Barking

My previous dog rarely barked. She had one exception: squirrels. I used to tell people, "If you plan to rob my house, I highly recommend you do not wear a squirrel costume."

Same breed; totally different dog. This maniac barks at the jar of peanut butter. Her barking dance with a bone is comical. If a dog barks on a television commercial, she feels an urgent need to respond. She also chatters and it's somewhere between a moan and a meow. I tell her she sounds like a wuss.

The husband barks and it's usually at the weather. Occasionally he barks at me and I have learned to take it in stride. Sometimes (just to keep it interesting,) I bite back.

The oldies did not bark at each other. At first I admired this. Then, I paid attention. An icy tone or a cold shoulder can be more destructive than someone barking in your face. The Belle did not do this often but it was in her arsenal.

My parents have two little yippy dogs. They swear these dogs are quiet and well-behaved when they go about their daily routines. When I'm there, they bark themselves hoarse. I should tell them, "Hey munchkins, I lived here first."

Know When to Hold 'em

I was pretty broken hearted to learn that the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus were living in the bedroom next door. I like denial so I put off reality as long as I possibly could.

My heart has been broken by more than one boy or man. Some things are not meant to be. Some things don't ring true. I try to learn the lesson.

People act like friendships are the easiest things in the world. They're not. Hi hi, kiss kiss friendships are easy. Actually, that's not friendship. It's being an acquaintance. Friendships involve knowing your faults, knowing your parents and children, knowing the disaster of your financial situation or a marriage on the cusp of disaster. It's not easy. Just like a marriage or any other relationship you've chosen, they require commitment, dedication and a strong dose of faith. It's a choice to fold 'em or hold 'em.

You can't divorce your parents or your children. You can surrender a pet but I truly hope you are not one of those people. You can resign from a client. When it comes to friends, all options are open. I've been way, way too obsessed with my own issues, my oldies and my life that I forgot to look around. I've let some people down.

I'm on a mission to fix it. I choose to hold 'em.

Different Kinds of Loss

Loss hurts. Like most things in life, there are different degrees of pain.

Some examples:

You have a basket with loose socks -- the mates are lost.
You lost an important phone number or document.
You lost a bet.
You lost a job, a client or a significant business deal.
You lost the ability to do something that you had taken for granted.
You lost a spouse through death or divorce.
You lost a friend through death or disagreement.
You lost a parent or two, or in-laws.
You lost a child.

I can't fathom that last one but I know far too many people who have survived it. They are my heroes.

There were times in the last few years that I was certain I had lost my mind.

Come On April

For various reasons, January, February and March are my least favorite months. The holidays are over and the cold grayness is not pleasant. Gloomy weather affects my mood plus, the husband goes stir crazy. He barks (at no one in particular) when it snows. He looks at his golf clubs with an adoration that is usually reserved (in normal people) for lovers and children. This is why we tend to travel as often as possible during the winter months.

This year I crossed the mental line from dislike to hate. The Belle died in January; Hangdog died in March.

I love April, although we get our fair share of rain and continued gray skies. April brings budding trees and early blooms. April brings my annual trek to a writer's conference in Manhattan.

Moods seems to improve in April. I know mine does.

Here's a dirty little secret. April brings the official beginning of the golf season. Lots of women I know groan and complain about the time their husbands spend playing golf (and/or cards.) There are no young children in this household and now there are no oldies so I am the polar opposite. During golf season, the husband is up with the sun and out the door. In the mean and nasty months, Saturday and Sunday mornings get on my nerves. He doesn't know what to do with himself. I suggest laundry or other household chores. He ignores me. He tries to practice new pieces on the piano ... over and over and over. He hovers, "What are you doing?" If he ventures into a project, I am summoned to give an opinion, fetch a hammer, etc.

Is this what retirement is like? If so, I'll pass. The Belle was extremely gracious to her husband but I also witnessed the many times that she wanted to be left alone. I still haven't decided if he was clueless or determined.

I prefer to have my own daily activities. Then during dinner or curling up at the end of the day, we get to have the interesting conversation, "How was your day?"

The La La Song

We're inundated with oldies' paperwork. Every day, I bring in the mail and make a neat little stack for the husband. Every night, he reads it, enjoys his freak out moment and then either shoves it toward me or he reads it to me.

I do not like to be read to. I've been reading on my own for many decades. My latest choice is to put on a smiley face and send my brain to the La La Song:

La La La La, La La La La, Hey Hey Hey Goodbye.

Then we add the paperwork to the tower that is overtaking our kitchen. I keep humming. The husband asks, "What are you singing?"

"Nothing Honey." La La La La ...

Hat Fancy

When I was in my 20s, many of my friends got married. In all of their wedding photos, I am wearing a hat. I especially like the ones with the little veil. (OK, I know I took that bridal obsession too far.)

These days, I still wear hats. On the rare occasion that I play golf, I must have a visor. If I'm going to be in the sun or even just running errands, a ponytail and a baseball cap is my preferred look. The belle frowned on that but it suits me. I especially like the ones with interesting sayings, like "Got Wine?" or "Well-Behaved Women Rarely Make History."

One day, we were going through my closet and she ooohed and aaahed at some of my hats. Like me, she favored the ones with the little veil. Maybe I'll go to the pool or the lake this summer and wear a hat with a veil. I'll sit in cocktail corner and salute the belle.

Why I live in Indiana

After Hangdog's funeral, my favorite cousin-in-law gave a small book to the husband. The title is "Why I live in Mississippi ... 101 Dang Good Reasons." The author is Ellen Patrick. It's a lively tribute to the south and I recommend it.

I won't give you 101 reasons why I live in Indiana, but I'll give you a few:

I was born and raised here.

My parents and friends are here.

The seasons change --we witness winter, spring, summer and fall.

The state fair.

Indiana corn and tomatoes.

Elvis performed his last concert here. (Don't tell me I have no southern connections!)

On national television we are portrayed as buffoons. It's my personal mission to correct this image.

We play Euchre.

College Basketball and Professional Football.

Did I mention corn and tomatoes?

We have multiple weirdos from our state: Michael Jackson and Jim Jones (don't drink the Kool-Aid) --just to name a couple.

Our baby senator (Dan Quayle) became Vice President. Potato or Potatoe?
Our baby governor (Evan Bayh) is now on the short list for possible vice presidential candidates.

Hoosier hospitality. It's not a myth.

The husband and I love to travel. I also like the feeling when I'm back home again in Indiana.

Door to Door Religion

I'm a little suspicious when the doorbell rings in the middle of the day. Unless I've scheduled an appointment, anyone who has legitimate business here probably has a key.

When the Belle was healthy, she loved to answer the door. Yeah! Someone to share my stories with! She was a charming hostess, whether you were invited or not. I tend to answer the door with a snarly face -- unless you're delivering flowers.

Yesterday I was in the zone. Phone calls returned and a little writing time was needed. I have a deadline looming. So, I dedicated a couple of hours to work on my project. Then the doorbell rang.

I skulk around. Yes, I actually crawl so I can look out various windows to see if I need to answer the door. Plus, I already have an attitude about the interruption.

My uninvited guests were peddling their religion. You can guess which one. Bibles and pamphlets in hand. I grabbed a book of my own and opened the door.

They asked, "May we share the word of our Saviour with you?"

I asked, "How can you read the Bible if you can't read a sign?"

(Our neighborhood has a sign that says: Residents and Guests only.)

One woman was holding the Bible. I was holding the neighborhood directory. And I asked, "Whose guest are you? I would be happy to give them a call." I guess they're not used to cranky writers so they turned and left.

This approach must work for them on some level because they've been doing it for decades. I remember some similar version of this during my childhood. But honestly, does anyone invite them in, smack themselves on the head and say, "Oh my Gosh, I was looking for a new religious affiliation!"

The Little Woman

Recently, I was with the husband and someone he knew came up to greet him. He asked, "Is this the little woman?"

This was a gracious and charming elderly gentleman but being called "the little woman" is a little like having someone scrape fingernails across the chalkboard. It's not a nickname I would choose.

I smiled. I saw the flash of fear in the husband's eyes. I kept it under control.

The husband knows the little woman has a big mouth.

Too Much Customer Service

Many companies are upping the standards of customer service. When it's done well, it's welcome and refreshing. I've been in marketing long enough to know that customer service can affect everything from brand loyalty to pricing.

When companies get overly exuberant with their customer service efforts, it crosses a line to annoyance. Of course, this line is different for you than it is for me.

I spend an obscene amount of time on the phone. I try to carve out chunks of time to talk to clients and vendors. I try to be available to my parents and friends. Big Daddy often asks me to track down information for him. That's more time on the phone. Then, I try to find quiet time to write. I do not want to talk on the phone. I definitely don't want to do a survey by phone.

That doesn't stop those crafty customer service people. I recently traded cars and received three phone calls about my purchase experience. Then, I received a fax and two emails. There's a paper survey coming in the mail. The sale was flawless but the unending interruptions to discuss it are irritating. After I explained that I would be happy to fill out the mail survey, the representative had the nerve to suggest that I check "excellent" on the form.

Please don't tell me how to vote.

The Belle was the opposite. She loved buying things and became giddy when someone telephoned to poll her on the experience. She trapped that poor person and told them about her boys, her grandchildren, her family history and Hangdog. She bought make-up at Nordstrom's but that representative got more information than was needed for the survey.

I was just grateful that she was tying up the phone.

Will it Matter Next Year?

My father does an excellent job of keeping things in perspective. As I'm wailing and complaining, he will often ask me, "Will it matter or will you remember this problem next year?"

That's why I treasure his advice. He can separate the trivial stuff from the life altering experiences.

This is easier for men. Usually the even-keeled men have a hands-on woman sweeping up and dealing with the minutia. Hangdog was pretty low key in his old age. The Belle took care of the details.

But the philosophy still holds and I'm working on it. I don't see black and white. My perspectives change but there's a lot of gray. If life were a poll, I'd check "undecided" far too often.

Silver Linings -- A New Friendship

We buried the Belle and Hangdog within 60 days of each other. I still can't believe it.

As depressing as it is, there are times when I can take comfort in blessings. The oldies are no longer in pain or in peril. I believe they are together again.

Another personal blessing has been an unexpected friendship with my cousin-in-law. She's beautiful, talented and accomplished. She has the biggest heart of anyone I've met in years. She is extremely interesting and gracious enough to express interest in everyone else. She asked me repeatedly, "Are you ok?" I was afraid I was growing horns or something else so I ran to the restroom. No horns, just more wrinkles and frown lines.

This friendship is relatively new so I don't know all of her stories. I know she's experienced quite a bit of loss and she handles it with class. It's like I'm in kindergarten during story hour -- I am enthralled.

She also has a delightful and slightly devilish sense of humor. At Hangdog's funeral, she stood in front of the husband and me. Sharing memories of the oldies, she said, "They loved to come to my house because I would let her fry or cook whatever she wanted as long as she made me tomato gravy."

I definitely do not want the recipe for tomato gravy.

When I left Mississippi, she gave me a book, "Girlfriends are Forevah." I've always known that but I didn't expect to find a new girlfriend through this ordeal.

An added bonus is every time she says my name she sounds like the Belle.

The Spray Bottle

In my never-ending quest to control the maniac dog, I am open to any and all suggestions. I find her funny and delightful but apparently, I am the only one who holds this opinion.

I've tried the clicker, the whacker and the mean voice.

My mother suggested the spray bottle. I thought this was a little absurd since Labs love the water but as usual, my mother was right. Today was our first day with this experiment and she stopped jumping on people and counters within minutes. If I reach for the bottle, she becomes docile. Why didn't anyone tell me this secret?

Do you think this would've worked with the oldies? "Sit up, Hangdog or I'll spritz you!" Or, "If you fry one more thing in this kitchen, I'll blast you with my spray bottle!" We'll never know.

The only problem with the spray bottle plan is it has now become one more item attached to my person. Two pairs of glasses on my head or buried in my hair, cell phone clipped to a pocket, pen stuck behind the ear ... and now the spray bottle strung through a belt loop. I'm a freak but I'm prepared.

The Last Day

I was wearing a paper party hat and celebrating a girlfriend's birthday when I received the call that Hangdog did not survive his surgery. Maybe that counts as a bonding moment. He was wearing a paper surgical hat and I was wearing a "Happy Birthday" cone hat. I spoke to my brother-in-law numerous times that day. Right before surgery, I asked that he give Hangdog a kiss from me and tell him I love him. I have every confidence that this request was honored.

Two of my brothers-in-law were here when I returned home. A little of the shock had worn off and I went into Sheri-the-Reporter mode. I needed details.

Prior to receiving the "drowsy" drugs that are administered before surgery, Hangdog vacillated between lucid and having visions. Here's a little snippet of that time:

He envisioned himself fishing, one of his favorite activities. He described how clear and calm the lake was and the beauty of the scene.

He got nervous and agitated. He told my brothers-in-law that they would be nervous too if they were going home.

He wanted to stand up. When one of the boys said, "Daddy, you can't stand up because your hip is shattered," his reply was, "Then you'll both have to help me. I'm packed and ready to go."

More than once, he asked "Who is that man with a beard?"

You can interpret things many ways. I know what I see.

Entitled to a Vacation

"Cross check and call forward" is one of my favorite phrases. Lately, it hasn't been for happy occasions. I've been on more planes and in more rental cars than I care to count.

Yes, I'm being selfish. Go ahead. Label me. "She's an only child. She's used to getting her way." I'll laugh at that one all the way to the bank. Then I'll take my quarter and throw it at you.

My January escape is Phoenix. I didn't go. The Belle was ill and I wanted to be here. My next escape is Florida in March. I went, knowing Hangdog was facing surgery. I went knowing the husband was on the opposite coast. Then, I learned the brothers were coming in to support their father. I had two days in glorious sunshine before I cut my trip short due to his death.

The airlines must love me. I've paid to change flights and rearrange plans. Somehow, in the midst of these plans, I've missed my vacations.

When the Belle died, the husband and I schlepped Hangdog to Mississippi for the funeral. You cannot consider yourself a veteran traveler until you've arranged for wheelchairs and taken someone with a pacemaker through security. Twice we propped him at the gate and ran -- RAN! -- for a Bloody Mary.

This trip was just the two of us. No security snafus. No need to stop in the men's room nineteen times. However, we did deal with plane changes, missed connections, luggage due at another time, changing rental cars in a different city, tracking down luggage at 5:30 AM and more.

Hangdog took every offered item (useful or not) that he might be entitled to have. I have a sh** load of stuff in my basement to prove it.

Selfish Sheri wants a vacation.

Supplies are Dwindling

I've just done a visual sweep of the garage, pantry and basement. We are in trouble. We are down to:

2 lbs. of butter
72 Ziploc bags
150 trash bags
4 gigantic rolls of aluminum foil
18 bars of soap
2 rolls of paper towels

We have no eggs, no oatmeal and no grits. No longer are there 7 or 8 rolls of toilet paper in every bathroom. The Belle would take me aside for a little attitude adjustment and then she would prop Hangdog in the car and go shopping.

Two Holidays on the Same Day

It's not only Easter, it's also the husband's birthday today. He's never big on acknowledging his birthday but it seems especially odd to be celebrating his birthday when we just returned last night from burying his father.

My routine is completely off. I like knowing what we're doing year after year for various holidays. I tend to stick to the same menus and I welcome the traditional rituals. Not this year.

I didn't make it to church. Frankly, I was too exhausted to drag my sorry self to the shower to make it in time. I'm sure I've disappointed my parents -- again. I did not make it to the grocery so we are not having ham and the rest of our traditional menu. We're having spaghetti, salad and bread, supplied by my mother. I did not make Big Daddy's favorite cake to honor his birthday. But, my mother did. I did not get around to shopping for a small gift. I did buy a card and now I can't find it.

We will gather with my parents and the baby. We will play games until the husband tires of it. He gets to make that call since it's his day. We will spend a little time with the baby and it will not be enough.

I haven't forgotten that it's Easter. But for a creature of habit like me, it sure doesn't feel like it. The oldies ruined my Easter last year. This year, I've done it all by myself.

The Ties that Bind

I've been with Big Daddy a long time. We're bonded in good and bad ways. Like most couples, we've balanced the line between love and hate. The best gift of hanging in there is you get the knowledge and realization that you never actually hated the other person -- just some words, choices or actions. I'm a little embarrassed that it took me so long to figure this out.

(Tomorrow, I will lose all reason and write a blog post about how crummy husbands can be. Let me have this moment.)

Like most of us, a ring was slipped on my finger when I wed. Mine is simple and beautiful. Inside, the inscription says, "Forever." The only time I take it off is for routine cleanings or to have the settings checked. I'm tied. I'm blissfully tethered.

Years ago, I wanted a toe ring. We were on vacation in the Caribbean and the husband was patient enough to walk from store to store in search of my perfect ring. I refused to get one that wasn't a perfect circle; I didn't want the pinch-it-together kind. We didn't find one.

Several weeks later, I received a Valentine's Day gift of a simple gold ring that could be sized to my toe. My mother tells me that no one wears a toe ring any more but I do and it has special meaning to me.

For Christmas, I received a necklace with interlocking circles and the story of how it represented us.

Don't get jealous. He can be mean and obnoxious. We've had problems and I'm sure there are more to come. I am annoying. He can be a **##!! But he's my **##!!

Today we were flying back from Hangdog's funeral and the family festivities. The husband was listening to his iPod and I was making some notes. Then he took one ear plug out of his ear and put it in mine. The cord connected both of us and we were listening to the same song.

Tied and tethered and holding hands.

Ding -- Coming Home

We forgot the watch. We wanted to hit the button in his honor during our trip.

Today we had the funeral and burial service for the Captain, my beloved Hangdog. (You know how people put stupid nicknames in the obituaries? I had a temptation to put "Hangdog" in his but reason prevailed.)

He had, and now we have, the most obnoxious watch ever made. You push a button on the side and there's a very loud ding and then it announces the time. This could be a useful tool but when you're trapped in a car, a room or a city where he pushes the button every 60 seconds, it can get be bothersome.

It's Good Friday. I am a creature of habit. I should have attended services today with my friends. Instead, I am in a hotel in Mississippi. But, Good Friday services still happened.

I watched four brothers hold each other and share tears and memories. Good Friday. I watched grandsons serve as pallbearers and then toss frisbees and balls in the hotel parking lot. I watched several generations of the Belle's family come to honor her husband. Good Friday.

There's no need for any of these contraptions in heaven but I have this vision of him. He's hitting the button on the annoying watch and yelling, "Honey! Time for me to be home."

The Next Stop on the Blog Trail

I've run out of oldies but I haven't run out of stories or ideas. Would you please honor me with your opinion? I'm considering closing this blog and starting a new one. Some names I've thought about are:

Reflections and Ramblings
Reflections and Revelations
Life after the Oldies
Thoughts for Today
Thinking Just for Today
Phase Three

I have to see what's available. Will you continue to check in and leave comments? Please let me know your thoughts about these ideas and any others that come to mind.

Do I Have a Nickname?

My sister-in-law was here during Hangdog's surgery. As you know, he did not make it. Two of the husband's brothers were here when I breezed in from Florida. They were dealing with the multitude of details that accompany a death.

As we sat around the fire -- probably our last one of the season -- we discussed the trip and the service. We reminisced about good times and bad. I found myself saying things like:

The Belle would be pleased.
Hangdog is in a better place.
Big Daddy may kill the dog.
Has anyone called Weird ****?

Nicknames are not always flattering but they are usually endearing.

My sister-in-law wanted to know if I/we have a nickname for her. No one else calls her this but in my mind, her nickname is Crew. She a well-oiled cooking and cleaning machine. She's a crew of one and she gets it done.

The golden girls occasionally call me "Baby." It's a nod to the movie,
Dirty Dancing and it's a reminder that I am the youngest of the three of us.

I don't care to know what other people have named me.

Giving Up Hope

My life has been pretty darn cushy thus far. But, you don't reach my age without having experienced some downfalls and disasters. I have never given up hope. I have been sad, depressed, angry and scared. Yet, hope always remains -- even when it's just a flicker.

I think the Belle gave up hope when she saw independence going away. Having her keys taken away was humiliating. Knowing that they would have to move to a facility of some sort was more than she could bear. I should've seen the signs but I didn't.

Hangdog gave up hope years ago. You could see it in his demeanor and you could experience it in a single conversation. After the Belle died, he gave up all will to live. Do you think you can will yourself to die? Some people believe this. I wasn't sure how I felt about that question but I think I just witnessed it.

When people say, "I have nothing to live for," I'm stunned. I want to say, "Of course you do. You can live with hope that tomorrow may bring a solution to the situation you're mired in. At least, live with the hope that it will be a better day."

This brilliant bit of philosophy is brought to you by the woman who still crawls on the dog pillow during difficult times.

By Name

When the baby was young, I was very big on drilling into him that he should call people by name. If memory serves, I spent quite a bit of time harping on the importance of looking someone in the eye and saying, "Hello Mr. or Mrs. Jones." In my most desperate times, I remember saying, "They bothered to learn your name; you can use some brain cells to remember theirs." It's probably not the kindest approach to instilling manners but it worked for me.

I like it when people remember my name. My grocer, my dry cleaners, my pharmacist all call me by name. And of course, I know theirs. It's a nod of respect during a business transaction. It's also a touch of friendliness in a sometimes cold world.

Today I took the obituary and Hangdog's photo to the mortuary. I walked in and three people greeted me by name. They are wonderful people but I do wish we hadn't given them so much business lately that they know my name.

15 Years of Care Giving

My mother had two sets of parents: her biological parents (crazy Grandma and Wild Bill) and an aunt and uncle (Bobbie and Pa) who raised her and her sisters. Grandma and Bobbie were sisters; Wild Bill and Pa were brothers. This happens more often than you think.

While the husband and his two brothers were at the funeral home making arrangements on Saturday, I was flying home from Florida. I was reminiscing about the last few years -- the good, bad and ugly. My parents picked me up at the airport and we talked about care giving. We shared memories about the oldies. We shared memories about my grandparents.

My mother reminded me of something I had forgotten or chose to block out. She was a caregiver to her four parents for 15 years. I say this tongue in cheek, but she always has and always will outdo me. I resigned myself to it years ago.

I miss Hangdog and the Belle with an ache I cannot describe. I'm grieving so I burst into tears over anything and everything. Then I get angry. Mostly, there's an emptiness.

But I cannot fathom doing it for 15 years.

Unabomber

One of my favorite looks for Hangdog was the Unabomber costume. (Hood tied close.)

It's reasonably warm today and we're headed for Spring. But it's still a little chilly. The baby had a hoody sweatshirt on and for one split second, I swore I was looking at Hangdog.

Grateful

I almost cannot remember a time when the oldies didn't live here. That sounds crazy but it's been an all-consuming whirlwind. Between various oldies chores, writing directions, dealing with doctors and just inhabiting the same house, my habits and expectations have changed.

Here's a good example: At noon, I asked my brother-in-law and his wife what we should have for dinner. This is the Belle speaking through me. Three years ago, my first thought about dinner wouldn't have hit until at least 5:00 PM. And that would only be true if I was worried about going to the grocery store. If I had groceries or leftovers or the possibility of going out, that thought could wait until about 7:00 PM. The oldies have reprogrammed me.

I almost cannot remember when the dungeon and the basement weren't overrun with oldie gizmos (which, of course, Hangdog was entitled to have.)

The wheelchair, canes, walkers and other aids will go. I hope they help someone else. We still have handicap bars in several bathrooms. That's not going to change.

When it comes to in-laws, there seems to be two camps. You know them well and they are a part of your every day life. Or, they are semi-strangers that you visit with on obligatory holidays and special occasions. I've lived it both ways with the oldies.

When the husband and I first lived in sin, his mother warned him about me. (For the record, she had never met me but she was skeptical.) After we married, she was kind and gracious. She also took no time at all to let me know who was in charge of her boy. We did holidays and anniversaries. It was a dance of two determined women fighting for various roles. We both lost battles; we both won some too.

We pretended to know each other and love each other for many years. We swapped family stories and photos. We teased each other and grew a little closer. But she had other daughters-in-law. I saw myself as someone she grew to like and eventually love but her plate was full. Until ...

The husband was dealing with Hangdog post-surgery and I was taking her to chemo. We traveled many miles. (My personal favorite memory is when she would fall asleep in the car after chemo and I had absolutely no clue how to find my way back from the doctor's office in Memphis to their house in Mississippi.) But we did it and now it seems like a bonding moment.

Eventually, they moved here and lived with us. Their lives and our lives were exposed. Everyone says that you can't know what goes on inside a marriage unless you're part of it. That's only partially true. Two married couples living in the same household ... well, let's just say, there are few secrets. She knew immediately if the husband was getting on my nerves and I could tell by her tone if Hangdog was making her crazy.

If things had panned out differently, I could've been one of those daughter-in-laws who performed the obligations. I could've been the one doing the parade wave out the car window, "See you next year!"

Instead I'm the daughter-in-law who received the gift of the oldies. For all my bitching, I learned so much. (And a lot of it sent me over the edge.) I didn't know you could be married 60+ years and still find something to fight about. I didn't know you could change your tone of voice and calling someone "Honey" or "Love" could come out as an insult. Yep, that's the way it works.

I make lots of mistakes. Living with the oldies wasn't one of them. I'm grateful for the gifts.

Hanging my Head over Hangdog

Today, I caught myself hanging my head in that sort of *woe is me" thing. I was on a plane headed home.

Hangdog did not survive the surgery. Both of the oldies are gone.

His wish was to reunite with his Love, his Belle, but I do have this recurring vision in my brain of her saying, "Not yet, please!"

Two of the brothers are here and the dynamics must be the same as in their childhood. Some bickering but mostly love and support.

Hangdog did not wish to be on this earth without her. Her absence was a cancer that ate at him continuously. The husband and I spent countless hours hanging our heads over our loss of privacy, time, money, etc. For a flicker of a second, that seems absurd.

We will make our trek to Mississippi to bury the beloved Captain. We will honor him. Then I hope we can get the hell out of Dodge because I don't won't to see Mississippi for a long while. I don't even want to fly over it. It's become the Bermuda Triangle of the last few years.

He can't read it but you can: "Bye Captain, Bye Hangdog, Bye Pop. Loving you sometimes made me crazy but I love you. Peace be with you."

Ah, Sunshine!

My mood is lightened already. Blue skies and ample sunshine have a restorative power for me.

Nothing has changed at home. And yes, I still feel guilty for being away while Hangdog is facing major surjery on Friday. But, as everyone has explained (numerous times) to me, there is nothing I can do.

So, I will head out for a walk in the sunshine. I will go to the beach with my friends. Later we'll play corny games and watch a movie;

I will eat my way through tons of fresh seafood. I will steal quiet time with a book.

The disasters will still be waiting for me when I get home so for now I'm going to soak up every moment I can. And, I'm going to bask in the sunshine.

How about that NY Gov?

I wish the Belle and I were sitting at my kitchen table. She would have much to say about the allegations of the governor of NY involved in this high-priced call girl sting. As I'm watching the news, I can actually hear her in my head.

I'm always amazed at the wife standing stoically by his side. Do they practice this in the mirror? I cannot imagine. It's one thing to have a disaster in your marriage. It's another situation when you are a public figure.

By the way, can you show me a marriage that hasn't been through disasters? The idea of it being all over the web and the media makes my skin crawl. The Belle would be appalled.

Feeling Like a Fool

I'm not sure if Hangdog's plot was successful or I'm a total idiot. Maybe both.

His hip is not just broken, it's shattered. Bone fragments and metal pieces have run amok. Throw in his heart condition and we're having some really enlightening conversations of the pros and cons of surgery. That is, if we can find an orthopedic surgeon who thinks this might be plausible And, if the brothers agree this is a good idea.

I'm still getting on a plane tomorrow morning, albeit with a heavy heart and a ton of reservations.

My self examination tonight is not good. If this were the Belle versus Hangdog, I would've been in the waiting room all day. I'm not proud of myself. Our doctor assures me there is nothing to be done and he is resting comfortably. But the guilt lingers.

Where The Spirit Is

We buried the Belle in a small cemetery in Petal, MS. Many of her family members are buried there and Hangdog plans to be buried next to her. We will probably not make it to Petal on any kind of a regular basis but we respect their wishes.

I think the spirit is everywhere. It's in the places that are/were important to them. I am not one of those people who takes flowers and visits the grave site. There's nothing wrong with that but I prefer to honor those I've lost in the places that hold memories.

When my friend Patsy died, I was a pallbearer. I have never been back to her grave. But there's a bench (with her name and a quote) in the garden of the golf course she loved. It was a send-off gift from the girlfriends. I go there and speak to her. I feel her spirit and I relish the memories.

Another friend of ours died in a car accident a few years ago. The husband and I both wave when we drive by the site but I'm more reflective when I open the liquor cabinet and see his favorite rum. No one drinks it and no one ever will but I can't throw it away. I toast him and get lost in the past for a bit. I miss him and his spirit. He was a weird duck but as the husband says, "He was OUR weird duck."

Hangdog has lost his spirit. I don't know how to help. His spirit went with the Belle.

Skeptic

As I write this, Hangdog is headed to the hospital. He fell this morning and he's insisting on going to the hospital. Our doctor (saint-in-training) will meet him there.

First skeptical thought: He knows the husband is leaving today.

This is the third fall this week.

Second skeptical thought: Convenient timing.

He's having erratic behavior more of the time. He's babbling at one point and coherent the next.

Third skeptical thought: It's a plot to get pain pills.

One of my wives-in-law visited with him yesterday and then called me to express her concern.

Fourth skeptical thought: She's in on it. (Just kidding!)

The husband is stressed, as am I. We had a quick bite with some friends last night and as usual, I looked around the table and realized every single person there is dealing with some form of this situation.

A Degree in Political Science

The husband and I talk politics and government policies. Hangdog loves to discuss his time in the service during WWII. The Belle had an opinion on everything political. Wonder where the husband got that gene?

Geography is not my strong suit. But I have this compulsion to understand an issue and the locale. Just like my need to have a dictionary close by, I have gigantic maps -- one of the US and one of the world. (I actually bought them for the baby but ended up stealing them to my office.)

When I was in Journalism school, we were encouraged to have a second major. Journalism training teaches you to research, interview and hopefully, write in a coherent fashion. It does not make you an expert in anything with the possible exception of annoying people with questions.

For my second major, I chose Political Science. And, I loved it. We studied different regimes, here and abroad. We studied countries and how their governments have changed. This was 25+ years ago so we spent a lot of time on the USSR. We also studied quite a bit about the Middle East.

Fast forward 25 years. Most of these countries have changed names and boundaries. Some have been released from Communism. Some have become more communistic. The Middle East looks and acts like nothing I learned in college.

I watched the news this morning. I got out my gigantic maps. I am not educated in political science but I have a degree that says I am.

What Not to Say -- Part Two

This is not as eloquent as the post about military wives. But it does ring in with the "Duh!" factor. Here's some of my list of what not to say to me:

1. Your Dog is a Maniac.
Yes, I know that. I try my best to get her acclimated and when you are in my home, I try my best to keep her out of the way.

2. You drink/smoke/curse too much.Duh!
These are not honorable vices but until you've walked in my shoes, I'll get a little offended.

3. You're not aging well.
No, I'm not. Do you think I don't own a mirror?

4. You're a Saint.
Mother Teresa - yes; Sheri Roman - no.

5. It must be fun to have a rock and roll husband.
Yes and no. It's fun to watch the band perform and I am proud of their accomplishments. But you are not here while he's playing the same refrain OVER and OVER again trying to learn a part. The band takes up huge chunks of time and money. It's his release so I so go forward and enjoy. But sometimes I get a little cranky.

6. You're too thin.
Yes, I am. But I am well within the parameters that my doctor established for me. See number 3. I do own a mirror.

7. You spend too much time on the phone.
This is Hangdog's biggest complaint with me. Yes, I talk to my parents. Yes, I talk to girlfriends. I am also trying to run a business and most of my work is done through phone calls and email. I also seem to talk to him several times every day or in the middle of the night.

8. Don't you miss the children?
This is the ultimate on the "duh" scale. Of course I (we) miss them. The husband and I have spent many nights in a slump because we have an empty nest. We question every decision. Then we remember that it's their turn to make their own decisions.

What are your hot buttons?

Eyesight and Hearing

The husband continues to play in a band. After 25+ years, it has taken its toll on his hearing. My hearing is fine, but admittedly, selective.

Hangdog has extremely limited vision, like shadows or nothing. However, it seems to come and go conveniently.

My vision is changing but I am quite the little girl scout. There are usually two pairs of glasses on my head and many others within reach. I am prepared.

The good news about all this aging stuff is that the husband can't hear everything I say under my breath. If I wait until he's taken his contacts out and then get undressed, I figure I'm being viewed through a fuzzy filter. Not a bad deal.

When Children Multiply

One of the golden girls sent an email yesterday. Her area of the country had a freak snow storm and her children don't see much snow. All of a sudden, it's time for snowball fights and the possibility of building a snowman.

She has two children. At one point, there were four children in her yard. The next time she looked outside, there were eight children.

(I don't refer to them as my golden girls because we're old. It's because we've known each other forever and our friendship is golden.)

I don't know which one of us responded first but I know my fingers were flying across the keyboard and our friend sent the same message:

Enjoy it!
What fun to have a group of young people romping through the snow in your yard!

The Belle's stories about her boys and then her grandchildren still make me smile.

If you do the parenting job well, your children become self-sufficient. They go out into the world and carve their own way. On a snowy day, you might be holding a mug of cocoa and looking at an empty, snow-covered yard ... waiting for children and hoping there will be multitudes.

The Plot for The Pill

As I suspected, Hangdog has not broken his hip. There's nothing wrong with him that wasn't already wrong before the fall. What does Oliver Stone have over me? I know a conspiracy when I see one.

After conferring with the nurse and the x-ray technician, I spoke with Hangdog. I tried to be the little reporter:

What made you fall? (I turned around too fast and got dizzy.)
Why were you up in the middle of the night? (I heard a ruckus in the hallway.)
Who was around? (No one. There's never anyone around.)

Those people in the hallway must have vanished into thin air.

This conversation was a little like talking to the maniac dog. There's some barking but no one is making progress.

He wants to be drugged. If that means throwing himself on the ground for attention, he'll do it. He's doing a different conspiracy now:

Me: Pop, your x-rays look fine. Thankfully you didn't break anything.
Hangdog: Yeah, that's what they say.

Where is Oliver Stone when I need him? Forget JFK -- let's make a movie out of oldies and their conspiracies.

Nervous Tics

The apple may fall a few generations from the tree but it's always there.

Wild Bill had this annoying tic of clamping his tongue between his teeth. I try to keep it private but yes, I do it. It helps me concentrate. Once I divulged this info to my parents, my father walked around doing an amazing imitation.

One of my friends splays her hand in front of her stomach or on her rear -- as if the world can't see what's behind the five fingers. It helps her feel covered. It's a tic.

Someone in this family turns every question back to the questioner. A tic perhaps?

Fretting

Just so you know I am not so self-absorbed that I forget to stress about things that don't really involve my day to day life, let me share a few. I worry about:

Friends who are looking for a job and how I could possibly help.
My parents, who always seem to get the short end of the stick when it comes to attention.
Friends and family dealing with various oldie situations.
What our young people are learning or more importantly, not learning.

Oh, I do a good job of fretting about the obvious:

The husband
The children
Money
My business
Friends

The rational part of my brain tells me this fretting serves no purpose. But if you have a way to turn it off, call me at 3:00AM and we'll discuss it.

Opposite Coasts

Part of the reason the husband and I were trying to steal a little time last night is that we are headed to opposite coasts next week. We've got to coordinate some time with baby while he's home on break and my rock & roll husband has two band gigs coming up this weekend. Throw in work issues and Hangdog ... well, we're trying to be a well-oiled machine. We're failing but don't we get credit for trying?

The husband is going on a business trip to California. Several of my girlfriends are going to Florida for a winter escape. I did not plan to attend but the husband has concluded I must go. Secretly, I think he's deciding between sending me on a girlfriend trip or visiting me in the nut house. (I am not making fun of mental illness.)

So, I will go to Florida for a few days. The husband will go to California. Hangdog will be in the Home. Hangdog will call me at least five times each day.

I'm taking books and lots of work stuff. I will never turn off my cell phone. I may fed ex the dog pillow to Florida. Curling up on it gives me a strange comfort.

Cross check and call forward. I'm out of here for a few days. Of course, I will still blog.

Determination

Determination is an admirable quality. Most people who achieve their goals do so through hard work and a lot of determination. I am surrounded by a lot of people who use determination to do great things for their families, their companies and their lives in general.

With some people, determination crosses the line to selfishness. I'm not sure how to define it but I know it when I see it. I saw it last night and I'm living it this morning.

That wacky husband of mine thought we might steal a couple of hours together last night. (You know what they say about the best laid plans?)

We stopped for gas and I ran in the convenience store. My cell phone rang. Yep, it's Hangdog. He's obsessed with the husband scheduling the eye surgery. So, I ran outside to hand my phone to the man in charge.

On the way to dinner, my cell phone rang again. (At this point, I just wanted to go home and crawl into bed.) But we soldiered on. We tried to have a quiet dinner and a conversation but at some point it became pointless. Even if you don't answer the phone, you hear it or feel it vibrate and it's distracting.

I know you're thinking, "Why didn't she just turn it off?" I don't know. Mostly I worry about someone at the Home needing to reach me. When the Belle died, we learned of it through a call to my cell phone. I didn't know when the baby was headed home for his break and what if he needed to reach me? T have two clients that often call after their office hours and I needed some answers for projects I am pursuing so turning it off just didn't seem like an option.

We came home and eventually found slumber. Oh no! Now the home phone is ringing. For once I was sleeping so soundly that I didn't hear it. But I felt the husband kicking me and saying, "Get the phone."

Trying to shake the cobwebs from my brain, here's what I remember of the conversation at 1:00AM:

I cannot stay here.
They're trying to kill me.
Please come immediately.
I think I'm going crazy.
They won't give me my medications.
That woman is going to murder me.

Think I went back to sleep? That determined soul called twice more but I did not answer. I'm sure God will have some questions for me about that decision.

At 5:45 this morning, our phone rang again. We were up. I read the caller ID and shoved the phone toward the husband. It wasn't Hangdog; it was one of the nurses.

Hangdog fell and insists on being taken to the hospital for an x-ray. He's certain he's broken a hip. He's the man who cries "Wolf" so we're pretty sure this is an elaborate plan to make things go his way. I want to scream, "This is a plot!"

Determination may be a stellar quality but when it crosses the line, it's selfish and annoying.

3:00 AM

Last night I shot out of bed at 3:00 AM. I had a great idea for a project I am involved with. This might seem a little odd but I wasn't sleeping anyway.

Something has re-fired in my brain. Instead of worrying about someone falling, what we're having for dinner, the next auto accident, I've begun to settle back into the brain cells that click for me. I'm proud of my conduct with the oldies -- remember we still have Hangdog -- but it's sort of fun to reclaim my space, my brain, my marriage, the children and my goals. I pretended it wasn't true but I existed on autopilot for a while.

Punchlines

The oldies did not always get our humor. I'll be the first to admit that the language can get raw and and the subject matter can get out of hand.

Some people are really good at telling a joke. Some people, like the husband, get accused of turning every joke into a shaggy dog story.

Within your family or your close circle of friends, there comes a point where you don't have to tell the story. You can just blurt out the punchline and everyone cracks up.

When we go to the lake or on vacation with friends, we have it down to a secret language. (There might be some wine involved.)

My faves:

They stuck me with a chihuahua?
The Thompson twins are drunk again.
A good goat will do that.
Two pickets to Titsburg.

That last one isn't the punchline but you'll know immediately if you've heard the joke.

It's kind of like a song you've heard before.

Being (self-diagnosed) slightly autistic, I laugh every time.

What Not To Say -- Part One

Here's a warning: This is a long one. I received this wonderful email about "Things Not to Say to a Military Wife." I wish I could credit the author but I'm still tracking it down and obtaining permission. In a future post, I will add things that shouldn't be said to me.

1. "Aren't you afraid that he'll be killed?"
(This one ranks in at number one on the "duh" list. Of course we're afraid. We're terrified. The thought always lingers at the backs of our minds ---but thanks brilliant, you just brought it back to the front. Maybe next you can go ask someone with cancer if they're scared of dying.)

2. "I don't know how you manage. I don't think I could do it."
(This is intended to be a compliment. Though, its just a little annoying. Here's why: it's not like all of us military wives have been dreaming since childhood of the day we'd get to be anxious single moms who carry cell phones with us to the bathroom and in the shower. We're not made of some mysterious matter that makes us more capable, we just got asked to take on a challenging job. So we rose to the challenge and found the strength to make sacrifices.)

3. "At least he's not in Iraq."
(This is the number one most annoying comment for those whose husbands are in Afghanistan. What do they think is happening in Afghanistan? An international game of golf? Guys are fighting and dying over there.)

4. "Do you think he'll get to come home for Christmas/anniversary/birthday/birth of a child/wedding/family reunion, etc?"
(Don't you watch the news? No! They don't get to come home for any of these things. Please don't ask again.)

5. "What are you going to do to keep yourself busy while he's gone?"
(Short answer: Try to keep my sanity. Maybe there's a military wife out there who gets bored when her husband leaves, but I have yet to meet her. For the rest of us, those with and without children, we find ourselves having to be two people. That keeps us plenty busy. We do get lonely, but we don't get bored, and drinking massive amounts of wine always helps keep me busy.)

6. "How much longer does he have until he can get out?"
(This one is annoying to many of us whether our husbands are deployed or not. Many of our husbands aren't counting down the days until they "can" get out. Many of them keep signing back up again and again because they actually love what they do or they VOLUNTEER AGAIN and AGAIN to go back to Iraq b/c there is work that needs to be done.)

7. "This deployment shouldn't be so bad, now that you're used to it."
(Sure, we do learn coping skills and its true the more deployments you've gone through, the easier dealing with it becomes. And we figure out ways to make life go smoother while the guys are gone. But it never gets "easy" and the bullets and bombs don't skip over our guys just because they've been there before. The worry never goes away.)

8. "My husband had to go to Europe for business once for three weeks. I totally know what you're going through."
(This one is similar to number two. Do not equate your husband's three week trip to London/Omaha/Tokyo/etc. With a 12-15 month or more deployment to a war zone. Aside from the obvious time difference, nobody shot at your husband or tried to blow him up with an I.E.D., your husband could call home pretty much any time he wanted to, he flew comfortably on a commercial plane, slept between crisp white sheets and ate well, paying for everything with an expense account. There is no comparison. We do not feel bonded to you in the slightest because of this comment and, if anything, we probably resent you a bit for it. Comparing a 12 month combat deployment to a few weeks business trip is like comparing a shitty ford Taurus with Mercedes convertible.)

9. "Wow you must miss him?"
(This one also gets another big "duh". Of course we miss our men. There are some wives who do not and they're now divorced.)

10. "Where is he exactly? Where is that?"
(I don't expect non-military folks to be able to find Anbar Province on a map, but they should know by now that it's in Iraq. Likewise, know that Kabul and Kandahar are in Afghanistan. Know that Mutada al Sadr is the insurgent leader of the Mahdi Army in Iraq and that Sadr City is his home area. Know that Iran is a major threat to our country and that it is located between Afghanistan and Iraq. Our country has been at war in Afghanistan for seven years and at war in Iraq for five years. These basic facts are not secrets, they're on the news every night and in the papers every day ---and on maps everywhere.)

11. "Well, he signed up for it, so it's his own fault whatever happens over there.
(Yes, ignorant, he did sign up. Each and every day he protects your right to make stupid comments like that. He didn't sign up and ask to be hit by anything, he signed up to protect his country. Oh, and by the way, he asked me to tell you that "You're welcome." He's still fighting for your freedom.)

12. "Don't you miss sex! I couldn't do it!"
(hmmm, no i don't miss sex. I'm a robot. seriously...military spouses learn quickly that our relationships must be founded on something greater than sex. We learn to appreciate the important things, like simply hearing their voices, seeing their faces, being able to have dinner together every night. And the hard truth is, most relationships probably couldn't withstand 12 months of sex deprivation.)

13. "Well in my opinion....."
(Stop right there. Yo, I didn't ask for you your personal political opinions. Hey, I love a heated political debate, but not in the grocery store, not in Jamba Juice, not at Nordstrom, not in a bar when I'm out with my girls trying to forget the war, and CERTAINLY NOT AT WORK. We tell co-workers about deployments so when we have to spend lunch hours running our asses off doing errands and taking care of the house, dog, and kids, they have an understanding. We do not tell co-workers and colleagues because we are giving an invitation to ramble about politics or because we so eagerly want to hear how much they hate the President, esp. while we're trying to heat up our lean cuisines in the crappy office microwaves.)

last but not least....

14. "OH, that's horrible...I'm so sorry!"
(He's doing his job and he's a badass. Don't be sorry. Be appreciative and please take a moment out of your comfortable American lives to realize that our soldiers fight the wars abroad so those wars stay abroad.)

If you want to say anything, say thank you.

There's really nothing I can add to this. It knocked me over. I have loved and lived with military people. I'm a little ashamed at how often I take their service for granted.

Counting Syllables

If you live with someone long enough, you can often predict the phrase that's going to come out of his or her mouth. It's a fun little game that I happen to enjoy.

For instance, I will stub my toe or bash my knee into something and say "Ouuuuch!" The husband will inform me that "ouch" is only one syllable.

Sometimes I talk to the maniac dog and I say, "That's the ruuuule." The husband informs me that "rule" is only one syllable. I can stretch "damn" for three syllables. He has forgotten his southern roots. The Belle could stretch my simple, 5-letter, 2-syllable name into nine syllables. (That's when I knew I was in trouble.)

Well Conditioned

Although I work out, my body could not be defined as well conditioned. Gabby, the maniac dog, is definitely not well conditioned. The husband is concerned about the condition of his golf game.

When I'm in a hurry, I love the shampoo and conditioner in one. Just a simple step and you're done. This morning I was drying my hair and I couldn't figure out why it was so gummy. Apparently it doesn't come very clean if you grab the bottle of conditioner instead of the two-in-one product.

This is not the first time I've made this mistake. I'm going to have to investigate reading glasses for the shower.

But my hair is well conditioned.

It's My Party and I'll Cry if I Want To

I love Lesley Gore. Her songs are simple ballads and get this, you can actually understand the lyrics. It's mostly teenage angst but when you listen to them in middle age, the same feelings are there. They're just focused in a new direction.

My aunt introduced me to her and I learned every word to every song. (Her greatest hits are on my iPod.) Decades after my aunt gave me the gift of her music, Lesley Gore performed a concert here and my aunt and I danced and sang in the aisles. It's one of my favorite memories.

Another aunt thinks it's healthy that I can cry and laugh easily. My emotions are not contained. I didn't know our bodies held this much salty water. I can cry until I laugh and I can laugh until I cry.

Hangdog called last night. After our conversation, I cried.
The husband did something extra nice for me last night. I cried.
Someone sent me a funny email. I laughed until I cried.

In a few days I'm headed off for a quickie vacation. I'm afraid the girlfriends involved may lock me in a closet until I stop crying. Even if it's a happy cry.

Elective Surgery

Have you ever seen that woman that had jillions of surgeries to make herself look like a cat? I cannot imagine. Perhaps she has too much money and too much time. I would never choose elective surgery. I'm sure there are needles involved. Plus, recovery pain. And you chose it?!

Hangdog is legally blind. One eye is defunct and the other has minor vision that comes and goes. He swears he has headaches that would "Kick a donkey's ass." (Just one more expression I don't understand.) We've had this looming option --elective surgery to remove the dead eye and deaden the nerves behind it. The eye would be replaced with a prosthetic. For the record, the Belle was against this surgery and that's part of the reason the debate has been shelved and then brought again to life.

Last night, he informed the husband and me that he would like to have the surgery. His heart condition is an issue. All the metal in his body makes operations a tad more risky. Yet, it's his body and his choice. The doctors have told us that the recovery will not be easy. The mental part can be more difficult than the physical healing.

We bounced our options around last night. The husband has discussed it with the doctors and brothers. We have the legal right to make this decision.

Ethically, it's his right to choose.

Once Around

Again, I'm going to reference a movie. If you haven't seen Once Around (1991) with Richard Dreyfuss and Holly Hunter, I highly recommend you do so.

I won't spoil the story line with the exception of telling you that the main character is over the top. And, there's a little trouble with the family dynamics as he becomes the daughter's love and husband.

He lives his life with the philosophy of "You only go around once." I wouldn't make the choices he makes in the movie but I do agree with the philosophy.

In the movie, he says what he thinks, often to the mortification of his wife. Yet, she is crazy about him. (I'm in touch with this emotion.)

The Belle's "Once Around" is over. I have a running bucket list of things she planned to do that plays through my mind.

Persuasive People -- A Belle Story

The Belle was one of them most persuasive people I have ever known. She could get me, the husband, Hangdog and her other sons to do it her way. Her grandchildren learned long ago to go with the flow. None of them would win the argument.

During her last working years in Holly Springs, she was Head Nurse and Clinic Manager for a medical practice. She adored the work and ran the office as if it was a military unit. She took care of the doctor, took care of the practice and provided excellent care to the patients. She could also deliver a message.

Once, a teenage boy came into the clinic. His clothes were shabby and he had the fashion of the time -- pants below the equator with boxers hanging out. He also had long, greasy hair and facial hair run amok. Bathing had not been a priority.

During the course of examining and treating, this young man was cornered. He was in the Belle's court room and she was the judge.

Ten days later he returned for his follow-up appointment. His hair was cut and clean. He had shaved. Somehow the waistband of his pants found his waist. Plus, he found a belt.

She had a way of making people -- even total strangers -- want to please her. I wish more of us had this gift.

Wacky Relatives

If you show me a family that doesn't have some wacky relatives, I will come to your house and polish your floors. We all have them. Let's stop pretending.

My cousin (in-law) called me a Yankee recently. I haven't decided if she's right or not. I'm not sure it can be defined. I land in both camps.

In the husband and my extended families, we have our fair share of wackos. Yankees get stoic and pretend it's just a phase. Southerners prop them in a chair, put a drink in their hands and encourage the stories. (They usually include a slice of pie.)

Many years ago, we had a relative visit us. The husband pulled me in the kitchen and said, "She's a little affected, isn't she?" I said, "Yes, but the stories are great."

Homeless

We've had a cold winter. (Redundant, I know.) Our local newspaper, along with the TV stations, likes to highlight the homeless problem in our city. The weather adds an extra level of cruelty to a harsh situation.

If I had the answer, I'd be running for office or organizing a crusade. Here's what I believe:

The numbers and statistics you read about the homeless are seriously under reported.
Homeless people are not necessarily drug addicts, alcoholics or mentally ill.
The homeless cycle is a whirlwind that continues to spiral downward whether it's no car, no job, no money, no food, no hope.
Most government programs are a band-aid, not a cure.

In my early days of corporate life I parked about 5 blocks from my office. Like a postman, I walked through rain, sleet and snow. There was a homeless man who lived under an overpass that I greeted every single time I saw him. He was a little creepy but I never felt afraid -- although he did have this bizarre need to touch my hair. I wouldn't exactly define it as a friendship but I did get concerned if he wasn't there.

The Belle used to tell me that I am too kind. I don't think it's true and I don't think that's a possibility for anyone. Kindness is a good thing; there's no such thing as too much. On counterpoint, the husband will tell you that I am the meanest woman on the planet. As usual, I'm somewhere in the middle.