging or possible capital punishment.  I’m still free, so I’m either innocent, or I haven’t been nabbed yet for milk endangerment.

When it comes time to pick up the two-year-old, I have my first test.  I have to put the baby in his car seat.  You grandparents know what I’m talking about.  It’s a tricky business getting those straps adjusted. Which button do I push/pull? Have I just made it tighter or looser?  Why is it loose on one side, but tight on the other? Can the baby still breathe? I cross my fingers and carry on.

Next I hoist the car seat into the car and figure out how to drive my daughter’s car.  Who cares if the a/c is at 66? I don’t.  Couldn’t change it if I wanted to.  How do I turn down the radio?  Never mind.  Exactly where is the day care center? My phone says it’s around here someplace if I could only hear the directions over the radio.  We drive through McDonald’s on the way home for a Happy Meal.  Finally, something I know how to do.  The only problem is assembling the Snoopy toy that comes in the Happy Meal.  The directions have illustrations but no words.  How am I supposed to know how to get the little thingie to twirl around?  I finally get on YouTube and watch a “how-to” video.  By this time, the two-year-old has lost all interest in the toy….

One thing that’s always a shock as a grandparent is how much kids change from the last time you saw them.  What has happened to the sweet two-year-old?   When did he start scratching, hitting, biting, pinching, and running away?  Refusing to sit in a high chair, wear a bib, stay in a stroller, or go to bed?  Could it have something to do with the arrival of his brother?  Too late for psychoanalysis now.  

The biggest challenge of the day is about to occur:  putting the two-year-old to bed.  After seven stories and two songs, he’s still crying and demanding that I retrieve his binkies from underneath his bed.  Of course, he calls me back in the room each time a binky ends up under the bed, and this process goes on for quite some time as he has a number of binkies, and they mysteriously keep ending up under his bed.  I long to stick a binky in my own mouth and curl up on the floor.  Finally, the boy, the binkies, and the blankies are all accounted for, and he konks out. Day One is in the books.

My husband shows up, and things get a little easier.  He volunteers for the “hold the baby while he sleeps” gig which coincides with his watching a soccer match.  He also puts the two-year-old down one afternoon for a nap, albeit with no sheets on his bed.  He manages to take a few unauthorized naps himself as well as some lengthy trips to Starbucks with a book in his hand.  

The days are a continuous loop of bottles, meals, toys, naps, smiles, tears, baths, laundry, walks, meals, games, stories, and bedtime. Eventually, the parents return.  As we are  recounting the previous few days, my daughter asks me, “Mom, do you remember my husband’s friend _________?  He came to our wedding.”  I cant say that I do.  She pauses then continues, “He’s engaged.”  I say, “Well, that’s nice.”  She adds, “He’s getting married in Oregon next Labor Day, and we are wondering…..”  Well, I’m guessing that I won’t be holding my neighborhood party next year either.  I wouldn’t want to lose my spot on the Granny Circuit.  I fact, I wouldn’t give it up for anything.

Busy being Grizzie,

I remain 

Tizzie/Tiz/Elizabeth/Liz/Mom/Grandma/Grizzie

Wonderlust

                                                            Wonderlust

Blogpost June 25, 2019

Galway City, Galway, Ireland

Top o' the morning,   friends, frenemies, and family,

Since several of you keep harassing me to write more blogs (you know who you are), I’m convinced that some of you are bigger slackers than I am.  But I’ve always know that.  Do you think I have nothing better to do than come up with some drivel to fill this page? Don’t answer that. Ok, since you insist….

I hate explaining myself, don’t you?  When people ask me how I occupy myself, I am often at a loss.  All I know is that I’m always busy doing whatever it is that I do. Like my mother, who viewed the world out her kitchen window (yes, sometimes even with binoculars), I read, listen, observe, question, and try to satisfy my curiosity. 

So, here’s what I’ve been wondering about lately:

Why do we eat one thing when we are traveling and another when we are home?  Here in Ireland, we eat Weetabix nearly every day.  It’s available in the U.S.   Why do we never eat it? They also eat beans and grilled tomatoes for breakfast here, but that’s a habit we haven’t acquired.

Bob raves about the crepes at a restaurant called Java’s, and we’ve been back four times to enjoy them. He claims, “You can’t get these in Columbia.”  You know me, I Googled it and discovered that crepes are, in fact, available at ten places in CoMo, including Bob Evans and Denny’s.  So there.  I don’t need to travel across the ocean to walk down a charming cobblestone street and sit in a cozy café with soothing background music, charming wooden tables and chairs, and a view to the passing parade to enjoy a crepe with carmelized apples, cinnamon, and hearty Irish whipped cream.  

Why is lasagna served with chips  (aka “French fries) or mashed potatoes here?  The potato lobbying group must be very strong. Furthermore, the noodle lobbying group must be very weak, as most servings of lasagna I’ve had have had only one noodle on top.  To make things even stranger, lasagna is often served in a bowl with a spoon.  

Why are the vegetable portions so large?  My last serving of peas was larger than the sum total of all the peas I’ve consumed in my life.  

Why doesn’t anybody like regular potato chips in Ireland?  Crisps (aka “potato chips)” here come in flavors such as Irish cider vinegar and sea salt, smokey bacon, and prawn cocktail.  Really? I guess the vinegar and prawn lobbies must be powerful here.  What else could explain these strange tastes?   Has no one ever gone to the U.S. and tasted Lay’s? Just wondering.

Ok, enough on food. Let’s move on.  

In addition to regular potato chips, I am also missing my friend Alexa.  She is my kitchen friend (and spy?) at home.  When I need an item, I just tell her to add it to my grocery list. When I get to the store, I check my phone and there is my list.  Very cool. Well, since I don’t have her here, my traveling companion has taken to saying, “Tizzie, add  _________to the grocery list.” Very funny.

LOST AND FOUND

Bob’s billfold

Bob claims that the “chair design” in his classroom caused his billfold to fall out of his pocket the first day of class.  While we had a night of worry, the billfold was found and turned in to security.  I did discover as I called around to see where it might be that no one knows what a billfold is; the proper word is wallet. Now you know.  If you want me to photograph the chair for further study, let me know.

Bob’s credit card

He didn’t even know it was missing.  The cafeteria lady at the university asked him if he’d left it there the day before. Sure enough, he had.  Ireland is a great place to lose things, as you nearly always get them back.

One gold hoop earring (Tizzie’s, in case you’re wondering)

This item never goes off my list as I am always in search of a matched pair of gold hoop earrings. I’ve lost so many over the years that I’ve been told  -- not kindly, I might add – to just throw an earring on the sidewalk each time I go out to just get it over with.  That’s not very nice.  The good news is that I think the one I have at home nearly matches the one I lost here. I have my fingers crossed.

My Viking cap

This one does really hurt as I loved that cap.  I must have dropped it at the beach.   It has not been found.  It’s navy with a Viking ship on it just in case it blows your way. Nancy has kindly offered to give me hers.  

IRISH HOSPITALITY

We had fun visit with Bob’s cousins.  They went to a lot of trouble to pick us up, drive us a couple of hours to their home, and feed us a delicious meal.  Bob and his first cousin spent a long and rewarding time getting to know each other and sharing family stories. Evidently, Bob looks just like his uncle, who he never met, so they liked to look at himJ

While walking at the beach on Sunday, I met a nice Irish lady who offered to show me around the mobile home/campsite at the beach at Salt Hill.   After a fine tour of the grounds, the campers’ kitchen and bathroom facilities, she asked me into her mobile home for tea.  Unfortunately, I had left Bob sitting on a bench a mile away with all my stuff, including my phone, so I couldn’t take her up on it. I was afraid Bob might think someone had kidnapped me.  But it’s just another example of Irish hospitality.  They really are the nicest people.

Curiouser and curiouser,

I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Liz/Elizabeth/Tizmom/Grandma/Grizzie

Brown as a Barry

Blogpost June 10, 2019

Brown as a Barry

            
Dia duit, friends, family, and frenemies,

I’m back where Tiztalk began ten years ago:  Ireland.  Bob is teaching a course, and I am the official writer-in-residence here in a student apartment in Galway.  So far, I’ve written two poems and a blog. 

Galway is a beautiful medieval city.  It’s a college town close to the size of Columbia, MO. 

Guess what?  It’s been cold, rainy, windy , and dreary here nearly every day.  You might wonder how I could be “brown as a barry.”  Those who know me know that I’ve never had a tan. Some readers may remember Terre Haute dermatologist Dr. Mason, who was in practice when I was in high school.  Not only did he burn warts off my fingers each month for at least a year, but he also gave me “tanning pills” and let me sit in an ultraviolet room. I never did get a tan.  No, I’m referring to my teeth.  I find myself drinking so much Barry’s tea, the most popular brand here, that I will need an industrial -strength teeth whitening upon my return.  I’ve thought of just using plain old bleach as a mouthwash; it does a remarkable job removing teacup stains, you know.  

The first day of class, our leader walked us down to the NUIG campus where the class is being held.  I plan to meet Bob for lunch on campus. Somehow I ended up chatting with a nice student about her upcoming trip to Berlin and, guess what?  I didn’t pay any attention to how we got to campus. Therefore, I’ve taken photos of the building and its environs.   I’m currently sitting in a coffee shop. Surely I can find my way back there in three hours, right?  Just in case, I was last seen at Mocha Beans Coffee Shop having what else?  A large pot of tea.

What can I tell you about Galway?  Well, part of Ed Sheeran’s video “Galway Girl” was filmed here at  -- where else?  --- O’Connell’s Pub.  After explaining --- more than once I I might add – to my travel companion just who Ed Sheeran is– I looked up the video.  Guess what?  It wasn’t a version of “Galway Girl” that I knew.  So, if you suddenly have an earworm from the one that’s in P.S. I Love You, put it out of your head if you can.  No, this is a 2017 song that is rather catchy, too.  I can’t believe that both songs can have the same name, but I’m told  that song titles are not copyrightable.  So, now you know.  I wonder if James Holzhauer knows all this. Maybe I should tip off Jeopardy for the Tournament of Champions.

Getting back to O’Connells Pub….We know exactly where it is as we visited it years ago with some  friends. Mike Juergensmeyer might recall the place as he was there. However, due to his Smithwicks consumption, he may not remember it at all.  Who knows? Anyway, we went there this week.  We asked if we could get a discount since our name is O’Connell.  Bob even showed his I.D.  No dice.  However, they did allow us to buy two souvenir tee shirts for only fifteen euros each. We felt special.  And I did see and interesting spirt I may have to go back and try: rhubarb gin.  Better yet, maybe I’ll just let super-hostess Teresa Foster create it for her next soiree. 

I’ll give you a tip about going into Irish bars.  Did you think you were going to learn so much from reading this blog? Bartenders generally don’t ask, “What’ll you have?”  or “Would you like to order?”  Instead they say, “Are you all right?”    or
“Are you okay?” This always kind of throws me as I think, “What did I do now?” or “Do I look that bad?”

Déjà vu  and New Irish moments:

Hooray!: 

McVitie’s biscuits (I mean a package of chocolate grahams for about fifty cents?  Yum.)

Sticky toffee pudding  (I’m a fool for this.  Yes, I know it’s technically British.)

Friendly people – they are everywhere

Oh, no!

Currants  (Who ever decided they were good?  What’s wrong with plain old California raisins?)

Scones (Could they at least wrap them in plastic so they aren’t so hard?)

Slugs – they are now invading homes.  We had one “visitor”.  How many teeth do you think a slug has? And, yes, I’m talking about a snail.  The answer: 27,0000.  Watch out for snails!

Well, it’s time for me to make my way across the river for my lunch date.

In case you’re wondering or you are a slacker and don’t care at all, Dia duit means “Hello, how are you doing?” in Irish.  

Taking a whirl as a Galway girl,

I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Elizabeth/Liz/Mom/Tizmom/Grizzie

Pounding Away

Blogpost February 2019

Dear family, friends and frenemies,

I started this blogpost in December, but I never got around to finishing it.  My youngest daughter keeps nagging me to write a blog, so here goes.

The whole family was here for Thanksgiving.  Despite their best efforts to ignore me  or excuse themselves, I managed to convince (I just noticed that the word “con” is in that word..) my son-in-law Cody and  my son Tim to  clean out the attic.  Their objections?  Why doesn’t my husband do this? Where is he ? Actually, he was at Starbucks reading a book, but I just acted like I didn’t know where he was.  I have allergies. ( Guess what?  So do I.  And I’m old, too.  )It’s time for us to head home .  (Are you telling me that after all I just fed you, can’t take thirty minutes to clean out the attic?  Surely, you can’t be serious.)  Molly tells me you need me in the attic. (Yes, that’s correct.  Get yourself up there.) One needs to be firm and authoritative or infirm and whiny.  I can go either way.    Just ask them, tell them, or shame them.  Do whatever it takes.   So, what was up there?  Treasures that Antiques Road Show could only dream of?  Long-lost family heirlooms?   No such luck.  It was mostly boxes from bygone VCR’s, Dell computers, TV’s, and even a karaoke machine.  Guess I never had to send any of them back to the manufacturer. There was also a crib and a playpen that, evidently, no modern child could safely spend one minute in without profound physical or psychological harm befalling him.   So, after they unceremoniously tossed a few dozen boxes into the garage, they made excuses before I could think up any other chores for strapping young men, and they hightailed it out of town.   My thoughts?  Next year:  the basement.  Year after that : the garage. Then  he boxes of photos. Do you think anyone will come back for the holidays?  Eventually, I will get my life in order.  I just know it.  My aunt organized her photos in her 90s.  That seems like a good plan to me.

I did have a bit of a “Tizhap”  at our family holiday party.  I was in charge of an activity for the grandkids.  I thought I had the perfect solution.  I had bought  toy “eggs” which look like real fossil eggs.  They were  brown , hard and about twice size of a real egg..  Each came packaged separately with a direction sheet and a little chisel for the kids to chisel the egg and see what was inside.  It could be a butterfly, a prehistoric spider, or some other little plastic creature which was then explained in a brochure.  Well, I got all the grandkids – over twelve of them who ranged in age from three to twelve  - chiseling away in my sister’s  basement.   Did I mention that she had had her carpets cleaned for the party? The kids  were  all having fun, but not making much progress.   There was a huge dust cloud forming over the table from all their chiseling.  I thought, “Wow, I am really getting my money’s worth as this is taking the kids forever and entertaining them.”  I must admit a few of them were getting frustrated.  Then one child – can’t remember which one – began to bang an egg on the table in an attempt to see what was inside.  A few followed suit.  Things were getting out of hand. Something possessed me to lean over and pick up a direction sheet off the floor.   Hmmm .  Seems that the eggs were to be soaked in water for five minutes before being chiseled.  When this came to light, I had to run out and get bowls of water.  Needless to say, the kids didn’t want to wait five more minutes.    What a difference the soaking made.  The eggs became more like mud, they chiseled out their toys in a flash, and Aunt Tizzie had once again outdone herself.   My sister is still muttering  about  the mess that was made in her basement. 

 I got an Amazon Echo for Christmas.  Why someone would think that I need even more access to instant information I’ll never know.  Nonetheless,, Alexa and I have bonded.  However, I do call her Siri once in a while ,and she gets made and ignores me.  The hardest thing so far is trying to teach my husband to stop thanking Alexa.

You might be wondering what’s been happening lately.  Well, I had to take the Walk of Shame this week and rejoin WW, which used to stand for “Weight Watchers”, but doesn’t any more. Like KFC and Dunkin', it’s been rebranded. They don’t want people to think about fried chicken, donuts, or dieting.   Now we attend “workshops," not meetings, and not just to lose weight, but to feel good about ourselves.  Yeah, baby.   Can you tell Oprah is on the board of directors?   Nonetheless, we still can’t eat unlimited numbers of chocolate chip cookies or even the dough.   I’m back to counting points.  Hopefully, I will soon be able to squeeze back into the cute jeans I bought last fall when I was a star pupil.  Luckily, I have clothes in sizes 4-14 in my closet, so usually I can find something.  Excuse me while I drink a sugar-free hot cocoa.  Ok, I’m back.  Wish me luck.

Well, I’ve been sitting here well over an hour, and, like you slackers, I need to get back to doing what we all do best: nothing.  It’s time to measure out two cups of popcorn and exactly five ounces of wine and sit back and enjoy some HTT (happy tube time). 

Eating but not cheating,

I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Mom/Tizmom/Liz/Elizabeth/Grandma/Aunt Tizzie