Lessons in hair-coloring

With all the things I had to do in preparation for Bubby's visit, I had to let something slide, and my seriously graying hair that oh-so desperately needed color was unfortunately it.

Which meant I definitely had no choice but to color it during Bubby's visit.

Let me just say that I had forgotten how difficult it is to get much done on a household -- or personal -- level when there's a two-year-old in the house. Especially taking the time to color your hair.

Wait! I never colored my hair when my daughters were toddlers. So attempting the coloring -- with its specific time allotments in which any deviation from said time may have dire consequences -- while in charge of Bubby was a new lesson for this grandma.

I'm proud to say it was a lesson I aced pretty quickly! I just set up Bubby right outside the bathroom door with a pile of cars, truck and motorcycles. While he vroomed and zoomed and lined up the vehicles, I dibbed and dabbed and darkened my roots.

 I thought I was pretty darn bright for figuring out how to successfully occupy my grandson while I catered to my vanity.

Not so bright? Taking the time to snap these photos of Bubby during the coloring process. My far-too-dark tresses and the brown ring on my face around my hairline are irrefutable proof of that.

Oh well. At least Bubby can't revert to calling me Graya anymore.

At least not during this visit.

Today's question:

What's your most regrettable hair-color (or style) experience?

The Saturday Post

While still feeling bad about myself for being such a cry baby, I experienced a moment of serendipity in coming across a post from Sandi at Deva Coaching on finding our signature strengths. Her post directs readers to Authentic Happiness, an awesome site filled with personality and character assessments and more.

So to pump myself up a tad, I took the Brief Strength Test to find my signature strengths. Here's what I learned are my top five character strengths (out of 24):

Love of Learning
You love learning new things, whether in a class or on your own. You have always loved school, reading, and museums - anywhere and everywhere there is an opportunity to learn.

Love
Capacity to love and be loved - You value close relations with others, in particular those in which sharing and caring are reciprocated. The people to whom you feel most close are the same people who feel most close to you.

Fairness
Fairness, equity, and justice - Treating all people fairly is one of your abiding principles. You do not let your personal feelings bias your decisions about other people. You give everyone a chance.

Humility/Modesty
Modesty and humility - You do not seek the spotlight, preferring to let your accomplishments speak for themselves. You do not regard yourself as special, and others recognize and value your modesty.

Gratitude
Gratitude - You are aware of the good things that happen to you, and you never take them for granted. Your friends and family members know that you are a grateful person because you always take the time to express your thanks.

Nary a word about crying ... which is just fine with me!

If you'd like to learn a bit about yourself, head on over to Authentic Happiness. You do need to register on the site in order to take tests, but nothing intrusive. Then I'd love for you to come back and share your tops strengths with the rest of us!

Today's question:

What is your top character strength, based on either the test or on what you personally consider it to be?

Megan's magical method

One of the highlights of my visit to the desert was seeing that Megan's college education is truly paying off—at home.

You see, Megan has this amazing technique for keeping Bubby in line and all I can figure is that it was part of her early childhood education curriculum because it sure isn't something she gleaned from me.

What is Megan's Magical Method? She offers Bubby the opportunity "to make good choices." We're talking a two-year-old here. A two-year-old who understands the ultimatum and usually—happily! without coercion!—makes a good choice.

Bizarre, if you ask me, but it works.

For example, Bubby will be eating breakfast and after two bites he'll decide to drop his fruit, waffles, whatever onto the floor so Roxie, the dog, will eat it. Megan/Mom will warn him not to do it again, but Bubby will scrunch up his face into a "yeah, just watch this" smirk and continue dropping goodies to the dog.

So Megan whips out the big guns. In her calm but firm teacher voice she says, "Looks to me like someone's making bad choices. Are you making bad choices, Bubby? We like good choices, don't we?" Instantly, and I mean INSTANTLY, Bubby grins from ear to ear, says "Yes!" and plops the piece of food into his mouth instead of over the edge of his highchair tray.

When Bubby would obviously need to hit the sack and teetered on the edge of a tantrum, Megan went through the same "good choices versus bad choices" spiel. Right away, Bubby would grin and trot off to put on his pajamas, oh-so proud of himself for making a good choice.

Sheer magic! And I don't understand why it works. With a two-year-old. Yet it works again and again. Again and again I would watch in amazement, trying unsuccessfully to catch the sleight of hand.

How does she do it?

Now some of you may worry what happens when a bad choice by Bubby prevails, that maybe that's why it works—because Bubby is scared to death of Mom's reaction when he makes a bad choice. Does Megan yell and scream? Spank his diaper-padded bottom? Bind him with duct tape and toss him out as a super-size snack for the desert-roaming javelinas?

None of the above. When Bubby makes a bad choice, Megan simply does what every other normal, non-magical mom does: She puts Bubby in time out.

I actually witnessed Bubby's refusal to make a good choice once and the time out that followed. It broke my heart -- and the heart of GiGi, his paternal great-grandma, and his great aunt Katie—because, get this, it was smack dab in the middle of Bubby eating his birthday cake.

At one point soon after the "Happy Birthday" song, Bubby started being a little cuss, wouldn't choose the "good choice" option and ended up being whisked away to his timeout spot in the hallway, away from the action. He cried as Megan hauled him to the hallway while Gigi, Katie and I all stared at each other and worked to restrain our own tears. There Bubby sat ... for less than one minute. Then he gave in, told Mommy he was ready to make good choices and cheerfully danced his way back to his highchair to finish his cake.

Like I said, it's bizarre. Even if that's the only thing to come from Megan's four years at an expensive private college (and the massive PLUS loan Jim and I still make payments on), I say it was well worth it. Because we moms all know how difficult it is to get our kids to make good choices, to do what's right, to not follow the crowd of little cussers and be left with lifelong consequences. We know that all the time and money in the world matters not one whit when it comes to teaching our kiddos to make good choices, always and forever.

Jim and I joked again and again about how long the "good choices" tactic will work. Will a teenaged Bubby one day call from the tattoo parlor to warn Mom and Dad before showing up at home with a tat emblazoned across his shoulder, neck or shaved head?

Not likely. Megan's already working on nipping that possibility in the bud. When Brianna visited the week before Jim and I, Megan was quick to point out to Bubby the various (mostly discreet) tattoos Brianna has, telling him, "Aunt B made some bad choices, didn't she? Tattoos are a bad choice and we like good choices, don't we Bubby?"

And, of course, Bubby grinned from ear to ear and agreed. Because that's what boys who make good choices do—they listen to their mommy, agree with their mommy. At least for now. At least while he's two.

At least as long as Megan's Magical Method continues to work.

Today's question:

What is one of your more memorable GOOD choices or BAD choices?

My answer:  Bad choice -- using green food coloring (that's FOOD coloring) to color my hair for a Halloween party when I was 17. My green hair finally faded right about Christmas time!

Getting comfortable

Some of you may find this hard to believe, considering how much I babble on this blog, but I was excruciatingly timid for the first 20 or so years of my life. I was scared of many things, but most importantly I was scared of other people because in my mind they were bigger, better, smarter, sweeter and certainly better looking than I would ever be.

But then I had kids. And I had no choice but to play Mama Bear. I had to go against my natural instincts and be brave, strong and protective -- for the sake of my daughters. And I got pretty good at defending my family.

Then I became an editor and had to ramp up the courage another notch or two. I had to be brave, strong and protective -- for the sake of my staff. I got pretty good at that, too. (Of course, I couldn't save our department from being cut, but that's another story.)

Because of my role as mom and my role as editor, I learned to not care too much what others thought of me. But in the last two weeks, I've had two experiences that point out that in my current role of grandma I've finally aged enough, evolved enough that I truly am comfortable with who I am, regardless of what others may think of me.

The first involved the Roto-Rooter man. Sounds like this could lead somewhere disgusting, but stay with me ... it doesn't. You see, we have lots of trees on our property, lots of roots clogging up our plumbing system and lots of backups that flooded our basement in the few years we've lived here. So this year I decided to be proactive and have the Roto-Rooter-type guy clean out our system before the backup could happen. Well, turns out the hole for him to work on such things is right below the tree where the mourning doves have returned to nest and hatch their babies. So once the cleaning was done, I pointed out to the guy the mama bird who had sat above his head the entire time. He apparently wasn't much for birding and didn't know what the mourning dove was. So I told him. "They're the birds that do this ..." and I proceeded to do the mourning dove call: "ooh AH hoo hoo hoo." Ten, even five years ago I would never have done such a thing, would have been mortified if such an embarrassing sound escaped on its own, much less vocalize it on purpose. The guy glanced at me sideways and mumbled "Oh, I think I know which one you're talking about," and left it at that. I know he thought I was a nut, but I didn't care. At all. And I realize in retrospect what a giant leap that was for me.

An even bigger leap came this past week. Because we have all those trees I mentioned, when hurricane-strength winds (no exaggeration!) hit town a few days ago, one of those trees broke ... right over the neighbor's fence. So we had to call our trusty tree service dude to make the final cut that would save the fence and save us from our wacky neighbor who still carries the bullet in his head from a stint in Iraq. (A sad, sad story, but again, one for another time.)

Before I go any further, let me say that I have really, really, really dark circles under my eyes. (Stay with me; it comes into play.) They're not bags, just circles, gifted to me by my dad. And I hate them. And I never, ever, ever allow anyone to see me without at least some cover-up under the eyes. When the girls had friends stay the night, I'd get up early to shower and slap on some makeup before the kids awoke. Same goes for when relatives would visit. Even when I was in the hospital for a fairly lengthy visit, I made sure I had my cover-up and a mirror for applying it as I lay in the bed. My dark circles were my dark secret.

But now that I'm older and wiser -- and a grandma -- it seems I don't give a cuss about circles anymore, dark, light or otherwise. For when the tree guy -- who has been to our house several times, all for which I was fully prepared and fully covered -- came to fully amputate our tree, I met him at the door fresh from my morning walk with the dogs, smelling I'm sure not so fresh in my sweaty T-shirt, shorts and ponytail ... and no makeup. Not a speck, not a drop. And I hadn't even considered racing to the bathroom to swipe the cover-up stick under my eyes before his arrival. Because I no longer care.

That, my friends, may be one small step for most women but an unbelievably huge leap for this grandma. Trust me on this.

I make weird bird noises. I have dark circles under my eyes. I am no longer timid. I am no longer afraid of what others think of me.

I am grandma. And I am comfortable with that.

Today's question:

What have you become more comfortable with as you've gotten older?

Wheat, chaff and baby teeth

As I mentioned yesterday, Jim and I spent Saturday with three of Jim's five siblings plus a couple nieces and nephews clearing out the storage shed that held everything from the last apartment Jim's mom lived in, her last home and the place she resided when a stroke unexpectedly ripped her from her life and plopped her down in a hospital bed to wait out her days.

My mother-in-law was always a fastidious housekeeper, a truly tidy grandma. But the unexpectedness of the emergency medical situation meant she never had the chance to tie up her life belongings into beribboned bundles or to even discard such things as drawers full of hair-color conditioner tubes and expired grocery coupons. Which meant her kids had a lot of stuff to go through, a lot of work to do paring her possessions into piles to pass along to her children and grandchildren, honoring her by not pitching it all into the charity bin.

To be honest, it was a relatively quick task as Jim's mom lived a spare and simple life. And, as Granny prided herself on being ever the educator, the task indeed taught me a few lessons about getting my own things and my own life in order so my kids and grandkids have an easier time separating the wheat from the chaff once I'm gone.

Here are a few of those lessons:

Keep a notebook or journal -- placed in a prominent spot -- detailing which possessions you'd like to go to whom. There were thankfully no arguments over my mother-in-law's goods, but we all could only guess what her desire may be ... and I'm pretty sure we missed the mark on at least a few. A will may be the answer, but how many wills go so far as to say which kid gets the red afghan versus the white or the flowered teapot versus the striped?

Always label photos with the names of those in the pictures and the date. As we perused the hundreds of photos, we were at a loss again and again without Granny around to let us know which baby belonged to whom and why one wacky woman wore the getup featuring what appeared appeared to be a bikini-clad sumo wrestler.

Minimize the mementos from your children's early years. Mother's Day gifts made in preschool, unidentifiable art-class and woodshop projects and every scrap of sentimentality have their place, but it's a very limited place. Save only those that really tug at the heart strings, not every crayon-scribbled, glitter-pocked piece of paper.

Speaking of paper, get rid of (most of) it. There's no need to save every single greeting card, every single receipt, every single recipe that one may have intended to try but never did. A paper shredder -- of which we found an unused one in Granny's possession -- comes in handy for such things.

Same goes for toiletry samples and hotel freebies. As Jim and his siblings chuckled about the blue tube after blue tube of the Clairol conditioning cream that comes with the hair color but is far too much for any normal woman to use as directed on the tube, I had to fess up that I have a handful, okay a basketful, of the very same conditioning cream tubes in my own bathroom cabinet. I'll be pitching those ... soon.

Thank you for these lessons and more, Granny. I'll do my best to soon institute them in my life, my home, my piles of stuff. I'll do it in honor of you -- and to nip in the bud the giggles, grins and guffaws sure to come from my daughters if they were to one day discover the Ziploc baggie I have filled with baby teeth individually wrapped in tissues, all deftly pulled from under pillows by this grandma formerly known as the Tooth Fairy.

Today's question:

Which of the "lessons" from above are you most in need of instituting in your life?

Failure analysis

I recently received in the mail an unsolicited copy of "Raising Happiness: 10 Simple Steps For More Joyful Kids And Happier Parents" by Christine Carter, Ph.D. The accompanying form letter was addressed "Dear Blogger." Such letters tucked inside of complimentary copies of books are a subtle request for a review. Which is okay ... but this is not a review.

I will eventually review Ms. Carter's book -- or at least use it for blog fodder and mention it kindly. But I've not yet been able to focus on the book innards because I've been entranced by one of the quotes on the book jacket and can't seem to move my mind and heart forward. Which is weird. And something I can't really explain. So I'm spewing forth here in hopes of expunging whatever it is that has me so emotionally invested in a silly book jacket quote.

Thing is, it's not so silly. Here's the quote, or at least the part that caught my attention: "The learning curve for all parents is in failure analysis -- where and how we went off course -- and how we can do better the next go-round." This said by Michael Riera, Ph.D. and author of "Field Guide to the American Teenager" and "Right from Wrong."

I never knew there was a technical term for figuring out how we screwed up, at least a term used for our parenting screw-ups. But "failure analysis" it must be; I guess I just failed to read the right books that would have provided me that term earlier in the parenting process. Yet I'm having a rough time wrapping my head around that term. It's so cold, so technical, so corporate and so much feels like a term used to describe a failed rocket launching in which everyone aboard perished.

I have to admit that it scares me to look back on my parenting and analyze where I failed. Overall I'm a success -- my girls are grown, living on their own, paying their own bills, and semi-sorta-kinda succeeding in their relationships -- but I know I've failed in many, many ways. I never deluded myself into thinking otherwise. In fact, I've felt like a failure more often than a success. But isn't that how all parents feel: like they certainly could have done better? We give it our all but are pretty darn sure that somewhere, somehow we could have done just a little bit more, been at least a smidgen better.

So I don't know ... I'm hesitant to crack the cover of "Raising Happiness" because it'll likely point out all the ways I really, truly failed to raise happy girls. And it just might be in the areas in which I thought I did okay.

I guess it comes down to this: I'm not ready to perform failure analysis on my parenting skills. My little ones so recently flew the nest that I think I need to take a bit of a break before dissecting and analyzing.

Especially because, despite the second half of that quote, the part about "how we can do better the next go-round," there is no next go-round. I don't get another chance. What's done is done and I definitely will not be throwing out my first set of kids as if they were the cussed up first waffles that didn't form correctly and now I can cook up a batch that comes out better.

Or is that what grandchildren are supposed to be? The second batch?

I guess I should start reading "Raising Happiness" sooner rather than later, just in case. Because Bubby just may be my "next go-round."

And I sure don't want to dread the failure analysis with my grandchildren to the degree that I am with my kids.

*Stay tuned for an eventual review of "Raising Happiness" by Christine Carter.

Today's question:

Forget the "failure analysis," what's one really good/successful thing you've done in your life?

My answer: I've remained an optimist.

What I don't know for sure

I don't know for sure that Bubby will always live so far away.I have a confession to make: I read O - The Oprah Magazine. I don't watch her show -- although I did DVR yesterday's episode because the cast of Glee was on it -- but I do enjoy the magazine, for the most part.

Oprah's magazine is jam-packed full of articles on how to make your life prettier, happier, more fulfilling. I don't read those articles. I really just pretty much read the articles on books, especially the regular column titled "Books that made a difference to ...". Each month a celebrity of some sort lists several books that formed her (or his; she does feature men, too) core. It's one of my favorite places to get book recommendations.

Another regular feature in Oprah's magazine is the back page essay titled "What I know for sure." Oprah apparently knows lots of things for sure. She's quite the advice dispenser, and she uses this column to regularly inform her worshippers readers what she most recently figured out she knows for sure.

I'm not as wise and confident (or as rich) as Oprah. I do know that for sure. But there aren't a whole lot of other things I know for sure. So in this here daily rambling, I'm taking a different tact: I'm going to tell you a little of what I don't know for sure.

Let me first say that "What I don't know for sure" is quite different from "What I don't know." The latter is a more definitive statement; it applies to things I absolutely know for sure that I don't know. For example, I don't know how to use a pressure cooker. I know for absolute, positively sure that I don't know how to do it. I'm a grandma and I thought grandmas were supposed to know that, but I don't. I definitely don't. I don't own nor have I ever even attempted to use a pressure cooker. So that falls under the category of "What I don't know."

"What I don't know for sure" has a subtle but important difference -- it basically covers concepts and ideas that I'm not positive about, that I don't absolutely know are or will eventually be true.

Rather than try to explain, I'll just give you my list. That should make it pretty self-explanatory. (Although I don't know that for sure.)

Here goes:

1. I don't know for sure that our most recent snowstorm -- yesterday -- was the last for the season. It should be springtime, the snow should have stopped, I should be able to plant some pansies. But I don't know for sure that we won't get a massive blizzard at the end of April, as has happened in many years past.

2. I don't know for sure that I'm going to succeed as a freelance writer to the extent that I won't need a real job, another dreaded, soul-sucking office job. But not knowing that for sure keeps me on my toes, keeps me busy, keeps me trying my hardest.

3. I don't know for sure that Jim and I won't ever get another animal. Isabel (the cat) still has issues now and then with Lyla (the new dog) and prefers using the human bathroom instead of the cat bathroom/litterbox so she doesn't have to sneak to her box, crossing her paw nubbins the whole way that Lyla won't catch her en route. I'd like to say I'll never, ever, ever get another animal again -- which Jim does say every single time he finds Isabel's mess in his bathroom -- but I don't know for sure that we really won't. Especially after one of our current brood kicks the bucket.

4. I don't know for sure what I'm making for dinner. I do know for sure that I'm fed up with always having to figure out what to make for dinner.

5. I don't know for sure that I'll always be a long-distance grandma. Not knowing that for sure keeps me going. I know for absolute definite sure that I don't want my kids and grandkids all living hundreds and hundreds of miles away from me, as Bubby now does. But Brianna will eventually have kids, and she lives nearby now. Although she could move ... is considering moving the Pacific Northwest. Andie swears she won't have kids and is considering moving to a hot, desert-like climate. But ya never know -- she could have kids AND stay nearby so I could have little grandkids stay the night on a regular basis. And, of course, there's always the chance that Bubby's mom and dad will decide they should live in the mountains, especially once Bubby's little brother or sister comes along and Bubby's mommy realizes how very, very badly Grandma wants the little ones nearby. I don't know for sure that it couldn't happen. I do know for sure that I'm hoping it will.

There is lots more that I don't know for sure, but I got a tad verklempt with that last one, making it a little hard to type. And I do know for sure that I don't want these final sentences riddled with typos as I can't see through the tears, so the list ends here.

Today's question:

What is something you know for sure or something you don't know for sure?

My answer: I know for sure that today I will brush my teeth and shower and that's about the extent of what I know absolutely for sure will happen. The rest is up in the air ... which is a good thing. I'm open to surprises today.

Stupid is as stupid does

I recently received a few compliments from readers about my technical ability and Internet know-how. I was pretty surprised, as I feel rather in the dark about all things HTML related, the language that makes blogging possible. I do know a bit about the Internet and I am pretty darn good at researching this and that online. But I wouldn't say I'm savvy.

I used to think I was pretty darn savvy with the Internet. Heck, I hopped online back in the early 90s -- and had the Prodigy account to prove it! But I now keep my pride and puffery about all things online in check by remembering my biggest online faux pas ever. It involved e-mail. And a few Grandma's Briefs readers know about the horror of which I speak.

Several years ago -- during my pseudo-savvy period -- I was the manager/editor of a small editorial department at the newspaper. At the time of which I write, I was in charge of three writers and one photographer. Because our "office" was just a set of open cubicles in a sea of other open cubicles, privacy was at a minimum. So we used e-mail for many a conversation.

The e-mailed conversations were usually between myself and the three women writers; our male photographer rarely, if ever, joined our e-mailed bitching and complaining. (The IT Department, on the other hand, probably saw each and every pixel we parsed out.) Of the three women with whom I corresponded, one, whom I'll call T, was a rather young gal ... actually so young that years and years earlier, she had been in my Daisy Girl Scout troop. I was her leader, the one who taught her about honor, kindness, how to "Be Prepared" and how to make homemade fortune cookies. T was engaged to a real numbskull of a ninny posing as a man, and as the young gal was younger than my daughters, I felt rather maternal toward her -- and more than a little irritated that her parents hadn't stepped in to put the kibbutz on the relationship with the ninny.

Well, T didn't last long working at the newspaper, but once she left, she still e-mailed us all often and was occasionally privy to the daily e-mail exchange among office mates. One day T sent an e-mail to us three older and wiser former coworkers talking about plans she and her now husband had. I can't remember the details, just that it was a rather naive plan, yet T thought it proved her maturity. I was appalled at her stupidity, her misguidededness, and I immediately e-mailed a reply to the other two older/wiser women in the group to air my bewilderment at T's plan and her penchant for the dumb ass she called her husband.

Only, I didn't hit "Reply" to just the two older/wiser women; I hit "Reply All." Which meant T got my the message ... quickly. She got the message that I wasn't the nice Daisy leader she once called Miss Lisa. Instead, I was a mean and bitter old woman who said mean and bitter things to someone to whom I once served as a mentor, someone who was just young and naive and trying to make her way in the world.

I was horrified that someone as e-mail and Internet savvy as myself could commit such a basic error of online correspondence (and judgement!). What a dunce was I.

I immediately (after freaking out to my coworkers) e-mailed T, privately, to apologize for the things I said. She graciously accepted my apology ... and never e-mailed me again. Which I deserved.

The young gal whom I once taught about manners then later interview techniques taught me even greater lessons. Not only did she teach me to always, always, ALWAYS check to see which reply option I've chosen when sending an e-mail, she also taught me that I should never, ever, EVER be snippy, snotty and snarky.

Especially not in writing.*

That, my dear readers, is why I will never consider myelf savvy -- online or otherwise.

*I'm embarrassed to admit that, unfortunately, I occasionally need refresher courses in those lessons. But I'm working on it.

Today's question:

With whom did you most memorably stick your foot in your mouth ... or send an e-mail that should not have been sent?

"Balk, balk," says the chicken grandma

I admit it: I'm a big ol' chicken. I'm not afraid of bugs or scary movies -- most of the time -- but I quake in my briefs at the prospect of being confronted with new situations, new places, new faces. I'm especially afraid of new situations and new places that include new faces to which I'm supposed to speak and seem intelligent ... or at least not come off like the timid, blithering numbskull I worry about being at such times.

To put it more succinctly, I'm afraid of social situations. I'm afraid of them (and often avoid them) because I don't see myself as someone good at small talk and definitely not as a confident and courageous speaker.

Surprisingly, I've recently learned that some folks -- folks I've known for years -- consider me anything but timid, and more like a capable and confident conversationalist.

Jim and I were invited to a friend's house for dinner Saturday night, a friend who used to be my boss, a friend who has seen me at my worst as I struggled through the teen years with my daughters, and at my best as I wrote some pretty darn good articles for the publications for which he served as editor. I thought the guy knew me fairly well.

But as we slurped our French Onion Soup (a culinary delight made by his wife), the conversation somehow turned to my fear of speaking to strangers -- a certain obstacle for a writer expected to conduct interviews on a regular basis. My friend/former editor stopped mid-slurp, surprised by my admission, and said, "I've never considered you timid. I'm surprised to hear you say that."

Wow! I was more than surprised that he thought I was anything but timid.

He's not alone, apparently. One of my four sisters, the one with whom I've spent the least amount of time throughout our childhood and adulthood but recently partnered with in a writing venture, has expressed again and again in the last six months that she thinks -- despite her previous perception of me as the "quiet one" --  that I'm actually the "mean one" of the sisters, the tough one that takes no bull, the "beeyotch" as she lovingly called me while expressing her confidence that I'd succeed in small claims court because of my beeyotchiness and way with words.

Wow again! Wow! Wow!

Really, guys, I truly am a chicken.

But I'm apparently a chicken who has mastered the cover up, the faking it til making it, the ability to feel the fear and do it anyway with the guarantee that -- as I often told my daughters who were scared of upcoming social situations or confrontations -- no one can see the fear rattling around inside your heart and head and thus have no idea how darn scared and lacking in confidence you may be.

The revelation elicited by the admissions from my friend and my sister has me wondering how Bubby will see me, how he'll view his grandma. As part of my inner circle, will he, like Jim and the girls, see the real grandma, the chicken grandma who's scared of strangers, of her inability to speak eloquently, of her paralyzing paranoia that something bad is bound to happen the moment she steps outside the confines of her home if she's required to open her mouth and speak while out in the real world?

Or will Bubby see me as a kooky and courageous grandma who's willing to scramble around the bouncy house regardless of who may see? Or bang on the piano with him regardless of who may hear? Or read him stories loud and proud with nary a concern about anyone else hearing her rumbling and grumbling and roaring like a monster if that's what the story demands?

I hope that's the grandma Bubby sees. I hope that's the grandma he loves, the grandma who makes him grin ear to ear by saying "screw it" to speaking eloquently (out of his earshot, of course) and simply settles comfortably into just being herself.

Not only do I hope that's the grandma Bubby sees, I hope that's the grandma I truly will be.

I just need to let go of the timid little wrinkled-and-too-old-to-be-so-darn-self-conscious me I see in the mirror, embrace that beeyotchiness others see, and be the grandma I'm meant to be.

So here goes.

Watch out, world!

Today's question:

What are you afraid of?

My answer: In addition to the above, I'm also afraid of revealing too much about myself ... which I think I just did!

Sink, swim or hold on!

Back in the '80s, before the real estate market crash that marked the end of that decade, I worked for a mortgage company. Business was good, and we were rewarded well by the company's owner.

One of the bigger rewards we once received was a day off work ... and on the owner's boat. On a day we should be processing loans, the entire office (it was a small office) would get to don bathing suits and hang out at the reservoir, on a boat, sipping beer in the sunshine.

I didn't want to go. I really did not want to go.

I didn't want to go because despite having been born in Minnesota, the land of 10,000 lakes, I didn't know how to swim. Which would have been okay if it were to be just a slow row around the reservoir, but one of the planned events was a contest of who could survive the longest on the inflatable "bullet" attached to the boat by a rope and pulled around the reservoir at top speeds. An activity in which my participation meant certain drowning. Assurances from the only coworker who knew of my fear telling me again and again "You'll have on a life jacket!" were of no comfort. I still didn't want to go.

But I did, of course. It was a "reward" and I was expected to accept it.

When it came time for the bullet contest, my coworkers took turns hopping on the bullet, whooping and hollering about what fun, what fun! As they straddled the bullet, they gave our boss -- the man behind the wheel and the gas pedal -- the thumbs up and off they went, skidding across the water at top speeds. Another thumbs up meant "faster, faster." Each would go through the same routine, seeing who could go the fastest, who could go the longest. Each would fly off the bullet and into the water when the speed became too much for them to bear.

Then it was my turn. I could barely breathe. Only the coworker with whom I'd shared my fear knew the terror I faced as she helped me onto the deathmobile. I straddled the inflatable, grabbed onto the handles on each side, then gave a weak thumbs up. The boat slowly moved away from the bullet until the rope was taut. I gave another thumbs up, then quickly grabbed the handle again. As the boat gained speed, I began scooting across the water. Another thumbs up then quick hand grab and I went faster. I did it again ... and again ... and again, each time quickly flashing my thumb then returning to the handle. Each time going faster and faster.

As I flew and bounced and soared across the water, I kept my hands gripped around the handles and my eyes fixed on my coworkers as they laughed and smacked each other on the back and gave me a thumbs up in return. Faster and faster I went, holding on tighter and tighter, praying harder and harder that the insane fun would end soon because I was not having any fun.

Finally the boat slowed and they began reeling me in. "What's the deal?" I wondered. Maybe my coworker had told them of my fear and they decided enough was enough.

As the bullet reached the boat, everyone cheered and shouted congratulations to me. I was the winner! I had gone the fastest, the longest ... and never fell off the bullet! Yay, Lisa! They slapped me on the back, helped me off the bullet, handed me a beer. Woo-hoo for me!

My coworkers couldn't believe my cojones, my nerves of steel, my ability to hold on. What they didn't know was that I held on because there was absolutely no way in hell I was going to fall in that water. I didn't know how to swim, I didn't trust the life jacket to save me. And I surely was not willing to die during a workday spent at the reservoir drinking beer and riding bullets when I had three babies at home who needed me for many, many more years to come.

I held on for my life -- and looked like a success to everyone else -- because there was no other option.

Which is exactly what I've been doing all my adult years: I hold on with a steel-plated grip because I have no other option.

In every facet of my life, I've survived, made it through, didn't drown. But it's definitely not because of any special ability, powers or knowledge. In fact, it's precisely because I don't have any special ability, powers or knowledge that I'm surviving from one day to the next. I cling so tightly because there's nothing else I can do. I don't have a Plan B. I don't have a safety net to protect me from failure -- financial, physical or otherwise. And despite taking swimming lessons at the age of 40, I still don't really know how to swim.

But I do have one helluva grip.

And I continue to hold on.

Today's question:

Time to brag: What's one thing you do really well?

My answer: I make excellent chocolate chip cookies!