Passing Notes

School was hard for me to sit through. My work was done and I was easily bored. So, I spent my time writing notes to my girlfriends. My report cards constantly had some version of the remark, "Talks too much" or "She needs to stop sending notes." In high school, we had this down to a science. We could pass in the hallway or the lunchroom. There was always a note.

About 12 or so years ago, the Golden Girls were together for one of our trips. One of them had saved many of our notes from high school. We spent countless hours reading them and belly laughing.

The other day I was in church. My mother passed me a note. Then, she passed one to my aunt, sitting in the pew behind us. I sent my mom a note back. (Yes, we did participate in the service.) I want to contact every teacher that ever corrected me. I come by this honestly. I can't help it.

Practicing

When I was in kindergarten, you had to pass some basic skills test to graduate to grade school. One of these skills was skipping. I couldn't do it. I did some weird combination of a 1/2 skip, walk and jump. So, my diligent parents proceeded to skip around the house until I finally got it. I have no idea why this is such a vivid memory but it cracks me up to this day.

In my dancing days, my mother would pick me up from class and we would often stop at the grocery. I would be practicing my grand jetes through the aisles until she rapped me on the head. I used to be able to tuck my ankles behind my head. My dad would say, "The boys will love you." (He was KIDDING!) My mom would smack him on the head.

In grade school, I had to go to the doctor for booster shots. My mom caught me sterilizing a safety pin with alcohol and sticking myself. (I HATE NEEDLES.) She was appalled. I was practicing. (I told you I'm slightly autistic.)

I think the days of putting my ankles behind my head are over. I must be better about my fear of needles because I can stand a shot or having blood drawn, although I still hate it. I can still skip. I skip out on the oldies all the time.

He's Really Leaving

The baby is getting his stuff together and preparing to head off into the real world. (Ok, I know college isn't the real world but it's the first BIG step.) We're getting the bills and I'm counting the days (20.) I can barely discuss it.

Big S. gave me a copy of an essay she read when her son left for college. The title is: As You Leave Home and the author is Jerry B. Jenkins. Here are some excerpts:

And so it has come down to this. You're going. Really going.

Oh, you'll be back. It isn't as if I will never see you again. But when you return, you will come as a guest. For all practical purposes, you are gone for good. It's stunning to realize that the cliches are true.

"Before you know it, he'll be gone."

You're at an age where you don't want to be told what you understand and what you don't. ... The fact is you can't understand me just now. You will. Your own children will educate you beyond any classroom or degree.

A songwriter tried to tell us that the moment we try to hold slips through our fingers like sand. I heard that message and was moved by it, and I even tried to heed it. But I didn't know how true it was until now. My hands are open and reaching, and the sand is gone. The moment is past. You're leaving.

If you're not openly weeping, please make an appointment with a mental health professional.

Big Daddy and I will not have to experience the Empty Nest Syndrome. We still have the oldies.

This is a toast to all the moms and dads sending a child off to college.

I'll Take the Fake

I love Manhattan. The husband and I used to go several times a year. His job situation has changed over the years but I still make sure I get to go at least once or twice a year. I have my favorite restaurants and my favorite haunts. I love the ambiance and I love the fakes.

I know several teenage girls who have serious designer purses. ($1000 and up!) I have never owned a purse that costs that much and I never plan to. I can find the knock-off in Chinatown. If you want to spend several hundreds of dollars on sunglasses with the label, that is your right. I will buy the knock-offs. (I'm going to lose them anyway.)

My home has many silk plants. They're pretty and I can't kill them. I'll take the fake.

Thanks to my parents and the husband, I own some beautiful jewelry. I also own a lot of fakes. I have lost more earrings than I care to count so with the fakes, I don't sweat it.

Several years ago, we were all in Mexico. I'm terribly afraid of needles so I would never get a real tattoo. (Even with the needle thing, I don't think I'm a tattoo kind of person.) I got a fake one that said, "Princess," and I wore it with pride.

Here's what you can never fake: A family that loves you and the cocoon of love that comes with friendship.

I'm the Secretary

My mother made me take typing in high school. I fought it tooth and nail. I did not need this skill. I was not going to be a secretary. (This was way before the computer age.) As usual, she was right.

I learned to type on a manual typewriter. I sat beside some show-off who had worked in her father's office. I can still hear the "ding" of every time she hit the manual return. It jarred me. We used carbon paper and correction fluid.

This skill has served me well. When I decided to go to journalism school in college, they expected us to type -- in class -- on a manual typewriter. My jobs post-college involved writing and marketing. I went from the manual typewriter to an electric typewriter to a computer on my desk. I may not have been a secretary but I typed every day.

Now, I am the secretary of my home. I type something for the oldies almost every day. Last night, Big Daddy was writing a script and some letters for some committee he's on. Guess who typed it?

He Walks with Me

One of my favorite hymns is "In The Garden." When the mother-in-law plays it on the piano, I stop whatever I am doing and sing along.

And, he walks with me
And, he talks with me ...

Last night, the husband and I took the puppy for our nightly walk. He kept saying to her, "Walk with me." Of course, she does. When I'm holding the leash, she's crazy.

It was a gorgeous, peaceful night. Every time Big Daddy said, "Walk with me," I started humming "In the Garden."

Battered and Bruised

There's a campaign airing locally that attempts to aid victims of domestic violence. Good concept; wrong approach. These women need another woman to come to their aid. They need a mother, a sister, a daughter, a friend. They probably need all of them.

I have never been the victim of abuse. I have a sassy mouth that can get me in trouble. I remember one time (many years ago,) the husband said, "I could pummel you if I wanted to." I, stupidly said, "Bring it on." Thank God, he has more sense than I do. We went to our corners and took a breath.

I am regularly battered and bruised. I run into things. My dog is almost my size and she climbs all over me. My girlfriend stopped by yesterday and commented on the bruises on my legs. I was teaching the dog to swim and she pawed me repeatedly. Like a girl scout, these bruises are my little badges.

Be a girl scout. If you know a woman who needs help, be her lifeline. Give her your guest room. Give her the 800# of your local shelter.

This campaign reminded me of what a safe and sheltered life I live.

A Storm

Storms are magical, especially when you're safely tucked in.

My friend's lake cottage is a marvelous place to watch a storm. We can be on the pier and see that it's raining across the lake. We see the big clouds looming and watch the lightning in the distance. I know the routine and we become a well-oiled machine. We stack and tie down the pier furniture, gather our stuff and head to the patio. We take in the cushions and close the windows. Then, we pour a glass of wine and go back to the patio to watch the storm approach. We wait until the last second to run inside. (We're at the lake -- we're already wet.) Her dogs get a little antsy but my puppy seems oblivious.

After the storm, everything smells clean. The air is calm. We open the windows and put everything back in its proper place. We run outside to see if there is a rainbow. All is well.

I wish household storms were so fun.

17 Steps

This is in no way a comment about people with autism or parents with autistic children. But, I am fascinated with it and I'm self-diagnosing here ... I have a touch of it. Not enough to become Rain Man, just a smidge.

When I can't sleep, I play numbers games in my head. I remember numbers in a way that is bizarre. I spend my day playing with words; I spend my nights with numbers, trying to bore myself into slumber land.

Muscle memory is a weird thing. I've been going to my friend's lake cottage for almost two decades. I know every step and every dip. This year, they redid the patio, walkway and the steps to the pier with some new space-age material. It's fabulous, yet, it has me stumbling. (Stupid reading glasses don't help.) Muscle memory kicks in. I'm supposed to step down here. No!

My friend told me it's 17 steps from the patio to the pier. Now I can count and that helps.

Cooking Styles

Cooking is weird in my house. Everyone thinks they are an expert -- except the Unabomber who waits to be served. My cooking is quick, efficient and usually quite tasty.

I came home from the lake today in the early afternoon. The mother-in-law announced her plans for dinner. Very nice, but I don't know if we'll be participating. I wandered out of my office mid afternoon and broccoli is soaking in a pot. For some reason, this made me crazy. You can steam fresh broccoli in the microwave for 4 minutes and it is delicious. Why are we soaking it at 3:00 P.M.? She's making some kind of rice and/or stuffing. Things are simmering now. I can make rice in 14 minutes (not Minute Rice) and I can make dressing in less than an hour.

I try to take a deep breath and remind myself that this makes her feel useful. Her husband will love it. (Excellent! EXCELLENT!)

Go ahead. Call me testy. I will not be eating it. If you need to start a simple dinner in the early afternoon, you have not embraced technology. I'll introduce you to a grill, a microwave, a steamer, etc. (Holidays and special occasions are an exception.) If a simple meal of meat, vegetable and a side requires four to five hours of cooking, you need a job or a hobby.

Dancing and Singing

The husband loves to tell people I was a dancer. He drags it out and makes it sound like I was a pole dancer at some strip club. No, I was a ballet dancer for a while.

I think I started at about 5-years old. Tap, Ballet, Jazz, and a little bit of gymnastics. I graduated from a small studio near our home to the local college that was known for their dance regimen. I danced in Real Venues. I added musical theater to the mix and participated in shows throughout town. That was great fun. (Well, not for my parents, who sat through endless rehearsals.)

Once I was dancing in Clowes Hall, a very prestigious place in our town. I either fell or was dropped. As I was sobbing backstage, my mother said, "Oh Honey, no one noticed."

We were not poor but dance lessons were very expensive. Mr. Copeland allowed me to take as many classes as I wanted AND he used me as a demonstrator for the younger kids. He was a class act. For many years, someone picked me up at school and took me to class. Then I went to the theater. Friday nights and Saturday nights were performances. I had been in class all day Saturday. Monday through Friday, I went to class, rehearsal or both. I became very good at doing my homework between ballet classes.

When you audition for musical theater, you have to show them your abilities to sing and dance. I could dance my little feet off but I could not sing a note. I would get up early on audition mornings and walk through the house singing. My parents were very kind but occasionally they would open their bedroom door and say, "Stop!" People can be cranky in the morning so it didn't really stop me.

This is a stereotype so I apologize. But, it is true for my story and my experience. A lot of the male dancers were gay. I was a young girl showing an interest in boys. I found this all a little confusing.

In some ways, this was life altering. I experienced it all, without even realizing it at the time. Anorexia, Bulimia, Homosexuality, Fitness, Graciousness, Good Costumes, Make-up tips. It was fun and educational.

I still love to sing and dance. When the husband or my mother-in-law plays the piano, I am the first one to sing along. When Big Daddy's band plays, I dance a lot.

Last night was a clear, perfect evening. Big Daddy and I cranked up the iPod. We sang along and we danced on the patio.

Musical Talent

I have zero musical talent. I love music and I'm in awe of people who can sing and/or play an instrument.

The husband and the mother-in-law play by ear. They can listen to a song and sit down at the piano and fake through it. It's amazing. Their musical styles are different but I love it all. He plays in a band and can pick up multiple instruments and play them with ease.

Here's how we ended up with a piano. About 10 years ago, a girlfriend decided to sell hers as a part of her divorce. I couldn't afford it but I knew it would be great for Big Daddy. It was to be his Christmas gift but the delivery people couldn't bring it until after Christmas. I had a girlfriend take a photo of me, ala Michelle Pfeiffer in "The Fabulous Baker Boys," and I wrapped it for Christmas morning. Then, one of my friends said, "No." I will find someone to deliver it on Christmas Eve. To my amazement, he did. For extra fun, I had to dismantle and move the Christmas tree. Then I had to have Big Daddy's friends keep him busy for hours while I waited for the delivery. Their idea of keeping him busy was hitting golf balls through the clubhouse, drinking and calling me a lot.

When he finally came home, we had the piano in place. It took him a few minutes to notice the Grand Piano in the living room. Another glass of wine? Actually he was overwhelmed by the people milling about -- he promptly sat down and played.

We've had some of our best times in this house standing around the piano with friends and family. Both kids are fascinated with music.

The dog has some musical talent. She works that squeaky ball and I sing along. "Sing, sing a song. Make it simple ..."

The Naked Guy

Here's another story about babysitting in the neighborhood. You may want to know where this wild and wacky neighborhood is but I will never tell.

I was very big on the prospect of earning money. At 12-15, babysitting was my best option. Truthfully, it was pretty lucrative for those days.

A couple lived a few houses down from my parents. They had a toddler. They both worked full time and the wife went to school at night. My job was to feed and play with the toddler, then bathe him and have him ready for bed when the husband came home. Easy enough.

Before I go any further, remember I was about 12 or 13 and totally naive.

One night, I am bathing the baby. I hear the husband come in so I yelled, "Hello, we're almost finished in the tub." When I walked out, he was completely nude. In a very nonchalant way, he said, "We don't wear clothes in our house."

*** Brain clicking *** Brain freaking *** Don't know what to do. By the way, I had never seen a naked man. But, I tried to be cool and pretend this happened to me all the time. Oh sure, lots of my friend's parents didn't wear clothes.

So, I put the baby to bed and returned home. My parents were lying in their bedroom, watching television. I tried to act normal. "Did you know that the Rxxxxxx don't wear clothes when they're at home?"

My father doesn't leap. He jumped out of that bed and was out the door before I could finish my sentence.

That family moved.

If I get really brave, I may try this on the oldies.

Becoming My Mother

Doesn't every girl/woman go through this? You look in the mirror -- you're your mother. Some expression comes out of your mouth -- you're your mother.

Many, many years ago, I was going through a box of old family photos. There I was in a photo, in a bathrobe, in our kitchen. I said to my mother, "I don't remember this." She said, "It's not you, it's me."

She's a beauty to this day. That's pretty intimidating as a daughter. I spent many years wondering when I would be as gorgeous as my mother. Then I spent a few years being annoyed that it wasn't going to happen.

(An aside to my family and friends -- you don't have to send me emails to boost my self esteem. I know I look semi-ok for an old broad.)

My body type comes from my dad's side of the family. The women are short and small boned. We can dress it up. Unless someone lofts me on their shoulders, I'll never have the stature and presence I long for.

In her younger years, my mother looked a lot like Elizabeth Taylor. Men used to stalk her. She even has a beauty mark above her lip. I called her last year and said, "I may not have your beauty but your genes are in there somewhere. I've developed that beauty mark on my upper lip."

Yesterday my dad was in my kitchen talking to my goddaughter. We were looking at her prom picture and I said, "Girls didn't look like that when I was in high school." My dad said, "Your mom did and she's still gorgeous."

My mother thinks I am the most beautiful girl in the world. Here's the thing about daughters. There is no one else I would rather be compared to than her. Even when she hangs up on me.

The Avoidance Game

The husband and I have both worked for big corporations. One of the things they love to do is those personality tests. Big Daddy tells me that he has been tested and he is "Conflict Avoidance." (Why in the the world did he ever marry me?)

I'm in Oldies Avoidance mode. Their grandson was here and they were cranky with everyone. I was annoyed beyond belief.

So, I take the dog outside. Or, I shut myself in the office. Or, I take a swim in my tub. If I hear them shuffling in, I can vacate a room so fast your head would spin like Linda Blair in "The Exorcist."

It makes me sad. I think they're avoiding me too.

Phonics -- It has to end in an E sound

Once, I was at the lake and we got into this weird discussion about names and nicknames. It was Patsy, Sheri, Betsy, Kathy, Mickey, etc. The men use formal names for business but when we're together, it's Danny, Ronnie, Dickie, Jimmy, Phillie, etc. We pondered -- is this a generational thing?

I have a girlfriend who insists on Deb or Deborah. She's always Debbie to me.

The only person who's allowed to call my girlfriend Cynthia, "Cindy" is her husband. Big Daddy pushes this rule a bit. When the Baby is feeling wild and crazy, he calls her "Thia" (Pronounced Thee-ah.)

Even the word "oldies" ends with an E sound.

Your Socks Don't Match

At workout the other day, someone mentioned to Big S that her socks didn't match. We all had a good laugh.

The oldie's socks always match. The mother-in-law works much harder at laundry than most people. She irons everything. I do not. If it requires ironing, it goes to the dry cleaners. (My dry cleaning service loves me -- we are the second best customer. Ruth Lilly''s -- the descendant of Eli Lilly -- household is the first.)

Big Daddy came home last night from the golf course. A couple of his friends noticed that his socks didn't match. There was a pile of clean laundry on our bed. I said, "If you can do a better job, knock yourself out." He didn't bite.

The Dork

Last night, the husband and I were driving to one of the band gigs. The person next to us in traffic was a middle-aged man, driving a yellow VW bug. There were fake flowers in the built-in dashboard vase. When he got a few feet ahead of us, we saw that he had a multitude of ribbons -- Support our Troops, Breast Cancer, etc. He also had a vanity license plate. He might as well have a "kick me" sign on his back.

I said to Big Daddy, "I'll bet he's wearing bad shoes." Big Daddy said to me, "He'll never qualify as a bad boy."

You Might Be an Oldie

You might be an oldie if ...

You take your weight in medications.

You spend more time in bed than out of it.

It's 90 degrees and you're cold.

You feel entitled to anything free from the government.

You don't have email and you don't know how to check voicemail.

Knowing where your cell phone is doesn't seem very important.

Your social list is doctor's appointments.

When you get your hair done, you go to the "beauty parlor."

"What are we having for dinner?" is the focus of the day.

Getting dressed is optional.

The mail is a HUGE deal.

Every story starts with, "When I was young ..."

You don't understand what your kids do for a living.

You can't hear and you can't see but you're not interested anyway.

You regularly call your children and/or grandchildren by the wrong name.

You're not worried about global warming or social security running out. It won't be in your lifetime.

Your laptop is not a computer. It's where you balance dessert.

Are you an oldie?

28 Pounds

Although I am an only child, I have a pseudo sister.

When I was twelve years old, a new family moved in across the street. I offered my services as a babysitter for their two-year old daughter and infant son. I was a safe option, with my parents right across the street. I babysat for them a lot. They also spent a lot of time with my parents. When my dad would come home from work, the daughter would stand on the sidewalk and scream across the street, "Paulie, I weigh 28 pounds."

My mother went through a tough time when I headed off to college. Luckily, my sister was there. She helped decorate the Christmas tree and she hung out. She loved (and still loves) hanging out in the kitchen with my mother.

When she was a teenager, we grilled her about everything. Boys, school, sex, politics, etc. I would've run away screaming but she put up with us.

She was in a horrible car accident in her late teens -- we honestly didn't know if she would survive. My mother went to the hospital and later the rehab place every day. No one (with the possible exception of her parents) prayed harder than my mother. She survived and thrived.

Today, she's married and the mother of three. She and my mother have lots of rituals and traditions that have nothing to do with me. They have standing dates for certain tv shows. She and my mother make all of the Christmas candy. They regularly go for gas station cappuccinos. I find it amusing that they have so much in common because none of this interests me. They invite me sometimes. I decline.

I pulled her aside once and said, "Please don't ever hurt my parents." I now realize how dumb that was. They're her parents too. She's my sister.

Food Pushers

I wish I could take credit for this phrase. This is what the Baby calls his grandmothers.

My mother is the best cook, yes, I'm a little prejudiced. Her specialties are desserts and homemade candy. I limit myself to twice a year. My mother-in-law is a great cook. My grandmother (the sane one) was an amazing cook. My aunts are great cooks. I get a little intimidated. Big Daddy and I both come from extended families where each meal was eaten and then you started preparing for the next one. My grandmother rarely left the kitchen. I can throw a meal together but we don't live that way. I think sliced tomatoes, brie and french bread makes a fine meal.

I am often the beneficiary of these cooks. When the oldies ask me at 9am what we are going to do for dinner, I can honestly say, "I don't have a clue." Then, by some miracle, my mother will send over spaghetti sauce. Abracadabra! Here's dinner.

It doesn't matter how much you eat. For the food pushers, you did not eat enough.

I Want to Go Too!

One of the things I miss about my old job is the travel. I never thought I would feel this way because most of the business-related travel was to exotic locations like Columbus, OH or Milwaukee, WI. I griped about it constantly.

I've been in or on every size plane, bus, subway, El, and taxi imaginable. My friend (and co-worker at the bank) and I sat in the airport one morning at some ungodly hour, waiting for our flight. We were the only people in the vicinity. When it was time to board, the gate attendant announced our flight over the loud speaker. Finally, I said, "Hello! We're both right here!"

Friends and family share their travel plans. The 5-year old who lives in my brain shouts, "I want to go too!"

Our nephew left this morning. Guess what was running through my mind.

The Best Kisser

When I was a child, we graduated from neighborhood games, like Hide and Seek to other games, like Spin the Bottle. I remember the exact moment when someone put his tongue in my mouth. Weird! Thrilled! Now, we have to get married. (Just kidding!) I discussed it with my aunt and I remember that conversation verbatim. She gave me great advice.

I am very affectionate. I hug and kiss my friends, my family and anyone else who crosses my path. What am I saving it for? I say "I love you" a lot.

Big Daddy is my favorite kisser. A close second is my dog. It's a kiss and a bath all in one.

No Ma'am and Yes Sir

I haven't figured out if I'm more Yankee or Southern. I have a foot in both camps.

We've had two nephews visit recently. They're both well-mannered. Every sentence begins or ends with "Sir or Ma'am." If they miss something, instead of saying, "Pardon me?" they say, "Ma'am?" The oldies just scream, "What?!"

A lot of women get irritated if they are called Ma'am. It makes them feel old. In the south, it's the norm and I find it charming.

The baby doesn't say "Sir or Ma'am" very often. (If he does, it's tongue in cheek.) He does use last names, i.e Mrs. Lee or Mr. England. Many of these people have decided that he is now an adult and can call them by their first names. He can't do it.

I was sitting outside with my nephew last night and my neighbor came through the gate. He said, "Would that be Miss Pam?" I said, "Yes sir, it is."

I guess the southern side wins.

Secret Codes

Groucho Marx used to have the secret word. Now, we all have secret codes.

There's a code for the ATM card, debit card, etc. There's a code for the garage door remote. There's a code for the alarm system. We need a code to check our voicemail. It just goes on and on. I tried to count how many things I need to know the code ... I gave up.

Here's where the system fails. I can walk across the driveway and let myself into my neighbor's home. I know the code. I can walk into my parent's home and disarm the alarm. I know the code. Some of my friends have asked me to check on pets, plants, etc. while they're traveling. I know the code. It's a good thing I'm pretty trustworthy, although I do occasionally take things from my neighbor's pantry. (I always tell her and I always replace it.)

I'm not great at math but here's an interesting twist -- I memorize numbers easily. I may not remember names but I can usually pop out a phone number with ease. Big Daddy has everything programmed. I just say, "Stop scrolling -- the number is...."

I know ALL of the oldies' codes.

Movie Line Answers

These are good in numerous situations. My Aunt Cess tells the story of telling someone in her church that she was going to have to "take him to the mattress." Ooops. For those of you who asked about the previous post (Movie Lines -- July 18, 2007,) here are the answers:


I love you more than my luggage. Steel Magnolias

Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn. Gone with the Wind

Take it to the mattress. The Godfather

Here's Johnny! The Shining

Greed is good. Wall Street

I'm just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love me. Notting Hill

See ya Hubbell. The Way We Were

It was magic. Sleepless in Seattle

Winter would be cold with no warm memories. An Affair to Remember

I'll think about that tomorrow. Gone with the Wind

You can't handle the truth. A Few Good Men

Now, we should all get off the computer and go watch an old movie.

Bad Boys

My parents love the show, "Cops." Everyone, sing along -- "Bad Boys, Bad Boys, what'cha goin' to do when they come for you?"

Let me explain my definition of a bad boy. This is a boy/man who is ok with taking a risk. This is a boy/man who looks life in the eye and says, "Bring it on."

I've been on both sides of this track. I have been in relationships with incredibly nice men who let me run all over them. Those relationships didn't work.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm not promoting abusers, serial adulterers or compulsive people. I just get a little jolt from a boy/man with an edge. I like someone who pushes me and lets me push back. I like the fact that my husband is over 50 and still plays in a rock & roll band. I like it that we try to push each other around and usually have to call it a draw.

I can name every boy that I had a crush on, kissed, dated and married. They have grown up and moved on. Most of them had an edgy side.

My father is now a gentle soul. However, when my mother met him, he was a bad boy.

I love meeting Big Daddy out for dinner or another occasion. I can scan the room and think to myself, "There's my bad boy."

Out of the Mouths of Babes

The husband is a huge Beatles fan. We have a coffee table book about them and it was displayed prominently -- well, on the coffee table. Big Daddy used to point to each of the photos and say, "Who is that?"

The baby's answers were: John, Paul, George ... and Bingo. (He liked that song, B, I, N, G, O and Bingo was his name-O.)

About the same year, we were stuck in heavy traffic. The baby was safely strapped in his car seat, chewing on his Cheerios. Someone cut Big Daddy off and he muttered and slapped the steering wheel.

The baby said, "Yeah, what the buck are you doing?"

Suicide

The Death Doctor, Dr. Jack Kevorkian, was recently released from prison. On Larry King Live, he said, "suicide is a right, not a crime."

I realize this is not an uplifting subject. I vacillate on my opinion. I have had a little experience with suicide.

When I was a child, my great aunt committed suicide. I happened to be at another great aunt's house and I remember it vividly. The aunts were on the phone together and the conversation turned to something morbid. My cousins and I were gathered at the kitchen table and I had been repeatedly complimented on my good eating habits.

(An aside -- her children would not allow their food to touch, plus they were picky eaters. My mother taught me to eat whatever was put in front of me and compliment the chef -- a rule I still abide by to this day.)

Later, I heard the phone ring and then the screaming sob when she heard the news.

A few years later, I was in high school and one of the neighborhood friends walked into his bedroom and found his older brother, who had committed suicide. I firmly believe his life was altered forever.

Suicide is a selfish choice. But, like abortion, I've never been there. At my worst moments, it's never crossed my mind.

I've had to euthanize a few old dogs. It's gut-wrenching and a little relief. Then someone has to pick me up off the floor and take me home. Girlfriends bring wine and flowers. Honestly, some of my dogs have had better wakes than some people I know.

Assisted suicide is something I cannot be judgemental about. I just don't know.

Movie Lines

Other than a couple of bathrooms, there is a television in every room of my home. This probably says something about our intelligence level but I'll dwell on that later.

The oldies always watch tv together and it's either the game show network or a baseball game. He can't see but she tolerates it. I hear the "ding" from the game show network throughout the day and it's a little jarring.

Big Daddy watches the History channel, Discovery or The Golf Channel. We often watch some shows together (we like the ones where the husband or wife whacks the spouse and tries to get away with it) but after that I get bored and move to another room so I can watch what I love: Movies that I have seen over and over again! Again, my intelligence comes into question.

As a writer, I love a well-composed sentence. I also love a memorable line in a movie. Here are a few of my favorites:

I love you more than my luggage.

Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.

Take it to the mattress.

Here's Johnny!

Greed is good.

I'm just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love me.

See ya Hubbell.

It was magic.

Winter would be cold with no warm memories.

I'll think about that tomorrow.

You can't handle the truth.

Can you name the movies? What are some of your favorites?

I tried asking the oldies this question. Again, I received the look that says I am from another planet. So, I just said, "Ding!"

In Bed Again

When The Baby was little, the husband traveled quite a bit. Baby and I would make our popcorn or our bowls of ice cream and crawl in my bed to watch tv. It sounds mundane but those were the magical times.

The night before I left for college, I crept into my parents bed. I needed that embrace.

College is looming. I've stopped counting months and weeks. I am now counting days. I want popcorn and a stupid movie. I want one more night with the baby snuggling in my bed.

High Maintenance

Big Daddy and I squabble about this. He accuses me of being high maintenance. I guess I am but as I regularly point out -- I take care of my own maintenance.

In my mind, the husband is high maintenance. And, I'm the one who usually does it. Dry cleaning -- check. Laundry -- check. Coffee and other stock items -- check.

We both agree that the oldies are high maintenance and yet, we get some weird satisfaction out of debating who does more for them.

I try not to keep score. If I get really annoyed, I go get my nails done.

Leaping over the Fence

The husband has always been an athlete. Now it's golf but for many years it was football and hockey.

The mother-in-law has jumped the fence many times. She raised four boys. Nobody is going to mess with her boys. If it even seems that one of them is hurt, she will hurl her little body across anything.

It took me many years to understand this. Now I do. I would leap the fence for my parents and friends. I would hurl my body in front of anything to protect our children. I would go to the mattress for Big Daddy.

When I watch the news and I see the stories of people who let horrible people into their lives or tragic things happen to their children, I think of my life. We're occasionally cranky, yet blessed. We get on each other's nerves. When it's all said and done, we regularly leap over the fence for each other.

The First Boy

Like all young girls, I regularly had crushes on the boys in my neighborhood. Some were fleeting and some last forever.

As you know, I did not enjoy yard work or anything that made my hands dirty. I epitomized "prissy." There was a boy down the street. He helped my dad and he did all of my yard work for me. I was madly, passionately in love with him.

My parents went through a dorky stage where we all went square dancing. God love them, he and his sister went along. I choose to believe that he wanted to be with me. My dad had a pick-up truck with a cab and the kids rode in the back. He used to kiss me and his sister pretended not to notice.

I know he went into the service. I know he is happily married with children. I ran into him once in a mall. I was gushing.

My parents ran into him a few years ago. My mom, always the Queen of conversational innuendo, said, "There was a time in my life when I thought you would be my son-in-law." His response: "I'm not dead yet."

With due respect to his wife, I still have a crush on him.

The Kids Across the Street

I was moving some stuff around for the oldies and found old photos. An excuse to traipse down memory lane.

Our neighborhood was filled with kids. I spent most of my time with the kids across the street. If memory serves -- if not, someone will correct me -- I was 4 or 5-years old when we moved in. The oldest son was a year older, the younger son was my age and the daughter was a year younger than me. Our parents were great friends and they still are to this day.

Babysitters used to throw us in the tub together. We dared each other and we knew to take the dare. The oldest child used to have asthma attacks. The babysitters never knew what to do but we kids did. We handled it. We could be super mean to each other. The middle child punched me in the stomach once. It hurt. We played games in the basement and ran around the neighborhood. The daughter and I competed in numerous things. Of course, I always thought I won.

I run into them occasionally. The last time was my goddaughter's graduation party. I watched her with her husband and three little boys. I had a flashback to the year we both got married. She's still married to him; I am married to someone else.

She won.

Different Memories

Recently, we had a little skirmish about something that happened in the family many years ago. We all remember it differently. Of course, we're all convinced that we remember it the correct way.

Sometimes, the husband will tell a story and I'm tempted to jump in and correct him. I am working very hard to curtail this urge but often I fail.

I do this little mantra in my head: Let it go, Let it go, Let it go.

It works best for me if I sing it in my mind, "Oh the weather outside is frightful ..." Feel free to sing along. "Let it go, Let it go, Let it go."

Pick Three Books

I contemplate the dumbest things. Here's one:

If you were stranded on an island and could only have three books, what would you choose? I asked the oldies this question and they looked at me as if I had just stepped off a different planet.

Two of my three choices never change. I would want a bible and I would want my combination dictionary/thesaurus. The third should be thick, engaging and something you would enjoy reading over and over. War and Peace,? Jane Eyre?

Right now, I'm going with Gone With The Wind. I read it once a year anyway. If I were on that island, I could recite it. If I'm ever stranded, I hope I would have reading glasses. Otherwise, I would be like Burgess Meredith in that Twilight Zone episode. He survives the nuclear attack and he's safely in the library. Then, he steps on his glasses and can't read a thing.

What would you choose?

Shopping

The oldies love to go shopping. The warehouse store is their favorite destination and they come home loaded up with butter, bacon, paper towels and whatever else strikes their fancy. They also buy a lot of new clothes, which I find ironic for two people who rarely leave the house.

I rarely shop. I don't need a thing. I hate going to the grocery and those warehouse stores overwhelm me. I like a bargain so I usually buy a few things at the Nordstom's outlet (Last Chance) when I go to Phoenix in January. One of my girlfriends finds lots of bargains at Goodwill and consignment shops. I'm jealous.

Last Christmas, I made a list and paid a friend to do the bulk of it. Or, I shop online. This is fascinating to the mother-in-law and now she asks me to search for things for her. I may not be good at a lot of things but I can meander my way around the Internet.

Some shopping is critical, like shopping for your wedding dress or shopping for the bathing suit that doesn't make you look like a whale. (In college, a lot of girls were shopping for a husband.) Other than that, it's minutia: paper towels, toilet paper, something for dinner...

I have a husband. The oldies have stocked up on paper products. I prefer to go out for dinner. I won't be shopping for a while.

The Mean Voice

Just the girlfriend, her daughter and I at her lake cottage this weekend, plus dogs. It was bliss.

This was only the puppy's second trip so she's still wild and getting acclimated to different surroundings. A friend and neighbor suggested I should use my "mean voice." Stupidly, I said, "I don't think I have a mean voice."

My girlfriend laughed so hard I thought she was going to develop hiccups.

Asking Permission versus Asking Forgiveness

I am blessed with many young girls in my life. They don't often ask for my advice but when they do, I do not run out of things to say.

Great relationships rely on give and take. Respect for each other is crucial. Someone will have to play the role of social secretary.

Big Daddy has a busy life -- work, band, golf, committees, etc. A long time ago, he started letting me know what was on his schedule for the week. I complied but I am also used to changing plans at the last minute. I can be ready to go out in less than 30 minutes. He can bring anyone home for dinner and I am usually unfazed.

A few years ago, I decided it was ok to put things on my schedule. This has not always turned out well. I usually go ahead with my plans anyway.

The olders confer to the point of exhaustion. I used to think that was quaint and cute. Now, I think it is nuts. Somebody make a decision and abide by it!

Listen up young girls! It is almost always preferable to seek forgiveness. Asking permission makes me feel like a doormat. You'll probably figure out a better system.

Dog Bites

Recently, thre was a stray dog in my yard. It looked like a Chow mix and was obviously abandoned or lost. When I used my sweet voice, he came to me and I gave him some water. I had dog treats in my pocket-- doesn't everyone? -- so I gave him a couple.

His fur was matted and messy. When I reached in to see if he had any tags, he nipped me. This dog probably matched me in weight. If he had wanted to take off my arm, he would've won that contest. I gave him another treat.

Later, I remembered an open sore on his nose so I called my doctor. I'm thinking Cujo. After instructions of what to watch for, my doctor's nurse assured me that my shots are up to date, rabies are rare, etc. The poor dog was picked up by Animal Control and I'm trying not to hate the people who abandoned him. I'll just take my mind into Sheri's World and assume he had been chipped and was returned to his rightful owners.

The oldies are tolerant of my dog. Well, she is. I want to take them over to my parent's home just so they see how lucky they are. My parents have two dogs and one is a 6lb. maniac that bites everyone in her path. My ankles have never been the same since they've owned this dog. Even my mother, who is one of her primary care givers, is regularly bitten. It's usually when she has the nerve to roll over in bed and invade the trio -- my dad and the two dogs who adore him.

Collections

I don't think of myself as a collector. I don't own Hummels or Precious Moments figurines. I don't have the desire or the energy to dust all of those things. Once my mother told people that she thought pigs were cute. Every holiday involved another pig collectible. I learned a lesson there.

My weakness is china and glassware. My grandmother (the sane one, not the zany one) used to give me a bowl or a platter for every occasion. This started when I was about 12-years old. On big occasions like a wedding or graduation, she taped $20 in it but I still received a bowl. My mom used to say, "Mother, she's 15. What is she going to do with a bowl?" I have them all. I use them all the time.

I have four sets of china. (Plain with gold, plain with silver, floral and holiday.) I'm in love with several other patterns. When the oldies moved out of their home and set up camp with us, I had my eye on Big Daddy's grandmother's china. Much to my dismay, it didn't come here.

My crystal is Waterford and I'm thrilled that my goddaughters are in love with the same pattern. I know what to buy for their weddings and I know what to do with my crystal in my will.

I had someone cleaning for me once and she accidentally knocked over a wall hutch with glassware in it. She left me a note saying that she was sorry and she hoped there was nothing of value in it. At that moment, I wished I had been collecting pig figurines.

The He-Man Women Haters Club

When the Baby was little, my parents used to babysit a lot. Movies were a great distraction and The Little Rascals was a favorite. Later, the Baby and my dad started fishing trips -- no girls allowed. They still call it the "He-Man Women Haters Club."

I feel the same passion about girl trips. No boys allowed. If they were allowed to join us, someone would want a sandwich; someone would want to discuss the golf game. Someone would change the channel during a great Lifetime movie right when we are ready for the man to get his just reward in the end.

When Big Daddy and I travel together, we have a great time. He gets the remote control and we take care of each other. When I travel without him, I get the remote control and I watch Lifetime to my heart's content.

I'm pretty sure I'll never be invited on the fishing trip.

A Room with a View

My office is teensy. On top of that, it has two desks, two chairs and multiple filing cabinets. There are also dog toys so I'm regularly tripping over something or bashing into a corner of the desk. I love it anyway.

The windows face my back yard, which is in full bloom at this time of year. I can watch the dog romp. I can watch the birds from a safe distance. It's right off the kitchen so I can smell or hear if disaster strikes. I can eavesdrop on the oldies.

We renovated our home 10+ years ago. Originally this room, the bath and the laundry room were intended to be the maid's quarters. (Who does that?) We moved some doorways but for the most part, it's still the same. Since I do the laundry, it seems fitting that I spend most of my days (and some nights) in this part of the house.

Looking out the window makes me happy. Laundry does not.

Trading Cars

At my request, the husband and I traded cars today. Even though it was my idea, it makes me nervous. I ride with him a lot and I think he is an agressive driver. Also, he will not let me take him through the tutorial so he'll just be pushing buttons and I will have to reset everything.

I don't even particularly like my car. It's way too complicated. Still, some only child gene rears its ugly head and it's MINE! Be careful with it.

The oldies don't have this issue. He's legally blind and she is the only driver. The blindness must come and go because he's always playing navigator.

The only qualm Big Daddy has about me driving his car is dog hair. He didn't want the dog in the passenger seat. I couldn't make this promise so I had to swear to have it vacuumed. I don't know what the big deal is. His car is a mess and I am usually the only one to sit in the passenger seat.

So, he took my car. The one with all the dog hair in it.

He Has To Eat

The mother-in-law has been successfully treated for bladder cancer. Quarterly visits with her Urologist are mandatory.

This morning was a little crazy. I reminded her of the appointment. She was frying up breakfast and I lost it a bit ... "You don't have time to do this."

With a steel spine and a strong voice, she informed me, "He has to eat."

This is southern and/or farm hand mentality. Of course he has to eat. But, he could eat a bowl of cereal and a banana. Have some fruit.

He doesn't care what is put in front of him. He has been well trained and with every meal, he tells her it was "excellent." He says this no less than 10 times. If she ignores him and rolls her eyes (from living with me too long,) he says it more often and louder. "THANK YOU LOVE, THAT WAS EXCELLENT!" It could be a piece of toast on a paper plate and it would be the most excellent meal he's ever had, as long as dessert and coffee were on the docket.

Yesterday, I caught her loading up the garage refrigerator with butter. I'm not kidding -- at least 5 cartons with 4 sticks each. We are in butter abundance.

At their age, I cannot change their eating habits. Truly, it's none of my business.

She never sits down for breakfast. She eats over the sink and looks out the window. She makes sure he is taken care of and rolls her eyes. I know she loves him with every fiber of her being.

I am crossing my fingers, saying a prayer and knocking on wood. I don't care what he had for breakfast -- I just want a good report from the Urologist.

Mr. No Face

When I adopted my puppy, all of my girlfriends showed up with treats and toys. (We are very weird about our dogs.)

I started naming the toys, i.e. Mr. No Face, Mr. Snake Man, Mr. Ferret, Mr. Football, etc. Then I would instruct the puppy to "Show Mr. No Face who's the boss." Big Daddy pointed out to me that all the toys have male names and I might possibly have a man bashing/control freak problem.

I promptly renamed Mr. No Face. He's Mr. Big Daddy.

When You Hear a Thump

Last night, the mother-in-law came into my bedroom and said this sentence:

"When you hear a thump, please wait 30 minutes before you call the Coroner."

Obviously, she was kidding. She was frustrated with her husband and joking with me helped lighten the moment. What wife has not been there?

Just to make her feel better, I said, "I will be telling Big Daddy tonight that the dog and I are running away for the weekend with friends. When you hear a thump, that will be me so please come immediately."

You'll See

I miss my madcap grandmother. She made me crazy in a lot of ways but she never failed to make me laugh.

My mother was always trying to get her out of the house. Once we went to lunch and an over-attentive waiter kept bringing us unneeded soft drink refills. At one point, there were at least 12 Diet Cokes, Cherry Cokes and regular Cokes on the table. My mom said to me, "He's flirting with you." My grandmother replied, "No, he's flirting with me." She was probably right.

Her life was not easy and she made some poor choices. Luckily, she had three daughters who took care of her to the bitter end. I'm not making fun of old age, illness or dementia. I was a coward who ran the other way. Then God tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Here are your in-laws and they are going to live with you."

Zany ol' grandma believed that people were regularly breaking into her apartment to do madcap things like dent her coffee cart or move pillows around. When ANY of us would doubt her, she would say, "You'll see."

She lived for her trashy magazines. Heaven forbid that it was a holiday week and they might come out one day late. My mom tried to explain it to her but she would just nod her head and say, "You'll see." She kept a death calendar of all the famous people who perished. When there were only two, she would say to us, "Another one comes tomorrow -- you'll see."

She used to always tell us we would find her dead one day. Those crazy people were going to do her in. She was sure of it. We all blew off these comments. Her constant mantra was, "You'll see." One night/morning, she died in her sleep. We all rushed to the apartment and waited for the proper officials. Through our tears, somebody said, "You'll see" and we all cracked up laughing ... just for a minute.

School Supplies

It's the time of year where school supplies show up in their neatly packaged displays in every store. I am in hog heaven.

I love a fresh new notebook. (Or 12) I love sharpening a pencil and putting one of those cone-shaped erasers on the end. The plethora of colored post-it notes and highlighters makes me giddy.

When I was in first or second grade, my mother actually went to my teacher and questioned the amount of homework given. The teacher replied, "I haven't given any homework." I just liked playing with the school supplies!

Still do.

The Dress Up Doll

My mother was a young bride and 17 months later, she became a young mother. She doted on me and her two younger sisters adored me. This is a mutual admiration society that continues today.

I don't remember those early days but I have heard the stories enough to know that I was part niece and part dress-up doll. Remember layaway? My aunts used to take (huge!) portions of their paychecks to put dresses on layaway for me. (It's easy to be the favorite niece when you're the only one.)

Now I'm fully grown and living with the oldies. The mother-in-law birthed and raised four boys. She buys me a dress for every birthday and Christmas. I am now her dress-up doll.

Motorized Chairs

When the oldies first joined us here, their health was pretty frail. He was recovering from two hip replacements and she was finishing chemotherapy. We spent a bit of time pushing wheelchairs. The father-in-law was fascinated with a motorized scooter. Big Daddy said, "Not in my house." Our goal was to complete the physical therapy and get him walking. He has moved from a wheelchair to a walker to a cane. I catch him walking without the cane and he's doing pretty darn well.

They have motorized scooters with carts at the warehouse store. Now I know why he loves to go there. The last time they went, he mowed over a couple of displays so now the mother-in-law will not let him drive one.

For people with no ability, these chairs are a Godsend. For people who need to do their physical therapy, they are a cop out.

He may spend a lot of time in bed but when he's up, he's walking.

The Girl Trip Gone Wrong

You know traveling is one of my favorite things and girl trips are my great escape. 99 percent of the time, they are wonderful. Occasionally, they go awry.

Many years ago, 8 girls agreed to go to Florida for a week. Escape! No husbands! No children! This will be bliss.

Two of these women were my very dear friends. Two were acquaintances that I thought I knew, although not well. Two were people I was just getting to know. One flew in from California -- I'd never met her before; I'll probably never see her again.

Eight women in two condos should be easy, right? No. There was a condo fiasco right away. Who had the better condo? Who had done all the work? All I knew was that I was sharing a room with my friend Patsy and we decided that a little vodka and grapefruit would make these conversations easier to deal with. Our other friend was right down the hall but she spent most of her time in our room and on our bed. We were used to our slumber parties; it was the right thing to do.

Then we got crazy. We had this gigantic SUV. When we went out to dinner, Patsy or I would shout, "Bad girls in the back!" The three of us took our spots and everyone else looked at us like we were nuts. (But they let us shuffle to the back.)

Eight women at dinner is a server's worst nightmare. A couple of these women wanted to dissect every glass of wine and the cost of every entree. I was probably the poorest person there but I wanted to throw money on the table and get out.

We all brought beach reading. Patsy discovered "Wifey" by Judy Blume, and she read it aloud to us at the pool. If you haven't read it, tuck it in your swim bag. It can divert the attention for a long time. Do not read it around children.

Somehow that paperback came home with me. I don't know how because I read it for the first time 20+ years ago. The other day, the oldies were in the sunroom and she picked it up. "Is this any good?" I launched myself across the room and said, "This is only for bad girl trips."

A Font of Useless Information

The baby is headed to college. So are most of his friends. My helper and next-door neighbor is going through freshman orientation today. My elder goddaughter is headed off too. It's such an exciting time for them. I went to college -- I remember.

They are allowed to test out of subjects. This was not an option in my day so I'm a little jealous.

I wonder what I would test out of today. I probably could conjugate a verb. I am sure I could not do a chemistry table, even if you threatened to hack off my fingers -- one by one.

If they had a test about People Magazine I would excel.

Being Bussed

I was smack dab in the middle of bussing. In 6th grade, they started bussing inner-city children to my neighborhood school. That first bus ride was pretty tense. If I were tested, I could recite the dialogue verbatim.

In middle school, I was bussed to the inner-city. It wasn't fun but I learned a lot. Until that point, I had led a pretty sheltered, white bread existence. My mother worked outside the home and I always had a pocket full of dimes so I could call and beg her to leave work early and pick me up. In those days, they locked the school after all the after school practices were completed so I was literally locked outside. I had a very intimate relationship with that pay phone.

I learned that mean people and bullies come in all colors and sizes. I learned that your new friend could be the person that sits next to you in home room or helps you learn the new cheerleading routine. I learned to give people a chance -- even those who looked or acted differently from me.

Whenever I meet close-minded people, first I get irritated and then I feel sorry for them. When you open your heart and your world, both expand.

Duck and Cover

I went to grade school in the late 60s. The Cold War was raging and we had these little drills to "duck and cover." That involved curling yourself in a ball and sliding under your desk. Yeah, that's going to help in the event of a nuclear attack! In junior high, we did a similar drill in front of our lockers. I thought it was stupid then and I'm still convinced it was pointless. It just made a bunch of administrators feel like they were in control of the situation.

We were afraid of the wrong things. Yes, there were people who wanted to destroy the USA and yes, there were serious threats. There still are. September 11, 2001 was horrible and I'm afraid we will have more of those days. But I think it's more likely to be your day to day life that will do you in.

When I have a bad day, "duck and cover" comes in handy. It's usually not because of Russia or Cuba. I can't even blame the situation on the Middle East. I was trained in grade school -- when you're in a bad situation, duck and cover! Maybe it wasn't a waste of time after all.

The Farmer's Market

I've always been a delicate eater. I'm not a picky eater -- I like almost every food imaginable. I'm just rarely hungry and if I am, three or so bites will fix it. This makes the people in my life crazy.

Here's the exception. I want to devour everything at the farmer's market. This is our time of year for sweet corn, melons, and big, juicy tomatoes. Friends bring me things from their garden -- I make fresh salsa and big salads. I like eating the fruit and letting the juice drip down my chin. I may be full but three bites are not enough.

Questions to Ponder

The Golden Girls and I travel a couple of times a year. We are each required to bring a list of questions. As mentioned in previous posts, we cut them in little strips and carry them with us everywhere. It's a great way to get caught up on our lives and our mindset. Here's a sampling of the list I brought last year:

If you could trade lives for one day with someone you know personally, who would it be and why?

What's the best thing you've done this year?

Who from your past would you like to reconnect with?

If you were back in college, what would you choose as your major?

Name one trait in your children that you know comes from you.

What songs do you want at your funeral?

Would you ever remarry?

What do you pray for?

At what age did you feel like an adult? At what age did you feel middle aged?

Where were you on 9/11/01?

If you had to pick one CD/album to listen to for the rest of your life, which one would you choose?

What do you own too much of?

When someone disappoints you, how do you handle it?

Name something that we did as teens that you never want your kids to do.

Who would you like to see as our first woman president? Why?

What's the one grooming item you couldn't do without?

What technology are you most befuddled by?

Are you politically active? How have you instilled this in your children?

Who can you count on when the chips are down?

Are regrets a bad thing? What do you regret?

Are friendships a fluke or a destiny?

What languages do you wish you could speak fluently?

Is there life on other planets?

What's the weirdest thing going on with your body?

Do you hate anyone? If so, who and why?

Name one thing you know you'll never do but wish you had.

If you won a dream makeover, what would you have done?

If you could re-do your wedding, what would you do differently?

Is there a picture of you "out there" that you regret?

Other than a wedding ring, what's your favorite piece of jewelry or accessory?

We're mid-40s. If you found out tomorrow that you were pregnant, what would you do?

If I met you for the first time, how would you describe yourself?

What's your weirdest quirk?

If you wrote your autobiography, what would the title be?

When you vote, if there's a category that you don't know the candidates, do you go by party or skip that section?

What's the best invention of our lifetime?

If your child were in a relationship that you did not approve of, how would you handle it?

Name one thing you wish you had more time for.

Ask yourself. Ask your friends. I would ask the oldies but apparently, I already ask too many questions.

A Natural Beauty Day

A 70ish friend of mine refers to days without attention to hair and make-up as "Natural Beauty Days." Lucky for her, she has the skin and great hair to carry it off.

Natural beauty days are my norm. I roll out of bed and work out. Unless I have a pending meeting, I can get on the phone and computer, look up and 5 hours have gone by. (Whoops!) I'm still in my workout clothes and I haven't looked in a mirror since 5 A.M. I choose to blame this on the oldies. Unless there's a trip to the doctor or the warehouse store, every day is Natural Beauty Day.

Before hot rollers and blow dryers, women used to pin their hair in curlers during the day so they would look nice when their husbands came home from work. I'm doing my own version of this. I pop in the shower about 5 P.M. and slap some make-up on in case we decide to go out somewhere. It's not so much about vanity as much as I don't want to watch Big Daddy run screaming through the neighborhood.

Electronics

I can work the TV/DVD/VCR/Cable remote controls. I can meander my way through the computer issues. I can change light bulbs. That's about it.

I bought a wireless pet fence system for the puppy. My friend installed it. There's a keypad on my garage door. My friend installed it. She's cheap labor -- it just costs me a cup of coffee. There's always something broken around here. My dad fixes it. Houseboy handles everything with the lawn and changes the light bulbs I can't reach.

It's embarrassing to be so needy. So, I remind myself that some people need me too.

Veterans

I watch the news and I read the newspaper every day. I don't understand this war but I have strong feelings about the men and women who are serving our country.

I live with three veterans. The oldies served our country in WWII and Big Daddy served in Vietnam. The toughest thing I've ever served is a meal.

The baby will be 19-years old next month. Yet, he is still a baby. I look at these people and I'm in awe of their service to this country. In another day, another time, the Baby could be there too. It scares me to death.

Wave your flag and please thank a veteran.

Pig Spanish

Remember Pig Latin? During my childhood, we spoke it constantly and thought we were very clever. Ouyay antcay asay atthay!

Many years ago, the husband and I traveled to South America. He was speaking at an international conference and I bullied my way along. I wanted to see Rio. It is probably the best trip I've ever taken with one exception. We don't speak Portuguese. We've both had a little history with Spanish and it's very similar to Portuguese. We developed a new language -- Pig Spanish. With Pig Spanish, you can find a bathroom or order a glass of wine. You can say "No Gas" when you're ordering water. You can order a sandwich but here's a bizarre thing -- every sandwich comes with a fried egg on top. We never figured this out.

We were warned that Rio is dangerous and the best bet was to hire a driver. (Otherwise someone might rob you or find a dark alley and spoon out a kidney.) We hired a driver for the week and he was delightful. Once he found out that Big Daddy was in a band, he started bringing tapes of his music for us to listen to in the car. One of the songs had to do with killing his girlfriend but we pretended to be unfazed.

As he heads off to college, the baby just tested out of three semesters of Spanish. After he's well educated, I'm going to teach him Pig Spanish.

Glasses

There are reading glasses in every room of my home. There are several pairs in my handbag, my swim bag and my car. Just like the gray hair, it's another reminder of aging and I hate it.

The other day I was at the lake. Ponytail and baseball cap in place. The husband returned from playing golf and started laughing. He said, "How many glasses do you need?" I had the sun glass readers propped on my nose. The regular sunglasses and the regular readers were attached to my cap. They taught us in Girl Scouts to be prepared -- I'm prepared but I look like a dork.

The father-in-law pretends to be blind but it comes and goes pretty conveniently. If I can ever get the puppy trained, I'm going to work on making her a seeing eye dog. We'll both use her.

Head Up!

I live with hangdog. Beyond the Unabomber costume, the father-in-law has perfected the droopy head, bad posture, feel sorry for me look.

In some ways this is comical to me. I am the posture Queen. Both of our children have been poked and prodded to stand up straight and lift their heads. I cannot count the number of times I've said, "Stop slumping."

We take the puppy for a walk every night. As we're clomping along, Big Daddy is ordering her, "Head Up!"

And One MoreThing

Think of it as brain cells on a 30-seoncd delay. I rarely have a conversation or send an email without thinking of one more thing. My zany grandmother did this and my mother and I have kept it going. We never have one phone call; we call back and say, "Just one more thing..." We also say, "Yes, it's Grandma."

The oldies have a different phone ritual. Anyone who calls is immediately asked, "Do you want to talk to Da/Pop/Gramps?" Everyone is very polite and says yes. I'm guessing they want to say no but I'm in admiration of their manners.

The "one more thing" is usually what you called about in the first place.

High Hopes

Frank Sinatra sang it best:

Just what makes that little old ant
Think he can move that rubber tree plant
Everyone knows an ant can't
Move a rubber tree plant

But he's got high hopes, he's got high hopes
He's got high apple pie in the sky hopes

My golden girls and I used to sing this in high school. We still occasionally sing it to each other when one of us seems to need a boost.

I get depressed with the oldies. Their version of high hopes is that the mail will come early. Yippee!

I have a lot of wishes and dreams. I hope you do too. Just remember that ant ...

Whoops, there goes another rubber tree, whoops there goes another rubber tree, whoops there goes another rubber tree plant.

Reincarnation

I don't believe in reincarnation so this is a little bit of a fantasy.

Just like Wild Bill, my puppy has her tongue hanging out one side of her mouth at all times. Just like Wild Bill, she regularly runs away from home and always returns. Just like Wild Bill, she has one eye that waters nonstop.

Maybe it's the devil on my shoulder. Every once in a while, I whisper, "Hi Grandpa."

Crate Training

Every veterinarian and dog trainer I have known in the last 20 or so years recommends crate training. I was a holdout on the theory that it made the dog feel secure -- I stupidly thought they would feel like they were in prison. The husband cured me of this 16 or so years ago when he would only agree to a dog if I agreed to crate training. Done!

Our puppy has been crate trained since the moment we adopted her.

For Christmas, Santa brought the puppy a pop-up, portable crate. I'm sure he thought it would be great for the lake trips or other overnight needs. I took it to the lake. The first night, she figured out how to unzip it. The second day, she figured out how to scratch a hole and put her head through it. Then she figured out that she had enough body heft to move it around. She just bounced it around -- she looked like a slinky toy bouncing down the stairs.

I called the husband and said, "When you come to meet me, bring the real crate." Once he did, she ran in there so fast it was comical. She was safe and my anxiety eased.

Big Daddy and I disagree on a lot of things. Crate training isn't one of them. One of my girlfriends made an off the cuff remark that she should have tried crate training with her children. I'm considering it for the oldies.

If the Shoe Was On the Other Foot

I'm a voyeur. I watch the oldies with a mix of admiration and fright. I ask too many questions. I track how they're feeling and I try to pay attention to the medication trends. (No one is allowed to touch their medications.)

I watch her tend to his every need. I watch her fry food, do his laundry, make sure the coffe is hot and plentiful, etc. He's very polite but it's also expected.

Maybe that's how she willed her way out of her bout with cancer. She knows no one would take care of him in the custom that he has come to expect. She barks at him but she's the only one who is allowed to get crabby with him. She becomes an armed guard if anyone even tries. She's a little (but mighty) watchdog and he is her territory.

I'm just tracking along behind her, picking up the pieces and making notes about what I will not do when it's my turn.

The First Time

Take your mind out of the gutter -- I'm not talking about THAT first time. I'm talking about the first time you just knew in your heart and soul that This Is The One.

The oldies have a magical story. He was shot down in WWII and seriously injured. She was an army nurse who tended to him, talked to him and literally nursed him back to health. They had three dates and married in a style that has only been duplicated by the royal family.

I met the husband because my boss at the time asked me to track him down for a business situation. There was no Internet but I'm diligent and I did find him. He came to town and I found him arrogant, but intriguing. A few years later, we were sitting near each other at an advertising function. Later that week, we met for a drink. Somewhere in that evening, I knew.

I prefer the drama and the classiness of the oldies' story. You've got melodrama with the war. You've got officers and people who behaved like ladies and gentlemen. They both swear they knew immediately that This Was The One. My little ol' romantic heart finds some magic in that statement. Even when they're getting on my nerves.

The Oldest Child

There was a study released last week about intelligence differences between siblings. What I took away is that there is significant evidence that the eldest child often has the highest IQ. Then the debate began again.

Is it nature or nurture? Is it because parents spend more time with the first born? Are these first born people smarter intellectually but maybe less savvy because they've been more overprotected than their younger siblings?

My IQ is a mystery to me. I suspect my parents know it; we were all tested as kids. I don't want to know. I'm pretty sure I won't be getting an invitation from Mensa.

My status as an only child is secure. Que sera sera ... it's not going to change now.

The oldies had four children. The oldest is very smart in an IQ type of way. I'm not convinced that he has the best street smarts.

The oldies labeled their boys: the athlete, the brain, the fun one, the baby. (These are my words; not theirs.) Those tags tend to stick around.

They're Baaaack!

I think this is a line from the movie, "Poltergeist." I can still see that little blond cherub, sitting in front of the television static and announcing about the demons/ghouls/whatever, "they're baaaack."

The oldies were supposed to take a 2-week vacation. They came home 4 days early. I left town a few hours before they pulled in so Big Daddy was a little shocked at their change in plans. He handled it. (He got to leave town a day and 1/2 later.)

We had a great family weekend, along with wonderful friends. Big Daddy and I drove separately and I happened to get home first. When I opened the back door, I smelled something frying. They're not demons or ghouls but my first thought was, "They're baaaack!"

She was standing in front of the skillet and he was bundled in a bathrobe over the Unabomber outfit. I let the dog loose just to let them know that I'm back too.

Officer Friendly

When I was in grade school there was a program called Officer Friendly through the police department. An officer or two came into the classroom and gave us safety tips. In those days, a lot of children walked to school so he talked about crossing at the corner, not talking to strangers, etc. They were very careful not to scare us. One of the tips was to never approach a strange car and never accept candy. They drilled it into us that we were never, ever to get in a car with anyone we didn't know.

I was a crossing guard in 5th or 6th grade. A man offered me candy and offered to drive me to school -- 1 block away. I ran and as he drove away, I wrote his license plate number on my arm. The nice policemen came and honored me with a little certificate a few days later.

The other day I was driving to the lake. Just me and the dog cruising along... Apparently, we were cruising a little too fast because we were pulled over. The officer had so much fun petting and chatting with the dog that he decided a ticket wasn't necessary.

I'm grateful to my big, black dog for the diversion. I'm also grateful to Officer Friendly.

Your true hair color

Most women of a certain age do not know what their hair color would be in a natural state. Most of us just know it would contain more gray than desired. I think I know one girlfriend over 40-years of age who has not colored her hair. I love her but she's a freak of nature.

Your hairdresser/stylist holds your secrets. She knows the chemical combination. You could fire her but then you might spend 5 years experimenting with the next stylist until you get it right. Some don't do color; some don't do foils. Some don't do double processing. (I have no idea what double processing is but I know I have it done.)

The Baby was a towhead. Now it has darkened and it's closer to the color Big Daddy had at his age.

The mother-in-law doesn't color her hair. It's silver and beautiful. I can't go there yet.