The ringing in my ears

I have an iPhone. It's not the latest and greatest version with all the bells and whistles and FaceTime application, but I love it just the same. A few of the iPhone features make me nuts, of course, such as the auto correct (which it apparently does others, too, sometimes in hilarious fashion). For the most part, though, I'm quite pleased with the snazzy smartphone and consider myself privileged to have it.

One of the best things about my iPhone, I think, is that I can automatically tell who's calling me. Not because I have Caller ID—which I do—but because of how each person sounds when they're trying to reach me, thanks to the ability to set ringtones and text tones for callers. I don't even have to pick up my phone to check Caller ID to screen my calls.

Which is music to my ears. Because I pretty much hate talking on the telephone. So only if it's someone in my immediate family do I usually answer right away. Unless I'm in the bathroom. But at least then I know who it is I need to call back as soon as I'm out of the shower...or whatever...without even having to look.

We are a family of texters, so the same goes for when I'm musically notified that one of them is calling without calling at all.

The really great thing about having the ability to screen calls with the iPhone is that I've attached a sound to each of my family members that audibly resembles who they are. At least to me. Sounds that make me smile—not just because one or the other wants to talk or text with me, but because the sound I've given them is so, well, them.

To show you—or, more accurately, sound to you—what I hear that gets me grinning, I'd like to introduce you to my family...by ringtone.

BRIANNA: I talk to Brianna probably more often than I talk to my other two daughters put together. Brianna likes to talk. And for the most part, I like to hear her talk. But she does indeed talk a lot, and we all like to tease her a bit about it. So I was quite pleased with myself when I found that my iPhone had a ringtone perfectly befitting my oldest daughter. When I first assigned it to her, I giggled every single time she'd call. Now I simply smile, for this is what I hear when Brianna calls. When she texts, my oldest daughter sounds like this, just because I imagine her texting as quickly as she can—and expecting me to respond as quickly as I can.

ANDREA: My youngest daughter calls me far less often than Brianna. Actually, she calls far less than Megan and Jim, too. But that's okay. She calls me just as often as she needs to and just as often as I need her to. Same with texting. But when she does either, she always makes me smile. First with the ringtone assigned to her. Or the text tone that she urged me to use—which is kind of like this one but not exactly (only because I couldn't find the exact MP3 to use for this post). The actual one is the iPhone minuet tone Andie suggested I use and imagine her dancing around each time I hear it. Which I do. Which along with some of the off-the-wall things she writes, is another of the reasons I smile when Andrea texts.

MEGAN: As the mother of my grandchildren, nearly every time my middle daughter calls or texts, there's some mention of my grandsons. Sometimes she even graciously treats me to photos and videos via text. So the ringtone and text tone for Megan require a smidgen of whimsy to match the fun (usually) found at the other end of the line when she rings in. So each time there's news of my grandsons—or my daughter herself—heading my way via a voice call, this is what I hear. The sound of a photo or video magically traveling from the desert to land in my hands in the mountains typically sounds like this.

JIM: When Jim calls to let me know he's left work and on his way home or that he's forgotten what it is I said I wanted from Taco Bell, this is what I hear. That's just the bluesy kinda guy my husband is. Of course, he'll text occasionally, too. Being the one in the family who is newest to texting and wee bit less adept at it than the rest of us, though, he doesn't know it, but he sounds just like this when he texts me. That's my Jimmy.

Bubby and Mac are clearly far too young for phones of their own. When the time comes, though, I'll likely create a special ringtone for each, something original to match the truly original personalities of each of my goofy grandsons.

That's how it is with my family. How my immediate family sounds to me.

My extended family? Well—and, Mom, don't be offended by this!—I've assigned the same ringtone to all of them, from my parents to each and every one of my siblings. When they call—which isn't often—there's typically some anxiety-inducing news they plan to share. So I warn myself in advance with a spooky little riff that sounds like this. Did you feel that as you listened? That is indeed the feeling accompanying most calls from my siblings. Best to be prepared before saying, "Hello."

My siblings and parents shouldn't be offended, though, for at least they get a special ringtone. Strangers? All they get is this generic old telephone ring. Yet even that sounds pretty darn cool coming over my iPhone—though I must admit, I ignore that specific ring nearly every time I hear it. Like I said, I hate talking on the phone; talking on the phone to strangers is something I pretty much refuse to do.

That's the beauty of screening my phone calls—made simpler by the ringing in my ears.

Today's question:

What are your favorite ringtones to assign to family, friends, and foes?

5 places I'd rather not be

I shy away from frequenting sites where the blogger complains day in and day out about his or her lot in life. Yeah, life kinda sucks at times, but <cussing> and moaning about it doesn't make things any more enjoyable. For anyone.

Because I feel that way about reading such blogs, I do my best to not be a big ol' complainer here on Grandma's Briefs.

Except today.

Accuse me of being a crab, of having a double standard, but today I must <cuss> and I must moan. Because I've had enough. I simply cannot take it any longer. At least not quietly.

I'm talking about the heat.

I seriously cannot take the dreadful heat of this summer not one second longer. I. Have. Had. Enough. Truly enough. More than enough. I've had it up to here with the heat and have been racking my brain to come up with somewhere to run, somewhere to go to escape the crazy high temps that are making me crabby.

Being the Negative Nancy I am, though—because of the <cussing> heat!—I can't come up with any place cool to go. I can only come up with worse places, places I'd rather not be.

From the Debbie Downer depths where I currently dwell, here are those places:

Five places I'd rather not be

1. I'd rather not be, believe it or not, visiting my grandsons. It's even hotter in their hometown than it is mine. The photo Megan texted me yesterday of the guage on her car dashboard proves it: 

2. I'd rather not be anywhere east of Colorado. Crossing the border into Kansas and beyond means there's humidity—for which even the presence of ever-so-lovely, ever-so-coveted lightning bugs isn't adequate consolation.

3. I'd rather not be working in an office with air conditioning. What? Who wouldn't want to be paid and cooled all at the same time? Meh... Getting a regular paycheck is overrated, I say—especially if you have to wear panty hose and closed-toe shoes while earning it.

4. I'd rather not be in Afghanistan. Or Syria. Or anywhere in the Middle East.

5. I'd rather not be on the west side either. The west side of my own city, that is, in the part of town where many folks who once did have air-conditioning now don't even have a home, thanks to the Waldo Canyon fire.

I'll stop there. No need to continue. I feel better now. I'm definitely not any cooler, but I do feel better.

How could I not? For things could be worse. Far worse. And are. For too many.

Enough said.

photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

Where would you rather be...or not be...in hopes of escaping the crazy heat?

The Saturday Post: The Boomer Can Can

Even if you're not a baby boomer (born 1946-1964), I'm pretty sure you can relate to this video.

For those of you who couldn't tell who the guy was on the posters they waved around at the end, I couldn't tell either. So I checked into it, and it's George Clooney. Yeah, baby!

Happy Saturday, my boomer and non-boomer buddies!

Summer break for Grilled Grandmas

There's likely no busier time than summer, especially when it comes to spending time with the grandkids. Which is why you're not seeing right here, right now a Grilled Grandma—the weekly feature I've posted every Wednesday since introducing readers to Grilled Grandma Liz in October of 2009.

Grandmas are busy women. That became all the more crystal clear for me, a long-distance grandma who doesn't usually spend a lot of time with her grandsons, after my recent week hosting Bubby and Mac. Now I'm finding it hard to have a clear conscience about asking potential grillees to step away from their summer fun with the grandchildren to answer my questions.

So I'm not going to ask those questions anymore. At least not through the rest of the summer. It is officially summer break for the Grilled Grandmas.

That said, I do still have Grilled Grandma wit and wisdom to share. I may not do this every Wednesday in place of the Grilled Grandma feature, but at least this Wednesday—so no one suffers ill effects of going cold turkey—I'm sharing with you a small sampling of responses from the Grilled Grandmas to one of my favorite Grilled Grandma questions.

Here are those answers—with a few photos of Bubby and Mac interjected in between, simply because I took 6,726 (no joke!) during their visit and need to share those any chance I get, as well.

WHAT IS THE MOST CHALLENGING PART OF BEING A GRANDMA?

Remembering my place—I’m not their mom and need to respect my daughter in her role. —Robin

I can’t fit them all on my lap at one time. —Alice

For me it’s the feeling of competition to “keep up” with the other grandparents. It would be very easy for it to turn uncomfortably competitive. —Vicki

Knowing that when I visit them I will have to say goodbye. —Mary

I am concerned about the future—what kind of world we seem to be living in right now, with the economy and the politics of mean-spiritedness. Heck, I worry about those things TODAY, not just for the future. —Olga

The most challenging part is that four different sets of adult parents have very different ideas about child rearing. Trying to avoid stepping on toes is challenging for me. —Kimberly

The most challenging part for me is not giving in to their every command. For the “serious” things I stand strong. But for those little things that it really doesn’t matter, GG let’s them do/have it. —Jules

I was not a perfect parent. So when I see my children doing things I know are not perfect but will do no harm, I am quiet. I save my comments for safety issues and answers to their questions. I am older and I have seen too much, so I could be a huge black cloud. I really do not want to do that. It is a challenge, to say the least. —Barbara

Wanting to keep them from all the bad things yet knowing that it is an impossible task. —Janie

The most challenging part of being a grandma is remembering that your wonderful, caring child IS the parent. —Nita

Working full time and not being able to go to all of their activities. —Connie

The most challenging part for me is trying to divide my time and attention between my three young children and my grandson. I feel like I’m missing out on some of the “full grandmother” experience because I’m young and have little one of my own to care for. I don’t want my grandbaby to feel cheated out of “grandma time,” too. —Kelli

Realizing that I am not as young as I used to be...especially when I get down on the floor to play with them...and, it takes me quite a long time to get back up...as well as lots of moans and groans! —Laurie

Dealing with their parents! I don’t mean that in a bad way—it’s just that they all have their own parenting methods, and I have to remember about what that is for each family! —Angel

Balancing everything. I am also caring for elderly parents and there can be a lot of appointments, health needs, etc. at both ends of the age spectrum. —Kaye

The most challenging thing for me, is on holidays, or special occasions, showing grace and consideration for the exes and the extended family. —Linda

For me it is learning how to just let go and have fun and play. I am still learning how to do that. —Marlene

I haven't met a challenging part yet in being a grandma. —Terri

• To read more responses to this question as well as a plethora of other profundities from the experts in the grandparenting field—the grandmothers—click on over to the Grilled Grandma Archives. •

Today's question:

What is the the biggest challenge you face today in being a grandparent?

The Saturday Post: Shake and fold edition

We're all adults, and we've all learned lots of complicated things in our long and illustrious lives.

But were we ever taught how to properly use a paper towel?

I know I wasn't; you probably weren't either.

Have no fear, though, for that lesson is here.

Enjoy.

Shake and fold, my friends, shake and fold.

Today's question:

Honestly, how many paper towels do you typically take? (I confess to always taking two...at least.)

Brotherly love

In my family, there's not much of a tradition of close, loving, secret-sharing relationships between the female siblings. I read in books, see in movies, even observe in some of my friends and their sisters the ideal sisterly state. In the real world, though, in my real world that's flush with far more females than males, it just hasn't been. Not for those sisters who came before me nor for those who've come after.

My mom and her two sisters clearly love one another, but I'd venture to say calling each other best friends would be pushing it. My sisters and I? Well, we did—and do—love one another, but in a group of five females, you can imagine the competitions, the cat fights. Or maybe you can't, if you're one of the fortunate ones who indeed calls your sister your best friend.

Even my own daughters—whom I have no doubt whatsoever love and cherish one other dearly—aren't now and never have been a tight-knit trio. Nor is there even an exclusive duo among the three, leaving a third wheel to roll on her own. (Which, truth be told, I accept, for having one child continually left out and heartbroken would be an even more difficult situation than the overall arms length at which they all seem to keep one another.)

It saddens me that somehow, somewhere, the sisters-as-best-friends gene seems to have skipped generation after generation after generation in my family. I envy those sisters for whom the sappy adages cross-stitched on pillows and emblazoned across coffee mugs ring true. I wanted that. I wanted that for my daughters.

When it comes to my grandsons, though, they do have that. And what a heartwarming delight it is to see. Bubby and Mac are unabashedly best buds, best friends who love and cherish, adore and idolize one another. Countless times during their visit I witnessed one reaching out to the other just to cuddle or kiss, share a toy or a moment. Sometimes I'd see one little hand pat a shoulder, an arm, a cheek as if they simply needed assurance their best buddy was still there.

Just as many times, I watched one hop on the other as though a bell audible to only them had been rung, signaling the start of a wrestling match. They'd giggle and roll and squeal in delight. Then just as quickly, the match would be over and they'd move on to another activity, together or solo, secure in knowing their brother, their best friend, was nearby if the urge to wrestle and wrangle struck once again.

 

Of course Bubby and Mac argue, compete for attention, clamor for the very same toys and don't hold back physically or vocally in challenging one another for what they feel is rightfully theirs. But once the victor is declared—by virtue of who's most determined to get their way or by virtue of Mommy or another adult breaking up the bickering—they're right back to lovin' on one another. No grudges, no resentment.

I'm not sure how it happened. I don't know whether Megan subconsciously—or consciously—did something absolutely perfectly right in creating the connection between the boys, instilled something that eluded me when raising my girls, or if it's just luck of the draw and she came up with the winning and perfectly matched pair.

Whatever the reason, whatever the cause, I'd say that Bubby and Mac are the true winners. I hope their winning streak continues. They'll always be brothers, of course. I'm crossing my fingers and saying my prayers that they'll always—and in all ways—be best friends, as well.

Today's question:

Which of your siblings did you consider your best friend as children?

Black feet, black bears, and getting back to normal

Last week was a week I will never forget. A week so surreal, a week so not my normal.

My normal is as quiet as I want it to be, with time to do what I want, what I need, with all of that time punctuated with varying degrees of missing my grandsons.

Not last week, though. Last week my grandsons were at my house, and I was their primary caretaker. The house was blissfully loud—interspersed with occasional loud moments not so blissful, too, I must admit. I had little time to do what I needed for myself, but also no time to miss my grandsons, for they were by my side while their mom and dad attended a conference nearby. Time with Bubby and Mac was the very best part of my not-normal week.

My normal is relatively mild in terms of temperatures. Not so last week. Triple-digit heat, record heat, historically high heat literally never before felt in Colorado Springs marked the temperature gauge in unprecedented fashion. Day after day after day. It’s just heat, some might say. Stay in the house and turn on the air. It's no big deal. In a house—in my house—that has no air conditioning, though, it is a big deal. It’s hot. It’s hell. A hell I didn't want to deal with myself, much less impose upon my grandsons.

And then, well, then there was the Waldo Canyon Fire. The horrific part of the week. The heartbreaking part. The surreal part.

Tuesday evening rush hour, driving with my grandsonsSurreal in that on the west side of my city, hillsides, landmarks, homes were burning. People—families—were evacuated from their homes. Smoke and ash filled the sky, reaching as far as the city’s east side, my side.

Surreal in that every local television station went to 24/7 coverage of the disaster, the devastation. While my grandsons played nearby, I tried to watch. When they slept at night, Jim and I did watch, far into the night, especially on the most horrific day, on Tuesday.

Surreal in that I continually, obsessively checked Facebook, Twitter, email for news on friends and family, their safety and their homes. That I regularly received reports and texts from Megan and Preston as they tried—yet often failed—to enjoy their mountaintop conference and festivities while homes and Megan’s hometown burned within clear and heartbreaking view.

Surreal in that our health department warned residents to stay indoors, with windows shut and air-conditioning on, so as to not breathe in the ash and the soot. Having no air conditioning, we opted for taking the boys to various indoor play areas. We did our best each day to have a good time with them while the west side of our city burned. At night we wrestled with choosing between opening windows to let in cooler air to lower the hellish temps in the boys’ upstairs rooms or keeping the windows closed to avoid the soot and ash we were warned to keep out of our homes, our respiratory systems. Especially respiratory systems with itsy bitsy lungs the likes of Baby Mac’s…or even Bubby’s.

Wednesday afternoon, heading to an indoor play placeSurreal in that access to my mom, my sister, attractions we’d planned to visit with the boys was shut down, impassable for the entire week, as fire raged and firefighters needed to protect the highway, use the highway. That shelters, like refugee camps, were set up around the city for evacuees. That the state governor, the United States president visited to view my city’s disaster and devastation firsthand, to offer support.

We watched each day and each night—as often as we could while still attending to and enjoying our grandsons—as not only local news but national broadcasts revealed burned areas that looked like war zones, yet were neighborhoods I had visited, places friends lived. We and the rest of the city anxiously watched news conferences at 8 a.m. and 4 p.m. each day for updates on the status of the fire and evacuees, the successes of the firefighters.

All this while I and every other resident not in the line of the fire worried about, prayed about, cried about those who were.

All this while my grandsons visited and the hellish hot temperatures continued.

Even after the initial shock and awe of the fire and its horrific trail and toll, strange things, things so very not normal, continued. Expected things like subconsciously searching the sky for new plumes of smoke and endlessly tossing about with others the figures related to homes burned, evacuees remaining, fire containment percentages.

Bubby's soot-covered feetUnexpected things, too. Such as realizing that going barefoot around my house—which my grandsons and I usually do—resulted in black soles thanks to the soot and the ash coating my home despite the miles between the fire and us. Black soles that required me to scrub my grandsons’ little piggies at bath time and scrub my own big piggies before bedtime to remove the grime. And the unexpected sound of packs of coyotes howling as they roamed my neighborhood, of having a black bear amble down my street. The coyotes and the bear, along with elk spotted in the center of town and countless other wild and displaced animals searched for a home that, like the 350 homes of local human residents, burned, is gone.

So strange. So sad.

This week I’m still sad about the displaced animals, the displaced people, the burned homes and trails and landmarks. Yet, this week, I feel a little closer to normal. The air and sky are clear of smoke, the ash and soot have been cleaned from my house. My grandsons have gone home, television coverage of the fires has been reduced to a crawl at the bottom of the screen. The pass to my mom has re-opened. The fire moves ever closer to containment.

I do still scan the sky for new smoke and for rain that would lower the still-hot temps and dampen the still-burning fire. And I make sure to watch the evening news and check #WaldoCanyonFire on Twitter throughout the day. I also continue to be on the lookout for lost and frightened animals in my neighborhood. Overall, though, it’s been relatively easy for me to get back to normal.

I’m fortunate, blessed, and thankful. For many others in my city, getting back to normal hasn’t been so easy. My heart, my thoughts, my prayers go out to them—to those who are still reeling, who must build new homes and new lives, who have yet to create a new normal.

Today's question:

The Waldo Canyon Fire evacuees had mere hours, sometimes less, to gather personal belongings from their homes. What would you grab first—other than people and pets—in the event of evacuation?

Love and marriage: 30 years, 30 reasons

When Jim and I got married, we were oh-so young, with nearly all odds against us.

That was 30 years ago today.

In honor of our thirtieth wedding anniversary, here are 30 reasons why I think our marriage has lasted—despite the odds, statistics, and predictions:

1. We still celebrate our first-kiss anniversary.

2. When one of us says, "Isn't that the one guy from not that one show but the other one, you know, with that woman we don't like who was in that scary movie, but he's put on a lot of weight since the movie where he was a jerk?", the other one totally gets it...and answers with the actor's name.

3-5. Brianna, Megan, Andrea.

6. We love each other's moms as much as we love our own.

7. I'm willing to go to a Randy Travis concert with him; he's willing to go see Chris Cornell with me.

8. We agree that Flight of the Conchords is funny as <cuss>.

9. And that Saturday Night Live isn't anymore.

10-11. Bubby and Mac.

12. We don't share a bathroom. Or use the bathroom at the same time when we have no choice but to share (like when vacationing).

13. We don't share bank accounts or credit cards either.

14. We do, though, share a mortgage—and the agreement that despite our mortgage doubling when we bought our current house, soon followed by both of us losing our jobs and economic <cuss> reigning ever since, we love our home and it's totally worth it.

15. We agree that if stranded on a desert island with only one album, we'd want it to be Pearl Jam's Ten.

16. We have a spare room available for when insomnia, snoring or restless legs get to be too much for the sleepy non-snorer.

17. In the heat of rage-filled moments, we don't call each other nasty names that can't be taken back. (At least not out loud.)

18. We agree that if when we win the lottery, our moms come first when doling out the dough and that gifts of even amounts will be given to all our siblings, despite a couple of them deserving nothing.

19. I cook, he cleans up after. (Okay...I usually help, just to keep him company).

20. We both clean up after entertaining—and agree that it must be done immediately upon guests leaving, not in the morning, no matter how late the entertaining may have ended or how tired we may be.

21. When one of us screws up our finances—because, despite separate accounts, we are indeed joint—neither one lays blame. (At least not out loud.)

22. We agree a house is not a home without pets. And that those pets shall never again be birds or fish or more than two dogs and two cats at one time.

23. He patiently waits until I compose myself when I get verklempt and can't talk, whether it's when discussing a terminal family member or an unexpectedly delightful package delivery.

24. A few hours into the stonewalling after a disagreement, one of us will apologize—even if we know <cuss> well we're not at fault—just so we'll be friends again.

25. That third strand in our marriage cord stayed strong and kept us together when the other two strands, at various times, frayed, gave up or broke completely.

26. We agree that it's sometimes okay to hit the sack before the news. Or to stay up late on a weeknight because we must see what happens next on a series we're streaming through Netflix.

27. We agree that the majority of Christmas gifts should be opened on Christmas morning, not Christmas Eve.

28. We have similar stranger-than-fiction-and-Jerry-Springer families and histories few others would understand...or believe.

29. We take pride in owning—and aren't willing to pass to others—the title of Longest Married Couple In Our Families (even longer than our older siblings and our parents).

30. We grew up together. Like two intertwined saplings that grow together into big, strong—though entangled—trees, if you try to separate them, one or both will surely die. Or so I've convinced him.

Happy anniversary, Jim. Here's to 30 more years and 30 more reasons!

Today's fill-in-the-blank:

The key to a successful relationship is _________.

Rock on

Jim and I had overnight guests Wednesday night. It was a short and simple hosting stint as we were merely the midway stopping point for extended relatives going from here to there. Nothing draining, as guests—even the most beloved, most welcomed—can often be. Once our guests left and the house was empty, though, I wanted nothing more than to grab my cup of coffee and sit out on the back deck in my rocking chair.

So I did. I rocked and rocked while listening to the birds chirp and the waterfall gurgle. The dogs investigated the far reaches of the yard, and the cats sat inside at the window, wishing I'd let them out to join us. The breeze blew gently, the temperature grow warmer, my coffee grew colder. Outside, plants needed watering, flowers needed deadheading. Inside, email needed to be answered, a post needed to be written.

But all I wanted to was rock. And rock...and rock...and rock.

As I sat there rocking, I realized rocking is something I never tire of. It's one of the very few things I never tire of, may possibly be the only thing I never tire of. I love spending time with my husband, my family, my friends, and, without a doubt, my grandkids. Extended time with even those I love the very most, though, can be draining, tiring. I'm an introvert at heart, I get my energy from time alone.

Yet even those things I do alone, my solitary pastimes I enjoy pursuing solo, aren't activities I can do without end. I tire of baking, being on the computer, of reading, of writing, of listening to music, of trying to play music. I can only walk for so long, take photos for so long, sit and do nothing for so long, without tiring of whatever it is I am—or am not—doing.

Except rocking.

I have rocking chairs of various sorts inside my house, outside my house. There's a wooden rocker in the upper-level porch and one in the spare bedroom. A glider/rocker sits in the living room, another in the family room. I have a wooden rocker on the deck, a rocker-like swing in the back yard. All awaiting me, all ready to be set into motion.

The back and forth...back and forth...back and forth of those rockers fit whatever my mood, beat in time with whatever my heart rate. Rocking calms me when I'm riled, soothes me when I'm sad, helps me burn off energy when I'm tense, excited, nervous, angry, exhultant, worried.

I find peace in rocking.

I never grow tired of rocking.

I rock on.

photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What do you never tire of?

The Saturday Post: 'I will be a hummingbird' edition

Thank you to @allthingsfadra for sharing this earlier in the week.

It was exactly the right thing at exactly the right time.

Happy Saturday, my friends.