Abusive Behavior

I've never been an abused child. As I've told you, my childhood was pretty idyllic. We had our struggles and our arguments but I never felt threatened or abused. Is this no longer the norm?

I've never been physically abused as an adult but I've had some pretty mean things said to me. The experts say verbal abuse is more common and more damaging than physical abuse. This is a weird analogy but in my mind, it's kind of like rape. It's not about the act or the words, it's exerting power over another person. I've never felt threatened and I've never felt powerless. If words are the weapon, I'll sling back.

The Belle could make a snarly face and the occasional jab would come out of her mouth. But, she lived her life treating her husband, children, grandchildren and friends with respect. A raised voice or a "gotcha" comment was not her aspiration. Even in their tired and scary moments, the Captain treated her with respect.

She earned it.

I watch the news and I read multiple papers. Some of the stories turn my stomach. Abused children, abandoned and neglected children, women who live their lives in fear of their partners, women who leave only to be stalked and killed.

I often joke about the husband thinking he's the boss of me. Like all good jokes, there's a grain of truth there. But. I do not ever fear for my safety. I have never worried about him hurting one of the children. I'm pretty sure his latest fantasy is to take a harsher line with the maniac dog. That's probably a worthy goal and he would not harm her.

Power over another person has never been my goal. I have a hard enough time controlling me.

Abuse is pervasive. I'm convinced it gets embedded in your mind and possibly your DNA. When someone breaks the cycle, I'm impressed. When someone chooses a different path, it takes courage and will power. I know a few people who have done this and I admire them.

Multi-tasking

Some people claim this is a downfall to our society. We have to do too many things at once. I hope they're wrong because I'm pretty darn good at it. I can type, wait for the scanner to finish scanning and watch the news out of the corner of my eye. I can check my email and my voicemail at the same time. I can wash dishes and write copy in my mind.

Twenty years ago, I was likely the woman you saw driving with hot rollers in her hair, a cigarette in one hand and the mascara wand in the other. (I don't do this any more -- I gave up mascara.)

I watch kids texting while listening to their iPod, while carrying on a conversation. If I ever learn to text, I will be this person.

The oldies used to comment, "Would you slow down?" There's a lesson to be learned.

I suppose there's this Zen thing where you're supposed to quiet your mind and relax your body. I try. A dip in the tub and an engrossing book can take me a long way in that direction. But, I am usually swimming against the tide. My brain still races.

Multi-tasking also brings distractions. I just realized I've been running around all day with my shirt on backwards. Not the first time.

Mommy and Daddy

When the oldies were with us, she would often instruct the husband:

You need to spend some time with your daddy.

Or, one of her sons would call and after their visit, she would say:

Now you need to talk to your daddy.

My mother and her sisters called their fathers (Wild Bill and Pa) "Daddy" until their dying day.

"Mommy" doesn't stick around as long. It changes to Mom, Mama, Mother, etc. Why is that? I remember the year I stopped being Mommy. I became Mom. I can promise you that my mother remembers this transition in her life.

I don't call my father "Daddy." But thanks to the southern influence in my life, "Dad" has multiple syllables so it sort of comes out the same way.

The Sandbox

I guess I was born attracted to sand.  My mother grew up in Florida.  I have lots of relatives in Florida and the south. My grandparents (Bobbie and Pa) had a sandbox in their back yard, built especially for me.  I shared it with my cousins but always considered it mine. This photo is my hunky dad and me on the beach.  I believe it's circa 1966.

Last week I had lunch with a very talented writer. I used to work with him in my corporate life. His grasp of opportunities and technology inspired me. It also made me want to throw my head in the sand.

Hot and Cold

The oldies were always cold. I tried to be considerate but I could not handle the house at 80-plus degrees. That's probably how Hangdog became attached to the Unabomber costume -- he wasn't going to rob a bank; he was just trying to keep his ears warm.

I am always hot. Blame it on menopause or hormones run amok. I have slept on our patio with a damp sheet over me. If I'm not driving, I am probably the woman you see hanging her head out the window like a dog. Come to think of it, I've done that even when I am driving, I just try very hard to save it for stop signs.

The husband and I had criss-crossing schedules before I left for NY. One of our conversations (him at home; me in my hotel room) was about the temperature in the house. Oops, I forgot to tell him that I turned off the heat. April in Indiana can easily go from 80 degrees to 30 degrees. He was freezing.

I figure we get a few weeks in the spring and a few weeks in the fall where I don't need A/C or Heat. I throw open the windows and I love it, even when it messes with my allergies. This does not make me Al Gore. If I need to fire up a fireplace or the furnace, I'll do it.

Relationships are like this too. One person is hot when the other is cold. The trick is to keep your mouth shut and wait for the times when you both are comfortable.

I Approve This Message

Is anyone else tired of this phrase? Did they pass a law about requiring this statement that I am unaware of? Is the voting public considered so idiotic that they could not/would not distinguish between a candidate's ad or a smear campaign from the competitor?

Last year, the Belle and I had a conversation about the 2008 presidential election. She told me who she planned to vote for and when questioned further, she said, "He will take the best care of the veterans." I confess, I had this thought:

Oh my Gosh, will you still be living here in November? (I was thinking moving, not death.)

Every vote comes down to personal circumstances and priorities. Mine might be property taxes. Yours might be the school system or gambling in your community. I don't think we choose by age, sex, race or religion, but I know some people who will rule a candidate out based on these factors. I guess you have to weigh it out, based on your own value system and your own priorities. Frankly, I don't care if a candidate smoked a joint in college. (Although we all know Bill Clinton didn't inhale.) I respect the freedom of religion but I admit to a little wariness with some of them.

The oldies don't get to vote this time. That makes me sad. This is the first year the baby gets to vote in a presidential election. That makes me giddy. I know he will vote because if I've done my job well, he is afraid of me. I have drilled it into him. This is the poor child that I have (more than once) dragged out of bed to watch some historic event. During Reagan's funeral, the cameras panned the crowds. I asked, "Who is that?" It might have been world leaders or important people in our government. Yes, his eyes glazed over but I choose to believe some of it was absorbed through osmosis.

I'm Sheri Riley Roman and I approve this message.

Advice I Should Have Heeded

Remember when your parents tried to advise you and you spent most of the time trying not to roll your eyes? Have you ever witnessed that glazed look on a teenager's face while you're trying to share the wisdom of your years?

I'm not talking about values and ethics. I'm talking about simple decisions or skills that might make life easier or at least, save some embarrassment.


Get dressed, put on some make-up and be ready to greet the day.
Wrongo. I have my coffee and head for my office. Unless I have an early meeting, I can start writing and lose track of time. Every one from the FedEx delivery person to the man that tunes the piano has seen me in my ratty bathrobe.

Speak only with kindness.
My mouth gets ahead of my brain. I'm working on it. I do not like to be cornered. I tend to lash out.

Pay your bills on time.
I wish I had the money I have spent in late fees and making things current. It's absurd and insane.

Don't tell people too much.
I'm still iffy on this one. I tell people way, way too much. I have been burned. But I have also learned some lessons about trust.

Don't marry too young.
I don't regret the relationship with my first husband. I do regret that we got married before we were formed as adults. Yes, I know many people make it work. I didn't and I hurt a very nice man.

Make your bed.
I do this. I cannot stand to crawl into an unmade bed. But many times, I may not make it until 3:00 PM when I happen to wander back there. On the days you do not make your bed the moment your feet hit the floor, you will have a plumbing crisis or something that will involve plumbers or workers traipsing through your bedroom and you will feel slovenly that your bed is unmade.

Know your path.
I'm Dorothy on the Yellow Brick Road. Sometimes the bricks branch off and you get to make choices. I know my path today but I am open to the branch in the road.

Trying to Talk Yourself Out of Trouble

This photo made me laugh. It is the photo version of my teenage years. The caption was something like, "No, we've been in the truck the whole time."

I've tried to worm my way out of things. Usually, unsuccessfully. It doesn't keep me from trying again.

Here's a few that come to my mind:

We didn't mean for the lights to be off.
We were studying all night; we just left for a second.
I don't know how my car got there... Maybe it was stolen.
I was home by curfew, you just didn't hear me come in.
Yes, some kids got in trouble last night. I don't know them.

My mother and most of the mothers in my childhood should have been in the military. Very few secrets got by them. They were their own version of Homeland Security. But we were a crafty bunch.

My Magnolia

We have this magnificent tree. It's beautiful year round but for one week or so, it's breath taking. It's huge and when it's in bloom, the pink blossoms can be seen over our rooftop.

I got teary yesterday. I pulled into the neighborhood and was mesmerized by the pink canopy. The Belle should see this. She was my favorite Magnolia.

A Love of Reading

While doing some research today, I stumbled on some statistics that shook me. Just because there's that old joke, "Statistics prove statistics are true" doesn't stop the fascination.

Here are a few that caught my interest:

1/3 of high school graduates never read another book for the rest of their lives.
80 percent of U.S. families did not buy or read a book last year.
70 percent of U.S. adults have not been in a bookstore in the last five years.
Each day in the U.S., people spend 4 hours watching television, 3 hours with the radio and 14 minutes reading magazines. (Books didn't even make the survey.)

I love to read. Anything! The last time I was in a bookstore, which was just a couple of days ago, my friend said, "Should I get a UHaul?" I have stacks and stacks waiting for my attention. They are my friends.

It's not just books. After I hit the "on" button for coffee, my next priority is the newspaper. I must read certain magazines. (I don't know half of the people they're profiling as stars in People Magazine but I still read it.) I actually like reading business plans. I miss the days when the teenagers in my life wanted me to read and comment on their essays.

Like all of you, time is short. I don't have a lot of reading time. I try to schedule it before bedtime and then I fall asleep without getting far. Maybe that's why I love to be on a plane -- cell phones off and a book to enjoy at leisure.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

Are you singing yet?

"Sock it to me, sock it to me..."

I'm a voyeur. A few years ago, a friend of mine decided to change her life. In her terms, it meant no more bullsh** and I'm not going to do anything I don't want to do. I respected it but I also kind of brushed it off as a mid-life thing. As an outsider looking in, I remember thinking the people who give her the most problems and the most pleasure are the people she values most. She married one of them. She gave birth to a couple of them. One of them gave birth to her. You cannot control these relationships. I hate this expression but, they are what they are.

When the oldies moved in with us, the elephant in the room was the alpha male position. Hangdog was used to being the head of the household. So was Big Daddy. The Belle was used to doing things her way. So was I. We worked our way through the maze and usually found compromise.

As you know, I tend to tell my parents everything. I'm not sure this is normal. We disagree on many things but Aretha would be proud, we do it with respect. (Or we just hang up.)

I'm taking a lesson from my friend. You (my friends, my parents, my relatives, the children, the husband) can tell me anything and I will listen. I will try to learn and correct my faults. There's one caveat: Please speak to me with respect. For who I am and who I want to be. For what I've given you and what you've given me. Respect our history. Respect my phase in life and expect the same in return. Actually, demand it.

Mothers get a free pass on some of these things. Every once in a while, I try to dodge a question. There's a reason Wild Bill called her, "The Prosecutor." She will get it out of me. It takes about 20 seconds.

Aretha would be proud. All it takes is a little prodding...

"Just a little bit... Just a little bit."

Out of the Blue

Some people have extremely good radar. You know the type. They anticipate and usually know what's going to happen next. They rarely ask a question that they don't already know the answer. I am married to one of these people and it is a skill I admire daily.

I am the opposite. I'm not stupid but I get the bejeezus shocked out of me on a regular basis. Lately, I seem to have lived my life on the planet of "Whoa! Didn't see that coming!"

Out of the blue, both oldies died. It shocked me to the core.
Out of the blue, new clients are emerging.
Out of the blue, childhood friends are reconnecting. (Never underestimate drunk dialing.)
Out of the blue, my blinders blew off and many issues are seen with new clarity.

Out of the blue, I've come out of the blues. My back yard is blooming. So am I.

Quakin'

We had an earthquake Friday. I was clueless until my phone started to ring and I turned on the news.

Indiana is known for snow storms and tornadoes. We don't deal with earthquakes often, although we are close to a fault line. This one took every one by surprise.

I thought maybe I could count on the dog to clue me in on aftershocks. Since she barks at air, this does not seem probable.

I'm quakin' for other reasons:

Is the oldies' paperwork ever going to diminish?
Can I take some of my knowledge gained through my conference and turn it into productive activity?
Is my judgment so askew that I have misread situations and friends?
What can I do (more/better) to help friends in rough times?
Will I ever feel up to speed regarding technology?
When the husband and I have different goals, will I find the compromise? Will he?

A minor earthquake doesn't rock my world. The daily questions make me shake, rattle and roll.

Manipulators

During an email conversation with the Golden Girls this week, one of them mentioned that her daughter has become a little manipulator. We disagreed on the word manipulator but we all agreed that daughters have a way with fathers. We debated whether fathers have a blind spot or just a soft spot for daughters. I think it's both.

I'm 44-years old and my father still has a soft spot for me. He expresses his concerns to my mother and then she gets to have the tough talk with me. I see the "she walks on water" look in the husband's eyes when we discuss the daughter.

It makes me sad for the millions of children who grow up without fathers. Boys, of course, need the stability, love and support of a father. They also need a role model. Girls all deserve to grow up with a man who thinks the sun rises and sets on them. My belief is that it creates a stronger sense of self with the reliable cushion of knowing you are loved.

I asked my friends these questions: "Didn't we do this when we were young? Didn't we know which parent to ask and always know Dad would be more likely to say yes?"

The best answer was, "I didn't ask. I just went ahead and did it."

Touche!

Aging: A Silly Poem

The Anti-Love Affair with Aging

Your boobs start to sag,
Oh My Gosh, it's a beard.
The mirror is an enemy,
The body's gone weird.

The children are busy,
Our job is mostly done.
They may still need us but,
We're dorks; we're not fun.

The oldies are gone.
It's a jumble of emotions.
We've cleaned out the room.
It's clear of potions.

So, I start a new path,
One that's all about me.
I wipe a few tears and ask,
Who shall I be?

Should I wonder about
Every decision I've made?
Is it normal to ask,
What price have I paid?

In the blink of an eye
I look back through the haze.
What we considered normal
Was only a phase.

I spring from the bed,
Greet the husband and the day.
I have a moment where I say,
"Lookout world, I'm on my way."

The roots may be gray
The knees may be creaking.
I'm still drawing breath.
I'm still speaking.

Not Good Enough

Most of you have experienced the magic of birth. The baby is plopped on your chest and the husband gets to cut the cord. Some of us witness this. Some of us come later to the story but that doesn't make the emotions less intense.

The baby is pretty tight lipped about his love life. I respect that. He'll come around with some girl sooner or later. I'm hoping for later.

The daughter has been very open about her dating life. I watch the husband. If he had a tattoo, it would say, "You're not good enough for her." No offense intended to any boy/man she's ever dated. It's just a guttural thing. I suspect my father has experienced the same feelings.

One of my childhood friends is raising three boys. She and her husband seem to have a great partnership. These boys are babies. I cannot wait to see her claws come out when they reach dating age. I know her. I know her mother.

I have two goddaughters that have taken beauty to new heights. I do not envy their dates and/or boyfriends. I know their father.

From what I can tell, my sister is raising some pretty amazing kids. When she was a child, I used to pull her aside for unsolicited advice. I still follow her around with tips she does not need. I've become Crazy Grandma ... "You'll see."

Who, What, When, Where, Why and How

This is the incantation drilled into every journalist and most writers' heads. We don't have to think about it. It's so automatic that I would compare it to childhood manners. Someone gives you a compliment -- you say "thank you." We think, Who, What, When, Where, Why and How.

Of course, I drill the daughter, the baby and the husband with the same approach. It's not always welcome. I miss the days when they were younger and a captive audience. I miss the days when I could outrun them.

So, I'll give you a few questions. If you answer, it might provide some perspective. Aren't we all making life choices every day?

Who do you most admire?
Who do you miss?
Who do you trust?

What are you afraid of? What keeps you in that fear?
What's your favorite childhood memory?

When the chips are down, who do you count on?
When did you consider yourself a teenager/grown-up/middle-aged person?

Where is your favorite place? (I would also ask why.)
Where do you go for private time and quiet space?

Why did you marry your spouse?
Why do you belong to a particular religious affiliation?
Why do you choose some friends over others?
Why did you choose one career path over another?

How could life get better for you? Is this within your control?

Ask yourself. Ask your spouse. I hope you ask your children.

Like Peas and Carrots

Some things just go together:

Peanut butter and jelly
Little boys and a dirty dog smell
Teenage girls and an attitude
Girlfriends and laughter
Movies and popcorn
Chips and salsa
Childhood and lightening bugs

Forrest Gump said he and Jenny went together like peas and carrots. The movie was on the other night and I thought about the Captain (Hangdog) and the Belle. They went together like peas and carrots.

The husband refuses to eat peas. He thinks they're stupid. I'm not crazy about raw carrots. Maybe opposites do attract. If peas or carrots is the issue of the day, I think we''re having a good day.

Miserly Ways

I admire penny pinchers and people who can stretch a dollar. Although, it bugs me when they're cheap tippers. I hit both ends of the scale. Sometimes I spend money I shouldn't; other times I could compete for Cheapskate of the Year.

I rarely shop for clothing -- I own more than enough. I buy my cosmetics and hair products at the drug store.

The Belle would clip coupons and complain about the cost of certain items. Then she would go out and buy something unnecessary and obscenely expensive.

The husband and I recently took another trip to the dungeon to clean out Hangdog's things. Stuff with price tags. New shirts, ties, sport coats. Shoes and boots that had barely or never been worn. More leather gloves than any person could wear in a lifetime. We've only put a dent in the basement stuff.

We all have our indulgences. The Belle chose spoiling her man. The husband chooses golf. That includes club fees, golf trips and the endless pursuit of the perfect clubs. I do not want to guess how many sets he owns.

I'm not judging; I have my weaknesses too.

It's Not Just Tax Day

You know many things send icy shivers up my spine. Just a couple examples would be birds and any time the husband says (with a serious face,) "we need to talk." In both of these scenarios, I want to run like the wind.

Another one that makes the list is tax time. The husband is stable. As a writer, my income fluctuates wildly from year to year. Plus, I'm not the world's greatest keeper of records so it becomes a game show -- did we win, lose or draw? I have no idea why our accountant keeps us on as clients. I know I frustrate him to no end. I would've fired us years ago.

I'm unpacking and prioritizing my week. I flipped open my calendar and remembered: Today would have been the oldies 62nd wedding anniversary. They almost made it.

Travel Partners

Some people travel better solo. Others settle into a comfortable routine with friends and/or business associates. In my early days of the corporate world, they used to ask the women to bunk together. I don't think they do that anymore.

I travel well with many of my girlfriends. We've shared rooms from Manhattan to Florida to Arizona to the Caribbean to Mexico. My first question in the morning is, "Did I snore?"

Traveling with the husband is my favorite. (He already knows we both snore.) We've traveled a lot this year but our trips together have revolved around funerals.

The only traveling I did with the oldies was driving them back and forth to Mississippi. I wish I had taken a girl trip with the Belle. It would never have happened. She would've insisted that Hangdog tag along.

The Golden Girls travel well together but it took a few years or decades to get that in sync. Plus, we're used to each other's quirks. We may get on each other's nerves but we recover quickly.

I just returned from Manhattan and a great conference. Abby and I have attended it multiple times. We did not share a room, although we often did that in our early business relationship. We both love NY. We both love this conference. We have a long-standing friendship which includes a profound respect for each other's opinions and each other's space. We manage to strike a balance of what we want to do together and when we need separate time.

Although I talk to her almost every day and we collaborate on many things, this conference weekend has often been a reconnection of our friendship. We're not afraid to say things. Maybe it's being out of our usual surroundings. Maybe we're both so pumped with ideas and excitement that some of the walls come down.

It's a business trip and we work very hard to absorb as much information as we can. We toss ideas at each other over a glass of wine. We have the luxury of discussion time without the nagging pressures of daily commitments. We talk about business. We spend some time on Memory Lane -- my favorite street. We make comments about each other's lives that we wouldn't say in our normal, time-pressured conversations.

She helped me sort through some things. I hope I was a sounding board for her.

Then, we shared our enthusiasm and excitement about attending next year.

What Time Is It?

My room in Manhattan is quite spacious, as New York hotel rooms go. I'm not one of those people who complains about hotel rooms. I need a clean bathroom, a semi-comfortable bed, a desk and a chair. I'm set.

As all semi-insomniacs know, we have a perverse need to know the time. If I wake at 2:00 AM, I will try to lull myself back to sleep. If I wake at 5:00 AM, the time it will take to get back to sleep isn't worth the effort. I'll just get up.

The clock in my room is very new age and probably expensive. You can play/charge/awake to your iPod. (I didn't bring mine.) But, it's bolted to the nightstand and faces the middle of the room rather than the bed. To see the time, I have to sit up, move over and practically get out of bed.

It never occurred to me to pack Hangdog's "ding" watch -- the one that loudly announces the time. Since we inherited it, I may make it a permanent part of my packing list.

A Mom Moment

Living with the oldies meant talking to the Belle all the time. She would just wander into my office. Most communiation with my mother is by phone or email. Last week we cracked each other up by counting phone calls. We didn't say "hello," we said, "This is my number six phone call today."

My mother is my harshest critic. She's allowed. We find it funny because I welcome it. She programmed me well. Plus, she's usually right so I've learned to pay attention.

On the flip side, she can be fiercely protective. If someone is treating me like dirt, she will be on my side yet, she expects me to fix it. She may give wise advice. She may provide counsel. She won't fix it for me.

I can run to her and become a crumbling heap. She'll scoop me up and tell me she loves me. She expects me to stand tall.

My spine is a little stronger after every conversation with my mother -- even when we get snarly. I want to stand tall. I want to do it for me and I don't want to let her down.

Sometimes it takes six or seven conversations in one day to get the message through to me.

Office Weirdness

As you know, I write on every available scrap of paper. I keep loose notes and ideas everywhere but most of them wind up in my office. Some may pertain to client thoughts; others can run the gamut from gift ideas to menus. When the stacks get overwhelming, I try to bring the paperwork into the manageable range.

The computer in my office is slow but it's the fastest one in the house. There are laptops and another desktop computer in the baby's room. Yet, everyone seems to want to go in the office. I allow it but it makes me crazy.

I have an inexplicable desire for space that is just mine. I've gotten pretty militant with commands -- "You may not download anything on my computer!" I put notes on boxes, i.e. "Not Trash!"

Hangdog and the Belle used to wander in my office. I never thought I'd say it but I miss that. They never touched anything. They just sort of hung out in the doorway like it was off-limits.

The husband can occasionally rival Heloise. He feels like he's helping if he puts things away or consolidates stacks of papers. The problem is that I probably just spent an hour sorting those papers. I leave pens and notepads everywhere. He puts the pens away and moves the notebooks. I have a meltdown. I put them back where I wanted them. We'll do the same cycle until the end of time.

Antsy with Anticipation

Remember that childhood feeling of eagerly awaiting Christmas or your birthday? I love that feeling and I'm experiencing it today. Tomorrow is not Christmas or my birthday; it's the day I head to my favorite writing conference.

I get to go to Manhattan -- my favorite destination. I will be surrounded by interesting people in an industry I love. My head will be spinning with ideas and suggestions. I will be reminded of how much I don't know and I will be reinvigorated to learn. I'll swap notes with my friend Abby, who also attends, and we'll brainstorm with each other.

It's only a long weekend but it's expensive. I have to justify it to myself every year. When this year's agenda/registration landed in my inbox, I shared it with the Belle. I shared it with my mother. I called Abby. All agreed: You must go.

It's ripe with possibility. Maybe I'll meet an editor who will be a potential partner or an agent that shows an interest in my writing. Maybe the other writers I meet will send me referrals.

My self-imposed rule is simple. I must learn or meet someone that can:

Improve my writing, or
Enhance the bottom line of my company, or
Show me a new skill, or
Open doors.

I'm tired. I haven't packed. But, I'm giddy with anticipation.

Tear Down This Wall

In 1987, President Reagan was in Berlin. He gave a memorable speech. The most quoted line is, "Mr. Gorbechev, tear down this wall."

I understand a little about walls. I tend to erect them around myself. Always have.

I'm like a turtle. I retreat to my protective shell. I poke my head out and scope the situation. Many people seem to think that I put our life on display. I don't. It's just a portion, a glimpse.

A friend who has known me for many years called me on it today. She wasn't quite as eloquent as Reagan but the message was definitely, "Tear down this wall."

Turn About is Fair Spray

The spray bottle is still working wonders on the maniac dog's behavior. I keep it in reach most of the time. Sometimes my aim is off and both the dog and the husband get spritzed. Whenever that happens, I become a child. I giggle with a half-hearted apology.

Last night, the dog and I went into the garage. The door opened and it was Rambo with the squirt bottle. He opened fire.

I didn't write this title. The husband did. He wrote it in my notebook. (Which he is not allowed to touch!) For someone who feigns ignorance about this blog, he still likes to give me ideas or maybe it's just his obsession with being the boss of me.

Grade schools and Policemen

I drove through the old neighborhood today. Not just the home where I grew up. I drove by the hospital where I was born and the grade school I attended. (The baby gets very tired of the same conversation every time I drive by this school. I say, "That's where I went to grade school." He says, "I know." And then he rolls his eyes. Wonder where he got that?

My golden girls and lots of my friends went to this grade school. Our generation experienced busing in this time. A big adventure was when our parents would allow us to walk home from school. A 20-minute walk could take hours; we found lots of detours. We felt safe.

Today, we all know about school shootings and other atrocious things. A posting on the Internet can incite a riot or a beating. Somehow, doing the duck and cover thing under the desk in preparation for nuclear war seems innocent and quaint.

I slowed down in the school zone so I had lots of time to pay attention. Two police cars out front and one in the side parking lot. Memory lane and a little sadness set in. The only time we saw a police officer at the school in my youth was when he came to explain Officer Friendly.

On a Stick

There's a line in the movie Sweet Home Alabama," where a childhood friend greets Reese Witherspoon. He says, "You look like sex on a stick in that dress." We should all be so lucky. I have embraced this phrase in my vernacular.

I've seen oldies on a stick. Lots of times.
I see a maniac with a stick every time the dog runs through the back yard.
Sometimes I tell the husband, "You are meanness on a stick." He looks at me as if I just blew in from Pluto.

It's warm and I'm gearing up for patio and barbecue time. Food on a stick!

It's Me and My Six Dogs

The Belle and I used to share stories. I suspect I know more of her premarital history than her sons. These were our girlfriend moments.

Once I was in a domestic situation -- okay, some called it a marriage but I don't remember it that way. I wanted out in a big way.

Beyond the obvious issues of ending a relationship, I had no idea what to do with myself and my dependents. They weren't children; they were dogs. One dog had been with me for years. One I had recently rescued from the Target parking lot. She repaid the favor by having four puppies in my closet.

I don't remember what tipped me over the edge but I do remember that night with great clarity. It was a Friday and the upcoming Monday was a holiday. I couldn't fathom a long weekend. I called on girlfriend support which meant an emergency meeting for a drink after work.

I went to my house. I paced a lot (in between tending to my six dogs.) I gave myself a window to wait for him. I rehearsed what I would say. I threw a few items of clothing in a bag to get me through. When it hit 7:00 P.M., I could wait and pace no longer. I put six dogs in a laundry basket and I left a note.

It's humiliating to remember. I am actually one of those people who has left a "Dear John" letter as I fled. You know where I went.

One of my parents opened the door. They knew I was unhappy but they were not expecting me to show up on their doorstep. One of my favorite quotes is from Robert Frost:

Home is where they have to take you in.

He didn't mention hauling six dogs along.

Houseboy to the Rescue

Houseboy has come to my rescue more than once. Actually, more than I care to count.

When the oldies were with us, he dealt with many body function disasters. He never complained, even when Hangdog referred to him as "That man." He picked them up, took them places, ran errands for them and hauled many things up and down the stairs. After a major shopping trip, they would leave things in their trunk for him to unload. He installed lots of "must have" gizmos.

There's an Amish market near his home and he regularly brought them treats. Hangdog could not remember his name but he gobbled up the pastries.

I get teased for it but I admit, he does tons of things for me, like getting on ladders or toting things I cannot lift. He (and his crew) fight the weekly battle with the lawn. Or snow. Or storms.

This week, Houseboy and his wife are headed to a sunny destination to celebrate their 25th anniversary. I have witnessed them together and they are still madly in love. They have two children and their individual schedules are crazy. Yet, they stay connected. I don't think he's ever been in my home without talking to her and/or one of the children.

I tease him with the nickname "Houseboy." He's not a boy; He's a man. He's a man that I would be thrilled to see the baby emulate.

Work ethic. Kindness. Laughter. Loyalty. Family love. He's the poster child for all of these things. That's probably why I trust him with my dog and he has keys to my house.

Just a moment; Just a night

The baby was home this weekend. He's a working machine so our time is pretty limited. But we had dinner. We watched television. I had brownies, ice cream and strawberries. (Don't faint; yes, I baked.) The dog romped around.

I will have this snapshot in my mind until the end of time.

I also do it with the daughter. Although she lives in Texas, when she is here, it feels natural and normal. I believe that could be called living in the past. (Sign me up.)

Many years ago, my parents tried to explain this to me and I didn't get it. They were so thrilled to see me when I breezed in from college and I was saying, "Hi, Hey, Love you but I've got to go!" They're still pretty nice to me when I breeze in.

The Belle's face used to light up every time the husband walked in the door.

With Abandon

Someone once said to me, "You are so lucky that your family knows how to laugh."

Laughter doesn't do it justice. It's shrieking. It's being doubled over in belly pain. It can often become a "Depends" moment.

Last weekend, we had a lovely dinner and then played cards with some relatives. The husband does a great impression of Aunt Ann. Patty's laugh is so contagious that I get the giggles just thinking about it. Aunt Judy's facial expressions crack me up. I would swear Wild Bill was in the room. Peggy can hoot and holler with the best of them and she would win. My mother and I could laugh watching paint dry.

Our men were there. They played some games with us and then watched tv. No offense to them but the girls had more fun.

I combed my hair for Uncle Harry. He griped about it anyway. Then, I beat him at cards.

We laugh out loud. We cry at funerals. Sometimes we cry for no reason other than it feels good to get it out. We're kind to each other and we forgive the occasional emotional outburst.

Actually, we embrace it.

The husband and his brothers had a running punchline during the Belle's and Hangdog's funerals. They would introduce themselves and then say, "I'm the emotional one." They were telling the truth and once again I realized why we fit.

Dog Advice

I'm crazy about dogs. (The husband makes the same comment about me but he leaves off the "about dogs" portion.) I've lost count of how many dogs I've owned and loved. My current big, black dog is a maniac but she brings me great joy.

The baby was home from college last night and he commented that she's become much better behaved. Maybe it's the squirt bottle. Maybe it's because she's only 4 months away from her second birthday. Two-years old seems to be the magic age that Labs settle down a bit.

A friend sent me this. It's not new; you may have read it before but it bears repeating. I wish I could credit the author.

When your carpeting is tracked with mud or you're apologizing to the person who has just experienced a knock 'em down french kiss from your dog, remember this.

If a dog was the teacher you would learn things like:

When loved ones come home, always run to greet them.
Never pass up the opportunity to go for a joyride. Allow the experience of fresh air and the wind in your face to be pure ecstasy.
Take naps.
Stretch before rising.
Run, romp, and play daily.
Thrive on attention and let people touch you.
Avoid biting when a simple growl will do.
On warm days, stop to lie on your back on the grass.
On hot days, drink lots of water and lie under a shady tree.
When you're happy, dance around and wag your entire body.
Delight in the simple joy of a long walk.
Be loyal.
Never pretend to be something you're not.
If what you want lies buried, dig until you find it.
When someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit close by and nuzzle
them gently.

I would add a few more:

A stranger at the door probably needs to see your snarly face.
Someone brushing your hair or massaging your scalp feels good.
When you need attention, throw yourself on someone's lap.
Kissing is more fun with tongues.
A treat a day is mandatory.
If you talk/bark until you're hoarse, you've taken it too far.
Regardless of age, you should have toys.
Some dogs and some people need to be kept on a short leash.
Instincts are good. If you sense danger, you're probably right.
Food left on the counter is fair game.
Your own pillow provides comfort.
Your senses can keep you from peril and guide you to good things.
If you have someone to take care of you, you are luckier than most.

A Moment in History

Yesterday was the 40th anniversary of the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. Bobby Kennedy was in Indianapolis for a campaign stop and he delivered the news to a stunned crowd. As news of the assassination spread across the land, many cities erupted in riots and chaos. Indianapolis did not and it was largely due to the wise and calming words delivered by Bobby Kennedy.

Ethel Kennedy (Bobby's widow) was in our city yesterday. She was honoring both men. Our local paper was all over it. Some articles remembered that day. Others in the op/ed section pleaded with the younger generation to remember history and learn the lesson.

There's a sculpture in our city that's a tribute to them both. It's metal and it's moving. It shows both men reaching but not quite attaining the handshake. Part of the metal comes from melted-down firearms.

My friend designed this sculpture. He won a national contest and poured his heart and soul into it, along with a lot of melted firearms. I went to the ceremony when it was unveiled.

The artist reminded me of another snapshot of this historic moment: www.rippleofhopemovie.com.

I wish I could say something new and profound about these two men who died at such a young age in 1968. I'm don't have the words and I was a child.

But, I can tell you that there's a monument in my city honoring both of them. I'm thrilled to know the artist. I'm hoping their message is still being conveyed. It's not lost on me.

Clean and Pristine

I finally got the carpets cleaned and they look marginally better. Some stains refuse to budge. We're in the midst of rain and mud season so I can't get too anxious about it.

One of my daily chores is to vacuum or take the sticky roller to the dog hair on the inside of my car. It's a simple task that saves me from a prickly conversation with the husband.

Some people manage to keep their homes and cars in show-quality condition. I'm always envious of those people until they start endorsing rules like no shoes in the house or they have plastic covering all the furniture. I am not comfortable in my socks or bare feet with my skin adhered to the plastic. I want people to feel warm and comfortable in this house. We have very few rules.

Now that we've lost the oldies, my house will never be the same. She could devote several hours to cleaning out the refrigerator and scrubbing the range. This rarely makes my to-do list.

One of my friends makes everyone feel welcome in her home. She has very few rules. But she can't go to bed until everything is pristine.

I would never sleep again.

Optional Surgery

I've had my tonsils removed. I've had a few lumps or strange spots removed. I've done the days when you wait for the biopsy results. I've had dye run through some of my organs and I got to watch it on a TV screen. Call me crazy but this is not my idea of a good time.

As you know, I am terrified of needles. This does not stop me from doing routine blood work or getting a flu shot. But, I'm pretty sure I would never choose to have someone shove a needle in my arm. Let alone, take off my face and then stitch it back together.

At this age, many people I know choose elective surgery. They have themselves shot with Botox or some other gravity-defying drug. They have their eyebrows lifted. They have face lifts. They have major peels which basically involves watching your face fall off in sheets.

I'm pretty sure all of these procedures involve needles so I'll pass. I'm following the path of the Belle.

One of my girlfriends went to the doctor and was concerned about aging and various lines. Instead of accepting the big check, her doctor advised, "You are not going to stay out of the sun. You are going to continue to live the way you've chosen. You would be wasting your money." What a cool doctor!

The Belle kicked up her heels until the very end. Her lines and wrinkles were a badge of honor. She earned them.

I think I've earned mine too.

A Community Request Fulfilled

Two days ago, I received an email plea. A teenager (friend of a friend of a friend) had reached his lifetime limit on his medical policy. He was/is desperately in need of a transplant.

I do not know this young man. But I do know the person who sent me the email. The request was not for gobs of money -- just $25.

The front page of my paper this morning featured a human interest story. "Teen to get transplant after donations pour in." (Indystar.com)

Just when I get a little down about human nature and our selfish ways, I am blessed with an inspiration.

The original email from his parents went out Friday. By Tuesday, they had $175,000. By 3:00 PM Wednesday, they had $355,000. Four hours later, the total exceeded $400,000.

Imagine how much more is pouring in. Imagine the relief his parents feel to have this show of love and support.

College versus the Real World

One of our large universities (and my alma mater) is addressing a problem. There's a big group of students who do almost anything to avoid classes on Friday or early morning classes any day of the week. The students' comments included the following:

I like to party on Thursday nights. I don't do Friday classes.
I refuse to take any class before 1:00pm. I can't focus that early.
I like to go home (or away) on the weekend. Friday classes cut into that time.

This causes big trouble with scheduling the lecture halls, etc. The university is examining several options. All of them will involve more student butts in seats before noon and on Fridays.

Someone wrote an opinion to the editor of our local paper this week. Paraphrasing, it said, "What about the real world? Do these young people think they will find a full-time job that gives them the flexibility to show up in the afternoon and skip Friday work hours?"

The baby is in this very college. He also works at every opportunity. The daughter has worked herself through undergraduate school and law school. I worked while I was in college. I also recall some 8:00 A.M. classes and Friday classes. (I still went to the Thursday night party; I just went home a little earlier than most.)

The Belle would refer to this as work ethic or learning to balance things. She learned it early. I hope these kids that gripe about time schedules learn it eventually.

The Five-Second Rule

A recent study suggested that our society has become so germ phobic that we are actually harming our children. We need exposure to a certain amount of semi-harmless germs to allow our immune systems to effectively build up immunities to fight the bully ones. This is not a problem in my home.

It reminds me of mother stories. With the first child, everything is sterilized. By the third child, the instinct is to pick up the pacifier (or whatever) and blow on it. Then you just plop it back in the child's mouth.

One of my brothers-in-law told a story at the Belle's funeral. It was a homecoming celebration for his return from Vietnam. The Belle made his favorite, banana pudding. Hangdog snuck into it and somehow knocked the bowl to the floor. She scooped it up and picked out the pieces of glass. But when she served it, she warned her son, "Watch out for glass slivers."

I've never gone quite this far. But I did find myself crawling on the bathroom floor last night because I dropped my sinus medication. I found it. I took it.

Have it Your Way

Remember Burger King's little ditty in the 70s?

Hold the pickle, hold the lettuce,
Special orders don't upset us,
All we ask is that you let us,
Have it your way.

I like to have it my way.

We tend to frequent the same restaurants. They are very accommodating. Last night, our server placed my order with this request, "Make it Sheri sized."

Commuter Marriages

The oldies died when they were both 84-years old. If my math is correct, he retired roughly 30 years ago. Although the Belle continued to work for several years, the rest of their time was spent together. Once she took a weekend trip with her sisters but other than that, they did everything together.

If she didn't feel well, he stayed in bed next to her. If she had a hair appointment, he went with her. If she was frying up breakfast, lunch or dinner, he watched. Sometimes she would go into the baby's room to play cards on the computer or listen to music the baby had downloaded for her. Hangdog would follow behind and stretch out on the bed in that room. He had to be near her. Sometimes you could witness a flash of annoyance but for the most part, I think she considered it a compliment.

I, of course, cannot comprehend this. It's sweet to watch but if I were living it, I would have an immediate attack of claustrophobia. (Sometimes I'm obsessed with the clock and counting down the hours until he will leave. It's not lack of love; I just need my own time and space.)

We have reached the stage in life that most of our friends are empty nesters. After the initial shock and reality that your little chickens have actually flown the coop, people start to make decisions. Some travel more. Some decide they didn't really like each other after all and they get divorced. Others (who have the financial means to do so) invest in second and third homes.

I'm both intrigued by the thought and exhausted for those people who manage it.

Last night, the husband and I caught up with a friend for dinner. He wasn't alone because he's single; he's alone because his wife is in their Colorado home. He will join her this weekend. Their Indiana place is home base, probably because he can run his business and it's centrally located. Later, they'll go to their home in Florida. Do I sound jealous? (Maybe I am -- just a wee bit.)

More of my friends are choosing this option. My friend, Big S, spends the majority of the winter in her Arizona home. Her husband flies in every 10 days or so. Another friend spends her winters in Florida and her summers at her lake home. They also have a home in Indianapolis. She and her husband probably spend as much quality time together as the husband and I do.

Which saying is true? "Absence makes the heart grow fonder" or "Out of sight, out of mind." It's a little Pollyanna but I think it is the first expression.

Trapped

I went to the BMV yesterday to renew my driver's license. Some psycho woman was in line behind me and insisted on repeating the same phrases: "I didn't get my tags, did you?" I tried the polite smile and the minimal answer. It didn't work. "Are you sure we're in the right line?" (I'm very unclear about when she and I became a "we.")

I seem to attract these people. When I'm on an airplane, the stranger next to me ignores my obvious obsession with the crossword puzzle or my book. He or she feels the need to tell me about the job and the kids. Great! Good for you! Get your elbow off the armrest and we'll get along fine.

I used to think living with the oldies was a trap. I see the situation differently now.

A few times in my life what I viewed as a trap turned out to be a safety net.

Don't Forget the Old Days

During a friendly chat last night, a friend of ours was lamenting his unending fear of the dentist. There was a little nervous laughter and then he explained.
"If I sat in his chair as a 6-year old in 1945 and he was roughly 70-years old, that means he went to dental school in the 1800s. How current was he?"

One of my brothers-in-law is a dentist. I wish he didn't live 4 hours away because we all want to go to him.

I'm pretty sure the daughter and the baby have not witnessed laundry run through the ringer and hung on the line to dry. Microwave popcorn is older than the baby. I grew up with plumbing in the house but visits to relatives occasionally involved outhouses. They also involved fun things like swimming in a lake, sitting around a bonfire and actually discussing things. No one had an electronic device plugged in an ear or molded to their palm.

Dentistry is painless and routine to our children. Don't I sound like an oldie?

My childhood/early adulthood dentist was a hip-hopping dude in the 70s. He wore psychedelic shirts and multiple gold chains. He was not patient friendly but he did freely dispense nitrous oxide for fillings. I found out later that he enjoyed hauling a tank of it to parties and enhancing the atmosphere with a mood-altering substance.

In the early or mid 80s, I was with a group of girlfriends celebrating a new job for one of them. He approached our table and he was still wearing his gold chains and a loud shirt. Thankfully, he was not carrying a tank. We did not bite. (or spit.)

Grilled by the Carpet Cleaning People

Our carpeting is destroyed. I wish I could place the blame on the oldies but we've all participated.

I explained which areas I would like cleaned. I said there are many stains. She thought it might be fun to discuss how these stains came to be. (Yeah, I'm convinced this will change the approach to the carpet cleaning.) But, I'm game. I filled her in:

We have a big dog. She has not learned to wipe her feet properly.

We used to have oldies. Every fall involved some kind of blood stain. Sometimes we had double falls and the blood looked like a scene from The Shining.

The husband reaches for the remote or his glasses. A glass of red wine is often the casualty.

The path from the kitchen to the patio includes a trek through the living room. Meat drips happen, especially if you're carrying the tray after some wine.

We like to entertain. We don't freak out if something is spilled. Obviously, we don't do a super job of cleaning it up.

At the end of this discussion, she was very anxious to book my appointment and get off the phone. I was just getting started.

Jeans

I watched a makeover show recently and they insisted the participant get rid of her "Mom" jeans. They made her look dumpy. No one explained the term "Mom jeans."

My selection of jeans is far too elaborate. I have jeans in various sizes and various lengths, depending on the shoes I plan to wear. I have jeans I wore in college. They are my faves, holes and all. I try to only wear them around the house because they are not the most attractive item in my closet. However, slipping into them is like welcoming an old friend. They're soft and comfortable. They're molded to my body. They bring back great memories.

Several years ago, the husband and the baby bought me a pair of jeans for Christmas. They fit low on the hips and have a little flair at the bottom. I said, "I cannot wear these." They were right. I wear them all the time.

People who wear jeans to church, weddings, funerals or any formal occasion get on my nerves. The husband loves to comment, "Those must be their Good Jeans." I find it disrespectful.

On one of my many shopping trips with the oldies, we bought the Belle some jeans. At first she was hesitant but she went with the flow and grew to love them. Of course, she had to kick it up a notch with jewelry, scarves and a great jacket.

When I took her to the hospital the last time, she was wearing jeans. She was also well accessorized.

Deja Vu

It's been just over one week since we returned from Hangdog's funeral in Mississippi. Our pantry was low on essentials and I had many errands to run yesterday. I was also overdue for a manicure.

Every stop I made -- from the nail salon to the dry cleaners -- involved the same question, "How is your father-in-law?" It started giving me a headache to repeatedly explain his death.

It also warmed my heart that so many of these people seem to genuinely care. In the 2 1/2 years that the oldies lived with us, they certainly left an impression with a lot of people.