Hair Rules

Hair Rules

Women do crazy things with their hair. Some of us color it. Some of us highlight. When I was growing up, the rule was that after the age of 30, you need to cut your hair.

I've seen 30. I've seen 40. My hair is still hitting my shoulders and collar bones. A ponytail and a baseball cap is my favorite style. Preferably a cap with an expression I love or one that reminds me a trip.

Fifteen years or so ago, I thought short hair would be easier and cuter. (Plus, I thought Princess Diana was gorgeous with her short and sporty 'do.) So, I cut it off. All Off! I showed up to meet the husband for a dinner and his first question was, "Where is your hair?" My answer went something like, "Well, I imagine it's in a Hefty bag by now." He was not amused.

No one tells you that with certain hair types, especially wild, frizzy, somewhat curly like mine, short hair is your worst nightmare. You have to style it every day. Otherwise, someone (like my Uncle Harry) will follow you around saying, "Comb your hair!" You have to have a jillion utensils.

Long hair is simple. Blow out the bangs and throw a couple of hot rollers in. Or, put it in a ponytail or twist it up.

When I was in high school and college, we did not have blow dryers or hot rollers. These are two of the greatest inventions in my lifetime. Also, no one put products in their hair. You took a shower; you washed your hair. Life was simple but hair routines were not.

In high school, I used humongous orange juice cans. I made a Pebble's-like ponytail on my head and wrapped my hair around in an attempt to smooth it out. In college, I used the same principle but I found rollers of the same dimension. I had one of those hair dryers that was a bonnet around your head and attached to a control unit. I carried my little hair unit to the lounge to study. If I was sitting near a window and people would come back from the library, they would shout, "Hi Sheri!" I had no vanity. Unfortunately, I still don't.

The mother-in-law goes to the beauty parlor. They wash, trim and curl. Then they tease it into a helmet. She doesn't mess with color. She doesn't believe me but it looks much better when she does it at home and lets it air dry. She achieves that sporty 'do I was going for many years ago.

I have never been good with the hair rules. But I am getting a little frustrated with the dollars flying out for hair care. Maybe I'll let the gray grow in, the highlights fade and the kinkiness flourish.

Probably not. Guess there's a little vanity floating in there after all.

Phrases with Impact

"I love you" is obvious. But other phrases pack a powerful punch.

I was driving home today. Jan called just to chat. During our conversation, she said, "I miss you." Wow!

Another conversation was with my mother and she's annoyed with me about something that happened weeks ago. She said, "I'm not over it." I replied, "Get over it!" But secretly, I mulled it over and decided I could've handled the situation better.

When the baby was truly a baby (about 4 or 5,) he did something harmless but wrong. Big Daddy said to him, "I'm disappointed in that choice." The baby hid under the desk for a while until finally, I crawled under there with him.

Maya Angelou said that the greatest gift you can give a child is to have your eyes light up whenever they enter a room. She's partially right.

I think the greatest gift you can give a child is the phrase, "I'm proud of you."

They Can't Win

This is a sad confession about myself. Some days, the oldies cannot win with me. It's completely my fault and I carry a lot of guilt about it.

If they stay in bed all day, I fret. Are they sick? Are they over medicating? If they're up and around, I get irritated because they're frying or just underfoot.

If they don't leave the house for days at a time, I get anxious. When they venture out, I worry about her driving. I remain on high alert until they are home safely.

Their obsession with the mail bugs me. Yet, if I manage to gather our mail before they do and she ignores it, alarms go off in my brain. Why is she not reading the junk mail to him?

When she throws the ball for Gabby, I am thrilled that she's outside and enjoying the dog. Then, I panic that Gabby will knock her down. (It's never happened but she has knocked me down.)

The Unabomber has a watch that he can push a button and "DING! It's 6:07 P.M." On more than one occasion, I have quipped, "Do you have a date?" Pure ugliness!

They went out for breakfast. I've made a promise to myself. When they return, I will be pleasant and avoid fretting. If they spend the day in bed, I will act like that is the most normal thing in the world. If they're up and about, I will greet them with a smile and kind comments.

I'll let you know how it goes.

It's a Signal

Idaho Senator, Larry Craig, is in the news for his shenanigans this summer in a men's room in the Minneapolis airport. According to his statement, he plead guilty to avoid further publicity. Wrong choice! Now, like a child, he says, "I take it back."

He's not in my state and frankly, I don't care about his sexual orientation ... although I do feel sorry for his wife. I'm not one of those people who thinks you can't make wise decisions in the business realm and make foolish choices in the personal life. It happens every day. But, if the allegations are true, the hypocrisy bothers me.

It was a sting operation. (What is going on in this restroom in Minneapolis?) He gave "the signal" to an undercover police officer. The signal involves tapping ones foot under a stall and according to the way it's been explained to me, it means, "I'd like to engage in sexual behavior with you." I had no clue. If someone did this in a public restroom to me, I would think she needs toilet paper. Is there some website or blog out there that teaches the signals? How do they know?

A few years ago, I noticed a laced pair of tennis shoes hung over the light at an intersection in an iffy part of town. It's a signal for drugs available in the area. One of my friends in the judicial system explained that to me. How do people know the signal?

I am so blatant. You will always be able to tell if I'm happy or sad. I laugh and I cry with uncontrolled abandon. (This is one of the reasons I will never run for office.) I've told a few (ok, a million) fibs and white lies in my life but I could never look someone in the eye and lie to them. My expressions and my eyes would give it away. Just ask the husband or the oldies. I get away with nothing.

This is probably why I'll never be good at card games, especially poker.

Puppy Becomes Dog

Today is the puppy's birthday. No one cares but me. When I woke her up, I was singing, "They say it's your birthday. We're going to have a good time." Yes, I was cracking myself up.

She will no longer be referred to as "the puppy." She's graduated. From this day forward, she will just be Gabby.

As you might recall, the husband did not want another dog. As usual, I tried to abide by his wishes but ultimately, I did it anyway. She is a maniac and I don't care. I fell in love with her immediately and she makes me smile (or grimace) every day.

Our old dog was Holly -- her formal name was Roman Holiday. When the baby was little, I took him with me to pick her up from being spayed. The vet's office called back to the surgery center and said, "Would you please bring Holly Roman to the front?" The baby got a little attitude and said, "Her name is Roman Holiday!" He was 4.

When I first met our puppy, she was quite chatty with her litter mates. I had been toying with dog names in my mind. Then I met her and said, "She's quite gabby."

Big Daddy made it more formal and named her "Roman Gabrielle." (Not after the football player.) He pretends not to like her but he spends an inordinate amount of time with her. I get annoyed that she listens and obeys him. If he plays the piano, she gets a squeaky toy and plays along. He fakes nonchalance but I can see that he enjoys it. He thinks I let her walk all over me -- literally and figuratively. He's right.

There's a dog bakery near my house. It's slightly ridiculous and wildly expensive. I don't care. Big Daddy's out of town and the puppy became a dog today. I'm going there and get her a treat. If I get really crazy, I might put a candle in the puppy cupcake and sing Happy Birthday.

Junkie

Big Daddy calls me a phone junkie. I don't want to be one but in all honesty, I might be. I think this qualifies as the pot calling the kettle black.

My phones ring constantly from 6AM to 9PM. Clients, friends, parents, kids ... it's usually someone I want to talk to. I used to get angry with my parents when they would turn off their cell phones or even worse, forget to carry them. My mom is much better but my dad still has a way to go. (I lost him for a bit at the fair. When I finally found him, I asked, "Where is your phone? I've been calling you." It was at home. I will fix this eventually.)

There are certain people I talk to almost every day. I need it. That's the junkie part. I'm addicted. I need to hear their voice. I hope they feel the same.

The oldies rarely answer our home phone. That's a relief to some extent because she used to tell clients I was in the yard with the dog or something else inappropriate. It's also a hassle because I become the secretary for all the reminder calls: doctor's appointments, hair appointments, your order is ready, etc.

But, the phone is bothersome. If I'm writing or doing something else, I hate the interruption. I spend a lot of time saying, "I'll have to call you back." I keep a list and most of the time I manage to do so. Then, when I've got a little time before the husband comes home, I start returning calls. Our free time rarely coincides. My mother works nights so she's headed downtown to pick up tapes. Friends are making dinner or heading out. Now I'm interrupting them. Yet, the dance continues.

I worry about my mother's working hours but there's a huge perk for me. I can almost always reach her at night. I try not to call after certain hours, even though I know she's still up. She's working and I respect that. However, I know she takes breaks and I know she checks email. Her standard email response to me is to answer my question or provide commentary. Then she almost always adds, "Go to bed!"

I may or may not be a phone junkie. I am definitely an email junkie.

Oooh, Oooh, Oooh!

This started out as a story about girly expressions. I still say, "Whoops!" I still wave my hands and say, "Oh my Gosh or Oooh, Oooh!"

Then, I started thinking about other expressions. Yes, I do curse a little more often than necessary. The husband often points out that certain descriptive words (let your imagine flow,) only have one syllable and I've somehow turned these into three or four syllables. That causes the big words to come out.

Girlfriends have threatened to tie down my hands. Everyone is convinced that I could not have a conversation or make an argument without throwing my arms around. I've knocked over a lot of drinks and accessories trying to make my point.

Tonight, I sat outside for a bit with the oldies. The puppy got a little too close to the Unabomber and he started flapping his hands and saying, "Oooh, Oooh!"

School Pride

The baby is attending my alma mater. I had not been on campus in years but I went the other day to check out his dorm room, take forgotten items and generally peruse the situation. I went with my friend Pam, whose daughter is on the same campus.

A slight twist on Dickens. Instead of "It was the best of times. It was the worst of times," it was Holy Cow, everything's different. Everything's the same.

Technology has changed the college experience. Registering for classes, communications with professors, etc. are high tech. Lots of kids buy their books online. Campus-wide communication comes through cell phones and email. Dorms that used to be same sex only are now co-ed. Floors are co-ed. Key pads are everywhere. I lived in a co-ed dorm but my floor was strictly for girls. That never stopped anyone from propping the door open with a brick so friends could get in. It only took a few days for me to realize that I would never walk from the shower to my room without running into a guy.

The buildings and the campus are as beautiful as ever. I said hello to each of them. Sometimes, I said it out loud which made Pam laugh. At one point, I broke into the school fight song.

I love having this in common with the baby. A couple of times he would start to tell me something about the campus and I would remind him that I went there too. (Shut up Sheri!)

Both kids are settled in and ready to start classes today. The baby and his roommate have decorated with lots of rock & roll posters. They even have one of John Belushi from "Animal House," where he's wearing the t-shirt that says, "COLLEGE." He wasn't even born when this movie was out.

I expected to be sad and weepy when we left. I wasn't. I felt immense pride and such joy for him.

Then, I felt a pang of jealousy.

I might have gone there but it's his school now.

He Travels Too Much

Recently, a girlfriend told me a story about one of her friend's child. They called off a wedding at the 11th hour. I don't know these people but the excuse was that the bride decided the groom's job was too demanding and he traveled too much.

What?!!!!

The husband used to travel a couple of times a month for his job. Although I missed him, I also looked forward to his trips. I like private time. He doesn't travel nearly as much as he used to and that has thrown my life some new curves.

I can't speak for all women but here are some of the things I like to do when the husband travels:


When the baby was little, we would choose movies, take our baths and don pjs. Then we would crawl into bed with a big bowl of popcorn and have a moviefest. Later, we'd make milkshakes.

Slathering deep conditioner on my hair and wrapping it in a plastic shower cap so it can really soak in. (The one time the husband witnessed this ritual, he followed me around saying, "Do you want fries with that?")

Waxing things. Enough said.

Ordering a pizza with only my toppings of choice. Or, choosing shrimp dip and chips as dinner.


The husband left this morning for a golf trip. I did my happy dance. The baby is off at college so our movie night is no longer available. Complete solitude is not at option since the oldies live here too. Still, I might order a pizza, deep condition my hair and see what's on Lifetime.

I hope this bride-to-be had a lot of other issues with her husband-to-be. If it was just his travel schedule, I'm perplexed.

A Pasadena Day

Yesterday was a Pasadena day and I didn't even go to California.

Instead, the husband and I attended a 70th birthday party for Nick Seats. Oh My Gosh! The people. The memories. My mind was in overdrive.

The party was hosted by his three children and held in the middle child's beautiful home. (I love to see other people's homes.) He was the one who punched me in the stomach when we were children. The fun memories outweigh that one but we still like to joke about it. As I told him last night, I probably deserved it.

His sister is a little wisp of a thing and she is tough as nails. (She'd better be -- she's the mother of three boys.) As she explained to me, "I grew up with two older brothers; I learned to toughen up." Then, she told me she'd stashed her favorite wine. She shared it me. Now that's friendship.

Tons of my old neighbors were there. I heard about their children, grandchildren and some of their great-grandchildren. Big Daddy tried to keep up with the stories but I'm sure he wanted to whack me every time I squealed with delight at seeing someone I had not seen in years.

He's crazy about Nick. Since they've both worked in the same industry, they know a lot of the same people and love to share the different versions of the same gossip. I've worked in this marketing community a long time too but their stories are much more interesting.

Besides my sister, some of the children I used to babysit were there. Most are grown with children of their own. My parents' next door neighbors were there with their daughter. I remember when her older brother was born. We were sitting on the porch and Tony came over to announce, "It's a boy." I remember learning that the boy had just acquired a little sister.

Barb and Bill were there. They used to live next door to the Naked Guy. They have a standing date with my parents for Steak & Shake, games, and whatever floats their boat. All I know is they have taken care of me and they are really good huggers. I'm like Pavlov's dog when they show up. Arms extended -- let's have a hug!

Other people wandered in and I was in full flashback mode. J's high school boyfriend, his wife and two sons. Wow! I know we're all older but he looked the same to me. He was polite but a little reserved. I can't decide if he doesn't like me or if he's afraid I'll start on some trip down memory lane in front of his wife. I would never do that unless too much wine was involved.

Then, we actually went to Pasadena. (Again, not California.)

We don't do reunions in our family. But, the family that's here in town has a monthly version of it. They take turns hosting it. We rarely attend due to other commitments but we went last night. Super, amazing fun for me! I saw a couple of cousins I haven't seen in years. Again, squealing was involved.

At one point in my childhood, my Aunt Judy (mom's sister) and Uncle Don lived down the street. My great-aunt Ann and Uncle Harry lived two houses down from them. My Aunt Connie (mom's sister) lived with us. The saying is, "It takes a village to raise a child." Our village was right there.

I used to ride my bike up and down the street repeatedly. If Uncle Harry was outside, he would say, "Comb your hair!" I have extremely wild, untamed hair. I didn't care as a child and I probably care less now. When I went to college, Uncle Harry made me a comb out of this beautiful wood. It's humongous. I lost it for a few years but now it has a worthy spot in my bathroom. It makes me smile.

My parents cooked and cleaned. No one could feel uncomfortable in their home unless the demon dog bites, but they're pretty good at keeping her away from ankles. She's a lean, mean, fighting machine but she mainly wants to fight with your ankles.

My parents' next door neighbor told me a story about her daughter and my parents. During one of their last parties, Sarah remarked to her mother, "I didn't know old people would stay up so late." In Sarah's mind, my parents are oldies. I should bring her to my house for a day.

We left earlier than I wished, but all in all it was a great day. With golf and business functions, Big Daddy and I attend a lot of parties. Yesterday was two parties filled with memories, love and affection.

Happy Birthday Nick.

Mome

You never know who's going to influence your life. Or, who's going to give you a nickname.

I got to be the first grandchild on my mother's side of the family. I nicknamed my grandmother "Bobbye." No one knows why. My friend Carol's grandchildren call her "Grandma Chi Chi." Big S's grandchildren call her "Da." Her husband is "Boo." My friend Cynthia's mother is "Mome." I used to call her Mrs. Summers but after a few years of nudging us to call her Mome, it stuck.

It's been almost 20 years since I first met Mome. She has a full family, tons of friends and she certainly doesn't need me in her circle. Occasionally, I stick myself in there anyway. She has always welcomed me with open arms.

At her 90th birthday party, I was honored to sit beside her. She allowed me to cut her meat. She allowed me to dig through her handbag for something she needed. She trusts me and I feel blessed.

In the early days, we used to go to the lake cottage with our friends, little kids, dogs, etc. -- and Mome. We've spent many years sharing stories, sharing a bathroom, sharing books and gossip. She is always a sport. We might not eat until 9:00 or later. She just hung out like a trooper.

Yesterday, my girlfriend (Mome's daughter,) took her to the lake to see the improvements they've made to the cottage. A wheelchair and a walker were involved. Her vision is extremely limited. Her range of movement is skewed. Yet, a trip to the lake was thrilling, I imagine. I've spent some time moving oldies in wheelchairs and dealing with walkers. I've coordinated it with airlines and hospitals. I need to buy this girl a drink!

During their visit yesterday, Mome told her daughter that it was her last visit to the lake. That's probably true. When someplace has been a part of your heart and history for 90 years, I can't imagine making this declaration.

Here are some of the things I've learned from Mome:

Milk cartons do not belong on the table
BenGay cures it all
Good manners will carry you a long way
A little gossip is ok, as long as you're not malicious

Calling someone Grandma seems to be passe. I'm not anxious for grandchildren but when they come ... if I get a vote ... I want them to call me Mome.

'Fraidy Cat

I pretend to be brave but I'm not. Little things can send me over the edge. Before my mother and I went to the fair, there was a bird in my garage. Remember, I hate birds. He was confused and trying to fly out the window so that resulted in bashing his head and flopping. I had a broom but every time I got close to him, I squealed and ran. Thankfully, my mother showed up and batted him out.

We spotted a mouse in the house. (We live in a wooded area and the oldies tend to leave doors open.) Everyone was very nonchalant about traps, sticky stuff, etc. I kept my feet off the floor and called houseboy.

About a year and a half ago, the oldies had a double fall. They collided, which resulted in him face down in the kitchen and her with a massive head wound after hitting the corner of the piano. The husband was in bed. I ran in our bedroom and yelled, "911! Both oldies down!"

With surgeries or even routine tests, I become a maniac. It's a little embarrassing because most of my doctors are also my friends. I had a biopsy a few months ago -- it was fine -- and I finally asked the doctor to put a towel over my head. She laughed and complied. Of course, my mother was sitting in the waiting room.

The husband bails me out of trouble on a regular basis. He knows my quirks and humors me.

When I'm really a 'fraidy cat, I call my dad.

What You Tell Parents

Every once in a while, I manage to make my mother speechless. This is not an easy task.

She was totally hands-on. She was the one with the flashlight, checking my eyes. She was the one who enforced the rules. She was the one who challenged me and guess what? I love a challenge.

Please don't misunderstand. I have (almost) always been a law-abiding citizen. I have (almost) always been a good girl. I have (almost) always made the sane and logical choice.

But, not always.

When I was about 25 or 30, I started to drop little things in our conversations. I would confess things about my teenage years or my college days. Her version of the girl she knew was altered.

These days I tell her everything. I'm just blah, blah, blah. Sometimes she's appalled. Other times, I'm appalled. "What do you mean you've never done that?"

I don't share quite as much with the oldies but living together does lead to strange conversations. My adventures seem tame compared to WWII or raising four boys. I can mesmerize her with tales of my high school and college days. I can make her laugh with some of the trips (and escapades) that the husband and I have shared.

When the daughter graduated from undergraduate school, she started to share more with us. Then after law school, we learned a lot. It's a parental safety zone after you've finished college.

Now the baby is in college. I'll hear some stories here and there. In about 6 or 7 years, I'll get the real scoop.

The Mindset List

Every year at this time Beloit College releases its Mindset List. I've been reading it for years -- it's a great reality check of the college freshman's frame of reference.

It's especially poignant to me this year. The baby is on campus and going through freshman orientation.

Here are a few of my favorites from the list:

What Berlin wall?

They've never "rolled down" a car window.

They have grown up with bottled water.

Pete Rose has never played baseball.

Wal-Mart has always been a larger retailer than Sears and has always employed more workers than GM.

Stadiums, rock tours and sporting events have always had corporate names.

Fox has always been a major network.

They learned about JFK from Oliver Stone and Malcolm X from Spike Lee.

They never saw Johnny Carson live on television.

Food packaging has always included nutritional labeling.

It's a fun list to read but boy, does it make me feel old! Living with the oldies quickly gives me a different perspective. Imagine the changes they've seen and endured.

The REO Speedwagon New Year's Eve

It was 1980 or 1981. I'm fudging this a bit because I honestly can't remember. Here's what I do remember:

We went to an REO Speedwagon concert on New Year's Eve. Waiving your bic lighter was huge. The drunk woman behind me caught my hair on fire. My friend (J) put it out.

Someone put me in a gigantic trash can. Then, he put the lid on it. (My boyfriend rescued me.)

Later we wound up at some hotel. One person ran through the halls and pulled all of the fire alarms. Hello Policemen! They took all of our keys away and put us through the sobriety tests. I'm proud that I was totally sober. No one went to jail. The nice Officer Friendly gave the keys to the sober people and we were allowed to drive the other people home.

There's a lot of REO on my iPod. It reminds me of high school and college. It reminds me of my girlfriends. It reminds me of the time I spent in the trash can.

Sometimes I call (J) and say, "Just listen." It's usually
Time For Me to Fly. She humors me and sings along.

Voting

I take voting very seriously. Probably because I think everyone needs to know my opinion.

When I was in journalism school, they strongly suggested a double major so I did it. I chose political science. (They forgot to tell us that most of the countries we were studying would change names, boundaries, politics, leadership, etc.) Still, I loved it and it fueled my passion.

I read the editorials and I watch the debates. I read the blogs. Political discussions make some people nervous. Not me! As long as everyone is respectful, I love them. I usually learn a ton.

During the past season of "American Idol," the media pundits kept quoting the number of votes. I was very disturbed that more people voted for the next American Idol than voted in the last election. Maybe people are just lazy. You can vote on American Idol by picking up the phone or sending a text message. Our government could learn a lesson there. I didn't watch it every week but when I watched, I voted.

This is the time of year when The Today Show throws a wedding. You get to vote on everything from the chosen couple to the cake to the wedding attire. This morning, there was a promo about it and the husband jokingly said, "Oh shoot, I forgot to vote."

Not me. I voted for couple #2.

Married to Your Best Friend

Are you married to your best friend?

When anyone tells me she is married to her best friend, I do three things in my mind:

1. I applaud her because she is that much in love.
2. I calculate how long she's been married. In my experience, the only people who ever say this have been married less than three years or more than 40 years.
3. I say a prayer for her. I want her to continue to love her husband this much but she desperately needs some girlfriends.

I am married but I am not married to my best friend. I love him and as husbands go, he's a keeper. We can talk and we can spat. I think he's brilliant. Occasionally, he thinks I'm pretty ok too.

Living up to the idea of being married to your best friend would involve changing my sexual orientation. I don't think I'm up to it. Plus, I would have to become old school Mormon so I could have more than one spouse at a time.

I asked the oldies this question. They both said "Yes, I am married to my best friend." That should be applause worthy but secretly, it made me a little sad.

Maybe I'm greedy. I love the relationship with my husband -- the good, the bad and the ugly. We are friends in a weird and intimate way. We share things that will always remain between the two of us. But, if I didn't have girlfriends and best friends, who would I talk to?

A best friend is the one you vent to about the husband. Then, she takes your side. Later, she has the class to be nice to him anyway. With a best friend, you can discuss your gray hair roots. Or, she'll be the one to point out some random hair that's growing out of your chin. This is not sexy stuff. Husbands are best left out of these conversations.

If you ask a husband, "Do I look fat in this?" and he's dumb enough to say "Yes," it hurts your feelings. If you ask your best friend and get the affirmative answer, it's a wave of relief that she didn't let you make a fool of yourself.

Marriage is a sacred institution. I want Big Daddy to be my husband -- not my best friend.

Comings and Goings

The daughter and her boyfriend are in town for the weekend. I'm thrilled and the husband is positively giddy. Fathers and daughters have a magical connection. I respect it. I understand it; I feel the same way about my dad. Then I feel a little sad. My dad and I see a lot of each other because we live in the same town. Big Daddy and the daughter don't have this option right now but they're very good about phone calls and texting. It's not the same as getting a hug from your dad.

All of the extended family will be here tonight. We're honoring the daughter's visit home and having a little salute to the baby as he heads off to college tomorrow. I'm trying to live in the moment and enjoy it instead of preparing for my impending sadness when everyone leaves.

When we remodeled this house, we should've put in a revolving door. Like Dorothy said in The Wizard of Oz, "People come and go so quickly around here." The oldies are always a little jarred by this fact. I don't know when this is going to sink in with them. It could be my parents or a girlfriend who stops by. It could be houseboy. It could be a service person. It could be a work-related meeting. Big Daddy could invite people over for a drink. It could be an impromptu party.

Tonight will be delightful. Tomorrow, I will be a puddle on the floor.

Walk the Wall

Do you remember the speech in "A Few Good Men" when Jack Nicholson (Colonel Jessup) was on the stand? In addition to the best line, "You can't handle the truth!," he also said, "You want me on that wall; you need me on that wall."

We have a small wall surrounding our patio. The puppy mounts and paces. It's her little version of guard duty. She's patrolling and protecting us.

It forces me to do my Jack Nicholson imitation. The oldies ignore me. The husband rolls his eyes. It doesn't matter to me. I'm cracking myself up.

The Stupid Shirt

There's an annual tournament at our club. It's not an official golf thing. It started as a celebration of one man's birthday (Junkman) and now it's a little cult following. It's invitation-only. The husband had to be out of town but I went for the steeple chase and the dinner. I bopped from golf cart to golf cart. One of my girlfriends called me a "Golf Cart 'ho" so I stopped.

The steeple chase is not the best golfers in the field -- it's the ones with the highest handicaps. We do a little betting and then we all follow them around, yell things and generally make their attempts miserable. For a while, I was riding with Big S' husband and I was obsessed with one player's shirt. It was just wrong. Too hip, too young, too tight. Like a dog with a bone, I couldn't let it go.

My doctor came in second in the steeple chase. I bet on him and thanks to him, I won some money. He was wearing an appropriate shirt.

The Best Pooper

If you've ever potty trained a child, you know that we will all go to humiliating lengths to accomplish the goal. Cheerios in the toilet? I've done it. I still tease the baby that his urges always came during dinner and then he would yell for me. If you need to lose a few pounds, potty train a child. Dinner never seems quite as appetizing after you've praised the waste.

I'm a big clapper. I used to clap when the baby did his job. When I was housebreaking the puppy, I would clap and announce, "You're the best pooper in the neighborhood!" Big Daddy asked me to please stop doing this. He was afraid someone might overhear and discover my secret dementia.

One of my girlfriends struggled through Alzheimer's and dementia with her parents. They lived in Florida so she saw them sporadically. On one of her last visits, they had put a pink, plastic toilet in the middle of the living room. She convinced her mother to go out for a bit and when they returned, her father announced, "I had a BM." Her mother clapped and jumped up and down. (I'm glimpsing my future -- this will be me.)

Living with the oldies involves discussing a lot of bathroom issues. I hate it. But, I am certain not to overeat when it happens around dinner time.

Motorcycles

To use a crossword puzzle word, I am "afeard" of motorcycles.

My dad had a bad experience in his youth and it involved a motorcycle. My friend (J) has lived her entire life with a father who was physically and mentally impaired due to a horrific motorcycle accident.

When the husband and I lived in our old house, the extremely wooded back yard butted up to a busy intersection. One night we heard the screech of tires, the scream of the sirens, etc. We ran to our little forest. There was a man who had skated through the intersection on his motorcycle and was lofted into one of our trees. He died.

Even after that experience, Big Daddy occasionally mentions wanting a motorcycle. He had one in his youth. I don't put my foot down about a lot of things but this is not going to happen.

(J) is married to a man with a motorcycle. They stopped by a few months ago and SHE WAS NOT WEARING A HELMET. Well, trust me. I read her the riot act. "What are you thinking?" I'm just grateful that she tolerates me.

Due to my father's accident and my mother's protective nature, I was forbidden to get on a motorcycle in my youth. Once (just once!) I broke the rule and went for a little spin with one of the neighborhood guys. I probably had a crush on him. I wore a helmet and we were very safe. My thought process was that I could do this and be home before the parents came home from work.

Then we pulled up to a stop light and my mother was in the car next to us. I was in BIG TROUBLE. It's almost 30 years later but I think I'm still grounded.

I Double Dog Dare You

As a child, the dare is more than a challenge. It's a little thrilling and very scary. We always took the dare. The other kids were probably brave; I was just terrified that someone might beat me up.

(Once, I told my mother that someone had threatened to hit me. She told me that if I did not hit them back (HARD!) she would have to hit me when I got home. It was a dare and I think I grew a spine that day.)

I've strapped skis to my feet and rolled down a mountain. I jumped off the second level of some boat in the Pacific Ocean because my friend dared me. I've taken a shot of tequila and let some Mexican man twirl me like a baton. Guess why? Someone dared me.

I'm still prissy but the dare has provided some great adventures and memories in my life.

When my mind goes to the dark, dreaded place, I want to give the oldies a dare. I'll be kind. It might be, "I dare you to stay out of bed for the entire day." Or, "I dare you to go an entire day without frying something." Or, "I dare you to let the mail stay in the mailbox for an hour." If I get really wacky, I'll double dog dare them.

How Much Do I Love You?

My love of words causes me to seek out different definitions and expressions. I try to avoid the cliches but sometimes the cliches fit very well.

When the daughter was young and the baby was little, we would play a little game. "Do you know how much I love you?" Then we would answer with one of the cliches: "As big as the sky," or "To the ends of the earth."

Occasionally Big Daddy and I have a moment to ourselves. He (jokingly) says, "Now would be a good time to tell me how much you love me." Sometimes I say, "Endlessly." Other times I say, "You're ok for now."

When I try to turn the tables and ask the same question, the answer never varies.

"Too much."

I don't believe him but it still makes me laugh.

This would not be funny to the oldies.

Once Is Not Enough

My mother and I went to the state fair the other day. It was perfection. We shared our favorite fair foods and we rode the train around. We visited all of our favorite exhibits. We gawked at the giant fruits and vegetables and perused the homemade quilts and crafts. We skipped the midway and the animal barns, although we did walk through the sheep barn to get to and from the car.

Some exhibits remain constant year after year. Others change. This year there's a display about Indiana oddities. It was hysterical. Plus, they posted all these bizarre laws that are still on the books in certain Indiana cities. One year they had a traveling expo of the White House in miniature, along with presidential memorabilia. My mom and I stood in line a long time for that one and it was well worth our time. Each president decorates the oval office in his own style and it was really cool to compare them. They had a replica of the White House. I've toured the actual White House but there are certain areas that are not available to the public so this was fascinating to me.

We invited my dad to attend but when my mother explained our favorites, he decided to pass. I think his comment was, "If I want to look at vegetables, can't I just go to the grocery?" He spent a lot of his childhood on a farm so he likes the barns and stables. Of course, he also likes the food. My mother promised to go with him so he could do his favorite things.

The husband shared his schedule for the week and it turns out he has focus group meetings on the very night that my parents are going to the fair. I called them immediately and said, "I want to go too!"

A girlfriend mentioned that her husband has zero interest in the fair and she loves it. I called and invited her along.

I brought some pork BBQ home to the oldies. They did a great Paula Dean imitation, "Mmmmmm, Mmmmm!" Of course, I can't convince them to go.

Big Daddy is very perplexed at how much I enjoy the fair. I've tried to explain it but he thinks it sounds dreadful -- probably because no one is playing golf. He just shakes his head and laughs at me.

The last laugh is on him. The daughter is coming home from Texas for a weekend visit. During a recent phone conversation, she told her dad that one of the things she really wants to do is go to the fair. Good girl!

The Corn Dance

It's August in Indiana. Everything is about corn. If you've never had Indiana sweet corn roasted on a grill, (or Indiana tomatoes) your life is not complete.

When Wild Bill was still with us, he always managed to be at my parent's house during this season. Nick and Patsy hosted an annual corn roast for the neighborhood and he would ask, "When is the corn dance?" (In his defense, sometimes there was dancing.)

The corn dance was last weekend. I didn't attend but I was there in my mind.

Pa Comes to Visit

One of our bedrooms has served many purposes. It's been a guest room. It was the daughter's room for a short period while she was in law school. Now, it's the oldies' room.

For people living in that room, they can change it or decorate it to their heart's content. I have a few photos on the wall that have stayed ... until now.

There's a great photo of my grandfather (the sane one, not Wild Bill) that has been in there forever. He's in full military uniform. He's young. He's handsome.

I came home from a trip a few weeks ago and that photo was propped on my bedroom mantel. I didn't think much about it. Maybe Big Daddy moved it. Maybe it fell down and no one knew where to put it.

Tonight I was sitting on the patio with the mother-in-law. Out of the blue, she said, "That man hasn't been coming around anymore." I am totally clueless. Is it houseboy? Is it my father? Is she stroking? I took a deep breath and asked the dreaded question -- "What man?"

Her response was, "The man in the photo. He kept appearing in our room so I took the photo down and put it in your bedroom."

I choose to believe he was looking for me.

Stashing

We live a life of abundance. Our home is warm in the winter and cool in the summer. There's a roof over our heads and food in the pantry and refrigerator. There are cars in our garage and we come and go as we please. I think about the soldiers serving our country or the many situations in the world that are heart-wrenching.

Yet, I've become a stasher.

My mother shared her homemade chocolate chip cookies the other day. It was a big container and they were fabulous. The oldies ate them three times a day. The husband and I enjoyed them once a day. Then, I got a little nervous as the supply was dwindling.

The husband came home the other night and was frustrated that there were no more cookies. I got to be the hero and say, "Yes, there are. I have a stash!"

Just Say No

In the 80s, Nancy Reagan initiated an anti-drug campaign, "Just Say No." I'm not sure how successful it was because I keep reading about meth labs and drug-related crimes. But, the slogan stuck in my head.

Most women are pretty bad at saying "no." We'll tack on one more committee, one more commitment, one more dinner, one more project and one more appointment. Then we wonder why we're stressed and overwhelmed.

The husband and the oldies seem to have mastered the ability. Occasionally, I will suggest something to the husband and he has no difficulty saying, "No, I don't want to do that." I am still proposing activities to the oldies -- I just can't help myself -- and they have no problem saying "No."

I'm taking this in baby steps. I like mindless movies and comedies. The other night, I managed to get in bed and have possession of the remote control. The husband came in and asked, "May I change this?"

I said "No."

Self-Absorbed

My friend, BB, is a regular reader of my blog/brog. She doesn't have Internet access so it must be printed out for her. It is highly flattering to me that she cares enough to read it.

A few weeks ago, she went with some girlfriends to Branson, Missouri -- one of my worst nightmares. During the trip, she was reading some of the blog entries aloud. (Oh, to have been able to eavesdrop on that!) A woman commented that the writer seems pretty self-absorbed. Remember the child on the playground who would get irritated and say, "It's my ball and I'm taking it home?" Same concept. She refused to share any more. If possible, I love her even more for jumping to my defense.

Here's the reality: I am slightly self-absorbed. Writing about my life and living with the oldies requires sharing my thoughts and my feelings. So, the lady was probably right. It is about me, me, me.

Self-absorbed is an ok thing. I think we need more of it. Women need to be more self-absorbed. The world functions better when women take care of their health and their mental state. Sometimes that requires a little introspection.

This is different than self-centered, although I have been there too. Remember, I'm an only child and it took me a few years/decades to realize that the world did not revolve around me. (The Unabomber is 84-years old and he has yet to figure this out.)

It comes back to the neighborhood of my childhood. These people have watched me grow up along side their own children. They've loved me and they've disciplined me. They've known my sweet side and my bratty side. I've annoyed them and I've adored them. I've never doubted their affection. I have a pseudo sister. I also have lots of pseudo parents.

When the baby was little, I would kneel with him as he said his prayers, "Now I lay me down to sleep ..." When we got to the part of, "Please bless and protect so and so," the list became endless. One night, he looked at me and said, "I have so many people who love me!"

It's a pretty cool feeling.

In Search of ...

Once again, I am in awe of the oldies. When she has a mission, she dresses him up. props him in the car and heads off. They have lived in this city for a little less than two years, (20 months and 19 days,) but she is like a heat-seeking missile. She will find it. I've lived here my entire life and she's constantly sharing some discovery that I have never heard of. It can be the perfect summer outfit or the freshest fruit -- it's out there and she will bring it home.

I'm in search of a few things:
1. Jeans that are age-appropriate, flattering and don't cost $150.
2. Reading glasses and sun glass readers that don't make me look like a dork.
3. The perfect skin cream.
4. New clients that will treat my business with the same respect as I will treat theirs.
5. An organizational system that's easy and actually works.
6. Plastic surgery results without surgery.
7. The magic pill that keeps the dog's spirit but makes her well behaved.
8. A full night's sleep.

The oldies may not leave the house very often but when they do, she usually accomplishes her goal. Maybe I'll give her my list and see what happens.

Dogs with Jobs

After the horrific experience of 9/11/01 and the constant coverage of rescue and recovery, we were amazed at the heroics of policemen, firemen, ordinary citizens jumping in, etc. Can you believe that was almost six years ago?

Our old dog was with us then. Every news story showed a dog digging through the rubble. The husband used to say, "Look Holly, dogs with jobs."

We are Lab people. That is our breed of choice. Sometimes our newspaper will feature a Lab who has saved someone or serves as their seeing eye dog or helper. We have a tough time imagining our puppy serving in this capacity since her biggest talent seems to be knocking people down.

Dalmatians are usually identified as fire dogs. German Shepard's are usually identified as police dogs. Labs are the rescue dogs.

The only thing my Lab will rescue is her toy in the back yard. Then she'll probably jump on one of the oldies and I'll make another trip to the hospital. She's never actually hurt them but we've skirted around it. The mother-in-law loves to throw her ball but then you have to squinch your eyes, knock on wood and say a quick prayer that she won't throw herself on this tiny person.

The husband thinks she needs more training. I think she needs a job.

Behind Closed Doors

Privacy is a good thing. I respect it and I hope other people respect mine. Yet, it's difficult for me. I've seen the oldies fall so I always have one ear tuned for disaster.

She buys an awful lot of bleach and carries it back to their end of the house. What is she bleaching? They burn candles. I'm constantly checking our smoke detectors. I don't want to invade their space but I get worried. I knock before entering.

Sometimes I close the door to my office; sometimes I close the door to my bedroom. But, for the most part, my doors are open.

We have a door between our back hallway and the garage. As all the workout girls will tell you, the knob is funky and it sticks. This morning, we couldn't get it to open. The husband saw the flash of panic and claustrophobia in my eyes. He brought me back to earth by saying, "You know, we can just go out another door."

Unless you're living in my home, it's none of my business what you do behind closed doors. As for the door knob that is making me crazy, my dad will fix it.

Date Night

All of the TV and newspaper therapists seem to recommend date night as a way to stay connected or reconnect with your spouse. The husband and I have never lacked a social life but sometimes we fail to carve out time for just the two of us.

We don't have a standing date night or anything official. Occasionally, he will say, "Let's go out tonight -- just you and me." I swoon.

Sometimes date night doesn't go so well. It's tempting to save up all the family issues/work issues/to do list stuff and dump it on the spouse the moment you have his attention. Trust me ... this does not make for a romantic evening. It's also tempting to try to offer solutions when all the spouse wants to do is vent and feel supported and valued. I'm still learning this lesson. So is the husband.

The oldies don't have Date Night. It would be a little redundant since they never leave each other's side.

Big Daddy and I had a date last night. We laughed. We talked about everything we've experienced. We had a great time bragging to each other about the kids and their accomplishments. We traipsed down memory lane. We spent some of the time discussing a woman he dated before me. I reminded him that on our first "official" date, I told him he could date me or he could date around. He made a choice. He reminded me that he is the best thing that ever happened to me. (He's a little cocky.)

We fell asleep holding hands. Date Night is a good thing.

Sleep Envy

Restful sleep is no longer an easy process. I don't understand why or when this happened. I used to be able to fall asleep and stay asleep with no problem. Those days appear to be over. My parents used to joke that you could run a train through my room and I wouldn't wake up. I long for those days.

The oldies are good sleepers. She may prowl around during the night, but she has no problem curling up in bed (during the day) and accompanying him on a long winter's nap. The husband can announce that he's going to watch TV and be asleep in his chair in 30 seconds. He can get on an airplane and be asleep before we take off.

When the baby is here, his agenda is sleep. I used to think it was growth spurts but now I think he's inherited some gene that allows him to fall asleep at will.

The Unabomber can sleep anywhere ... a chair, the kitchen table, the car ... it doesn't matter. I know he's old but how tired can he be? Even the puppy has a sleep routine that seems to work for her.

I've tried all the tricks. Great sheets and lavender linen spray. Games in my head to bore myself. TV on; TV off. It's 1:03. It's 3:20. It's 4:25. Oops, now it's time to get up.

I'm jealous of those people who can sleep.

Ice Cream Solves it All

We've all heard the phrase, "Better living through pharmaceuticals." We are a quick fix/pop a pill society. I understand the motivation but I am terribly anti-pills. I take an Advil now and then. I take sinus medication occasionally. Other than that, I'll pass on the medication -- just give me some ice cream.

I'm not making light of life altering and life saving medications. Some of the other stuff is an easy out. I'll take the ice cream.

When the baby was younger, we regularly made chocolate malts. He still says it's one of his favorite foods. We had an old-time shake mixer like they had in soda shops. We wore it out so we had it rewired plus we bought a newfangled one, just for back up.

When I was a child, ice cream was our Saturday night treat. As an adult, one of my parents would (and still does) show up when I was feeling puny. They always brought ice cream.

Dessert is an indulgence for me, one I don't do very often. But ... when I'm depressed or sad, when I have a cold, when I'm feeling old, cranky or just sorry for myself, I don't need a pill. I need some ice cream.

Gray Areas

Indiana was once again featured in a little segment on the Today Show this morning. Clarian Health has instituted a new policy where they will fine employees with unhealthy lifestyles. Overweight? Smoke? High Blood Pressure? High Cholesterol? You will be fined. I'm oversimplifying but that's the gist of the concept.

I'm not sure how I feel about that.

The next segment was a priest who is instituting a new policy in his parish. If you have children in the catholic school system and receive the monetary waiver as a member, you must attend mass or pay a fine. If you go on vacation, you can bring the bulletin from whatever mass you attended and you'll be ok.

I'm not sure how I feel about that.

I have friends and a husband who do a lot of work in the health care world. I know the system is broken and we are all spending b'jillions of dollars unnecessarily. Yet, there's a part of me that says this is private. This is my choice.

It's kind of like abortion. I've never had one. Never even been in that situation. (Thank you God!) But, I have a HUGE problem with a bunch of people telling me what I can do with my body.

If I understand it correctly, our health care system is failing. People feel entitled. Diabetes is rampant. People are living longer, with major health issues.

All of the candidates seem to reduce it to a sound bite. No one has given a proposal that outlines solutions.

The husband and I are both Baby Boomers. The oldies are WWII veterans with lots of issues and lots of medical needs.

Is there a solution? I don't want Big Brother living in my house or looking over my shoulder.

I'm very clear on how I feel about that.

Timmy's in the Well

Most of you are too young to remember the TV series, "Lassie." It was convaluted, yet entertaining for the time. Lassie always saved the day. The best part was Lassie running up to a person and doing the "Woof Woof!" Then, the person would say, "What?! Oh my Gosh! Timmy's in the well?"

Of course, they always saved Timmy. (Was Roddy McDowell the original Timmy?)

This is an ongoing joke with our friends. We all have dogs. They can be vocal. If we're sitting around someone's patio or lake cottage and the dogs go nuts, the husband or his friend will say, "What? Timmy's in the well?" We've heard it a million times and we still laugh.

We sat on the patio with the oldies last night. The puppy was prowling the back yard and occasionally conversing with other neighborhood dogs. Big Daddy said, "Oh no, Timmy's in the well!" and I belly laughed. Even after he explained the reference, the oldies looked at us like we've gone psycho. Then, they went inside.

A belly laugh is good for you. It releases endorphins and it is just plain fun. I don't think I've ever heard either of the oldies crack up laughing. Thanks to surrounding myself with funny people, I usually manage a good belly laugh almost every day.

Don't Leave Me in the Car

When I was growing up, we had never heard of car jacking. Kidnappings were between rare and never. Seatbelts and car seats were optional. Helmets for a neighborhood bicycle ride did not cross our mind. Parents kept us safe but a lot has changed in how that is defined in the past few decades.

In those days, it was not unusual to lock the car door and leave a child (for a few moments) while you ran in to pick up dry cleaning or paid for gas. I am not talking about babies. Children who can walk, talk, scream, etc. could handle three minutes alone in the locked car. No one does this anymore but at the time, it was not abnormal.

I hated being left in the car. I usually misbehaved and got out anyway. I would go searching for my parent.

"Stay" didn't work with me and it doesn't work with the puppy. Yesterday, I called ahead so I could pick up something at the drug store. The entire transaction would take 30 seconds. I had the correct change. So, I left the puppy in the car, with the window rolled down about 1/3 of the way. The next thing I know, the dog is standing beside me in the drug store.

I should've scolded her but I understand the concept. As Big Daddy always tells me, I've somehow managed to adopt a dog with my personality.

You Hurt One of My Feelings

Like many great expressions, this one comes out of the mouth of a babe. One of our friend's daughter said this phrase to him a few years ago. Of course, it caught on.

My feelings have been hurt this week. There's probably too much going on and I'm striving to be a pleaser. People are coming and going. People have their own expectations and plans. What happens is, ultimately, you please no one. Sometimes angry words are exchanged or angry thoughts are put in emails. It serves no purpose.

Last week, the mother-in-law was a little chilly to me. Turns out, I'd hurt one of her husband's feelings.

Stag

The oldies do everything together. I am amazed/impressed/repulsed/awed. I have no judgment; it works for them.

The husband has a pretty stressful job. I can often add to his tension. Throw in kids and oldies -- well, this man deserves a break. His release is golf. Then, it's cards with his friends.

There is a section of our club that used to be called the "Men's Grill." There was a sign out front that said, "Men Only." A few years ago, they dedicated the grill to a great man's memory and changed the name to "Jordan's Grill." They made it available to the secondary sex.

The card room is part of/right off the grill. There's an unwritten rule that when the guys are in there playing cards, it's off limits to women. Do you know the concept of an invisible fence for a dog? It's kind of like that. You'll get a little (beep!) warning before you venture beyond your boundaries. If you move forward, you will get zapped.

I go in anyway, although not very often. Everyone acts happy to see me but I suspect that they wish I was wearing one of those zapping collars.

How Much Do You Weigh?

There are certain questions that are not polite to ask. At least, that's what I was taught. Politics and religion are tricky topics. "How old are you?" used to be taboo but that seems to have changed. I'll give you my opinion on current political situations. I'm anxious to hear what others think. I'll tell you my religious affiliation and I love a respectful debate. For years I was coy about my age but I'm over that now. If you ask, I tell the truth.

I won't tell my weight.

When my "sister" was 2-years old, she told anyone and everyone within shouting distance that she weighed 28 lbs. The baby used to tell everyone his weight. I guess we pay so much attention to height and weight charts when they're children, it's natural for them to be fascinated with these numbers.

There's a scale in my bathroom. The husband gets on it every day. Occasionally, he tells me the number. I rarely step on it. I know where I am by how my clothes fit. Sometimes I put my luggage on it to make sure I won't be charged for a bag that weighs more than 50 lbs. I've put the dog on it. Other than that, it's just one more thing I trip over as I stumble to the shower.

Sometimes the workout girls discuss weight. It's usually vague comments, "I feel fat," etc. (There is not a fat person in the room.) Rarely are numbers thrown around. I'm in safe territory because if someone asks me, I can honestly say I don't know.

I went to the doctor yesterday for myself and the oldies. The first thing they do is put you on that huge, ominous scale. Then, THEY WRITE IT DOWN! Another quirk, but this is not fun for me. Thankfully, my doctor is an honorable guy and a great friend. I'm fascinated with numbers but this number will remain our secret.

Jury Duty

There's so much going on in the world that I don't understand. I stay in my little coccon. Then, I get summoned for jury duty.

I am one of those odd people that ejoys it. It is my civic duty. People complain about waiting around. I think, "Yes! No cell phones allowed and I can read my book." I am called every year.

Sometimes I am dismissed immediately. The daughter is an attorney and she used to work for the prosecutor's office. The defense gives me the evil eye and says, "bye bye!" One of the questions they always ask is if you know any attorneys or judges. Due to Big Daddy's connections, I know quite a few.

Yet, occasionally, I make it to the jury. This is so fascinating to me. I love the process and I truly (maybe stupidly) feel like I am serving the common good. Plus, it's just good information. Once, I was jury foreman. You know how I like to be in charge.

Do you know what crack cocaine looks like? I do. They passed it around the jury box as evidence. Do you know the going rate for sexual acts on the street? I do. The accused spelled it out for us during the trial.

Then, I slither back into my safe little world ... no crack cocaine, no meth labs, no money paid for sexual favors. After jury duty, a house filled with clutter and oldies who are cranky seems like heaven on earth.

Married Forever

The oldies have been married 60+ years. My parents have been married 45+ years. My next-door neighbors have been married 35+ years, as have many of our friends. Yes, we've all seen our share of divorces among friends and acquaintances but there's a lot of long-married people in my world.

I've been married forever, if you count it cumulatively.

I never thought of myself as a woman who needs a man to complete her. My track record shows a different story. I've gone steady, been pinned, been engaged, been married and been divorced. When I met the husband, I had sworn off serious dating. Dinner was ok but everything else was off limits. I didn't trust my judgment; I didn't trust me.

Something clicked and we enjoyed dinner. Then, we enjoyed making each other laugh. Then we noticed we were spending more time together than apart. Then we got married.

Don't get me wrong. We're no one's idea of perfection. But, I look at the oldies ... I look at my parents ... I want to believe.

A Voyeur Moment

I always thought that a voyeur was a spy, someone who peeped on others. But, nerdy Sheri looked it up. It actually means, "a person who obtains sexual gratification from looking at the sexual actions or organs of others."

I enjoy spying on others but I get no sexual satisfaction from it. Guess I should stop referring to myself as a voyeur.

In my youth, we had a problem with peeping Toms in the neighborhood. My aunt and uncle lived down the street. He worked nights. She had a regular peeping Tom. So, she would call our house and we would all run to her. I was a child but I remember my mom, my other aunt (who lived with us at the time,) and I climbing in the car and screeching down the street. A broom was our weapon of choice.

In high school, my friend, J, and I used to spy on our boyfriends. She was/is tall and I was spry. I could stand on her shoulders and we could get a glimpse in windows. Then, someone would spot us. She would scream and start to run -- forgetting that I was on her shoulders. I landed in a lot of bushes but she always came back to save me.

Other people's homes are fascinating to me. I love to look at their decorating styles, their choice of collectibles, etc. Many years ago, a co-worker had a party for the department in his home. His wife collected everything -- Hummels, Precious Moments, and more. There were hundreds, if not thousands of them. I walked around thinking, "Who dusts all of this?" Last week, the husband and I attended a lovely wedding reception for a friend's son. It was held in their home and their gardens. The gardens were something out of Eden. Lush, beautiful and HIGH MAINTENANCE. I hope they have people to take care of that.

Other people's lives may look interesting but I remind myself of the old saying about the grass being greener on the other side. I watch men treat their wives like queens and I wonder, "Does he treat her like this at home or is this just for public consumption?" Everyone can put on a good front for a while. It's what happens behind closed doors that matters.

So, I will continue to spy and eavesdrop on the oldies. I wish I could still stand on J's shoulders. We could probably learn a lot. I've got to find a new word instead of voyeur -- maybe I'll just go with spy.

A touch of "T"

My friend, Big S., taught me this phrase. You don't need to say, "That's trashy." Or, she's kind of "trailer trash." (This usually comes up in conversations about Britney Spears.) The hip lingo is, "That is so T." I need to know this stuff, especially since I'm headed to the state fair next week.

I love the smell of clothes that I've dried outside. It's probably a throw back to my grandmother. (The sane one.) Everything hung on the clothesline and I ran weaving through the wet sheets. They were crisp and smelled like the sun.

I do not have a clothesline. The husband would die. Instead, I have a big, efficient dryer that performs admirably. Sometimes, it's not good enough for me. So, I hand wash the delicates and hang them from our tree in the back yard. Once, Big Daddy brought some people home for a drink and all of our unmentionables were hanging in the tree.

Yep, there's a little "T" in me.

Back to School

It's that time of year. Commercials are touting school supply bargains and parents everywhere are gearing up for the new school year.

I loved going back to school. I especially adored getting new school supplies. I like the smell of a newly sharpened pencil. The smooth surface of a new notebook makes me happy. I still have an absurd fondness for colored paper clips and bright highlighters. My search for the perfect cheap pen is ongoing.

The new school year is a fresh start; a clean slate. I miss going back to school so I will console myself by buying some new office supplies while the stores are well stocked.

Not a Saint

Occasionally, I run into someone I haven't seen in a while and they will ask if the oldies are still living with us. When I respond, they almost always say, "You're a saint."

Let me be clear. No, I am not. Not even close.

I try. Some days are better than others. I can be rude and I can be extremely cranky. I fall on my knees a lot and pray for strength, wisdom and guidance. I still fail. My big mouth gets me in trouble. My brain has difficulties distinguishing between battles worth fighting and those that are better to let go. I forget that the last word is not a worthy goal. I conveniently dismiss the fact that the oldies' lives have been changed way more than mine. I get selfish and have little pity parties in my head.

Sometimes my prayers are answered. I enjoy a nice evening on the patio with my mother-in-law. I notice that the father-in-law is getting stronger and walking taller. We share a (non-fried) meal and a few laughs. She plays the piano and I sing along.

Then, we all go to bed and prepare to start over the next day. Sainthood is not in my future.

Our State Fair

The husband hates the state fair. He refuses to go.

I'm somewhat of a snob but I love going to the state fair. My mother and I try to go every year. It's like the airport -- great people watching! We have our favorite foods and our favorite displays. We watch karaoke and we ride the train. Sometimes others go with us but it's a special time for us. We take a couple of hours and admire the bounty. Plus, we make fun of people. We don't do the midway or any of the barns.

I tried to convince the oldies to go last year. There's lots to see and do. "No, thank you."

The reputation of Hoosier Hospitality is well-deserved. A couple of years ago, my mother fell at the fair. I was not calm. Multiple people came to our aid. (She was a little scratched and bloody, but otherwise fine.) We can laugh about it now. Actually, we laughed about it on the way home.

Our state fair starts next week. I need to make a date with my mother.

I'm Bored with this Conversation

This is another case of different memories. My aunt tells a story of a luncheon where she's relaying an important story. She notices my mother's eyes wandering and calls her on it. My mother says, "You're boring me." In all fairness, my mother has a completely different recollection of this conversation.

The husband loves to tell me about his golf game, his golf swing, etc. I don't care. One year, he won a big tournament and wanted to brag. He put half of his winnings in my palm and said, "There, I just paid you to listen." These days, I try to defer it. I told him in March that he could have an entire evening in October to tell me about the season. Whenever he starts in with, "On the first hole ...," I respond with, "It's not October."

I'm guilty too. He doesn't care about the puppy walks or some trivial thing in my life. I keep talking and he zones me out.

The Unabomber tells the same stories over and over. The mother-in-law is rapt with her attention. It's kind of like watching political wives. When their husband gives a speech, they look at him like he is splitting the atom. I do not have this talent. I take my brain to Sheriland; I nod occasionally. I do not ask questions. This would prolong the conversation.

One of the quirkiest (and funniest) things about my mother is that when she's bored, she just hangs up. I call her back and say, "I was still talking." It's not subtle but I know that she is bored.

Cheating

My love of words has been with me a long time. I am dorky enough that reading the dictionary would be very fun for me. I loved spelling tests in school. As you know, Big Daddy and I love the crossword. He's probably smarter but I'm a better speller so that keeps us even.

In 6th grade, I sat beside a girl who could not spell. Every Friday, we had a spelling test. I started sliding my paper closer to her so she could see the answers. (I was trying to help!) I got caught and my report card for that period showed an "F" in spelling plus the teacher wrote "Cheating!" across the card. I was totally humiliated. Here I am, about 11 or 12-years old, an excellent speller and I am being punished. I had never received an "F" and I was taught to help people. This bugs me still.

We all cheat. Some people cheat on their taxes. Some people cheat on their spouses. The oldies have regularly cheated death -- heart problems, cancer, falls, etc. I take great pleasure in their better health.

For the oldies, it's doctor's appointments and then it's eat, sleep, repeat. This is no way to live. I have given up suggesting museums, plays, parks ... there is no interest. The oldies are cheating themselves out of life.

Walk Sheri Walk

Walking is my escape. I walk the puppy twice a day. If I'm frustrated or brain dead, I go for a walk. When the oldies are cooking something strange in my kitchen, I go for a walk. When I am angry or antsy, I go for a walk.

I love my neighborhood. It's quiet and secluded. There's one way in and one way out. There's rarely any traffic. (I could never live in one of those neighborhoods with a million streets. I'd need breadcrumbs to find my way home.) In the movie, Forrest Gump, Jenny would bellow, "Run Forrest Run." I don't run anymore. My knees and hips can't take it. Other parts of my anatomy don't need to droop any further. But boy, I can walk.

If I ever find my way out of this neighborhood, I may end up in Utah.