Two of 'em

My aunt has an audio tape of me when I was a toddler. It captures me spouting my favorite phrase: I want "two of 'em."

Not much has changed in 40+ years. When I shop, if I'm lucky enough to find something that fits and is reasonable in price, I buy two of 'em. Before they outlawed Happy Hour, I loved it because you got two of 'em.

When the husband discussed helping out the oldies, it made some sense. Now I've got two of 'em and they're headed back home.

It's Always the Man in Their Life

I'm sad and enraged that Jessie Davis, the 9-month pregnant woman from Canton, OH was killed. I'm sad her two-year old son is now motherless. I'm nauseated that her child had to be interviewed by the police. Their biggest clue was his statement, "Mommy's in the rug."

The police have arrested the married --cop with a record --boyfriend. Isn't is 99.9 percent of the time that these kinds of cases wind up to be the boyfriend/ex-boyfriend/husband/ex-husband? Think Lacy Peterson. Think Nicole Brown Simpson. I made the statistic up but it seems true to me.

I have no personal experience with domestic violence. I am one of those people who says, "I would never put up with that." Yet, I've witnessed it and I've seen how the cycle goes. The mind games are worse than the physical pain.

The husband and I sometimes threaten to beat each other up. That's a joke that isn't quite as funny while you're watching the coverage of a story like this.

The husband has to add levity. "Oh no, another wife missing. You'd better be nice to me." Then, I whack him.

Being Strong

Some people are strong physically. Some are strong mentally. (Some are psycho, but that will be a different post.)

When the husband and I sit around the piano, occasionally we turn to old favorites. One of them is, "I'm Going to Be Strong" by Gene Pitney. I'm not good at harmonizing but if he goes first, I can stumble through it. This is a heart-stabbing song about lost love. The core message is, Tough it out!

I'm small in stature but I think I'm pretty strong. I haul things and I occasionally move furniture. Mentally, I have enough brain cells clicking that I can keep up with most conversations and form a semi-intelligent discussion point.

I am not emotionally strong. I am raw. Crying is my normal reaction: happy, sad, scared or humored. I would blame this on menopause or the oldies but I've been this way my entire life.

Sometimes I freak people out, especially the oldies. "Is something wrong?" I feel stupid explaining that there was a cute puppy on a commercial and it made me cry.

If you ever need a shoulder to cry on, I'm your girl. I'm also pretty good at moving furniture around.

Mixed Races

Do you know your heritage? I'm a mixed bag. My maiden name is Riley, which I suspect was O'Riley at some point in our history. I should have milky white skin, freckles and some red in my hair. On the other hand, my paternal grandfather was a dead ringer for Uncle Remus from "Song of the South." (A movie with serious racial overtones so Disney put it in the vault.) The maternal side of my family has a lot of southern roots. No one likes to talk about it, especially the Thomas Jefferson family, but there was a lot of intermixing going on.

I have no problem with mixed races. I have a problem with snobby people who think their family came over on the Mayflower and their bloodline is untouched. I'm not buying it.

I have a benign, but annoying, spot that needs to be removed. I was referred to a specialist in laser procedures. Because the laser takes all of the layers off, only some people (think Caucasian) are candidates. My skin is fairly olive and I can get a tan in the drug store parking lot. The doctor asked me about my lineage.

Turns out I'm not a candidate for this procedure.

The Country Club

We belong to a private club. It's nice but it's not that swanky. We belong for two reasons: we truly like most of the people and Big Daddy can play golf and cards anytime he wants. There used to be tax deductions available with our membership but Congess said, "No way-no more."

I don't play golf anymore. The husband plays enough for both of us. Now one of my goddaughters has taken up golf and wants me to play with her. I'll dust off my clubs.

The other night, we participated in an Alzheimer's benefit at the Club. In our group, we collectively gave well over $6000. That was the early count; I suspect the final number will be much higher.

The oldies love the club. We've started a little ritual on Sunday night. We partake in the fried chicken buffet and the father-in-law can have as many desserts as he wants. (I, of course, cannot witness this.)

Like all private clubs, there are some snooty people. My friend (and almost 5-year old) muse dumped a bucket of water on one of the snobby ladies the other day at the pool. In reward, his grandfather put a bunch of money in his college fund.

Turn it Up!

My current favorite country music song is "Ladies Love Country Boys" by Trace Adkins. My favorite line is:

"She's riding in the middle of the pick-up truck, singing Lynard Skynard,
yelling Turn it Up."

I'm very quirky about my stuff. Stay out of my office. Stay out of my closet. Stay out of my car. The husband and I ran an errand together the other night. This happens about once every 5 years. I offered for him to drive my car. (Stupid!) He started adjusting the seat, mirrors, etc. I got edgy. When he started to mess with the radio, I calmly informed him that he was about to lose a few fingers. He is not a fan of country music but I'm working on it.

To get me back, he rolled down all of the windows and drove through town screaming, "I'm driving the beemer and I'm listening to country music. Turn it up!"

Crossword words

As you know, the husband and I compete at the crossword puzzle almost every day. A great majority of my friends also do the puzzles in our daily paper. When we travel together the rule is that the first one to rise must scavenger for enough newspapers so that everyone who wishes to do the puzzles is indulged.

I love words. I was taught that if I didn't understand a word or a phrase, I need to look it up. Old habits die hard.

Sometimes they stretch the definitions in the crosswords. After my initial annoyance, I find it hysterical. My friends and I say to each other, "We must now use this word at least three times today." My favorite is "afeared," which I suppose is a variation of afraid. I have stricken "afraid" from my vocabulary. Now I say, "I won't do that -- I'm afeared."

A few years ago many of us were sitting outside at the lake. Crossword puzzles in front of us, the white-out pen in easy reach and reading glasses propped on our noses. The clue was: more quickly. The answer was: rapider. Like a 6th grade spelling bee, someone challenged me to use it in a sentence.

I said, "Look , the dog has rapider self around that tree."

I love you

It's a wonderful feeling and a wonderful phrase. I say it multiple times a day. One of the benefits of aging is realizing the precious gift of love.

If you're blessed, parental love is safe and comforting. If you're blessed, you still love your spouse or significant other. Friends are beloved but I'm shocked that so few people feel comfortable using the phrase. Of course, 99 percent of the population claims to love their children yet I continue to meet people who were never told this in their childhood. Other than the times my mother hangs up on me, we always say, "I love you." I say it freely and often.

Hate is the antithesis of love. Other than the husband, when I'm feeling the hate, I don't tell anyone. What's the point? It will pass.

I used to tuck the baby in at night. (Remember, the baby is 18-years old and headed off to college.) After prayers, I turned off the light and said, "I love you." His teenage sister wouldn't allow me to tuck her in but the last words she heard from me before falling asleep were the same.

There are people who go through their entire lives without hearing this phrase. It won't be anyone in my life.

Awards

It's nice to be honored with an award. I've been there myself a time or two. I'm surrounded by friends and family who are regularly bestowed with kudos, certificates, plaques and trophies. All well deserved. I wonder where they put them all.

I fantasize about winning a Pulitzer. My speech is ready.

Award shows are one of my many addictions. The Academy Awards, The Grammy's, People's Choice and the Emmy's -- just to name a few. I like the clothes, the skits, the speeches and the musical acts. I like to curl up in my bathrobe with phone in hand. I know one of my girlfriends will call and say, "What is she wearing? Who did that to her hair? Doesn't she have a stylist?" We're brutal and that's half the fun.

When my girlfriend's daughter was in preschool, she was given the award of "Best Eater." Her mother explained to her that this was probably not the award she wants to aspire to later in life.

Alzheimer's Disease and Dementia

If you cannot see the occasional humor in illness, please do not read this. Check in tomorrow. You have been warned.

Have you ever thought about which is the worst case scenario of losing your body versus losing your mind? I've witnessed both and I still haven't decided. (I'm pretty sure I don't get to choose.)

One of my friends has a mother in the Alzheimer's unit at a local home. She often says, "Thanks for visiting me -- whoever you are." God bless her; she chuckles all the way to the car.

Her mother is a retired nurse. When some bizarre aide started shaving her private parts, she announced, "They're prepping me for surgery." She has another friend on the Alzheimer's wing who has two ceramic dogs looking out the window. She puts food out for them every day. She's very concerned that the dogs aren't eating.

Other friends have parents with the sharpest minds and crumbling bodies. This is equally cruel.

I'm no angel but I do give money and time to various charities. I give most to those associated with elder care issues.

Send it Back

We lost a dear friend in a car accident a couple of years ago. I miss him and I know the husband misses him more.

He was persnickety. He was well dressed and always pressed. He had great shoes -- I think you can tell a lot about a man by his choice in shoes. In all of our years of friendship, I don't think he ever received a restaurant or country club meal that was prepared to his liking. It was occasionally uncomfortable; he didn't care. Too raw or overcooked? Send it back. Not the way it was described? Send it back. Not hot enough? Send it back. In my world, I just choke it down. The food was never as bad as his reaction. I used to hit him and threaten to crawl under the table.

Tomorrow is my birthday. He used to send me flowers or show up with a card. (My friends are a little over the top.)

I love hearing the story about the day I was born. As they were wheeling my mother from the delivery room, they held me up for her to see. Her first response was, "Oh no, she has my legs." Lucky for me she was all drugged up. I'll bet she wanted to say, "Send it back."

Announcements and Invitations

The baby recently graduated from high school. His other mother and I each sent announcements to our family and friends. (It sounds like we're gay but we just share a child.)

I'm perplexed at the number of people who don't understand an announcement. I learned from my mother and Emily Post that invitations are inviting you to something and announcements are announcing a life change. I receive baby announcements -- I was not invited to the birth.

When the husband and I got married umpteen years ago, we sent announcements. Most of our friends and family had witnessed previous ceremonies. No gift needed -- just an fyi that something has changed.

I'm getting less formal but I still refer to my friend, Emily Post. Of course, I always check with my mother.

My Brog

Have a little sympathy for my father. He lives with Lady Webster. When he mispronounces a word, she hounds him. Lately, it's "blog." He says "brog." It's making her crazy. She tails him around the house. "Say log. Now put a "B" in front of it."

Truthfully, I'm just honored that they know what a blog/brog is and they bother to read them. I don't care how it's pronounced.

Al Gore thinks he invented the Internet. Well, my father invented the phrase "brog."

The Dog Ate It (Again)

I had this envelope with $500 cash lying on the counter -- a deposit I needed to make for the oldies. I got busy. Then, I noticed that the puppy was nowhere to be found.

Have you ever tried to pick up teensy pieces of currency? Have you ever jammed your hand down the dog's throat because you need that serial number? If not, you live a much more stable life than mine.

I spent the afternoon taping money back to its (somewhat) original form. It's kind of like a new version of a jigsaw puzzle. I called the bank. My banker laughed and said, "Bring it in."

To Feel Like a Man

The oldies called from the road last night. Even when they're out of town, I have duties. He forgot his money so I need to deposit the funds.

I'm trying to figure this out. My brain just won't go there. He never leaves home without her, the husband or me. He's legally blind; he couldn't read a bill or count cash if he had to. Why does he have money? The only explanation I can fathom is that she's still trying to make him feel like a man, whatever that means.

After 60-plus years of marriage, old habits die hard. She has handled the finances for years. She makes the decisions, although she always consults with him. She's sly. After consulting, she does it her way. Somehow, she always makes him feel like it was his idea. This looks exhausting to me.

He is a man. He's a man who has no business with a stash of cash.

Cousins

My cousins are my siblings. I'm an only child. I need them. I bulldog my way into their lives.

We've never lived in the same state yet I know the highs and lows of their lives. Heaven knows that they know way too much about me.

When I was 12-years old, my parents put me on a plane to visit his sister and family. (My first plane trip. My mom commented to my dad, "I hope she makes it.") I saw the ocean for the first time. I bought white platform shoes -- it was the 70s! A new family emerged. We're all grown now and we still lean on each other. They provide business advice and legal counsel. I provide marketing tips and occasional editing.

We share photos and marvel that this shared and weird history has shaped the people we have become. I may not talk to them often enough but there is not a doubt in my mind that I could pick up the phone and say, "Help!" They would come through. I would turn myself inside out to help any of them.

I have a couple of cousins on the other side of my family. I don't know them at all.

On The Road Again

If you live anywhere between Indiana and Texas, look out. The oldies are on the road.

I would've placed a bet that she couldn't guilt one of the grandchildren into accompanying them. Once again, I underestimated her. Our nephew flew in last night and he'll share in the driving and navigation. You know how you can read someone's face? His had dread all over it. Don't get me wrong, he adores his grandparents but trapped for two weeks with them? Yuck. As we were loading the car this morning, he told me that he felt sick. I said, "Duh!"

I have a little experience being trapped with the oldies. I wish I had a lot of money because this kid deserves a treat. Even our son said, "I can't believe he agreed to do this. Better him than me."

They packed enough stuff to survive for a year. Yet, she almost left without her cell phone. I threatened to whack her if she doesn't keep it with her and charged. She laughed and called me a Big Fat Liar.

The Birthday Week

In celebration of Father's Day, we took the oldies out for dinner. Actually, we take them out quite a bit but this time we had cards and a toast to the men. I told the husband to enjoy his Father's Day time because at the stroke of midnight, the attention turns to me. It's my birthday week.

Nothing special happens during birthday week. I just enjoy saying it. "Be nice to me, it's my birthday week." "I don't want to do that and I don't have to, it's my birthday week."

They say you're as old as you feel. If that's true, I'll be turning 150-years old this week. Look for me on the Smucker's jar when Willard Scott celebrates oldies.

Sheri's World

Occasionally, I get opinionated. (Isn't that why we were given a brain?)

Sometimes I do this in social situations. The husband tempers it by commenting, "We're in Sheri's World."

Sheri's World is a wonderful place. There are some gray areas , but not a lot. People are nice in Sheri's World. No one yells. Everyone owns a dog. We sing a lot. We don't have birds. Manners are mandatory. Everyone has a friend.

We used to have this weekly round table discussion with some friends. It was usually politics or something in the news. I miss it. In Sheri's World, we like opinions. I learn a lot.

Sheri's World is a lot like Mayberry in the Andy Griffith Show. Instead of Mayberry, I'll change the name of Sheri's World to Sherberry.

A Father's Day Salute

Today is Father's Day. Another Hallmark holiday, but I'll play along. If your heart's in the right place, you don't need someone to remind you to honor your father. You do it every day.

I miss Wild Bill. I miss Pa.

I salute the Unabomber and Big Daddy. They are great fathers. I salute all of my friends who have suffered the baseball games, the PTA, the missed curfews and the backtalk. I know your children and they are wonderful.

The baby is a great son and a great brother. I suspect he'll make an amazing father. I'm simultaneously crossing my fingers, knocking on wood and saying a prayer that it won't be anytime soon.

I salute all of you who have lost a father. Let the memories give you some grins.

Most of all, I salute my dad.

A Love of Books

I'm a nerd. I love research and I love books. I loved school.

My aunt used to take me to the library. I always tried to check out more books than allowed. Then she would take me to Dunkin' Donuts for a treat.

The bookstore is still my favorite escape from the oldies. My dad gives me a gift certificate for my birthday and Christmas. I've never run out of books to buy. Fiction, non-fiction, reference, business, spiritual -- I've yet to find a category that isn't interesting to me.

I tried to join a book club but it didn't work for me. In the allotted time, I'd read the assigned book and three or four more. Maybe I'll start my own book club. You've got 48 hours -- Go!

In college, I could spend hours in the stacks. I love the smell of old books. I love the feel of the pages. I love the crack of the spine. I love learning and the age old pursuit of knowledge.

I track my favorite authors and note the release date of their next book. I trade books with friends.

I do most of my research online these days. When the workday is done and the computer is idle, I crawl into my favorite chair and crack open a book.

Not Yours

We hired a dog trainer to work with the puppy. (It didn't work.) One of the exercises was to plant things around the house -- a slipper, a cap, etc. -- and when she picked them up, we were to sternly say, "Not Yours!"

The other night, the husband started to get something out of my car. I quickly admonished him. Not Yours! I accidentally picked up his checkbook one day. He bellowed, "Not Yours!" I want to scream "Not Yours" whenever the oldies have overtaken my kitchen but that would probably be rude.

The husband and I have mastered this command with each other. The puppy still picks up slippers, caps and anything within her reach.

Corrections and Clarifications

I enjoy being corrected. No one likes hearing that they've made a mistake but I get over it quickly. I'm used to it. I've had it thumped into me from a very young age. My mother has a great command of the English language -- one of her friends used to call her "Lady Webster" -- and she knows all of the grammar and punctuation rules.

Think of this as page 2 of the newspaper. That's where they fess up to mistakes but they put it in teeny type.

For the record:
In the posting, "A Motherless Boy," I meant to use the word paternal instead of fraternal. I'm pretty sure my grandmother did not belong to a community of brothers.

In the posting, "Endearments," there's a comment about the stupid pillow with the Honey expression. Yes, my parents did buy it for the oldies.

I'm sure there are other areas with errors. I'll check with Lady Webster and try to get it right in the future.

A New York State of Mind

I love my home. I love the seclusion and the wooded peace of our patio.

Every once in a while, I start going a little stir crazy. I need Manhattan. I need the madness, the cultures, the food and the subway. I need to see a show on Broadway. I need Little Italy, Soho, Chinatown and Wall Street. I need to go stand where the Twin Towers used to loom. I need to nod to the Statue of Liberty.

The husband has always had business connections in NYC. We've had many fun trips. I have a friend from college who lives there now. I invite myself. If there's an appropriate business conference, I look at the location first. If it's NY, I'm in.

I love the pace. I love the fact that you can get anything you want at any hour of the day or night. I love Central Park. I love looking for celebrities.

Many years ago, we took my parents to Manhattan as a Christmas gift. A couple of times, my dad almost lost a leg when he didn't get into a cab quickly enough. Even with those situations, they both had a great time.

We celebrated a girlfriend's significant birthday with a trip to NY a few years ago. I'm not sure any of us slept.

Although I was just there in April, I'm getting antsy. Start spreading the news... I'm looking up ticket prices.

Big Fat (Fill in the Blank)

The husband and I discovered long ago that all insults are more impactful with the words, "Big fat" in front on them. Another example of our demented humor.

When we do the crossword and I win, he calls me, "Big fat cheater."

When we are in bed, he elbows and calls me, ""Big fat snorer."

If a story gets twisted, we both call each other, "Big fat stupid."

I told the mother-in-law a story the other day. She called me, "Big fat liar." Apparently, she's eavesdropping again.

My heart warms a bit when the husband calls me "Big Fat (whatever)" I feel the love.

A Motherless Boy

Andrew Speaker is the man who made the news because he has a drug-resistant strain of tuberculosis (TB.) Ignoring doctor's orders, he jetted out and in of the U.S., possibly exposing hundreds of people to his illness. He's in the doghouse with the federal government and the CDC.

I know a little bit about TB. My fraternal grandmother died from it, after spending years in a sanitarium. I'm not sure that my father has any true memories of his mother, other than visiting her in "the place." He was shuffled around. His two older sisters doted on him.

He eventually had a stepmother. You remember the saying we were all taught as children -- If you can't say something nice, say nothing at all. I have nothing to say.

I'm sure his father loved his children, in his own way. Unfortunately, he was cold and devoid of any true emotion. He let his wife call the shots. Even in his later years, he couldn't show affection.

I'm trying to figure out how this motherless boy grew into a such a compassionate parent and considerate human being.

I can't identify with losing a mother at a young age. I can't imagine having no role models. I've never gone a day in my life without someone telling me that they loved me.

Being loved should not be a secret. I rarely get off the phone or sign off an email to friends and family without telling them I love them. In person, I hug a lot. Even if I'm cranky, I tell the husband that I love him every day.

I'm pretty sure I learned this from my father.

The Neighborhood

I grew up in a magical time. I know it's normal to be nostalgic for your childhood, but I'm telling the truth.

Our neighborhood had tons of kids. We all went to school together; we all got in trouble together. In the row of bungalow homes, the parents crossed the lawn or the street and chatted through the magic sunset hour. As children, we ran, climbed trees, played tag, played four-square, and later played spin the bottle. We painted rocks with nail polish and tried to sell them to the neighbors. Some kind neighbors actually purchased them.

We would do anything on a dare. (I'm still living that one down. I will apologize to Mrs. Bradley for that little episode for the rest of my life.)

Front porch lights flashed when it was time to come in. We ignored them. There was no cable or video games. We didn't want to go in. They always tracked us down.

Occasionally, someone broke a limb. Occasionally, someone got punched. For the most part, we all got along. There's nothing like seeing someone after 20 or 30 years and saying, "Do you remember ...?"

I Don't Heart Anything

Just another of my pet peeves.

Those sweatshirts and plaques with "I (heart) bunnies, kittens, baby chicks, my grandchildren, etc." are stupid. We should have a big bonfire and burn them all. It would be a huge relief to me to go through the rest of my life without looking at them.

Someone should explain to these people that no one can carry off that look.

Ok, I'll start the movement.

Endearments

The oldies call each other "Love" and "Honey." Every sentence begins or ends with an endearment. My parents bought them a pillow that says, "Home is where your Honey is."

The husband and I can occasionally be sweet to each other. In that nanosecond, we tend toward "Darling" or "Baby."

It's a lot more fun when our true personalities are exposed.

Last night, we could not get comfortable. The oldies mess with the thermostat. I have menopause issues and he has thyroid issues. The last thing I remember before falling asleep is his statement, "I'm hot. Get off of me, Maggot." About an hour later, his leg ventured over and I poked him. "Get off of my side of the bed, Fungus!"

Ah, love!

Shoes

What is the deal with women and shoes? I will be the first to admit that I own too many shoes.

When I was headed off to college, my dad had a rare meltdown as he counted the pairs of shoes I was taking.

Yesterday, I was asked to be a fashion consultant for the mother-in-law. (A regular job that I've come to enjoy.) As I dug through her shoes, I realized that she has almost as many shoes as I do.

Is it a weight thing? Your clothing size may fluctuate but hey, you can always buy shoes.

The workout girls go to Phoenix every year. We go to our favorite discount place. The moment the gate goes up, we head for the shoes.

Big Daddy also thinks I own too many coats.

Well, Shut My Mouth!

I love southern expressions. This is one of my faves.

I think this one comes from someone doing something jaw-dropping and unexpected. In my world, it's taken on a new meaning. I'm trying to learn to shut my mouth. Everyone does not need to know my opinion. This is the hardest habit I've ever tried to change. I'm not there yet.

The oldies wouldn't say "sh**" if they had a mouth full of it. (Another of my favorite southern expressions.) Sometimes they look at me, all wide-eyed, like "I can't believe that came out of your mouth."

I do a little mantra in my mind: Shut up, shut up! Give me two glasses of wine and that's no longer an option.

7:30 a.m.

The phone is supposed to ring at 7:30 a.m. It's supposed to be my friend, Patsy. We're supposed to be discussing our day and whatever bad outfit or bad hairdo is on the television.

Several years have passed since her unfair and untimely death. I still expect the phone call and then reality settles over me. Time is supposed to heal all wounds but to quote Dr. Phil, "Time heals nothing." Every once in a while, her husband calls at 7:30 a.m. When I answer the phone, he says, "It's still not Patsy."

I understand that we're all faced with the same fate. Time is precious and no one knows his or her own timeline. I don't understand why I had to lose this friend and other people seem to live forever. Willard Scott did his birthday gig on the Today Show recently and highlighted some woman who was celebrating her 102nd birthday. She quit smoking when she was 97-years old.

Patsy was a pipsqueak in stature and a giant in personality. She would rally her troops (girlfriends) and get us to do anything. She organized trips and sleepovers. She guilted us into a multitude of volunteer activities. She could rearrange the furniture in your house (and often did) while you took a bathroom break. She made me laugh, even in the most bizarre situations. Don't let anyone tell you that peer pressure ends in high school or college. She took peer pressure to a new level.

She was gifted at crafts; I am not. I cannot count the number of things I've painted because she told me to do so. Once we had a few drinks and cut another one of our girlfriend's hair. (Pats on one side -- me on the other.) She swears it was a great haircut.

The girlfriends were her pallbearers, an idea I plan to steal. Life moves on and somehow we pick ourselves up and carry on.

It's not logical but I still expect my morning phone call.

I All Done

Yes, it's grammatically incorrect. I love it anyway. It's succinct and makes the point. No clarification needed.

One of the workout girls shares stories of her grandchildren. (Five under 5-years old.) This is the eldest's favorite expression. When we work out, sometimes she decides to sit down and just drink her coffee. She announces, "I all done."

I wish I had known this phrase in my 20s and 30s. It could have saved me from multiple ridiculous conversations. Life would have been so simple. End a bad relationship? I all done. Meeting gone wrong? I all done. Boring conversation? I all done.

It's rather sad that I had to learn this from a toddler.

The next time the oldies come toward me with a wad of papers and a task list ... I all done.

Life Lists - Part One

A lot of people compose lists of goals they hope to accomplish in their lifetime. Climb Mt. Everest? Check. Visit every continent? Check. I understand the fascination with this to some degree. I love lists. I love the opportunity to cross something off my to-do list. It's a meager, yet meaningful, sense of completion.

I'm starting a new list, titled "Things I'll Never Do and Things I'll Never Do Again." (I'll let you figure out which ones I've never done and which ones I'll never do again.) My list begins with:

• Camping
• Wear braces
• Do any illegal substances
• Mow a lawn
• Get tattoos or piercings
• Date a married man
• Climb a mountain
• Swim a Channel
• Give birth
• Wear a high school gym uniform
• Ride a motorcycle
• Go to the circus -- the clowns give me the creeps
• Work for or with a raving lunatic
• Own a bird
• Take oldies into my home without an exit plan

I'm very excited about this project. I can type it out and whenever I feel like it, I can read it and say to myself, "Check it off; not going to do that!" Mission accomplished. Plus, I can add to it whenever I feel like it. I hope you'll make your own list.

Close It

I'm often telling the husband to close his mouth. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to discuss the golf game. I don't want to discuss my failures. I can only take so much discussion about the oldies.

Last night, my father suggested I get a pin for my blouse -- apparently it was gaping open.

I complied immediately. If the husband had suggested that, I would have whacked him.

People Who Need People

Barbra Streisand had a hit with this song. When she does her occasional concert, she sings it every time. People Who Need People should be my theme song.

Who does my lawn and landscaping? I have people. Who cleans my house? I have people. If I'm planning a party and need help, I have people. Computer problems? I have people.

The husband has added the oldies to our list of people. (Truthfully, just his mother. His father has taken "vegging out" to a new art form.) If the husband gripes about the state of the refrigerator or some other disarray in our home, she's on it. I feel a tad guilty, but I'm also lazy so while she's scrubbing the refrigerator, I'm thinking "Go Woman! Make it sparkle!"

Some of my people are headed to college in August. I cannot have another party until they return on break.

If the lyrics, People who need people are the luckiest people in the world are true, count me among the lucky people.

The Tool Kit

I'm a girly girl. Digging in the dirt or trying to fix something has never appealed to me. (I'll just call someone.) My parents used to assign yard work -- I'm sure they were punishing me for something --and I would cry, stomp, etc. Then I usually found someone else to do it for me. Some things never change.

My dad still does this today. I've never lived in an apartment, condo, or house that he hasn't repaired or remodeled in some way. I follow him around like a plant supervisor, saying, "Could we do this? What about this?" He tolerates me.

The husband has these skills but he's given them up for other pursuits. (Can anyone say golf?)

I've started collecting my own tools. It's my stash. My dad even bought me a cordless drill.

I still want other people to do the work but they can use my tools.

The Royals

We're coming up on the 10th anniversay of Princess Diana's death. (Pardon the aside, but where did that decade go?) I remember exactly where I was when I heard the news. With the time difference, her death was announced on the Baby's birthday.

I was obsessed with Princess Grace. I'm still fascinated with her family -- they are wild and madcap. Is Albert gay? (I know he keeps fathering children but I'm still not convinced.) Did Caroline recover from the death of her husband? I know she moved on to that Spanish guy with another title, but they don't look very happy to me. Will Stephanie have a happy life or will she continue to date/marry bodyguards and Carribean Joes?

What happened to Prince William and Kate? Is Prince Harry going to Iran/Afghanistan or not? How will they protect him? Why this is important to me is beyond logic.

When Diana and Charles were married, I was planning my own wedding. She was my idol. I dragged myself out of bed to watch every moment of it. In her honor, I also dragged myself out of bed to watch her funeral procession. That card on top of the flowers, with the inscription, "Mummy," did me in. Also, the speech by her brother...

Now Princes William and Harry are grown. Charles has married Camilla, along with her endless supply of bad clothing and bad hats. I adored Diana but I suspect that he and Camilla are a better fit. The Queen seems to have accepted her. I don't believe that Prince Phillip has a lot of pull in these discussions.

Do you ever look back? I can't imagine living life under this worldwide microscope.

I would never second-guess God, but I'm pretty sure he was busy with something else. I was meant to be a Royal.

I Just Happened to Overhear

Now, there's a phrase that will stop you in your tracks.

We have two married couples living in close quarters. Of course, we all hear things we shouldn't have heard. It can be funny and/or unnerving. I'm seriously considering soundproofing my closet.

The oldies are refined for public consumption. Other times, I overhear a conversation that wouldn't be printed in Southern Living magazine. I'm a barker and a snapper. I try very hard not to do this with the oldies. So, the husband takes the bulk of my wrath. I'm a slow learner ... I'm trying to stop doing this in public.

Once we get home, I will pull him into the closet, whacker in hand.

A Test

Well, I am a Gentile. I was just seeing who might be paying attention.

Misspellings & Improper Grammar

Occasionally my fingers fly across the keyboard and the spell checker in my head has taken a coffee break. Such is the case with the posting about "The Whacker."

The oldies are gentle. The oldies are Gentiles. The oldies are genteel, which is the word I intended to use. I am none of these things.

Driving

Once you overcome the life-sucking panic that accompanies your child acquiring a driver's license, you eventually relax enough to enjoy a little freedom.

The baby has been driving for a couple of years and I must admit he's a pretty good driver. (I'm sure he's much more cautious when I'm in the car.) At first he mowed over a mailbox and totaled a car. Since then, he seems to have mastered the machinery.

I couldn't get too frustrated with him. I recall wrapping my parents' car around one of those cement poles at the gas station. (Their car was the size of a U-boat.) I've backed into other people. The husband regularly bashes into someone -- usually someone parked in our driveway. A couple of months ago, he backed into one of the workout girls' cars. When we were remodeling our house, he backed into the painter's truck.

When I ride with my mother, I tend to say, "Giddy-up!" She's a very cautious driver. Her routine while she's trying to park causes my life to flash before my eyes. (Flash is too strong -- I have time to relive it moment by moment.)

The oldies recently bought a new car. She whips that sucker in and out of any situation. Of course, she totaled their last car. I get a little nervous because she's high strung and he's blind, but I am impressed with her ability to find her way around. I type out directions for her and just like Hansel and Gretel, she finds her way home.

Once they moved here, she needed to get a driver's license in this state. She read the manual repeatedly. I took her to take the written test. I told her to take her time. (Oops!) The end result (two hours later) is an Indiana driver's license that doesn't expire for four years. She'll be 88-years old. She only missed one correct answer and was quite proud of herself. Even with my reservations, I was also proud of her. I still won't ride with her. If we go somewhere together, I drive.

Sometimes, the husband drives them around. Most of the time, he's out driving a golf ball.

The Whacker

We have a crazy dog. She's still a puppy but she also has a very determined personality. She obeys Big Daddy somewhat. With me, she just goes ahead with whatever she wants to do. (The husband says I managed to adopt a dog with my personality.)

So, I started using a whacker. It's a rolled-up newspaper that I usually hit against the counter or some other surface to get her attention. I have whacked her bottom, although not hard enough to stop her. I have multiple whackers in every room.

The other night, the husband and I got into a little tiff. Unfortunately, it was in front of the oldies. I'm not proud of myself but I did tell him to shut up. When he didn't, I announced that I would wait for him to fall asleep and then beat him to a pulp. (I could only do this while he's sleeping; he's twice my size.) When we went to bed that night, he took a whacker with him. He was afraid he might need to defend himself.

We met some friends for dinner last night. We arrived first and had a drink at the bar. The husband was annoying me. I spotted a stack of newspapers behind the bar area so I grabbed one and asked the bartender for a rubber band. She complied. He was laughing at me but by the time our friends arrived, he was back in line. I carried the whacker to our table and I believe everyone used it at least once. Instead of, "please pass the salt," our conversation was, "May I please have the whacker?"

The oldies would never use a whacker. They're too gentile. I think they need to loosen up a bit.

The whacker is my weapon of choice. To paraphrase those old American Express commercials, "Never leave home without it."

Wild Bill

I rarely use names in my postings. This is an exception. Wild Bill was my grandfather, my mother's father.

When I was a child, he flitted in and out of our lives. No one was ever sure where he lived. Once someone figured it out, he had moved again. Then he would just show up on our doorstep and my parents would always take him in.

You know what Robert Frost said, "Home is the place where they have to take you in."

He might stay 2 days or 2 months. He had a gypsy soul and was soon off again.

Everyone seemed to know him. He made friends easily. Age was not a factor. About the time I was finally allowed to attend parties in high school, it was not unusual for me to show up and hear someone say, "Oh, your grandfather was just here."

Wild Bill invented drunk dialing. If he was with friends (and he was always with someone,) he would put them on the phone to talk to you. My mother has accused me of inheriting this gene. She would get so frustrated with him and that's when he nicknamed her "The Prosecutor."

My father had a little more patience. He would allow Wild Bill to work with him or he would often take him fishing. Dad lost more fishing equipment to overturned boats than he would care to remember. Once, Wild Bill ducked behind my dad's truck and Dad ran over him. On the way to the hospital, Wild Bill was moaning and groaning. In a rare moment of zero-compassion, my dad told him to stifle -- he wasn't having a heart attack! After several hours in the emergency room, they informed my Dad that -- you guessed it -- Wild Bill had a heart attack.

He was a skinny wisp of a man. He had a bad eye that he always taped shut with Scotch tape. It was a bizarre look. My dad tells the story of him calling the house, needing a ride, etc. My dad would go to pick him up and he would announce to a bunch of hooligans, "This is my son-in-law and he's going to kick your a**."

Later in life, he worked with the Sheriff's Department and played Popeye for sick children. They would helicopter around the state and bring joy to kids in the various hospitals. As a perpetual kid himself, he was very good at it.

At the end of his life we were called to the hospital repeatedly, always told that he may not make it through the night. He fooled us for months. My parents would go in after the doctor and ask how he was doing. The answer was always "Great!." Finally, my dad asked him if he had understood the doctor's diagnosis. He said, "Well, I know I'm dying but I still feel great."

My grandmother was the love of his life, although they had a twisted and demented relationship. She left him when the children were very young. When he was in the hospital dying, she agreed to see him one more time. He was unconscious, but she visited and talked to him. She reminded him of their fun times together. They had not seen each other in over 30 years.

When he passed away, I didn't believe it for a while. Just like my entire life, I thought he'd pop back in eventually. He must have still had some pull with my grandmother. For no logical or medical reason, she died 5 days later.

Maybe they're in heaven avoiding each other.

The Unabomber

Several years ago, there was a nationwide manhunt for the Unabomber. You couldn't turn on the news or open a newspaper without seeing the FBI sketch of this man with his hooded sweatshirt tied tight around his face. Eventually they arrested and convicted Ted Kaczynski. I remain convinced that they got the wrong man. I live with the Unabomber. He may not be threatening and he may not have the capacity to write a manifesto, but I know that picture and I see this man every day.

Yesterday, it was 90 degrees here. The mother-in-law insisted that he wear some shorts. He partnered them with a pair of knee high dress socks and the Unabomber sweatshirt.

I've considered taking a photo on the sly and sending it to the FBI. For now, I've deemed him harmless so I'll take my chances.

A Band Widow

The husband has been part of a rock and roll band for more than 25 years. This is an esteemed group of people who all have prestigous jobs and families. The Meatball Band has survived marriages, divorces, parents, children, etc. Some members have come and gone but the core group and their core passion remains. They've developed a following. They've played in the Rock And Roll Hall of Fame.

I'm a band widow. By definition, that means I dance with my girlfriends or other friends' husbands. I don't have a date because my date is on the stage. (Sometimes I get really madcap and dance with strangers. I'm pretty safe; my husband is right there.)

They even have some groupies. What's up with that?

They play private parties and public venues. When they play in a public place, there is often a cover charge (which goes to the house and the band.) My standard response is, "No, thank you. I gave my pound of flesh at home." They always let me through.

It's fun to have people in your family with musical talent. I have zero. Sometimes the mother-in-law plays the piano. The husband plays the piano a lot. Sometimes we just dance on our patio.

Being a band widow is a pretty small price to pay for someone who sings and dances with you.

Names

I've never loved my name. It's a weird spelling and with only 5 letters, it doesn't lend itself to a lot of options. I wanted to be a Katherine, an Elizabeth or something else that was equally regal. Or, something historic and biblical. Mary would have been nice.

My parents were pretty young when I was born. Throw that in with some southern roots ... well, enough said. Good thing I wasn't a boy. I probably would have been named "Tommy Bob."

My grandfather (Yep, he was crazy too) used to always call me by the middle name I was given at birth. I've always wondered if he preferred that name or just couldn't remember my first name. I loved him anyway. He always ate those disgusting cakes out of my EZ Bake Oven. You know, the ones with sludge and water that were baked by a light bulb. (He also used to show up at the same parties in high school but that's a different story.)

One of the few perks of multi-marriages is getting to choose your name. I legally changed my middle name to my maiden name many years ago. I love my maiden name and I find it ironic that it's now a popular name for both little girls and boys. It doesn't matter. People who know you know your weak spots. The husband often yells through the house for me. "Sheri Lynn! Where are you?" I have an aunt who never addresses me without both names. At this late stage, it's starting to grow on me.

I've had the honor to know many nurses in my life. I have two mother-in-laws who are retired nurses. I know a lot of people in the healthcare industry. They can tell the funniest stories about names. Women actually name their babies after words they hear in the delivery room. Hello, Placenta! My favorite is a woman in Detroit who named her twin boys after her favorite desserts: Lemonjello and Oranjello.

I'll keep my convaluted, 5-letter, mispelled name. At least they didn't name me Placenta.

Rose-Colored World

The news is depressing, yet I'm a junkie. I want to know everything that's going on. I want it analyzed. I enjoy throwing wadded-up tissues at the screen when I disagree.

With that said, I'm reminded of a speech I heard many years ago. I'm paraphrasing, but it went something like this:

I don't want to look at the world through rose-colored glasses. I want the world to be rose-colored. I want the kids to play outside without fear. I want to be able to send cash in the mail. I want people to be nice. Nice should be the norm.

In many ways, I live in this rose-colored world. A nice neighborhood with people who look out for one another. A safe haven where it's not a catastrophe if I forget to lock a door.

The oldies lived in a small town in Mississippi. Their house was close to a busy intersection. (Our street has no traffic.) They often dealt with traffic, accidents, litter, crime and more. The seclusion here is soothing.

I warn them not to get too comfortable. All you have to do to confirm that is watch the news.

Commencement Address

Every year, I'm shocked and dismayed that no one has asked me to deliver a commencement speech. I love to spout advice and share the wisdom of my years. Until that day arrives, I'll continue practicing in the shower and I'll share the tips I would've given.

Ask Yourself: "Am I proud of myself? Would my parents be proud?"
It's a good litmus test in any situation. Sometimes you will damn the consequences and move full-steam ahead. At least you've done it with a sound mind.

Honor Your Country.
People fought and died for your rights. Use every one of them. Vote. Thank a veteran. Take your cap off and stand up when someone plays our national anthem. Put your hand over your heart and sing along.

Keep Abreast of Current Events.
No other generation has had more access to information than yours. There's no excuse for not developing a passion or knowing what's going on in your community, state and the world.

Dress the Part.
You've gotten away with torn jeans, skimpy tank tops and various other clothing for a while now. Save it for the weekend. You'll get a lot farther in your internships and jobs if you make the effort to look appropriate and professional. No employer will be impressed with your belly button ring or your back tattoo. I promise you: they don't want to see your belly button.

Pick Your Partners Wisely.
At some point, you may choose a spouse or partner. Don't let infatuation blind you. Know yourself before you make this decision.

You will probably pick other partners too. Business partners, volunteer groups, etc. will all vie for your time, energy and money.

Take the Gift.
Everybody knows someone who can help. If you're looking for a job, it might be a parent, neighbor or friend who can put in a good word for you. If you get in a medical crisis, use every contact you have. Don't be afraid to use this wonderful gift. (Always send a thank-you note.)

When it's your turn, be a giver. Be a mentor. Put a hand out to someone else.

Travel.
There's a wonderful world out there. If you never leave your own backyard, you won't appreciate the majesty of nature or the cultural differnences that somehow define us all. Tolerance comes from experience. Plus, it's just great fun.

Nurture Your Soul.
For some of you, that means an organized religious community. Others have no interest in going to church or other houses of worship. Keep searching for whatever works for you. Give faith, however you define it, a chance.

Keep Your Word.
It only takes once to break your word and become known as the person who cannot be trusted. It can take years to repair this damage. Don't give your word if you don't mean it. If you give it, keep it.

Give Back.
Maybe you don't have two nickels to rub together. Look around. There are others ways to help. Every community has a plethora of problems and volunteer activities seeking to solve them. Carve out a little time. You'll be very proud of yourself.

You're Not Done Learning.
School may be over for now but life changes. Every new invention involves a learning curve. Your generation has mastered this time and again. Don't get complacent at this point. You have a lot more to learn.

Appreciate Your Friends.
Friendships come and go. Your best pals today may not remember your name in 20 years. But, you will have friends. If you do it well, you will have friends that will pick you up, dry your tears and provide a shoulder when you need it. Be a good friend.

Respect the Oldies.
In your minds, we're probably all oldies. We still have a little time under our belts and some lessons that you could use. There's an old saying about being nice to your children because they will choose your nursing home someday. I say, "Be nice to your oldies because they've earned it."

To all the graduates of 2007, I wish you health, happiness, Godspeed and success -- however you define it.

Mean Moms

I raise my coffee mug in a silent toast to all mean moms.

Mean moms annoy you as a child and infuriate you as a teenager. They make the best friends when you've grown into a full-fledged adult.

Being a mean mom is hard work. You never assume your child is an angel; you demand to know what they did to get in any particular tough situation. With teenagers, mean moms wait up, check the curfew and check the eyes, usually with flashlight in hand. Mean moms say no a lot. Then, they suffer the cold shoulder, attitudes and badgering of, "everyone else gets to do it." In the days before cell phones, mean moms could still track you down. Mean moms don't need to demand respect. They've earned it and smart children are afraid of the consequences.

Children are not stupid. They figure out which mom is the soft touch. This is not me. This was definitely not my mother. Mean moms have rules and they're not very big on excuses. They also insist you figure out your own problems. "So, what's your plan to fix this?" I can't count how many times I heard this phrase in my childhood but the message was clear: I'm in your corner but this is your mess -- clean it up. Whenever I hear it come out of my mouth, I have to stifle a giggle.

I don't think the mother-in-law was a mean mom. I believe she tried to be strict and ran a little military family but I think whatever happened to her boys was someone else's fault. A couple of them have a sense of entitlement that makes her crazy today.

Silver and Gold

My grandmother -- the sane one, not the nutty one -- had a plaque in her living room with this old saying:

"Make new friends but keep the old. One is silver and the other is gold."

This is a story about three young girls who managed to find, hang on to and thrive in a golden friendship.

The first one I met in kindergarten or first grade. I sat directly behind her and I was fascinated with her hair. Not only was it thick and beautiful, but her mother did these elaborate braids and other styles. When she wore pigtails or a ponytail, I was constantly touching it. (Today, that's called stalking.) She lived within walking distance of our school so once we became friends, I was often invited to her house. Her mom would make us lunch or serve us an after school snack. We bonded. We competed. We grew up together.

In middle school, we met the one who completed our unit. She was a skinny little thing with a big personality. She's still our glue. When we were teenagers, she was the one who took the blame whenever we got in trouble. Today, I am the proud godmother of her children and my own mother thinks she walks on water.

We get together at least twice a year. We used to include the kids on one of our annual trips but now that they're all older, we skip that part. Now it's all about us. We catch up. We ask each other questions. We each come up with various questions, cut them into strips and put them in a pretty bag. We carry it everywhere during our trip. No subject is off limits. We used to stick pretty close to the Midwest but now that we're older, we're fantasizing about more exotic locales.

We drink some wine and eat a little junk food. We reminisce and we cry. We reconnect and leave knowing our lives are enriched with this friendship.

I don't have any significant childhood memories that don't include one or both of them. We email each other almost every day. Still, nothing compares with sitting in a hotel room and being able to say, "You've got to lose those shoes."

Loving Big, Black Dogs

There's an article in People Magazine about aversions to big, black dogs. According to the article, they are less likely to be adopted from a shelter and more likely to be euthanized.

I'm the proud owner of a big, black dog (BBD) and she's not my first. My BBD is still a puppy and therefore, crazy. She is also loving, loyal and fun. The article suggests that it's harder to read expressions on these dogs and that makes them less appealing. Not so. I can't speak for every breed, but my BBD lets me know what she needs.

Even the oldies put up with my BBD. I catch the mother-in-law trying to play fetch with the tennis ball or slipping her ice, which the dog thinks is the biggest treat in the world.

My BBD thinks she's a lapdog. I have the bruises to prove it.

The Front Seat

As a child, I would occasionally go with one of my friend's families in their car. Inevitably, one of the siblings would shout, "I get shotgun!" The child with the loudest voice usually won.

As an only child, this was never an issue for me. Now, it is.

We spent yesterday chauffeuring the oldies to various graduation parties. He may be legally blind but he grabs the handle to the front passenger seat like a child yelling, "Shotgun!"

We have the same conversation every time we all head out as a foursome. She would prefer that we take their car. The husband (who drives an SUV) says no, thank you. (They have one of those cars that screams, "Oldies!" The husband would rather run along beside it than be seen driving it.) So, we all take our assigned seats in his car and spend 10 minutes trying to buckle in.

I start getting an attitude. Why is he in the front seat? When did we become party to this oldies mentality of men in the front seat and women in the back?

Remember Archie Bunker? I think I'm channeling his character. I hold my tongue but I want to say, "Meathead, get out of my chair."

Quiet Time

This is great marital advice. Institute "Quiet Time."

When the babies are fussy or trying to avoid a nap, what parent hasn't said, "Shhh! It's quiet time?" Why is this limited to children?

The husband and I do this with each other. If he brings up a subject that I don't wish to discuss, I pretend to be half-asleep and announce that it's Quiet Time. If he's dozing and I'm chatty, it's his turn to declare Quiet Tme.

I've been accused of beating a subject to death. The husband loves the option of Quiet Time.

Cell Phones: A Love/Hate Relationship

Do you know anyone who doesn't own a cell phone? Other than a few 5-year olds, I don't think I do. Mine is attached to me most of the time. I rarely turn it off. (A couple of years ago, it rang during Good Friday service at church and my girlfriend glared at me. Last week, it rang in the movie theater and my mother glared at me. I'm human! I forgot!)

Several years ago, when my mother first got a cell phone, she would forget to turn it on, forget to take it with her or let it be buried in her handbag. I used to leave hateful messages like, "Hello! Your bag is ringing! Pick up!" Now I can usually reach her. Anytime the oldies leave the house, I make sure they have the cell phone. She still can't check the voicemail so you have to call repeatedly.

I can track down the husband if I need him. I can usually track down the kids and even if they don't answer, they both call back immediately. It's a luxury and a relief, especially with one headed off to college and one living in another city.

That's the love part. Here's the hate:

Sometimes you just don't want to be found. There might be an opportunity for a quiet moment or you might be truly involved in something else. It's an interruption. I have started new rules for myself, like not answering when I'm brainstorming or writing. It doesn't work. Even if I put it in another room, I still hear it. Like Pavlov's dog, I run to see who's calling. I'm trained.

When I was a teenager, we didn't have cell phones. We didn't even have cordless phones. Some of my friends still had party lines. I'll never forget the day my friend (J) got her driver's license. She showed up at the front door, waved it in front of me and we bolted. Freedom!!! I don't remember what we did, where we went or any other details. I remember we were gone for seven or so hours. It was a rite of passage, much to the dismay of my parents. Kids today don't get to experience that -- as a parent, I'm glad -- but I get a little nostalgic thinking of that time. Ha Ha! You can't find us!