Holiday Pleasures

I didn't just get up on the wrong side of the bed today; I was cannon blasted into the dark side.

Then I went to get my roots touched up and was informed that my eyebrows are also sprouting gray hairs. Thankfully, I had not signed up for a bikini wax.

So, I decided to take a little time for myself. It's time to decorate for the holidays and my house is a jumble of boxes because I'm doing it in stages. The magic kicked in and my mood improved immensely.

I put my iPod on the holiday shuffle (lots of old favorites like Brenda Lee and Elvis) and started arranging decorations. Every item I unearthed is a memory. Many of my decorations were passed along from my parents so they were part of my childhood Christmas celebrations. Many others are gifts from aunts and friends. I know which ones are my favorites and the family's favorites.

I realized that the oldies have given away most, if not all, of their Christmas decorations.

All of a sudden, the mother-in-law (who felt crummy all day) is singing. Hangdog is talking about his childhood Christmas memories and songs he used to play on the accordion. I caught him singing too.

I'm a little too "good enough, it'll pass" kind of person. The mother-in-law is the extreme opposite. (You should watch us cook together.) I have this very dorky reindeer made out of some kind of fake plant. She insisted that he needed a red nose and some button eyes. Yes, we did it... using the glue gun, searching for buttons, making a red nose. No one will notice but it made her happy and it does look better.

Every year, I make a vow to decorate less. Every year, I break it.

Here's why. Those items I unpack and display represent everything I hold dear: the honor of celebrating Christmas, the memories of Christmas' past and the great pleasure I get in having people in this home. It may not be church but it's definitely fellowship. I packed my bad mood away and relished the time.

And we haven't even gotten to the tree.

Living Out Loud

Anna Quindlen, one of my favorite writers, had a column with the New York Times. Not just a little column... she won the Pulitzer Prize for writing about her life and her opinions.

Instead of resting on her laurels, she went on to write several fabulous (and haunting) novels. She also seems to be a pretty impressive mother of three children, politically active, supportive spouse of a busy man, etc. It's a good thing I'm a fan because it exhausts me to think about her life.

Her New York Times column, Life in the 30s, was "out there" for the time. It was raw and honest. It covered everything from her desire to have another baby to her feelings about religion to the beginning of the AIDS epidemic. That takes guts.

So I sit here in my little office, spouting memories and opinions to the world. I annoy people and they let me know. Some think I'm sugar-coating everything. Others think I'm harsh. I wish Anna Quindlen was my friend so I could call her and ask, "What about this?"

I'm guessing but here's what I think she would say: Write. Write with integrity and let the chips fall where they may.

The Kid's Table

Although my holiday memories are mostly warm and fuzzy, my mother reminded me recently of one thing I hated: the kid's table. As the oldest grandchild (on my mother's side of the family,) I was convinced I belonged at the adult table long before I was an adult. I have no idea why I considered the kid's table such an insult, but I did. It's a little like being told you're a second-class citizen.

And yet, I've done it myself with dinner parties, holidays, etc. Our next-door neighbors have one daughter the same age as the baby and an older daughter. Many, many dinners have involved the adults in the dining room and the kids at a separate table.

Several years ago, we were in Mississippi visiting the oldies. I have photos of the tow-headed boys (the grandsons) sitting around their kitchen table. The granddaughters got their own kid's table in the living room.

When the baby graduated from high school earlier this year, we had a gathering in our back yard. In an attempt to create enough seating for everyone, I scattered tables throughout our patio and yard. No one had assigned seats.

I looked up at one point and realized that the baby, our neighbors' children and several of our friends' children had created their own kid's table.

At this point in my life, there are many times I wish I would be invited to sit at the kid's table.

Ho Ho Ho

I laughed out loud when I read a recent story from The Hartford Courant about an Australian company training Santa Clauses. The Santas are to avoid the phrase "ho, ho, ho" because it has a negative American slang connotation: whore.

Sometimes the girlfriends and I will attempt to be hip and use this language. It's usually commentary on a young person in the entertainment news. "She's a 'ho." My mother-in-law and I were having a conversation last night and she made the comment, "She's a 'ho." I'm having way too much influence on her vocabulary.

When I was in my mid 20s, I had a girlfriend who had an impressive job, lots of money and extensive life experiences. She was a 'ho and sort of proud of it. I had no desire to live her lifestyle but I was like a kindergartner in the reading circle: "Tell me the story."

My dog, Gabby, is a 'ho. Her vacation and play date friends -- all retrievers -- are male. She rolls on her back and invites attention.

Westaff, the Australian Santa training company, provides trained Santas to retail centers around the world. Their suggestion is "Ha Ha Ha." I think this is political correctness gone awry.

But, I will laugh every time a mall Santa or a Salvation Army volunteer barks out, "Ho, Ho, Ho." Just so they know I'm not a 'ho, I'll shout back, "Ha, Ha, Ha!"

An Oldies Thing

There are certain things that I am convinced simply happen due to aging. I call them, "Oldies Things." Oldies things are not possessions; they are quirks and bizarre behaviors. I am comfortably settled in middle age but I watch and notice. I am developing some of these tics. Are you?

Here are a few I've noticed lately. And no, I will not tell you which ones I am also experiencing.

Wrapping everything in tissues, rubber bands, Ziploc bags or all of the above.
Repeating the same stories.
The daily diatribe about aches and pains.
Spending days on end without leaving home.
An insane focus on medications.
Constant discussions of bodily functions (and applause when the plumbing is working.)
A complete lack of interest in technological changes.
Routine. Routine. Routine.
The inability to remember your children, grandchildren, in-laws or siblings' names.
The inability to remember that a cell phone works differently than a land line.
Everyone and everything is involved in a conspiracy.
Food is the sole focus of the day.
Kids, dogs, drop-in guests make you crazy.
The weather channel and the Game Show Network are your favorites.
A never-ending compulsion with, "What's the date today AND what time is it?"
It's always cold.
Entitlements from everyone are expected: The government, children and more.

Just as I clamp my tongue between my teeth like Wild Bill, I catch myself wondering, "Is this my future?"

Furs

Okay, I admit it. I own and wear furs.

The first one I acquired came about as kind of an expensive joke. I had a date planned with the man I am now married to. We had met for drinks once but this was to be our first official date. I happened to be in the same restaurant with a girlfriend while he was dining with a woman and some other friends. At that moment, I knew the scheduled date for the following evening was not going to happen. I was furious. (I was also 27.) I draped my girlfriend's fur around me and made the parade lap -- just to be sure he saw me and headed out to get something out of my car. He chased me into the parking lot. We did keep our date for the next evening.

About 10 or 11 months later, he gave me a fur. He couldn't afford it but it came with a wink and a smile.

A few years later, we were at a charity auction. He bought me a jacket that I adore. (I think there was wine involved.)

Many, many years ago we were in Chicago. We threw our luggage in the hotel room and headed out to a restaurant in Old Town. After ribs, fries and drinks, we decided to walk a bit and took a wrong turn. I am wearing jeans and a fur. The husband looks like he just fell out of GQ magazine. A gang of hooligans came out of no where. (I'm old enough -- they looked like hooligans to me.) and I remember grabbing his arm and thinking, "This is it. We deserve to die. We're walking down an alley in an iffy part of town. We may as well have: Kick me, Rape me, Kill me signs taped to us.

It was January and the streets were icy. A car and a taxi both tried to stop but ended up colliding in the alley. The gang scattered like pixie sticks. So, by the hand of God, we escaped that disaster.

As if I didn't own enough, I discovered that there are great deals to be found in warm climate towns. Lots of people move to Arizona, California or Florida and they unload their furs. So, I bought a gorgeous mink stole for about $25 and another year I bought a kicky jacket that I wear constantly. I think I paid $20.

Last year, I found a great fur jacket for the mother-in-law. It was a serious bargain.

The southern belle is still in me. They're all monogrammed. I have them cleaned and stored for the season. Of course, I can't afford to get them out of storage.

This week, I'm going to sacrifice elsewhere and pick up our furs. It's my favorite part of cold weather.

Mean to My Mom

I've saluted Mean Moms. This is a different subject. I can be mean to my mom.

When she wants to talk about my bad habits, I can quickly change the subject to her bad habits. When we're going to meet, I send her mean emails listing topics that I do not wish to discuss. When she hangs up on me (usually accidental,) I hunt her down and give her a hard time. When I can't reach her at home or on her cell phone, I leave extremely obnoxious messages: "HELLO! HELLO! Why do you have this phone?" Yet, she always calls back.

I come by this honestly. I am 44-years old and she almost always knows where I am. If she calls my cell phone, the first question is usually, "Where are you?"

My personal favorite is her driving. (I used to only worry about the mother-in-law driving.) My mother has taken safe driving to the level that it's unsafe. If I'm in the car with her or in the car behind her, I'm singing the carol, Winter Wonderland. "Getty Up, Getty Up, Let's Go."

I was following her today. As we both hit the intersection where we would go opposite directions, I rolled down my window and said, "Hello! Do you realize that you were in the wrong lane for the last two blocks or so?" I was hyperventilating -- watching for oncoming traffic or cars that might turn.

We both found this funny and yes, she called me later. "I can get away with nothing!" The husband does not understand how we can be in the same room and go through the same experience and yet, we hit the car and call each other. Then we get home and one must call the other to dissect the experience. Then, I must check my email before bed because Mom might have thought of something else.

We make each other crazy occasionally but in reality we keep each other sane.

The Only White People

I rarely take time to go out to the movies. I prefer watching something at home, on my own timetable, usually wearing my bathrobe and a glass of wine at hand.

This is a banner year. I've seen two movies in the theater, both times with my mother and Aunt Judy. Several weeks ago, we saw "Tyler Perry's Why Did I Get Married?" Then, we saw, "This Christmas." Both are very funny yet also heartwarming. Both have universal appeal. Both have predominant or entire African American casts.

In both cases, we were the only Caucasian people in the theater.

The marketing people are on to this. Every movie trailer was African American casts. (Yes, I understand target marketing.) None of the mainstream blockbusters scheduled for holiday release were even previewed. Didn't segregation end?

I may or may not find time for another movie this year but if I do, it will be one of the ones I saw previewed during these showings.

How Clean is Your Remote?

One of our remotes is very clean.

We have a plethora of remotes for various stereos, video games, televisions, cable access, DVD, and the dinosaur VCRs. I know in which room they all belong and I can work 95 percent of them.

Trying to be helpful, I moved her sheets from the washer to the dryer. Well, there's a remote control at the bottom of the washer, along with two batteries. I can't find the back piece and although I've searched it repeatedly, I'm terrified it's melting in my dryer.

We're all guilty of tissues or coins inadvertently left in a pocket. But a remote control? It's a pretty hefty object.

Maybe it's the weather but I'm sort of prickly today. I came home this afternoon and was informed that something is wrong with the washer. She sort of implied it must have been Houseboy.

I've declined this argument for a few reasons:

She was the one doing laundry today.
Houseboy does a lot of things around here but he has never done laundry.
Since the remote has been washed and rinsed, Heaven only knows what else has gone through this machine.

So, one more service call. One more schedule to coordinate. One more check to write. Maybe when the service people are here they will find the back piece.

Walk the Walk

My mother and her sisters had two sets of parents. The first were their birth parents (Wild Bill and my Wacky Grandmother.) The second were their aunt and uncle (Bobbie and Pa.) Have I told you that Pa and Wild Bill were brothers AND Wacky Grandmother and Bobbie were sisters? Is this something that just happens in the hills? Having no siblings, I have escaped this fate.

It's the holiday season and I am flooded with memories of my grandparents. This is mostly about my mother's side of the family but I actually spend a teensy bit of time thinking about my dad's father and his wife. Then I get the willies and move on. (That's probably not fair. I do have some fond memories but they are overshadowed by the way my father and his sisters were treated.)

So, this is about Bobbie. Technically, my great-aunt but really and truly my grandmother. (The sane and stable one.)

In my childhood, holidays meant we went to Bobbie and Pa's... Christmas, Easter, etc. Farm living instilled in her that there had to be five kinds of meat and at least twelve side dishes.

As she aged, we were more likely to find something forgotten in the oven.

Forgetfulness also came in other visits. One year she gave my father and both of my uncles beautifully wrapped nightgowns. Some years she couldn't remember where she stashed the presents so we got them later.

Pa was in charge of the tree. As he grew older (and more creative) he could find the most interesting way to erect his version of a tree. My personal favorite is the year he found a gnarled tree limb, painted it and hung various ornaments on it. We have an absurd amount of ornaments and Christmas decorations in this house -- nothing will replace my memory of the gnarled, painted tree.

Bobbie and Pa lived in a house that was originally purchased by her father. As time went by, urban issues (like theft and murder) came to visit and my mother was often concerned about her safety, especially after Pa died. She was not fazed.

She was not only my grandmother -- she was the neighborhood mother and grandmother. She didn't just read the bible every day. She lived the lessons every day.

When my mother tried to explain that she shouldn't open the door for unknown people or let the errant neighbors in, she was adamant:

"It might be Jesus at the door."

At my house, it's more likely to be Elvis at the door but I still remember the lessons she instilled and modeled for me.

The Gabby Greeting

I am often reprimanded for my inability to control my dog. I'm learning to keep my mouth shut and let the husband have his say. He doesn't realize it but we're actually a good mix when it comes to training her. He would prefer a robotic, brain-washed dog. If he weren't around, I'm afraid I would become even more lax. I find humor and fun in her maniacal personality. Plus, as we know, I will never be her Alpha Leader. I am a litter mate.

Gabby's preferred greeting with me (I can be gone 30 seconds or 8 days) is to plant both front paws on me and shove hard. As I'm reeling, she jumps all over me. Usually, this sends the husband over the edge. While I'm quietly saying, "No Baby, paws on the ground," he's using the firm voice and giving me the evil eye.

Yesterday, I said to him, "You need to chill a little bit. She's just happy to see me."

So last night he came home, planted both hands on my shoulders and shoved me. (Not hard but I did reel back a bit.) I said, "What in the **** are you doing?'

He said, "I'm just happy to see you."

Slip Sliding Away

Our constant fear with the oldies is another fall. He's broken both hips. She's had a hip replacement and bashed her head in over the piano. So guess what I did today? Oiled the hardwoods in the kitchen!

Now before you think I am cruel or wicked, let me explain myself. My hardwood floors are destroyed. I have warned them repeatedly that this needs to be done. I have kept a clear, dry path for them to get to the refrigerator. I have gone into the dungeon to warn them about the slippery spot. I have put a big sign up that says, "WARNING!" I'm considering flares. What's one more fire?

They haven't come out to fry up lunch yet but it should be soon. I'm on stand-by to call 911.

Travel Agent

I am not a travel agent but if I have to get a real job, I think I may have the qualifications.

Booking a trip for myself is easy. Coordinate with travel mates, get on the computer and book it. Print out the itinerary and on the day before leaving, print out the boarding pass. The most complicated part is heaving my suitcase on the scale to make sure I won't be charged for it being too heavy.

I am the travel agent for the oldies.

One of the husband's brothers has invited them to Texas during the Christmas holiday. (Time out for my happy dance!) She wrote the dates on a slip of paper and gave it to me. There was finagling that needed to be done because their arrival time has to somewhat coincide with their grandsons arrival times. And, they all need to leave at roughly the same time so only one airport trip is necessary. Plus, it has to be as cheap as possible.

Okay, doable.

I researched it and was quite proud of myself that I met all of the criteria. I emailed my brother-in-law with the schedule. I called the airline to go over in extreme detail the kind of special services they will require. I gave her a copy and of course, kept one for myself.

Guess what? She wrote down the wrong dates.

I spent several hours trying to unravel the booked trip without them incurring $200 worth of fees. Once I got that accomplished, I started over from square one but the flights are filling up and the pickings are getting slim. I had the phone at my ear while I sat at the computer.

A massive headache came to visit. She poked her head in my office and said, "Don't forget to rent a car. The boys (her grandchildren) will meet us and drive us. (Neither boy is 25 yet so they can't rent a car.) At this point, a rental car was the least of my worries.

So, it's booked. The rental car is reserved. New itineraries are in the hands of all interested parties. When I handed her the revised schedule, she actually said, "I hope we feel up to traveling. We might not go."

In that case, I will spend Christmas at the nearest mental health facility. I hope the daughter, the baby, the dog, my parents, my friends and the husband will visit me. Or, I might throw my bullet at someone.

The Circus

We were invited to a friend's home the evening of Thanksgiving to watch our local team play football. The invitation came with a warning: There will be an infant here. Since all of our children are grown, they felt the need to point that out.

This is not a judgement, just an observation. I'm amazed at how many middle-aged people are willing to birth/adopt/go through surrogacy. This friend's brother is in his 50s and has some lingering health issues. The wife is in her 40s and also had some scares. They now have an infant.

I knew I would be thrilled to play with the baby. And, he was oh so cute and endearing. I'm far too old to raise a child but I could've stuck him in my bag and taken him home.

But during this phone conversation about the invitation, my wacky sense of humor got ahead of my brain. I said, "Yes, we'd love to come over. Since you already have two dogs and multiple houseguests, why don't we bring our maniac dog and the oldies? We could tape it all for Barnum and Bailey."

As it turned out, they have it down to a science. The dogs were well behaved. The baby was precious. One houseguest had already gone to bed before we arrived. They even served hor d'oerves. Get out! Didn't she just make a huge meal a few hours ago? Now, she's feeding us. Of course, we all dug in.

On the way home, I was reflecting. I'm jealous. Their home seems to work like a well-oiled machine. My house is the circus.

The Christmas Card

I am a card addict. Although I mess up, I try to remember birthdays and anniversaries. It's fun and people seem to appreciate it. It's always kind of jarring when someone says to me, "Yours was the only birthday card I received."

The oldies love to go to the mailbox. I hate them sorting through my mail but I let it go. It's all junk and bills. I like the mailbox around my birthday (Yeah! Cards for me!) and the holidays.

Lots of people have given up sending Christmas cards due to the hassle, postage costs, etc. Not us! This is my favorite ritual of the holidays and I have every holiday card received for the last 10 years, at least. Many years ago, the husband and I decided to venture away from Hallmark and do an original card for the holidays. We're marketing people -- easy enough!

We forgot a few things. We forgot that we're both Type A and think we can out-concept each other. We still forget that shooting for the perfect photo is like the proverbial needle in a haystack.

He forgets that I hand address every card and at last count, we send out at least 350 of them. (You have to die or be put on the Roman Do Not Mail List to fall off of our holiday card list.) He forgets that it must be printed and some years, art directed. (We know people.)

I love coming up with the concept. I love the debate while he puts his spin on it and we have to defend our own ideas. I love it that he cares about this.

One year, we were not in a good place in our marriage. We had a beautiful card and I struggled with whether or not to send it. In the end, we decided it represented the best of us. Plus, we wanted to extend joyous wishes. By the time those cards hit the mailbox, we were healing.

Don't tell me Christmas cards aren't important.

Thankful and Full

Today is Thanksgiving and I am truly giving thanks.

We ate early to accommodate schedules. As much as I stressed about the meal, it was unnecessary fretting. Everything turned out well and I believe a good time was had by all. At least no one left hungry. Plus, there's enough football on today to seduce the husband into a coma for hours.

I am thankful for:

The baby home from college and sharing our Thanksgiving traditions.
My father's annual blessing before we eat.
Looking around the candlelit table at loved ones.
The simple fact that we are safe, warm and well-fed.
My mother's culinary contributions. Yum!
The husband taking the dog for a walk after dinner.
The mother-in-law's help with setting the table and chopping endless onions and celery.
The husband and the baby doing the majority of the clean-up detail.
The oldies are going to visit the husband's brother and family for Christmas.

I am sad and/or cranky about:

The grown-up daughter who couldn't be here. There is an empty spot in our day.
Hangdog -- but I'll save the details for another day.

There may be lots of problems in this world. But for today, let's all be thankful for the people who give us a warm heart and a safe haven.

I hope you hug a pet, tell a friend "I love you" and toast the loved ones around your table.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Mysterious Ways

Whenever there is no explanation for a particular situation, someone is bound to say, "God works in mysterious ways."

Ok, true enough. Although, I hope I get to take my notebooks to the afterlife because I have a lot of questions.

What They Remember

A friend of mine and her family have been dealing with a health scare. Her mother-in-law had some obstruction in her colon or stomach. I know a much more detailed explanation but I'll leave it at that. This condition, life threatening, required surgery on an 86-year old (or so) woman. Did I mention that she also has a heart condition?

The good news is that she survived the surgery and is now actually thriving again. No one -- even the doctors -- expected this. The bad news is she doesn't remember a lot of the past few weeks. Her family has put endless miles on the cars to visit, consult with the doctors, hold her hand, take care of her dog, take care of her finances, etc. One of her grandchildren calls from Florida every day and asks, "Who visited today?" The answer is always, "No one."

I should be more sympathetic. Instead, I want to put on my t-shirt that says, "Been there; done that."

When we rescued the oldies two years ago, he had just come out of hip surgery and she was going through chemo. Hangdog went immediately to the Ortho rehab hospital. The husband visited twice a day, plus shopped for sweatsuits and other necessities. I visited. The baby visited. I took the mother-in-law to visit and wheeled her around because she was weak. He told us the other day that he was so lonely during that time because no one visited.

Other days, he doesn't remember all of the times he's been in the hospital since they've lived with us.

There's a reason they're good together. He remembers nothing. Her memory is frighteningly sharp.

Hide and Seek

We played hide and seek for hours when I was a child. What seemed like tons of children ran through the neighborhood, climbed trees and ran screeching to avoid getting tagged. Hiding was the best part.

The other day it was raining. Not just a little drizzle, it was raining hard. The oldies fried up breakfast and then she whipped a shower cap out of her robe pocket, put it on and headed out the door. Bizzare behavior, even for her.

She came back in (soaked) with a box of donuts in her hands. After feeding Hangdog his required dessert, she donned the shower cap again and headed back out.

Curiosity got the best of me so I asked, "Is there a reason you're storing donuts in your trunk?" (You remember what curiosity did to the cat.) She unloaded on me. "I'm tired of YOUR HUSBAND making comments about how much junk his daddy eats so he just doesn't have to see it."

I decided not to remind her that the husband wasn't even home. Plus, whenever she's cranky with him, she conveniently forgets that my husband is HER son.

I understand hiding stuff. I've done it. Many years ago I hid some mini Heath bars in the laundry room and allowed myself one a day. The daughter came home from college, started doing laundry and found my stash. Oh well, I didn't need it anyway.

Brownies and cookies tend to disappear rather quickly around here so I've stashed a few for the husband on occasion.

It extends beyond food. There's a lot of hidden jabs and innuendos in various conversations. I stay out of the way but my antennae is up.

Today, I'm just hiding. But I'm not kidding myself. I will be found.

Passport

Just like I almost always have a pen and notebook with me, I also usually have my passport. It's a quirk that makes no sense to anyone but me.

Lots of people keep their passports in a bank deposit box or a home safe. That makes sense from a security standpoint but it doesn't work for me. I prefer it in my possession -- you never know when you might want to leave the country on a whim!

An acquaintance of mine recently went to the bank to pick up her passport, along with her husband's and their four children's. They were all in there with one exception -- hers. So she put her entire family on a plane to Cancun and then waited until Monday to fly to Chicago and stand in line at the passport office. I would laugh at this story except we've been through it. Several years ago, the husband had to go to England or Ireland on very short notice. His passport was due to expire so he made the divergent trip to Chicago as well.

You used to be able to go to Canada, Mexico and the Caribbean with only a birth certificate; no passport required. I'm not sure about Canada but you now need a passport for Mexico and the Caribbean. With all the hoopla about homeland security and terrorism, I think we'll soon see a law that requires all citizens to have a passport just like we're required to have a social security number.

One of my girlfriends has been struggling with getting her married name (she divorced about 10 years ago) off of legal documents so she can obtain a passport in the correct name. Government paperwork is a hassle but she'll get it done.

The oldies don't have passports. Neither do my parents. It makes me nervous. What if I traveled somewhere and disaster struck? What if I really needed them? (My parents -- not the oldies.) They couldn't get there unless they knew to divert to Chicago and deal with the one day passport office.

It must be generational. Both the daughter and the baby have passports.

The daughter lives in Texas and the proximity to Mexico is minuscule. I wouldn't be surprised if Texas passed the first law. You've got to have a passport to enter Texas.

Wild Bill -- Part II

Last night, the huband was playing the piano and I was lying on the floor with the dog. She had a big whacker of a bone that collided with my eye. Nothing serious but I walked around with an ice bag in a cloth for an hour or so. I considered a piece of tape to put over my eye. Yep, for that time, I was Wild Bill.

Last week, I went to a movie with my mom and my aunt. Aunt Judy's sense of humor is amazing and contagious. She is a combination of Lucille Ball and Wild Bill.

On a recent night, the husband had a business dinner and other commitments. I spent lots of time on the phone. (Hello, Wild Bill.) He was a huge phone junkie -- or as my mother likes to point out, "He was a great drunk dialer." For the record, I was not drunk. But I do tend to spend a lot of time on the phone.

The dog does this weird thing with her tongue -- kind of lolling out sideways and it always reminds me of Wild Bill. He used to clamp his tongue between his teeth when he was thinking or concentrating on something.

I swear to you. I catch myself doing it everyday.

The Grinch Who Stole Christmas

I love Dr. Seuss. There was a point in my life that I could recite Green Eggs and Ham from memory. For a while, it was one of the baby's favorite bedtime books, along with The Very Bad Bunny.(This is not Dr. Seuss but it's a good one.)

Thanksgiving is next week and the Christmas ads and catalogs are already plentiful. Unless you are hibernating in a cave, you know the holiday season is upon us. Here's what I love: the husband and I negotiated years ago that I can only begin the Christmas music in the house on the day after Thanksgiving. But, he can't control what I listen to in the car or in my office. I love putting up the tree with the exception of the year I had to move it three times. I love the parties, even when I'm exhausted. Most of all, I love the cheesy Christmas movies and specials:

National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation
It's a Wonderful Life
Miracle on 34th Street
A Christmas Story
A Charlie Brown Christmas
Frosty the Snowman
Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer
A Christmas Carol
Scrooged

My favorite is How The Grinch Stole Christmas. I've loved it since childhood but it has taken on new meaning because I live with the Grinch.

Last year, the Unabomber made a short appearance on Christmas Eve during our annual party. He did not get out of bed on Christmas Day, even though his granddaughter was here from Texas and the rest of the family was gathered around the tree. I got a serious attitude. The husband advised me to let it go and for that day, I took the advice but now the holidays are here so I have to remind myself again.

Before the oldies lived with us, I used that bedroom as Christmas Central. I piled presents and stocking stuffers. All of a sudden, it was the day before Christmas Eve and I was overwhelmed. My friend, Mickey, came over. We sat on the floor, popped movies and Christmas tapes in the VCR and wrapped all of the gifts. It was one of the most fun afternoons of my life.

I may live with the Grinch but he's not going to steal Christmas.

Having a History

When the husband and I were dating, he said three things that really struck a chord with me. Two were the obvious, "I love you" and later, "Will you marry me?" The one that really got me early on was, "I can't wait until we have a history together." It implied long term. It suggested a future and an appreciation for making memories.

He got his wish. We have a history together. Boy, do we ever!

We have his history, including childhood and previous relationships. We have my history, also including childhood and relationships. We have two children who were not born of this union but in many ways are a product of this union. We have friends -- some he brought to the mix, some I brought to the mix, some we have met through our years together.

We have the oldies. (I'll bet that wasn't part of his making memories plan.)

Photos and (especially) music allow us to say, "Remember this?" Even articles of clothing can remind us of a special occasion.

We have rituals. Some are holiday traditions; others are just things we do, like the crossword. We have signals. Sometimes they're subtle like a raised eyebrow or a hand on the thigh. Others get a little more to the point. And a little louder.

The ability to judge someone's mood or pick the time for a tough conversation is a dance that's perfected over time. Knowing a spouse's hot buttons and choosing not to push them is a dance I'm still learning.

Smart people know if they're jumping into a feather bed or jumping into a volcano. Some of us just jump in.

For some people, having a history means comfort and complacence. I admit that our life together involves some of that. But, we're a little too high strung. Peaks and valleys.

Even in the valleys, I will sing along at the piano. Or, I will curl up and watch TV for a while. During the valleys, we tend to watch a lot of Court TV shows where one spouse tried to get away with killing the other.

Choices for the Day

Today, I choose to be happy, be grateful and find humor in situations where I might have resorted to anger or frustration.

Today, I choose to see the blessings in my household instead of asking the oldies, "what are you going to do today?' and then smirking when they say, "Nothing."

Today, I choose to be supportive instead of judgemental.

Today, I choose to see the rainbow instead of the rain.

As Scarlett O'Hara said, "After all, tomorrow is another day." I'll keep you posted.

Crying Wolf

The oldies went to the VA a couple of weeks ago. It's his normal, required appointment so the drugs will be automatically sent to the house. (I did actually ask my attorney if I could be held liable in case of an overdose since I sign for all the narcotics.) He must spend hours trying to come up with new symptoms … stomach, bowels, headache, etc.

Last month it was one thing. Now it’s another. Apparently, he’s having awful headaches so they’ve prescribed two new drugs, ordered a brain scan, an MRI and an appointment with the ENT physician. (His headaches never stop him from eating.) Nothing is ever minimal or manageable -- it's the WORST headache/stomachache/congestion/name your own symptom ever!

So, I asked her … what if they say he has a brain tumor? What if he has something as simple as a deviated septum or a sinus infection? With his heart condition and other ailments, would you suggest he have surgery? The answer is a resounding NO!!!!! But they will continue to make the trips to the VA and use up all the tests that they can.

He’s the boy who cries “Wolf.” I’m over it. I’m paying for it. So are you.

Yet, I have this lingering fear that something serious will pop up and I will ignore it or downplay it because of these theatrics.

Pod People

When I was a little girl, Friday night was scary movie night. This was a standing date with my dad. If I had the audacity to fall asleep, my dad would poke me. We saw all of the great ones:

Psycho, The Birds, North by Northwest, Rear Window, etc.

My personal favorite was:

Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

They remade this movie in the 70s but nothing tops the creepiness of the original version. It's a little like The Stepford Wives because the humans are being replaced.

There is a point to this story.

We are pod people. My mother coined this phrase about my country club friends. She thinks we're "peas in a pod." She's only partially correct.

Yes, we all spend an inordinate amount of time together. Some play golf, some play cards, some just lounge in Cocktail Corner during the pool season. Yes, we know way too much about each other's marriages, children, oldies, etc. We can get on each other's nerves. Then we turn around and go out to dinner or on vacation together.

The men handle the skirmishes better than the women. They can almost come to blows and then play golf the next day. Women have long memories. Plus, we're protective of our people. Family may come first but many of these people would throw themselves in front of a bus for me. The feeling is mutual.

Some are wealthy; some are scraping by. Some love to flaunt their power and prestigious positions; others love the bargain hunting. Some love to brag; others love to gossip.

On Monday nights, The husband and I meet various pod people. It's a ritual. During the summer, I meet lots of pod people at the pool. My holidays are intertwined with family traditions and pod people parties. I work out with some of my pod people three times a week.

The oldies made a gigantic leap when they moved here from Mississippi. They didn't have a lot of choices. Now that they've been here two years, I see how much they miss friends and some sort of a social life. We've tried but unless people start knocking on the dungeon door, their social circle is not likely to expand.

We're not peas in a pod but on some days we're close.

All of this reminiscing makes me want to watch a scary movie with my dad.

The Fourth Child

My cousin Sarah is getting close to birthing her fourth child. (Fourth!) As I write this, there may be another little girl who has emerged into this world. I'm just waiting for the call.

I love those studies about birth order and personalities. I am an only child so the only studies that pertain to me always say the same thing: selfish, determined and stubborn. (Guilty!)

The husband grew up in a family of four children. His mother had some serious health issues with the last two. That's when siblings learn to pitch in.

Sarah and her husband are well qualified to welcome a fourth child. They have the financial resources and the tight-knit community of a loving family and great friends. Plus, they love being parents and they're good at it. (Did I mention that her husband runs a Microsoft company and she is an attorney?) They're accomplished in ways that don't even make my radar screen.

Lots of people were a little surprised when they decided to have a fourth child. Not me. She grew up in a family of four children. (She was the third.)

Her younger brother, the fourth child, must've had to prove his worth. I suspect the fourth child has to work a little harder to get noticed for various accomplishments. Somebody in the family has probably already been there, done that.

"I learned to skip today."
"I got an A on my spelling test."
"I made the team."
"I've been accepted into the college of my choice."
"I'm getting married."
"I just got a great job."
"My wife and I are having a baby."

John is the fourth child. As his mother describes him, he has no trouble being "out there." My Gosh, he had to be. He holds his own as a parent, a husband, a son and a businessman. His civic contributions are astounding. Plus, every time I Google him I get everything from company business to the Wall Street Journal.

I often ask him for advice. For such a busy man, he always calls me or emails me immediately. Sometimes he asks for my help and that makes me feel loved and needed.

Oh, he keeps his share of secrets but I guess we all do that.

Sarah is getting ready to welcome her fourth child. At some point, John will give this child a lot of great advice.

Naked Week

After dealing with nine loads of laundry, changing bedsheets and putting away the dry cleaning, I'm tempted to declare this "Naked Week."

I realize millions of people take care of laundry and other household chores every day but I still like to gripe about it.

Other than the husband, I have no desire to see anyone in this household nude but come on, I've seen it all.

If I have to watch the various clothing bins fill up again, I may become a streaker.

Junk Food

Junk food is not my thing, with the possible exception of potato chips. Even with chips, I eat them with a sandwich. I do not plant myself in front of the television with an open bag.

Fast food is not my favorite but I spent a lot of time in McDonald's when the baby went crazy for chicken McNuggets and the play area. I must admit that I will have a Big Mac or an egg McMuffin on a road trip. but I never eat the entire thing.

The husband and I are not hung up on a big dinner. We might go out. We might fix a salad or a sandwich. Some nights, we don't eat. Depending on what we had for lunch and what time we ate lunch, we're not hungry. Or, it's not worth the trouble. It's not like we're going to starve by missing a meal. This has never occured to the oldies. Three meals a day, plus snacks. Dessert with every meal.

If I'm feeling hungry and madcap, I have cheese and crackers in the late afternoon.

There's a tremendous obesity problem in this country. Constant (and mindless) snacking has proven to be a contributing factor, along with lethargy.

Sometimes we're not in sync. The other day, I went to a movie and ate some popcorn and a few candy bites. It was more junk food than I've had in years.

Just my luck, the husband wanted to go out to dinner. He hadn't eaten all day.

Side by Side

Marriage is work and people will go to extremes. Some people make it look easy but they're not fooling me.

We knew the cutest couple. They were in their 70s when we met them almost two decades ago. We played golf with them and enjoyed their company for many years. They used to come to the Meatball Band's gigs. She was kicky (she used to be a Rockette) and he was dapper. Money was not an issue for them so after their children left home, they bought side by side condos. They went out to lunch every day and had a date every evening.

Think about the positives: No poking when one or the other is snoring. No morning breath. No fighting about the dog. You can say, "It's time for you to go back to your condo now."

Think about the negatives: No curling up with the person you've made vows with. No middle of the night conversations.

The husband is very urban. He's lived in many cities. When we were renovating this house, we lived downtown for a few months. I liked it; he loved it. I still need to be able to walk outside and a balcony does not count. I need feet on the ground. I need trees and a yard. I need a dog running around -- the husband does not but at least he tolerates it.

We jokingly talk about this side by side condo idea. He could keep a clean and pristine place. I could live next door and move among my piles and clutter. We could get together in the morning for coffee and the crossword. We could meet for a drink in the evening and discuss our days. Oh wait, this is what we do now.

Side by side condos sound interesting but we could never live that way. We'd be breaking into each other's homes after an interesting dream or constantly calling. I'd rather be side by side in person.

Plus, I'm pretty sure I'd still end up living with the oldies.

Tie a Yellow Ribbon

Do you remember the song, "Tie a Yellow Ribbon 'round the old oak tree?" Tony Orlando and Dawn made lots of money with this song. (They were a wacky mixture.) The song became a tribute to returning veterans or a way of honoring soldiers who did not return. This was very big in the Vietnam era.

Do you know that the song is actually about a man being released from PRISON and hoping his girlfriend will take him back?

Veteran's Day is upon us and I live with three veterans.

I watched a very disturbing clip today of clueless young people touring the monuments of Washington, DC. They almost seemed to take pride in their ignorance of our constitution, WWII, Korea, Vietnam, the Gulf War and our current situation. (Yes, I yelled and threw wadded up tissues at the television.)

Beyond anger, this makes me immeasurably sad.

I will never serve in the armed forces. But, I will respectfully honor those who have. On Sunday, I may tie three yellow ribbons on the breakfast chairs. Hangdog won't get it but the mother-in-law and the husband will appreciate the effort.

I will not force them to listen to my version of, "Billy, Don't Be a Hero." They've already served their time.

Adventuresome People

There must be a certain gene that makes people look at physical challenges with a gleam in their eyes. I missed that gene. I'm a 'fraidy cat. Scientists will probably discover a vaccine for it but I'm guessing it won't be in my lifetime. I wouldn't take it anyway -- I prefer to watch.

Ann Curry (The Today Show) has been broadcasting from Antarctica this week. It took approximately 10 or so tries for her to be able to go to the South Pole. Weather can change in a nanosecond and planes cannot land. She made it yesterday. She is earthy and beautiful, regardless of the situation. She looks good in a war zone or in a parka when it's 50 degrees below zero. I've never cared for her interview style -- she's a little too gushy for me -- but I sure do admire her spirit. I've watched her handle every assignment, from bungee jumping to sky diving, from flying faster than the speed of sound to whatever is thrown at her next. As someone said this morning, "If they offered to send her to the moon, she would go." I'm always incredulous at her willingness to do whatever.

I remind myself that the father-in-law was a pilot in WWII and he was shot down. He wasn't doing it for the thrill -- he did it for our country.

My biggest physical challenge is walking a dog who is stronger than I. I prefer the mental challenges.

Some things, like climbing Mt. Everest, seem absurd to me. Then I get a little perturbed when my tax dollars are used to send the rescue teams out.

My life is already an adventure without seeking additional thrills.

Hunting

I went hunting today.

Not like when my cousin Scott goes hunting ... he goes to Africa or South America. He sends me amazing photos and although I don't share his passion for the sport, I am in awe. He's also pretty talented with hunting lucrative business deals.

My hunting is a lot more tame. I don't even need my bullet.

I was supposed to meet my mother for lunch. Something came up with the oldies so I discussed a possible postponement until tomorrow. I said I would call in an hour.

The issue was resolved and I headed out. I called her home. I called her cell phone. I started leaving LOUD messages: Hello! Hello! I know it's going to a recorder but it made me feel better.

I drove to the other side of town, sat in her driveway for a while and then came to a decision: I will find her.

She and my Aunt Judy were having lunch in a cafe that she had mentioned to me. This occurred to me after I'd run through Kroger, stopped at the church, drove through the parking lot at Wendy's and Red Lobster. Finding the little cafe was tricky. I wish I had a photo of the look on her face when I walked in the door.

Scott has nothing on me. I'm a pretty good hunter too.

No Opinion

I'm in trouble AGAIN. I don't hide my feelings very well when the Unabomber is bugging me. Yet, I love this man and I wish him nothing but health and happiness.

The mother-in-law and I have great conversations. We run the gamut from family doings to current events. The father-in-law is only willing to discuss five things: health issues, food, baseball, WWII and the weather. Otherwise, he is a lump taking up space in my kitchen, waiting to be served.

When I've tried to engage him, "Are you excited about seeing your grandchildren?" or "Are you looking forward to your upcoming trip,?" I received the same response: "Whatever my honey wants." The journalist in me rears up and (like a dog with a bone) I attempt to dig a little deeper. He goes into Hangdog mode and she shoots me a look with daggers. It means Leave Him Alone! So, I leave him alone and then I get accused of ignoring him.

I understand not wishing to express an opinion. I've been in many situations where I am uncomfortable with where the conversation is headed and I choose to remain silent. I'm very up-front about it. He simply does not have an opinion on anything. It gives me the willies.

The one time I was able to have a discussion with him about this, he said their marriage meant they were the same person. One thought. One opinion. Talk about the willies! One of my favorite things about the husband is different opinions and being able to say, "Explain how you came to that conclusion." I like how his brain works. I like learning from him. I like the tilt of his head when I convince him of my argument or when he whacks me and says, "That's just stupid and you're wrong." In some homes, that's disrespectful. In other homes, that's foreplay.

Easy Corrections

Although I love all sorts of notebooks, pens and various office supplies, I have an obsession with white-out pens. I have them in every handbag, every briefcase, and every room in my home. Forget the American Express card, I never leave home without a white-out pen.

The husband learned years ago that this is my favorite stocking stuffer.

I was recently at the BMV, filling out forms for the oldies. I checked the wrong box. With the white-out pen, POOF! it's corrected. The lady in line behind me asked to borrow it. I always hope to do the crossword puzzle without it but I have it on stand-by.

I'm also developing a bizarre affinity for the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if regrets, past mistakes and areas of your life that aren't working could be corrected with the white-out pen or the magic eraser?

Riley

Like most children, I didn't give much thought to my name. It is what it is. (I can't believe I just typed that -- I hate that expression.)

Then, I went to college. There was another Sheri/Sherri on my dorm floor. We had the same initials. Her last name was Reid; mine was Riley. Different spellings don't matter when you're screaming down the hall. So, she became Reid and I became Riley. I spent four years with that name.

When the husband and I married, it was important to him that I took his name. I was a little weird about it but it was the right choice.

There's a reason I am Sheri Riley Roman. I refuse to give up the Riley. It speaks to me. I have been married and divorced. The name Riley is constant. It is my identity. It's also a little bit of rebellion. I may love you. I may marry you. I may take your name -- but I'm keeping a little bit of myself in the process.

When I met a friend from college earlier this year, he said, "Hello Riley!" My heart swelled.

Then, I was at the state fair and someone asked, "Weren't you Sheri Riley?"

Yes, I was. I still am.

Losing Touch

When the daughter was in high school, she had many friends that were the center of her life. Sometimes other things, like studying, took a backseat to whatever was going on with her friends. The husband was the voice of reason and explained that she wouldn't know or keep in contact with most of these people within five or ten years. I agreed with him but I had a hard time with these conversations because two of my dearest friends have been in my life long before high school.

Not that I don't have experience with losing touch with people.

I grew up in a neighborhood of friends. I probably wouldn't recognize most of them today. I had a core group in college and we were inseparable. I haven't seen many of them in years. My life is rich with friends but there are some other people that have disappeared and I miss them.

In a magical twist of fate, this blog has rekindled a friendship with some.

The oldies moved here from Mississippi. The first year, they received constant calls and letters from friends with juicy updates about their town, etc. This year, the notes and phone calls are dwindling. She's noticed and I can tell it depresses her.

Just like marriage, friendship takes an effort. In some ways, it takes more of an effort. It has to matter to you.

So, I've been trying to reach out a bit. When it works, the years fall away. I was in New York earlier this year and had dinner with a friend from college. We're making plans to visit again. I had lunch with another college friend and we shared laughter and tears. We spent a lot of time saying, "Remember when we all ...?" I'm a little jealous, he's done a much better job of keeping in touch with our college gang.

The Unabomber has lost touch with reality; the mother-in-law has not. She watches the comings and goings of our life and she misses her friends.

What's the Line?

A "fair weather fan" used to be an accurate description of me... used to be. I've been transformed.

I've bounced around (and been thrown around) football fields during my short tenure as a cheerleader. I've been to lots of high school, college and professional games but I confess I attended for the people watching or to chat with friends. I never understood the game. Now I really watch.

I'm far from being an expert but I understand more now. I get the line of scrimmage. I know when to cheer and when to scream, "Cheaters!" at the screen. Screaming at the screen seems to take up a lot of my time during a game.

All of a sudden, I can't own enough clothing in royal blue. I've actually visited the NFL website. I'm starting to schedule my weekends around the home team's football game. I read the sports section of the newspaper.

My new favorite thing is to ask the husband, "What's the line?" right before the game begins. I love the look on his face. Then, I leave the room. I hope he thinks I'm calling my bookie.

Baby Stuff

The baby has almost completed his first semester at college. His room remains untouched. The mother-in-law goes in there to play on the computer. A couple of nephews have slept in there while visiting. Other than that, it's just the way he left it.

Closets and drawers are stuffed with items that no longer fit or he has no interest in. Stuffed animals that he could not sleep without have been moved to high shelves. They're left like little orphans. Their time is over. The bookshelves are a trip down memory lane. His favorite childhood books mixed in with some of my childhood books. All of his golf trophies and certificates from church are displayed. My baby shoes were bronzed and turned into bookends. Big Daddy's baby shoes were bronzed and they're propped on the top shelf. (Does anyone bronze baby shoes anymore?)

There's a pretty solid collection of VHS tapes -- everything from the Disney Classics to pre-teen favorites. I'm thinking I should put them on eBay. The video game machines are stilled plugged in.

I'm working up the emotional stamina to go in there and start the purge. What to save? What will be important to him later?

As long as we live here, it will always be his room. But, it's time for the clean up to begin.

I'm pretty sure someone will have to wring me out like a dishrag.

Paws on the Ground

I'm still trying to train this massive, passionate and curious dog. She's quite limber and can reach counters, desks, etc. So, I walk around behind her shouting, "Paws on the ground!"

I must expand my limited vocabulary. Last night we were out with friends. Someone touched me in a way that made me uncomfortable. Instead of handling it with grace, I simply said, "Paws on the ground!"

Running Away

Even though I love to poke fun at my parents or tell revealing stories about the early years, I must admit that my childhood was bliss. I was loved and protected. We always had the essentials and if there were things missing, they weren't important. We didn't go to Europe on vacation. We didn't belong to a country club. I didn't notice; I didn't care. The laughter to tears ratio was 95:5. My parents are extremely funny people. That's part of their magic.

I was not one of those children who ran away from home. It never occurred to me. I ran TO home.

There's this television spot that's running nationwide right now for The Invisible Fence Company. It's haunting and more than one girlfriend has mentioned that it gives her nightmares. It's about your dog running away because you don't have an invisible fence. What the commercial doesn't tell you is the line is buried about 1/2 inch under ground and the likelihood of it being cut when you mow your yard or edge your lawn or shovel snow is pretty large. Then you get to pay a big fat bill to have it repaired.

Now I have a wireless system. It works and the only thing that can destroy it is a power outage. So, I don't think the dog will run away from home any time soon. Actually, she's a little like me, she runs TO home.

The oldies have been running away from home in the past couple of days. I think she's trying to make a point: We're not infirm; We're very busy people! I suspect this has something to do with conversations with Big Daddy but I'm not asking.

I never ran away as a child. Every once in a while, I consider it now. But, I'm taking the dog and Big Daddy with me.

Chilly

There's a chill in the air. I love this time of year even though winter is looming. I like the crackle of leaves beneath my feet when I walk the dog. I love the colors. It's sensory overload.

There's a chill in this house. Actually, it's more like the big freeze. The oldies are mad at the husband. He's not getting the cold shoulder, he's getting the entire frozen physique. I try to be the defroster but I can only do so much. It's emotional overload.

They conveniently forget everything the husband has done for them. They forget that he has his own worries and concerns. They forget that he runs a company and lots of people are depending on him every day. They forget that they created and raised this person. They forget that they are in our home and they are bashing my husband. Not a smart plan. I keep my emotions in check. I AM learning.

I do what I can and now I'm just waiting for the thaw.

I've been eating a lot of leftover chili these days. It seems appropriate.