Call Me Sir

My girlfriend told me a funny story about her husband. He was making fun of their neighbor because the grandkids call him Papaw. It's a fine name but we Baby Boomers get a little weird about names like Grandpa, Papaw, etc. It might make us seem old and we're not ready to be old.

Her husband decided that his (yet-to-be) grandchildren will call him, "Mr. England."

Another one of my friends expected her grandmother name to be Millie. Before her daughter had children, the son-in-law referred to her as Millie, (Mother-In-Law=MIL) but then the grandchildren started coming and now she's Dah. Go figure. She didn't get a vote.

Another friend used her initials -- CC. It went from CC to Chi Chi to Grandma Chi Chi.

I will probably be thrilled if anyone calls me Grandma. But just in case I need a back up plan, I'm going to use my initials SRR. If you blur it out and let it roll off your tongue, there could be children running around who call me "Sir."

Gift Cards

I used to be kind of a snob about gift cards. In my mind, it meant that I wasn't willing to take the time and thought to buy a personal gift. I have been converted.

There is not a person in my world who needs another posession. They certainly don't need me picking out a knick knack for them to stash and probably sell later on eBay. Yes, my parents have been giving me a book store gift card for years. It's my favorite! I have a book fetish and I want to pick them out myself. I have a Target problem and it's oh so fun to have a gift card and get to discover the treasures for myself. Maybe I want shoes or maybe I just want to stock up on toilet paper.

The oldies love the warehouse stores. They also love the bakery around the corner. For his upcoming birthday, I may get a gift card and he can fall into the beloved sugar coma.

Last Christmas, the daughter gave me a gift card for a massage. It was truly one of the best gifts I've received in years.

It's really fun when you stumble on something that's a perfect fit for a person in your life. It's not fun when you're racking your brain and scrambling for a gift when they would probably prefer to pick something out themselves.

I know it's crass that everyone knows what you spent. I've moved on. Unless something jumps out at me, I'm declaring the upcoming holiday season, "The Year of the Gift Card."

Ten dollars goes a long way in that $1 section at Target.

Locking Myself In

I'm pretty good about locking myself in my office when I need to think. I'll even lock myself in the bedroom for some quiet time. I'm the one who makes the rounds at night to make sure all doors are locked. But, I've always been pretty lax about unlocked doors during the day. I go in and out. The dog goes in and out. Plus, there is almost always someone here.

After numerous comments/lectures from my father and houseboy, I have changed this habit. I lock every door. And once again, I'm in trouble.

The husband comes in through the door from the garage to the back hallway. I have no idea why carrying a key is beyond him. I have no idea why a locked door seems to be a personal affront. He doesn't understand why that particular door needs to be locked. In his mind, if the garage door is down, that door should remain unlocked.

A few days ago, I explained that I lock it because I am home alone. To which he replied, "No, you're not. The oldies are here." (Yeah, that makes me feel safe.) They are so used to traffic in and out of this house. If a random burglar (or worse) came in, they probably wouldn't wake up. If they did, they would assume it was someone I know and I've given permission to remove all of our worldly goods.

There are two ironies:
1. I lock every door before I go to bed. When the oldies are here, she roams at night, goes outside to smoke, etc. I wake up almost every morning to find two doors unlocked.

2. My mother works nights so my father does the lock-up routine in their house. He repeatedly locks her out of their bedroom. It makes her crazy.
The oldies are on their trip. I am occasionally (blessedly) alone. The door in debate is locked.

Bed Hopping

The husband works very hard. He also plays (golf) very hard. Sometimes he falls asleep in his chair in the evenings. I used to be the sweet wife: "Come to bed, Honey." Then I realized that he wakes up with such a shock that I refuse to be responsible for a heart attack or a stroke. If he's sleeping comfortably, I leave him there. He'll wake up eventually and crawl in bed.

Sometimes we get cranky. You're thrashing! You're snoring! Get your knee off of me.

We both like to fall asleep with the television. Unless it's one of those great Discovery/History/Court TV Channel stories that captures my interest, I'll find another room.

Our cable went out the other day. It was only the digital cable -- basic cable was still functioning. I couldn't find him. I finally found him in the baby's room, watching some sports.

We hop around. I'll take this sofa and this tv. Then, we act like 12-year-olds and sneak up on each other. "What are you watching?" We're stealth bombers with the remotes. If I think he's dozing, I'll grab it. The other night, I put the bedroom remote in a drawer. When he asked for it, I said, "No, you are not sharing so it has gone away for a while."

Last night he was watching sports in our bedroom. He fell asleep. I crawled into bed and changed the channel.

Bad Dogs Have More Fun

Any dog lover worth his or her salt has read the runaway hit book, Marley and Me, by John Grogan. Especially if you own (or have ever owned) a Lab or any Retriever.

Grogan has a new book out titled, Bad Dogs Have More Fun. It's a collection of articles he did for The Philadelphia Inquirer. The topics go beyond dog stories and it's a fun little read. Here's an excerpt:

The current Lab-in-residence at the Grogan house thinks "Come!" is a suggestion she is happy to take under advisement and get back to us on. She's never met a rustling leaf that hasn't been worth barking herself hoarse over.

... Gracie's unique gift is her eye-tongue coordination. This allows her to leap into the air and smash her snout into our faces at the exact moment we are opening our mouths to speak, allowing her to jam her tongue where no canine tongue was meant to go. We call her the Phantom Frencher.

Beyond the fun stories, the title makes me laugh. Plus, the cover shot is precious. I have given the book an honor spot on my kitchen window sill so I will smile every time I do dishes or stroll through the kitchen.

I threatened to send Gabby with the oldies. She's still right by my side. So, I'm going to load my bad dog in the car and take her to the lake for the season's last hurrah.

Why We Stay

I am madly and passionately in love with the husband. Sometimes this has served me well. Other times, it has made me want to beat my head against the wall so I can feel the relief when I stop and the pain abates.

Most of the time, I think he likes me a little bit too. But, make no mistake, I make him crazy. Although I have been wedded before, this is my first marriage. No one explained the complications, the idiosyncrasies, the day in and day out issues that never seem to go away. We have been married many years and we seem to keep having the same discussions.

He runs a company. There may be some opinions but ultimately, he gets to give the directives. He's in a band. They may discuss things but from my observation, if it's not ok with him, it's not going to fly. He's on committees or the head of committees. He's ok with the debate and then he's going to make the decisions he needs to make. That's part of his charm. While the rest of us could debate things into oblivion, he's made a decision and moved on.

Then he comes home and tries to order me around. My mantra is, "You are not the boss of me. Check it at the door."

I can't answer for anyone but me. Here's why I stay: When I fall into his arms at night and let the worries of the day fall briefly away, I remember how I got here. I can be mad about the oldies, some money situation, or something equally silly. I remember taking some vows.

I snuggle in, breathe in and know this is where I belong.

Herring in REAL Sour Cream

One of the last things the mother-in-law said to me before they left on their big adventure was, "I know you'll go through and throw things away."

You betcha!

I tackled the refrigerators yesterday. I threw away half sandwiches, carry-out Chinese food, leftover casseroles and soup, Head Cheese, and my personal favorite: Herring in REAL sour cream. (No, I did not throw up on the kitchen floor but I wanted to.)

The husband hates leftovers unless it's something with a shelf life, like chili or a really good soup. I give leftovers a 24-hour window. If we didn't eat it for dinner, it might become my lunch the next day. After that, it's out of here.

The oldies must have some secret stock in aluminum foil and plastic wrap. They will save 1/2 a slice of bread with 2 spoonfuls of a casserole. No one ever eats it. But we spend the time and the resources to wrap it up.

Next, I'm on to the pantry.

They're Off!

The oldies have actually left on their trip. I sort of kicked them out the door with my constant comments, "What can I do to help you pack?" "Do you need me to load the car?" I had a little meltdown on Saturday when she showed up with grocery bags. Yes, I did say, "I thought you were leaving on your trip. Why do we need all these groceries?"

**WARNING** They are in Nashville, TN at the moment and headed for Mississippi in the next couple of days. When she told me they were leaving on Sunday and would not make Mississippi until Wednesday (at the earliest,) I figured they're going via Canada. But, I kept my mouth shut.

The first two hours of their trip involved returning home twice. Once, she thought she had forgotten her cell phone but it was in her purse the entire time. The second time, she had forgotten her cash. Maybe they stash it under the mattress. If she has her handbag, how can she not have the cash?

Big Daddy did the happy dance. Then we made a bet. I know she has many people to see and plans to visit and gallivant for at least two weeks, maybe three. He thinks the Unabomber will berate her repeatedly to come home and be comfortable in his own bed. He's probably right but I'm hoping not.

The only thing that will keep him away is the fact that he hates the dog. If she even walks by him, he says, "Go away dog!" (I once tried to teach him her name but it took him a couple of years to remember my name so I've given up on that.)

When I was loading their car yesterday, I said, "By the way, I'm sending Gabby with you for protection." The mother-in-law thought this was very funny. He didn't get it.

They've been gone less than 24 hours and I'm hearing phantom sounds. I sit in my office and think I hear them coming down the hallway. I woke up last night and thought I heard them in the kitchen. About the time I get used to Big Daddy and I having the house to ourselves, they will return.

Even though I gripe all the time, I'll probably welcome them with open arms. And, I'll probably owe Big Daddy $5.

Air Conditioning

If you're over a certain age and did not grow up in opulence, the odds are pretty good that you survived without air conditioning. I did.

From kindergarten to college, none of my schools had central air. This is considered cruel and unusual today. People write editorials about how we can't expect children to learn in a building without air conditioning. Well, there are countless generations of children who managed to get a fine education while sweating.

My parents did not own a car with air conditioning until I left home. I don't recall it stopping us from going anywhere. There was this ingenious gizmo called the window handle and if you rolled down the window, the air blew through and cooled you off.

At some point in my childhood, my parents bought a window air conditioner for our home. It kept the kitchen and living room at a cooler temperature but it never quite made it to the bedrooms. We used fans.

My grandmother (the sane one) lived to almost 80 and she never had air conditioning in her home. When I would spend the night with her, she would allow us to dampen the top sheet. A cool sheet with a fan blowing on you did a better job of keeping the heat at bay than any air conditioner.

We're all spoiled now. Even my parents gave in to central air many, many years ago. (I suspect it was to keep the dogs comfortable.) No one owns a car without air conditioning. The baby took a window unit off to college with him.

I love the times of year when you don't need heat or air conditioning. Just throw open a window and feel the breeze. It's horrible for my allergies but I don't care. The husband has a little fit, closes windows and turns the air conditioning back on. He likes it very cool in our home. I think he's trying to freeze out the oldies. Even though I love the open windows, when I'm periodically hot flashing you can't get it cold enough for me.

Since the oldies have lived with us (almost two years,) I have never seen the Unabomber without a heavy robe, hooded sweatshirt (my fave!,) or a jacket of some sort. Whenever he comments, "It's freezing in here," the husband ignores him. So, he goes back to the bedroom, burrows under the covers and has her crank up the fireplace.

Life is full of trade-offs. My house is cool but our gas bill is over the moon.

The Little House

I know very few people who have more than five children. Maybe it's the availability of birth control or more channels on television, but two to four children seems to be the norm. The oldies had four children. She came from a family of 12, 14, whatever. He is an only child.

Big families used to be the norm. My grandmothers were sisters. One was the birth mother and one was the earth mother who raised my mother and her sisters. It sounds bizarre but you would not believe how many people I have met in my life who have been raised by a grandmother, an aunt, or a sister.

I think there were 13 or so children in that family. I have a photo of all of them sitting on a porch and my grandmother wrote at the bottom, "A happy family and a happy home" It didn't look that great to me. In fact, my loony grandmother looked rather annoyed at the whole situation. In the photo, all of the family is together, yet, she's sitting off by herself.

My great grandfather (who I actually remember) made everyone welcome in his home. At one point, they took the detached garage and converted it into a "little house." Majorly small! But, it was functional and a lot of relatives lived there over the years. Some families name their homes/estates. We had a name too. Where's so and so? Oh, probably back in the "little house." When I spent time with my grandmother, (the sane one,) there would often be many of her brothers hanging out in the back yard, yucking it up, drinking and doing their version of a jam session on guitars. My mother would pluck me out of my little sandbox and remove me from that scene.

Once again she was right. A couple of them eventually did some time in the "big house."

Don't Toy With Me

Have you ever watched a child's face when someone puts out a plate of cookies and then says, "You can't have one yet." Have you ever watched a dog go crazy for a toy or a bone that is just slightly out of reach?

That's me.

The oldies proposed this road trip. It was entirely their/her idea. But yes, I did get a little overly excited as did the husband. He calls me from work every day and asks, "Have they left? Are they leaving today?"

I am not subtle. I wish I could be. Instead, I start saying things like, "Great forecast today. Good day for a drive."

She's been piling clothes for days so I assume the packing is underway. A few days ago, she informed me that they had to wait for some medication to arrive from the VA. I offered to go get it. No, no -- that's not necessary! Then, we were informed that she had a hair appointment so they couldn't leave until that was taken care of.

Yesterday, the drugs arrived. I signed for them. Yesterday, she had her hair done. I don't know what today's excuse will be but I do wish she would stop toying with me.

Flukes

Sometimes there's a story on the news that's partially tragic, partially heroic and to my demented humor, hysterically funny. Last week after workout, the girlfriends and I watched an interview with a man who survived a bowling ball crashing through the windshield of his 18-wheeler. His wife was sleeping in the back. Although he was battered and bruised, he's ok. When the camera panned out, one of the girlfriends said, "It looks like he swallowed the bowling ball."

This week, there was a tragic para sailing accident. The wind was crazy and two girls were slammed into rocks or something. Yes, it's horrible that one of the girls died but IT WAS A FLUKE! Thousands of people para sail everyday. I'm the biggest weenie ever and I've done it twice. I've signed the consent form for the baby to do it and he promptly proclaimed it, "Boring." Now the mother is trying to get some legislation passed to regulate para sailing. The oldies commented that this sounds like a good idea. I disagree for three reasons:

1. We are so over-regulated.
2. Most para sailing happens on vacation. Mexico, the Caribbean, the Bahamas, etc. Our legislation has zero impact there.
3. Some personal (or parental) responsibility has to come into play. I don't need Congress to tell me that para sailing is not the wisest idea when the winds are crazy.

Flukes happen. It's awful, but true. I would not wish the pain of losing a child on anyone but we do not need new legislation. Set up a foundation. Donate an organ. Endow a chair in her name. Set up a scholarship. Organize a run/walk in her honor. Do anything except take up time that could be used to solve some of the serious problems in this country. Para sailing doesn't make the top 100.

Next we might draft some legislation about bowling balls.

Picking Paint Colors

Although my dad is semi-retired, he still seems to work an awful lot. One of his talents that is most in demand is painting. I don't recall a single residence that I've lived in that he hasn't done a lot of painting. Of course, I have referred him to many of my girlfriends so I don't think he'll ever run out of projects.

My friend Mickey and her husband are on a 10-day trip/cruise in Italy. (Have I mentioned how much I want to go to Italy? I am totally jealous.) It made sense to have some painting done while they're gone so she hired my dad and had some sample colors picked out.

Here's the scary part. She called me the night before they left and said, "If your dad has any questions about the colors, you have my proxy to change them." Such responsibility! And of course, he did have questions -- he didn't like one of the accent colors. So, I went over and I hated it too. I used my proxy and suggested a different color. I drove over the next day to see one wall, just to make sure it worked.

Today I'm going to stop by to see the finished project. She comes home in three days. What if she hates it? I think I'm developing an ulcer over this.

In our old house, there was a pink stripe in the carpeting around the great room. (It sounds awful but it was pretty and picked up the pink in the stained glass.) I had the brilliant idea to use some pink on the walls. I went away and came home to a room the color of Pepto Bismol. Since that experience, I've had serious doubts about my ability to pick paint colors.

My dad says it looks great. I sure hope she agrees. If not, I may max out a credit card and run away to Italy.

The Lure of Target

I love going to Target. I actually fantasize about it. I'm trying to exercise some self-control because I always get into trouble. (I have never walked into a Target without spending $100 minimum. Some trips have rivaled the national debt of small countries.) I am not a shopper but there's something about Target -- I want it all! Even the cat toys look appealing and I don't own a cat.

Yippee Yah Hoo! Today, I went to Target.

The first thing that hits you at my local Target is the dollar section. A lot of it is goofy stuff for kids but occasionally they put some good stuff in there. Forget Vegas, I hit the jackpot at Target. Readers of all strengths and multiple colors for $1. What? One dollar? I bought three pairs.

Some people enjoy buying designer shoes at $300 a pop. I bought two cute pairs of flats for $12.99 each.

I bought a pair of jeans for $22.99. I own jillions of jeans but I tried them on, liked them and made the executive decision to own them.

The rest of my list was boring: paper products, dog food, etc. I can be mesmerized in these sections too.

In the pet section, I did not escape with just food. A couple of treats, a new toy, and Oh, look at this dog cushion on sale for $12.99. Maybe I'll stick that in my office for Gabby. Yep, I bought it.

The oldies love to go to Walmart. I hate Walmart. I have had so many bad experiences with clerks, merchandise, and the clientele that I refuse to go there.

Even with my diversions, I managed to escape Target with a bill of $150. I get to back in a month and a half!

She Wants an iPod

This family is filled with music nuts. The husband plays in a band and listens to music every day. He and his mother relax by sitting at the piano and playing by ear. Both children have a fascination with music -- they're constantly introducing us to new groups or discovering musical interpretations that we've known for years. They both attend lots of concerts. Now the daughter lives in Austin, one of the music capitals of the country.

Thanks to the family, I own an iPod. Big Daddy, the daughter and the baby all have their own. I am not very skilled with programming it but I do listen to it every day. My favorite times are in the car or plopping it in my speaker system and taking it out on the patio. I have sole possession of the remote control.

Now the mother-in-law wants an iPod. She is not subtle. Every time she sees me headed to the patio with my little speaker system (remote control in hand,) she announces, "I want one of those." When she's in my car and I plug it in, she says, "I want one of those."

She did it again last night. I wanted to scream, "Then go buy one!" But I didn't. The husband said, "Maybe you should write a note to Santa." (That caused a little mini-stroke because I'm slapped with the knowledge that another holiday season is approaching and we will have passed the two year mark.)

We get a million catalogs. One of them is old music on CDs. For Christmas last year, I bought her every single one she had circled. Between what she already owned and the additions to her collection, she's built up quite a music library.

So, the husband said, "Even if you get an iPod, someone has to program it."

Suddenly, all eyes were on me.

In-Laws

I am blessed with lots of in-laws. The two I write about most frequently are the husband's parents, but I have more.

Big Daddy has three brothers so I have three sisters-in-law. I have more in common with some than others but we all live in different states so it's easy to get along. I adore their children and I'm grateful for the gift of being "Aunt Sheri." I have an ex-sister-in-law (I hate that phrase but I can't find any other way to describe it) and I try to keep in touch with her too.

I have two wives-in-law. In the 70's, George Jones stood at the podium for some music award and said something like this about the love of his life, who had just remarried:

"I'd like to congratulate Tammy Wynette and my new husband-in-law."

My wives-in-law have allowed me to help mold the two best children. Instead of being threatened, they've picked up the phone and said, "What do you think about this? How should we handle it?" They've welcomed me and my input without ugliness. (Ok, a little ugliness here and there but never in front of the children.)

Shortly after the oldies moved here, I was headed out the door for a lunch meeting. She asked me about it and I said, "I'm going to meet my father-in-law." Yes, I am divorced from his son. He is still my father-in-law. Sometimes, Big Daddy and I make a point to go see their other son play in an event. I don't say, "This is my ex-brother-in-law."

It's complicated yet, we don't have to over complicate it. Some marriages ended. Mine, Big Daddy's. We've been there. My love still hangs in there. When the baby was going through the graduation rituals, parties, etc., we adored having time with his maternal grandparents. They send us Christmas cards. They've given us homemade gifts. When the daughter lost her maternal grandmother, we all went to the funeral. We all missed her.

Tonight, my parents are having dinner with my in-laws -- not the oldies, the previous ones. I desperately want to be there, but I won't. I'm so proud that this relationship has survived. I'm thrilled that a marriage that didn't last produced a friendship that did.

Purple

If you met me today, you might be a little suspicious.

The dog and I had a collision. Her head with my shin and it's now a lovely color, almost like eggplant. Big Daddy was thrashing in bed and now I have an equally colorful bruise on my other leg.

I was trying to help the oldies by browning a big ol' piece of meat before putting it in the oven for them. (Yes, I try to help.) Some oil splashed and I have two burn marks that are healing. They're also in the purple family.

I'm not that big but I'm pretty hardy. On more than one occasion my mother has threatened to snap me like a twig. There are two reasons that would never happen:

1. She would have to catch me. Although my lungs might turn purple, I would win.
2. She's my biggest fan and champion. We would just fall down laughing and hugging. Then, we would both have new bruises.

When I got married the first time, my bridesmaids wore a lovely shade of lilac/lavendar. My mother wore a deep purple color. I didn't realize it was destined to be my color for life.

Can I Help?

The mother-in-law poked her head in my office this morning asking if I planned to use the laundry room today. Knowing her need to get everything prepared for their impending trip, I said, "No. I'm not doing laundry today. Need any help?"

Houseboy was seeding and weeding today. I mentioned to her that he could bring some luggage up from the basement. When he was downstairs, I said, "I'll help."

She's checking routes and making lists of people to contact. I'll help.

She's not the only one who needs help.

Another Trip and The Happy Dance

Last week was interesting. The oldies spent more time in bed than out of it. I expressed my concerns more than once. Ok, more than twice. There were several days that he only came out to eat.

With that in mind, imagine my shock when they announced last night that they're going on a road trip. What? They've decided to go to Mississippi -- an 8 to 10 hour drive, depending on traffic. They'll stop along the way to visit relatives and friends. The angel on my shoulder said I should be concerned about their ability to make this trip, even with numerous stops.

The devil on my shoulder said, "Be happy!" So I moved out of their line of vision to a spot where only the husband could see me. Then, I did my happy dance! He burst out laughing but he covered it well.

Instead of trying to talk them out of this trip, we both said, (in unison,) "When are you leaving?" They fudged the answer. Something about packing and laundry and getting new clothes so I figure it will be 3 or 4 weeks away.

I take everything personally so I know they are trying to escape me and my endless questions. They need a break from us and we need a break from them. I will help them pack. I will loan all the luggage they can load.

Then, I will catch the husband's eye and I will do my happy dance again.

Juxtapositions

Life is about choices and I'm one of those people who has an opinion on everything. That does not mean that I don't find or wallow in the gray areas. Here are a few:

Love means never having to say you're sorry
Or
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

Go big or stay home.
Or
Everything in moderation.

Tout every success
Or
Modesty is a virtue.

If you're not the lead dog, the view never changes
Or
Duck & cover.

You can't take it with you
Or
Save for a rainy day.

Pick yourself up and try, try again
Or
Know when to fold 'em.

I don't know the answers but I spend an inordinate amount of time pondering the questions.

Just Waiting to Die

Houseboy is here today and as usual, he's extremely kind to the oldies. He brings them sugary treats and respects their comfort zone. He deals with their room first and let's them know when they can go back to bed.

I happened to overhear a portion of conversation. Their response to his, "It's a beautiful day, how are you?" got this response: "We're just waiting to die."

This hurt (one of my) feelings on multiple levels. Their health is better than it has been in a decade. There is ample food in this house. There's a roof over their heads and a car in the driveway. I have dealt with bills, junk mail, etc. I write out directions for anywhere they would like to go. Big Daddy and I take them out to many places. Neighbors, friends and my parents treat them like royalty.

The husband is playing in a golf competition this afternoon. I asked her to go with me to watch it for a bit and cheer on her son. No! Not going to happen without the Unabomber. I'm not a big person and she's not a big person but we cannot fit three of us in a golf cart (with canes and walkers) unless one of us hangs off the back. Since I would have to drive, that might be a little cruel.

I lost a friend this week. A glib remark like, "We're just waiting to die" was like punching me in the gut.

Losing Friends

We lost a friend this week. He fought a tough battle and I tell myself that he is in a better place. Yet, I had a very candid conversation (one-sided) with God and I expressed my anger. Our friend was 53.

The oldies are 84. I wish them nothing but health and a wonderful quality of life. Yet, why did this man get 31 fewer years? He will never see his children marry. He will never know his grandchildren.

The husband and I have lost friends to everything imaginable: cancer and leukemia, heart attacks, old age, car accidents, plane crashes, and more. We've watched friends bury children, which is almost more than I can take.

I had an interesting dream last night and I choose to believe it was God speaking to me. The message was: Maybe the reason you seem to lose so many friends is because you are blessed with many friends. It wasn't a tap on the shoulder; it was a baseball bat to the head.

I woke up in a cold sweat. If possible, I will hug and say "I love you" more often than ever.

Rest in Peace, Billy Baker. I will always remember your amazing smile.

Kamikazi Birds

Birds are a sign of evil, at least that's what my wacky grandmother taught me. Then, she ended up owning a pet bird later in life. She would let Petie fly around her apartment and land on her head or arm. Go figure.

We have a tree in our back yard that produces some sort of wild berry. This is time of year when the berries ferment and fall. The birds go crazy eating them and then they get confused (or drunk) and fly repeatedly into windows. Bang! Sometimes they can shake it off and fly away. Other times, they bash their little heads and they die in my yard. Gabby thinks this is great fun so I must deal with their corpses. This causes me to squeal. I'm always hopeful houseboy is here or my dad will show up when I'm faced with this situation. Yes, I am a wimp.

But, when I have to do it, I can.

9/11

Today is the 6th anniversary of the 9/11/01 attacks. I can't believe it's been six years.

I love New York. I go whenever possible. I have a gut-wrenching sadness when we fly over Manhattan and the twin towers are gone.

On that terrible morning, I was serving on a golf committee so I watched the devastation on the tiny television in the ladies locker room. We didn't realize the implications when the first plane hit so we went out on the course. Thanks to cell phones, we started to receive updates about what was happening to our country.

Once I got home, I fielded numerous calls from friends and relatives wanting to make sure the husband wasn't in NY or on a plane. (Those were the days when he traveled to NY regularly.) Then, I tried to track down my numerous friends who live or work in Manhattan. The phone lines were all down and cell phones weren't working. One of my friends was in one of the World Trade Center buildings, not the towers. He witnessed people jumping to their deaths. He saw the collapse of both towers. It was at least two years before he could talk about it.

Later on that dreadful day, I sat with girlfriends and watched the coverage. Trying to understand ... trying to cope ...

I left every television in my home on for at least 5 days. 24/7.

Once they resumed air travel, the husband and I got on a plane headed to Houston. I sat on the plane, reading a newspaper article about terrorist cells. They had just discovered a huge one in Houston. I stood up and took inventory of passengers. (Yes, I was profiling.) I watched everyone who headed for the lavatories or moved toward the front of the cabin. I made notes. Big Daddy was appalled. He kept tugging at me to sit down but it didn't work.

Life is back to normal but those threats are still looming. Today, I will wallow in the memories.

Better Living Through Pharmaceuticals

Is it my imagination or is everyone on some happy pill?

I am not a doctor, although my doctor will tell you I like to pretend I am. There are jillions of kids being diagnosed with ADD or ADHD. (Here's a pill.) There are millions of people being diagnosed as depressed or bi-polar. (Here's a pill.) Now, there's a commercial on television about Restless Leg Syndrome. (There's a pill.) If you're jittery or on edge, I'll bet your doctor will give you a pill. And what about autism? I have no doubt it's a legitimate disease but come on. Some children are just high strung. They do not have ADD, ADHD or Autism. My leg twitches at night. I do not have Restless Leg Syndrome (if there is such a thing) and I do not take a pill. I just kick Big Daddy.

The oldies self medicate and occasionally over medicate. It's terribly frightening to me. I understand the urge to get some sleep but I can't go there. I can barely take a pill.

I had a conversation the other day with a friend and he/she said their marriage was so much better once the spouse starting taking a happy pill. I will not tell Big Daddy about this conversation because he will have me on drugs so fast I will not know what hit me. (Just kidding!)

Litter Mates

I was lamenting about how the dog obeys the husband but totally ignores my commands. My friend, Dean Crow, explained it to me. He said, "She doesn't see you as an authority figure. You're her litter mate."

How sad, but true! I am the one who hands out treats. I am the one who finds the naughty behavior cute on occasion. When I decide to be the disciplinarian, it just confuses her.

The oldies do a similar thing. They curl up in their litter box (bed) for eons. They're there for each other as spouses and friends. Mostly, they're litter mates.

UFOs

The husband thinks it's conceited and absurd to believe that there isn't life on other planets. I don't know. But, I do know I have experienced two UFO sightings in my life.

The first time was a perfectly clear and calm night. My girlfriend (J) lived a couple of streets away and our usual custom was to meet each other half way. We met at our designated spot and headed back to my house. A large, low-flying thing appeared in the sky and proceeded to hover above us. At first we were just teasing each other about it being a UFO. We started to walk a little faster. It still hovered. Then we ran. We raced in the house, threw open my bedroom window and watched for a few more minutes. It hung within our sight for a few more minutes and then flew away.

The second time was with my Aunt Connie. We had a weekly ritual of going to the library and sometimes I got to spend the night in her apartment. We pulled into her parking lot, loaded with books and packages, and we noticed an odd-shaped thing in the sky. The lights were multi-colored and very vivid. As a joke, she rolled down the window and said, "Hey, we're over here!" It immediately zipped to us. Planes don't move like that. Helicopters don't move like that. We got out of the car and ran into her apartment. I was a 'fraidy cat (maybe she was too,) so we decided to call my parents. The phone was dead. So, while I was peeping out the window she ran to a neighbor to use the phone. Like the first sighting, it hovered a while and then zipped away.

Both of these incidents occurred when I was an adolescent. Yet, I still have UFO sightings every day.

I call them: Underfoot, Frying, Oldies.

Your Side

It's comforting to know someone is on your side. Sometimes the husband and I will have a discussion and one of us will say, "Please be on my side about this." It's an honest and reasonable plea so we usually comply. Or, we're very direct and say, "I can't."

The oldies never have this conversation. It is a moot point. He does what she tells him to do and she protects him like a pit bull on steroids.

Lately, I'm having a different twist on this conversation: Stay on your side.

When we visit our friend's lake cottage, the bed is smaller than our bed at home. The husband sprawls. So, I start chanting, "Stay on your side."

Occasionally, our dog will try to put her head in my lap or paw at me while I'm driving. I just say, "Stay on your side." Miraculously, this is one command she obeys.

Last night, I tried to get the bedroom remote control. The husband used two dog commands in combination: Not yours! and Stay on Your Side!

Garage Doors

My home is old. The automtic garage door contraption is a constant pain. Even though we replaced the entire unit a few years ago, it still gets out of whack. The oldies hit it with a walker or a cane. The dog bumps it. If you touch it while taking trash cans to the curb, it is no longer aligned.

Some very crafty person designed this system so the company could come out and fix it in a nanosecond, while charging $70 for a service call.

Garage door problems make me laugh because I remember my favorite story of all time.

J and I went out. They had a gravel driveway with a cement bumper in front of the garage. The rule was, let the tires hit the cement so you're far enough forward to let someone park behind you. So, we did. We pulled through the gravel, felt the bump of the cement and went to bed.

The next morning, her mother came in and asked, "Is there something you'd like to tell me?" Bleary and sleepy eyed, we looked at each other and tried to be telepathic. What did we do? We were sort of pleading with each other to save one another. It didn't work.

Finally, we went downstairs. Yes, we felt the bump because we (J) put the car through the garage door. In her defense, I was clueless.

How You Address Someone

I love people who address others as "Sir or Ma'am." These are titles of respect, especially when they come out of a young person. I sound like a dinosaur but I get a little sad that this formality has gone out of fashion, except in the deep south.

We Baby Boomers are partially to blame. We want to be young and hip forever.

The husband has always called my mother, "Mom." I think he started it as an ice breaker but it developed into a habit. I don't remember him ever calling her by her first name.

Before the oldies joined our household, we only saw them once or twice a year. (Oh, those were the days!) I didn't really call her by any particular name. Mrs. Roman seemed too formal; her first name seemed too chummy. Some of her grandchildren call her Grams but that seemed weird since she's not my grandmother. So, I would just wait patiently until she made eye contact with me and then speak to her.

I continued this little dance when they moved in. Finally, the husband called me on the carpet. "It would be nice if you called her Mom." Immediate, gutteral response: NO!!!! But then, I pondered and prayed. I reminded myself that the baby has called me Mom since he was a tot. The woman (my friend) who brought him into this world shared this wonderful title with me. Instead of jealousy, she embraced it. So, I agreed.

At first, it sort of stuck in my throat. But, with practice, it became easier. Now it just rolls off my tongue with zero thought. I completely underestimated the importance of this decision. We immediately became closer. And, just the address of "Mom" reminds us both of our relationship. With four sons, she has never had a girl/woman call her Mom.

When I was late teenage/young adult, I addressed my Aunt Connie as just Connie. No way, Jose! She yanked my tail and reminded me that being called Aunt was important to her. Well, you don't have to hit me twice. My aunts and great-aunts will attest to this: I never say their name without the Aunt attached.

There's an intimacy with names and titles. I get annoyed when a total stranger, like a store clerk, hands my credit card back and says, "Thank you, Sheri." I was born in the wrong era and I need to get over it. What happened to Mrs. Roman?

Then, the baby will call and say something like, "Mom, I love my classes." Or, "Mom, I need more book money." Or, "Mom, some people invited me to visit their fraternity." My brain misfires. All I hear is "Mom."

Bending The Rules

The husband and I have an agreement. When I take his car and put the dog in it, I will return it to him after it has been vacuumed. It's a harmless pact that works for us both.

Today I ran errands, met someone about a project and then popped in a car wash that was nearby. I asked about interior cleaning/vacuuming. They said no, that service is not available. Then, the nice manager came out to explain it to me again. So, I had two choices: get out of line and drive to another car wash or try to bend the rules. The conversation went like this:

Manager Man: I'm so sorry, Ma'am. Our insurance policy doesn't allow us to do interiors. We have coin-operated vacuums around the corner.

Me: I'm in a dress and this is an SUV. I have meetings to attend and I am not prepared to crawl around and vacuum. Would you please make an exception?

Manager Man: I'm afraid that would be breaking the rules, Ma'am.

Me: Do I look like a cop? Do I look like a representative from the insurance company? I'm harmless. I'll give someone a $5 tip for 2 minutes work.

Worker Man to Manager Man: I'll do it if it's ok with you Sir.

So, Manager Man winked at me and said, "Pull around."

It's kind of like the night I barged my way into the drug store/pharmacy. I become a dog with a bone. Not my best feature but hey, my car is clean.

Meatloaf and Mashed Potatoes

When the husband and I were dating, he made it very clear to me that he was not interested in a meatloaf and mashed potato life. He loves thinking of himself as Peter Pan and it's a pretty good analogy.

So, I went into this marriage, this life, with full warning.

At first, I tried to be more of a traditional wife. (There were young children involved.) But lots of evenings, I ended up throwing food out or trying to save it for another day because he had last minute plans for us. Or, he just wanted to go out.

I sneak in my traditions. I certainly do my fair share of cooking but I have finally learned to relish the fact that it is not expected. We're both ok with grabbing something from the pantry, making a quick salad, etc. Sometimes we just forget about dinner. Neither one of us is going to starve to death by missing a meal.

Enter the oldies. (One year, ten months ago.) They just don't get us. They don't get it that we REFUSE to discuss what's on the menu for dinner 24 hours before hand. We don't know. We don't care.

There's a little battle going on right now. Big Daddy was out of town last week and then we were both gone for the weekend. Now everyone is home but they're making it a point to avoid him. When I asked them this evening what their plans were, she said, "I guess we'll go find something to eat." This is from a woman who has stocked my pantry and refrigerator to the limits. The husband and I were sitting on the patio when they returned. He went in to invite them to join us. No thank you very much. The bedroom is calling. (My words -- not theirs.)

I enjoy cooking and I certainly don't mind sharing a family meal with them. But I get a little perplexed when they're all guilt-tripping and/or avoiding each other. Mainly, I just try to stay out of the way.

Eventually I will jump in and try to make peace. I'll make meat loaf and mashed potatoes.

Going to Church

I grew up going to church on Sunday. Dr. Charles Ballard is one of the most influential people in my life. He inspired us and he led us. I adored him in my childhood and I adore him now. He's semi-retired but he still fills in for clergy on vacation or whatever. My heart swells to twice its size when I see him standing at the pulpit.

I am Methodist. But I consider myself quasi-Catholic. A lot of the neighborhood was Catholic and I would sometimes go to church with them. I learned the rituals. (Once I went to college, I also liked option of Friday night mass at 5:00 so the rest of your weekend was free.) The priest in my college days was not rigid. He knew I was toying with converting to Catholicism so he allowed me to take Communion and to go to confession. He allowed me to explore my faith.

When my goddaughters were born, I was there. They are Catholic. There was some question about my qualifications as a godmother because I was technically not a practicing Catholic. Again, a nice priest saw the intent and the love. He took a leap of faith. I hope I've lived up to it.

The husband has had some crummy experiences with organized religion. He was raised Catholic, attended parochial schools, etc. When the daughter was an infant, he and his wife wanted her baptized in the Catholic church. The priest in their parish proceeded to bargain with them and would only agree to baptize her if they agreed to attend mass every Sunday. (In my world, that's blackmail.) This did not sit well with Big Daddy and as the story goes, he asked the man to leave their home. He is only willing to step into a Catholic church for the funeral of a friend or a ritual for one of my goddaughters. Even the oldies got a little perturbed with the church and converted to Episcopalian.

I occasionally agree with him. Sometimes organized religion seems about power, money and control. Sometimes it gets a little corrupt. Sometimes it provides hope for the hopeless. Maybe they could find it elsewhere; maybe not.

Yet, I was emphatic that the baby have some religious training. If he's going to turn away from it, I want him to have some basic principles to understand what he's turning away from. He spent many years in church youth groups, attending church-sponsored trips and participating in church activities. He went through confirmation classes and made great friends. He'll stray but there's not a doubt in my mind that when the chips are down, he'll remember the lessons learned.

I belong to a little church. It's filled with people I love. We've changed ministers a few times. Rev. Harry told a story once about a man who commented to him, "I don't need to attend church. I can pray anywhere -- even on the golf course." Rev. Harry responded, "But do you?"

Then we got Dr. Gwen. A little (almost country-like) church and they send us a middle-aged, African American woman. Well, people about fell out of the pews. As my dad used to tell her, she had a little Baptist going in her. She could ratchet it up. Sometimes she broke into song. Often, she broke into to tears. She was the most inspiring and down-to-earth minister I've ever known -- except Uncle Ken. We have a new minister now and I feel guilty that I don't know him very well.

I go to other churches. I have a huge and majestic Methodist church very close to my home. I know many people there and I attend many times a year. They have an offshoot service, held in a local theater. The service is casual and everything is contemporary with live, upbeat music, video clips, etc. I like to attend a few times a year. They have guest speakers so I go to hear my favorites.

Here's what I do know. I love sitting in my church, in the pew beside my parents, with aunts and uncles surrounding. I love greeting fellow parishioners and asking about their families, their health and their lives. I love holding hands with my mother and singing "Shalom (Peace) to You." I love watching my dad as a greeter. I love kneeling at the altar beside my father. I'm not only saying my own prayers: I'm praying that all others will be answered also.

Sometimes I get busy with travel, work, etc. Sometimes I just want to sleep in. I'm not quite as dedicated to regular church-going as I should be but it's still my church. The fellowship is what does it for me.

I've (Almost) Run Out of Teenagers

The baby is happily off at college. My next door neighbor's child (and my friend) is there too. My elder goddaughter is attending a different college, but she's out of here also. I'm a mess.

I don't know how to throw a party without some teenagers to help with errands and hauling. If I go brain dead with some computer issue, I need a teenager. When work calls me away for hours at a time, I could count on a teenager to help with Gabby or the oldies. Why can't I program my iPod or my cellular phone? My usual answer would be provided by one of my teenagers.

The teenage years are when the young ones test the waters. It's a little dance. The rest of us who survived the teenage years cha cha back. We've been there. We remember. That's especially scary for parents, even parents of "good" kids.

I need my teenagers. I want them to have this great experience of college and the big, wide world. But, I hope they come home for the holidays because I need some help.

An Anniversary

Today is an important anniversary. Three years ago, an amazing man moved out of this life and on to the next. That man was my Uncle Ken.

The bulk of his professional life was spent as a Methodist minister. Before that, he worked for Yardley. My mother tells me he was the third top salesman in the nation. (I still have numerous Yardley products that he gave me.) Sometimes I try to imagine the look on his wife's face when he announced that he needed to leave this lucrative position and go into the seminary.

He loved babies. His wife had four and said, "Enough!" As most minister's families will tell you, his heart may be at home but his days and nights belong to the parishoners. I suspect being a minister's wife (or child) is a noble, yet lonely calling. He lived to enjoy most of his grandchildren. Wouldn't he be thrilled to know another is on the way?

When the husband and I were married, our official ceremony was performed by a Justice of the Peace. (We'd both been married before.) Yet, I had a problem that we had not made a commitment with God involved. Less than a week after our legal marriage, Uncle Ken and Aunt Cess came to town. He let us take our vows again and he added God to our union. I needed it.

When I was a little girl, I didn't see them very often but each visit is ingrained in my mind. He was also my "go-to" person. If I had a question about the bible or some puzzling nibble about evolution versus creation, I would ask Uncle Ken.

His works spanned the world. Still do. When his fluke of an illness caused his kidneys to fail, he just added that to his prayer list. He spent countless hours (years!) in dialysis. Beyond comforting the other patients, he went through his prayer list. Sometimes he would tell me that he was praying for me, my family, my dog. This always struck me as so him -- "You're sitting in dialysis and you're praying for my dog?!"

He was a shopper and a collector, much to his wife's chagrin. Someone has to be the saver and someone has to be the spender in each marriage. Ying and Yang.

He had the nerve to die during one of Florida's worst hurricane seasons. Three in a row -- no relief in sight. My parents and I flew in. The devastation we saw from the air only scratched the surface of the devastation in our hearts.

Uncle Ken didn't live life with blinders on. Instead, he took the blinders off and jumped in to help. I think he wanted all of us to take them off. So, I try.

Do You Ever Get Off the Computer?

The husband asked me this question the other day and I had to really think about it.

I travel. I go many places without access to email or blogs. Unless it's a business trip, I rarely take my laptop. I enjoy downtime as much as anyone.

But ...

Most clients and friends are on to my dirty little secret. I check email compulsively. I read the comments on my blogs and then I check other blogs. If I can't sleep, I get on the computer. If I have a writing thought, I like to go with it.

The parade of people in and out of this house know where to find me. Anyone looking for me comes in the kitchen door, hangs a right and pops their head in my office.

I guess the answer to the husband's question is "No." Even if I'm not sitting in front of the computer, I'm mentally still there.