Just Talking

I talk to the maniac dog a lot. Usually I'm reminding her that I am the only person in the world who likes her so she ought to behave.

Sometimes, I look at the caller ID on my phone and then I say, "I'm busy." I'm just talking to the phone. I did not answer.

Lately, I'm mumbling. I can be writing a proposal or doing the crossword. It's that under your breath kind of speaking. I suspect it's an oldies thing. The husband rolls his eyes. Wonder where he got that?

The old joke is that talking to yourself is okay but when you start answering, you're in trouble. Hmmmm ...

Celebrity Hunt

Whenever I travel, especially to the east or west coast, I am constantly scanning the people around me. I'm looking for celebrities. I don't want an autograph and I don't bother them. (A year or so ago, I almost knocked Abby down on a NY street because Chris Rock was standing next to us.)

In this silly but harmless quest, I've been rewarded. I have seen and/or met:

OJ Simpson in the Dallas airport (while he was an athlete and before he became a murderer.)
Teri Garr in a CA hotel.
Jane Seymour in an airport.
Henry Winkler in a NY restaurant.
Kelly Ripa walking down a NY street.
Brooke Shields and Chris Henchy with their daughter in NY.
JFK, Jr. riding his bike in NY.
One of the Wilson brothers (Luke or Owen) on the subway.
Vincent Price, Jane Pauley, Ted Koppel, G. Gordon Liddy in various places.

There are many more.

Last night, the husband and I went to one of our favorite haunts. He stopped in the men's room so I headed to grab a couple of seats at the bar. I ordered us each a glass of wine and took out my notebook to jot down some thoughts. When he joined me, he asked, "Did you see who you're sitting next to?"

Peyton Manning, Indianapolis Colts Quarterback and Superbowl MVP two years ago. Local celebrity of huge magnitude. Big brother of Eli Manning, Superbowl MVP in this year's game. I've met him before but never bellied up to a bar next to him.

As usual, my head was in the clouds and my nose was in a notebook until the husband reeled me back to the real world.

The oldies lived with us when our Colts won the Superbowl. She would've been so impressed that I was sitting next to Peyton.

Gay Marriage

California's recent ruling to allow gay marriage has been in the national news lately. I'm just conservative enough for the word "marriage" between two same sex people to rankle me. I'm just liberal enough to think this is none of my business and why can't they have some of the benefits that are automatic with legal marriage?

One of our city's largest employers recognizes domestic partnerships in terms of benefits, etc. I suspect more and more companies will do the same in coming years. It's a good time to be a lawyer because I am certain that many of these unions will fail and without a legal partnership, people will be suing for what they assume is rightfully theirs.

I don't have the answers. The heterosexual model of marriage has proven to be less than ideal. The statistics are dismal.

As a society, we seem to have surrendered to the idea of a baby or two before marriage as an okay thing. Two people living together is no longer considered living in sin. Divorce isn't shocking. (I'm not judging -- I've done a couple of these things myself.)

I don't understand the fear. What could gay marriage do to this institution that we haven't already done?

Little Projects

Little projects can be my undoing. I start and stop. I get distracted by things like clients who actually pay me or pesky errands. Why am I the only one who knows how to find a grocery store?

Before the oldies moved in with us, I used to keep my multiple boxes of photos in their room. In my mad dash to prepare for them living with us, I stashed them on a high shelf in my closet. I get on a ladder and drag them down but I have yet to sort and organize them.

I used to crochet baby blankets and donate them to shelters and hospitals. As a tightwad, I would find beautiful yarn on sale and snap it up. Now I have another corner of my closet filled with yarn waiting to become something. (I got a little distracted this winter with hospitals, nursing homes, the hospice and funeral travel.)

I want to learn to text message; I have no idea why. But, it's a looming project.

I need to update my iPod and clean off a bunch of the songs I don't like. I'm trying to upgrade and sync my laptop and my ancient home computer. I bite off little pieces each day but it's still looming.

Computer files need to be compressed, updated and deleted. I still don't understand my digital camera. There is some serious filing that is calling my name.

There are plenty of big projects that need my attention but it's the little ones that nag at me.

I'm working on yet another little project these days. I will get it done.

90 Minutes of Fun

A recent study in Women's Health Magazine announced that men spend an average of 90 minutes more fun time each day than women.

To which, I say, "Duh!"

I can only comment on what I see in my world. Here's what I see:

Women with young children who bear the bulk of the child care.

Women who work outside the home and then come home to do the majority of the household stuff.

Women (like the Belle) who devote their entire lives to making sure their spouse is happy.

Women who feel guilty if they read a book or take a bubble bath when there's work to be done.

Women who can balance a baby on one hip (child or grandchild) while loading a grocery cart, unloading the trunk and making something for dinner.

Women who visit friends in the hospital, parents in assisted living and children who might need a hug.

Women who stand by their husbands when he needs it.

Women who know how to use pliers, the snow blower, the lawn mower and more.

Women who juggle a social calendar for their spouse, the never-ending calendar for their children and the medical appointments for the entire family.

Women who wear boots because they couldn't find a pair of matched socks.

Women who know where the spare set of keys are located. All of them.

Women who don't need to scroll through the contact list. They know all of the numbers by heart.

Women who file the paperwork, whether it's insurance or the accountant.

Women who automatically know if the household is low on milk or light bulbs.

Women who suffer and live with arthritis, MS or even more dire circumstances but they still leap the fence for someone they love.

Women who learned the latest technology because that's the preferred way to keep in touch with their children or grandchildren.

Women who make daily to-do lists and later realize there is nothing on the list about their life or their needs.

Sorry guys. I suspect a lot of you owe your wife, daughter and mother a big "Thank You" for keeping your life in order.

Golden Girl Reunion

The Golden Girl reunion is coming up. It's been more than a year and I can't wait. They tease me about my choice of words but yes, I am giddy.As you know, we play the question game. We all submit questions and then dump them in a bag. No subject is off limits. We never run out of things to talk about but the questions help us catch up.

You would think we know everything there is to know about each other. We've known each other more than 30 years (and I'm being kind.)  We email (almost) every day. Jan and I talk (almost) every day. Deb is far away but we are in constant contact. If she needed us, Jan and I would be on the next plane. 

I loved school. I used to make up homework. (Yes, I am that dorky.) Plus, the journalism training kicks in and my questions need to be relevant and poignant.


I am always blown away at our ability to get to the heart of the matter.  A question may provoke a tear or a great memory laugh.  Then, we realize we're in the safety zone of our friendship and we're allowed to ask, "How are you going to handle that?"  We don't have to say it aloud.  It's implied, "How can I help?"

The husbands get a little nervous about our reunion.  I'm sure they think we spend the entire time talking about them.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  We stroll memory lane and advise each other about jobs, kids, pets, etc.  We eat and drink with abandon.The three of us have seen it all.  For the most part, we've held each other's hands (or been handed a margarita.)  Death, childbirth, marriage, loss, biopsies, menopause, puberty, etc.  

My favorite part is that we don't have to explain ourselves to each other.  I/we can say, "I'm feeling weird today."  The other girls perk up and pitch in.

Letting Go

I don't let go easily. It may be people or things but there's a reason they're in my life and I'm a clinger. Within the past few years, I've had to let go of:

The oldies -- shocking.
The daughter who moved to Texas. Expected, but hard.
The baby who grew up and moved to the college life.
Mentors and business associates who have retired or moved on.
Friends who died too soon.
A beloved pet.

I've also had to let go of some dreams and perceptions. That "slap-you-in-the-face" reality is a downer.

I need to let go of some clutter. I'm being swallowed by books and papers.

Mostly, I need to let go of some expectations and the load of guilt I can't seem to shake. I wish they made a magic pill for that.

I Double Dog Dare You

I am a weenie and a scaredy cat. Yet, water brings out the rebel in me.

My mother takes some water classes but she's constantly reminding me that she is not a swimmer. Because of her fear of water, she made sure I took swim lessons. (I made sure I had a stomach ache whenever necessary.)

I sat in Cocktail Corner yesterday and watched kids go off the diving board. They gang up on each other, whether the child is two-years old or 17-years old. They scream, "Do a cannonball, do a back flip, do a belly flop." They double dog dare each other and I am transported in time.

How many hours did I spend standing on the side of that pool teaching the baby to dive? How many times did he develop a stomach ache before the swim class? I might be a wuss but there's something about that diving board. Before the summer is over, I will dive, flip and flop.

As we had our first pool-side cocktail yesterday, one of my friends said, "Just get it over with." No. I like the anticipation.

Escaping

Memorial Day weekend ... time to relax and kick back.

In our city, today's focus is the Indianapolis 500 race. Lots of buzz. Lots of people. More eyes than ever are focused on our city since we were awarded the host of the Superbowl in 2012. I don't live close to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway but I live just close enough for the traffic to mess with me.

Sunday is usually my catch-up day: return emails, file papers, pay bills, etc. If I get really wacky, I deep condition my hair and paint my toenails. Middle-age maintenance is exhausting.

A running joke with the husband is that every day is a holiday for me. He finds it very funny. I'm slightly less entertained.

But, today he is correct. The pool is open. I'm headed over to cocktail corner. The water is calling and I'm escaping. The piles of paper and the bills will have to wait until tomorrow.

I can't wait to dive in.

To Market, To Market

I'm a small market person. I find zero appeal in shopping somewhere that I can buy corn and tires. It confuses me.

My neighborhood has great little shops. I can park my car and go to the bank, the drug store, the meat market, the little grocery and the dry cleaners. I can browse the jewelry store. I can grab a sandwich and hors d'oeuvres at the great deli and if I need to, I can restock our liquor cabinet in the corner store.

The oldies loved this area. They could wait for a prescription while browsing or eating.

The husband decided that we should grill Ahi tuna and shrimp tonight. I had to venture a little north of my normal clan of shops. Three miles north of my home is a great fish market where everything comes in fresh each day.

I couldn't buy a lawn mower or a treadmill in these shops. I did get some wonderfully fresh seafood.

In the Same Room

If you have an older home, as I do, things are guaranteed to go wrong. Ours is a money pit but I still love it. I actually love it more knowing that eventually we will have to make the smart decision to downsize so that makes me cherish every tree and the view from every window.

When something goes wrong, I do my best to fix it. But, I have this fantasy. Could we get everyone in the same room? The water company tells me I am using an absurd amount of water -- there must be a leak. The plumber tells me he can't find a leak and the water company is messing with me. The sprinkler/irrigation people tell me I need to talk to the water company.

If there's a computer problem, I have to call the cable company (supplier of my high-speed service,) the Internet provider and the hosts of my domain names.

When we had the oldies, we skirted between VA doctors (last count was 8) and our preferred physician. A conversation in the same room would've saved everyone a lot of stress. (I must admit our doctor did his best to make it happen.)

The same is true of personal relationships. Spouses and friends can clear the air but it helps to be in the same room. Hey, you can always walk away.

Blatant Self Promotion

Abby Marmion and I travel to NYC any time the opportunity arises. We are writers and Manhattan is the hub of the publishing world. Our favorite weekend is the ASJA (American Society of Journalists and Authors) conference. We get to meet agents and editors. We learn some new technology. We meet other writers who have amazing talents. We nudge each other and say, "Why didn't I think of that?"

A couple of years ago, we met Rosemary O'Brien, an accomplished writer and fellow blogger. We were thrilled to see her again last month. Her writing world continues to evolve, as does ours.

Rosemary has a great website and a very interesting blog about being a military mom. She invited us to be guest bloggers on her site. Mine posted yesterday on www.rosemaryob.com. (In the upper right corner, click on blog.)
It's always an honor when people ask you to write for them, especially when it's a personal site. I hope you'll check it out.

Six-Word Memoirs -- Part Two

I'm changing computers. Yesterday involved a lot of data transfer and time I couldn't be on the computer. Yikes!

After laundry and as many errands as I could tolerate, I took one of my notebooks into my sun room and I played the six-word memoir game. If you don't make this list, trust me there's more to come.

Mom:

You still think you're the boss.

Jan/Deb:

To the grave; not long enough.

Patsy:

You knew me then. Please forget.

Kim:

The childhood mirror shows us well.

Rich:

Punch. Poke. Wasn't it all fun?

Connie:

Just give me Donut and Grape.

Cess:

When I grow up, I'm her.

Beth:

Y'all is southern for you guys.

Probably not the most constructive use of my time. So, I'll add one more for me:

Waster of time, one more time.

Six-Word Memoirs

On one of my many treks through the bookstore, I stumbled upon a little book, "Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure." This is from the introduction:

Legend has it that Ernest Hemmingway was once challenged to write a story in six words. Papa came back swinging with, "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Some say he called it his best work. Others dismiss the anecdote as a literary folktale. Either way, the six-word story was born, and it's been popping around the writing world for years.

I'll share a few of my favorite six-word memoirs from the book:

Aging late bloomer yearns for do-over. Sydney Zvara
Thought long and hard. Got migraine. Lisa Levy
Wasn't born a redhead; fixed that. Andie Grace
Came, saw, conquered, had second thoughts. Harold Ramis
Followed rules, not dreams. Never again. Margaret Hellerstein

Of course, I had to play along. I wrote one for me:

You alone will not defeat me.

Then, I wrote another one:

Rose-tinted glasses color my world.

Then I wrote one about the husband:

Big ego might hide true pain.

On to the oldies. I started with the Belle:

My South is my perfect paradise.

And for Hangdog:

Looking for Belle. Now and forever.

I've written many more. What would yours be? It's a fun exercise but I must caution you, it's addictive.

Sweet Caroline

Recently, Neil Diamond made it public that his song, "Sweet Caroline" was about Caroline Kennedy. No one has ever written a song about me but I like to pretend that any song that has any version of my name is just for me.

I just heard the news that Sweet Caroline's Uncle Ted Kennedy (Democrat Senator from Mass.) has been diagnosed with aggressive brain cancer. Hasn't this woman been through enough?

Her father was assassinated when she was a small child,
Then her uncle was assassinated,
She had to follow when her mother married Ari, the magnate,
She nursed her mother through cancer,
Her brother and sister-in-law died in a plane crash,
Countless uncles, aunts and cousins have had scandals and untimely deaths.

That just hits a few.

I can't quite get over Chappaquiddick or the rape trial where Ted Kennedy testified on behalf of his nephew, Michael Kennedy Smith. In both situations, I fall in the camp of screaming, "Guilty!"

Regardless of my politics, the Kennedys have been American royalty for my entire life. The Senator has served our country, however he saw fit. I don't wish cancer or disease on any person.

I used to want to be Caroline. I gave up that fantasy. But I hope she knows that there are a bunch of us middle-aged women who have followed her and admired her.

I wish Ted Kennedy recovery. But mainly, I wish Sweet Caroline some well-deserved peace from this roller coaster.

Hard To Hear

Bad news is hard to hear. I'm not talking about catastrophic things, just the mundane day-to-day stuff -- everything from your checking account is low to flaws in your behavior. Criticism is difficult but I have gotten better with trying to learn the lesson. I have a lot of respect for people who summon the courage to deliver unsolicited but necessary advice.

I've been on the receiving end lately. I stew. I mull it over. I am human so sometimes I get angry and other times I cry. No one likes to have their faults listed or to hear negative things about their family. But, I respect the perspective and I recognize everything is seen in a prism, depending on what's going on in your life.

The Belle and my mother agreed on many things. One of them was that I tell people far too much about my life. That is true. I think the bigger fault is that I expect too much -- from myself and others. Someone is always going to be disappointed.

Cooking for One

The Belle cooked three meals a day, plus snacks. I was in awe -- who does this? It's one thing when you have young children and you're responsible for their nutrition but it's quite different when they grow up.

My parents used to joke that it's hard to cook for two people so they decided to eat for four. In reality, they go out a lot, as we do.

The husband has many evening commitments: band practice, band gigs, client dinners, committee meetings, golf events, etc. On more than one occasion I've cooked something and then learned he had a prior engagement. I got tired of throwing food out so I've scaled back my cooking considerably.

Cooking for one is not high on my priority list. I used to make some of my favorite things that the husband hates. These days, I'm more likely to open some soup or make a grilled cheese. When my mom gives me a cheese ball, that can be my dinner. (Cheese and bread/crackers are two of my favorite foods.)

The other night the husband came home from a meeting. I assumed he had eaten. The next thing I know, he's frying up an egg. I could smell the butter in the next room. For a nanosecond, I thought, "The oldies are back."

Contacts

This is not about your vision. It's about your ability to find whomever you need.

Beyond my magic black book with all of my friends and family's contact info, I keep several rather extensive contact lists:

Clients and previous clients,
Vendors and suppliers,
Household, i.e. plumber, electrician, etc.,
Doctors (I have always known how to reach my doctors but I made a much larger list when the oldies were in our care.)

One of my rules is I refuse to do business with anyone, especially a physician, who will not give me his or her cell phone or home phone number. I have yet to run across a professional person who will not comply. I'm a pretty cautious person and I will not call any of these people at home unless absolutely necessary. When it's necessary, I don't want to waste time.

Because this is an election year, I'm super attuned to politics. Your hot buttons may not be mine, but I hope you know them. Do you know how to reach:

The President (or at least, the White House,)
Your Governor,
Your Mayor,
Your Senators,
Your House Representative?

In your state, do you know how to reach:

Your Prosecutor,
Your Secretary of State,
Your Chief of Police,
The Editor of your local paper?

If you have children in school, do you know how to reach:

The Superintendent and members of the school board,
The principal of your child's school,
Your child's teachers?

Lots of us are complaining about gas prices, the economy, education, our service people in Iraq and Afghanistan, the dismal state of social security, taxes, etc. Maybe it's just pot holes on your street. Many of these people are elected officials. Even the ones who are not elected still want to hear from the people.

Do you let them know what you think? If you're reading this, you have access to the Internet. All of this information is available online.

Picking Up Men

Politeness and the teensiest bit of charm can open a lot of doors. I wish more people understood that.

My niece majored in theater so after we toured the husband's office, we decided to visit some of the theaters in town. They were all closed -- setting up for evening performances, etc. We talked our way into every one. One person went to the trouble of turning on all the lights so she could see the venue in its full glory.

It's May and in our city that means an obsession with the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. She mentioned that her father is a racing fan. Time was a little tight so I didn't see the point in paying to park, buying tickets, etc. to watch 5 minutes of practice. We thought we'd just run by the IMS and she could hear the racing engines and see the facility.

When I worked in the corporate world, I spent the entire month of May at the Speedway so I know my way around a bit.

We talked our way into a parking space. We talked our way through multiple people who wanted to see our tickets, our suite pass or credentials. We almost hit a dead end but through some luck and some fast talking, a very nice gentleman showed her the track from several vantage points. He even opened an empty suite for us so she could see the view from the balcony. (It doesn't hurt that she has a charming accent and legs like a gazelle.)

Her mother jokingly said, "Don't pick up any Yankee men." Hell, that's what we did all day. We weren't looking for dates; we were looking for access.

After a dinner where we ran into several other people I know, we headed off to one more stop. It was a private party but we crashed it so the niece could hear the husband's band. I warned her that we wouldn't know anyone. Turns out, we knew at least half the people there. We were once again surrounded by men.

We picked up one more man. He followed us home. We felt pretty safe since he lives here.

Bratty Kids

The phrase "Zero Tolerance" is thrown around a lot. Schools use it in their policies about guns, drugs, etc. Sports organizations use it regarding drug testing or other forms of cheating.

I use it too. I have zero tolerance for bratty children. I do not blame the children, although they annoy me, but I want to slap the parents.

Before you think I'm jumped over the cliff into serious oldieville, I am not talking about babies with colic or a child in pain. I'm talking about the child on the airplane that is allowed to climb all over the seat, kick total strangers and throw the sippy cup (filled with sticky juice) in my hair. I'm talking about the child that interrupts adult conversation with some inane request -- only to divert the attention. I'm talking about parents who tolerate it.

In my childhood, my mother was usually the disciplinarian. But my father absolutely, positively refused to put up with whining. He is the most low key and calm man you would ever meet but this would send him reeling. Like all good parents, he didn't have to say a word. One look and I stopped. If a child can master a simple sentence, he can learn manners.

Maybe my next career will be teaching a course. I'll call it, "Mastering the Look."

Last night we had dinner and then played games. I don't remember what the baby said but he's old enough to know how to rib me. I shot him the look. The husband said, "And Mean Mom enters the party." (In his defense, it wasn't anything bad, I just like to know that I still have a sliver of power.) Now that he's grown, he just shoots the same look back to me which makes me laugh. He's mastered it.

When the baby was little, we did not hesitate to take him to restaurants. He loved to go out to brunch or dinner. Our little ritual was to sit in the car and remind him of the rules of proper behavior. No raised voices; no threats -- just a little refresher course.

Maybe I have plopped into oldieville. My mother asked me why we always prefer to eat in the bar of certain restaurants. It's not for the alcohol. It's because you have to be 21-years old. I refuse to spend my weekly allotment for dining out dodging sippy cups and listening to a screaming child.

Best or Worst Hostess

My niece is here. She is visiting before she starts a new job on Monday. I am thrilled to have her but I'm constantly fearful that she is bored.

Depending on how you define it, I could be the poster child for best or worst hostess. On the good side, my home is open. I will show you where everything is and you could not offend me in the slightest by helping yourself to anything. On the bad side, I will show you where everything is and I sort of expect you to help yourself. (Of course, I will run around behind you asking, "Do you need anything?"

We have fun plans for tomorrow and Saturday. Today, she got to experience the extra fun stuff of running errands, exchanging my cell phone (which she programmed,) and putting gas in the car. Yippee! Well, we did go out to lunch.

She is smart and aware. I like that description because so many of us bumper car our way through experiences. In the 24-hours that she has been here, she has picked up on many things about this city and our culture that I never bother to notice.

The dog greeted her by jumping on her and then throwing up on the carpet. I suspect she was getting an early start on Digestive Disease Week.

Big Daddy took us to dinner last night and a delightful tour of homes in our area. Then we did some singing around the piano. The baby will be over tonight so she'll have someone remotely close to her own age to converse with. Cousin time is always good.

Expressions I Dislike or Don't Understand

Many of us fall into the habit of using the same old expressions. I do it. Descriptive phrases should cause your mind to paint a picture. And sometimes, the picture is not one I want floating around in my brain.

A few examples:

"I've got a sh*t-pot full of work to do."
"You're sh*tting me." (This one also falls in the category of an expression I don't understand.)
"All grown up and haired over."

I dislike overused catch phrases. My current pet peeve is:

"It is what it is." I always want to respond, "According to whom?"

I understand some phrases in context but I can't quite wrap my mind around them. For example:

"Love a duck."
"Puttin' on the dog."
"Painting the town."

The husband tells a story that occurred during his service in Vietnam. I'll botch it but here's the gist of it. A serviceman was determined to need a mental evaluation. Lots of weird behavior. The base psychiatrist or psychologist was a little harsh with the husband because he had mentally checked off "crazy" in his mind. Turns out, they agreed the guy was nutso. I don't remember all of his quirks but the one that sticks in my mind is that he loved to read the dictionary. I think he had read it three or four times.

God is funny. The husband also thinks I'm nutso. Plus, I am rarely without a dictionary within reach.

How Are You Celebrating?

I'd hate for anyone to miss out on an opportunity to recognize a cause or fail to celebrate an occasion.

It's Digestive Disease Week.

I know this because my mother works in health care. She works in gastrointestinal things, or in layman's terms: butts and guts.

Many of my friends work in health care. After I stopped laughing, I took a short poll. No one was aware of this particular cause. One of my friends said, "OK, now we've gone too far."

I thought we had passed that line a long time ago.

Happy Digestive Disease Week!

It's Mandatory

Like all of you, I've lost loved ones to accidents, disease, and plain ol' old age. It shocks and rocks you. It is the cycle of life but it never gets easier.

Here's what I've learned. The words, "I love you" are always welcome. I rarely end a conversation or an email to a friend without them. I say them to my parents, the daughter and the baby, and my friends every day, in every conversation. It's a genuine feeling and no matter what is going on, I want you to know that you take up a space in my heart.

It's a Sheri Rule. It's mandatory for me.

There are k'jillions of children who have never heard this phrase.

Taking Inventory

I used to work in retail. I'm used to taking inventory.

We're still digging out. We've yet to tackle the basement but the dungeon has been restored to a lovely guest room. It's bright and airy. It's private.

I am picking up my niece at the airport in a few hours. (Technically, she's a second cousin of the husband's but since her mother is an honorary sister, I like to think of her as my niece.) I want her to be comfortable so I'm doing the usual, last minute prep stuff. I hope she doesn't mind the handicap bars all over the bathroom. At least in the shower, they give you something to hang onto while shaving your legs. There's still a handicap toilet in the water closet. (They're taller than the norm.)

The back yard is lush and green. I was going to clean off the patio until it started raining. As I looked around, I realized how many things the husband has purchased for the comfort of the oldies. The gigantic heater, cushions, etc.

Some purchases were good. The bed we purchased is great. And, the guest room is much cozier with the fireplace.

Others were ridiculous. I ventured downstairs to find a file and I was faced with wheelchairs and every conceivable walker invented. Some are easily portable. Others are more convoluted but they have a seat. We have two temporary closets completely filled. We have more luggage than any world traveler could ever use. We have lots of canes.

I've thought about having a garage sale, although my neighborhood frowns on that. Instead of calling it a garage sale, I might call it an oldies sale.

Different Rules for Different People

This is a slight twist on the haves and have nots. It's more like people who have sense and those who do not.

Someone forgot to give me the rule sheet. Come to think of it, I don't want it.

I've watched people annihilate their spouse with words and a tone of voice they would never use while speaking to their children or their parents. I've done it myself.

I've watched people discipline a pet with words and actions they would never use on a person.

I've seen friends gang up on another friend (from kindergarten to middle-age) and forget that they might be the next target.

I've heard about people who (in a fit of rage) say some pretty hateful things to their children like, "I wish you'd never been born." I don't want to know these people.

We all get to make choices. And yes, I am completely guilty of letting my mouth shoot out of the gate before the logical side of my brain catches up. I get to choose the rules for me and you get to choose yours.

My parents are allowed to say anything to me. They are allowed to be brutally honest. It's a relationship that's built on trust so I don't want the kid-glove treatment. (I've never had it so I would freak out.)

A small circle of friends is allowed to ask or tell me anything. The rule is when we say, "To the grave," we honor it.

The daughter is strong and opinionated. She can tell me what's on her mind and how I could've handled it better. My only caveat is to remind her that she hasn't walked in my shoes.

The husband should be able to discuss everything with me but we have a long habit of getting prickly. Walking out of the room is our universal signal for "this conversation is over."

Society's rules keep changing on me. What used to be taboo is now the norm. I'm not great with change so I'll stick with the morals I'm trying to live up to and the rules I've chosen for myself.

Mother's Day

I've had weird dreams lately. They include conversations with the Belle and my grandmothers. Today is Mother's Day so I guess that's been on my mind.

Most women take advantage of their female parts and birth a baby or five. Some of us become mothers through a different avenue. Any 13-year old with a uterus can birth a baby. It's what you do with that child, how you teach and sweat over that defines motherhood. As the famous quote goes, "It's taking your heart out of your body and wearing it on your sleeve."

My parents will come over later and my mother and I will bicker. She will never get how much I honor and respect her. I will never forgive her for giving me her legs. She will always be my champion.

As we celebrate motherhood, here are a few quotes you might enjoy:

Joys

When you are a mother, your are never really alone in your thoughts. You are connected to your child and to all those who touch your lives. A mother always has to think twice: once for herself and once for the child. (Sophia Loren)

A mother's arms are more comforting than anyone else's. (Princess Diana)

If you bungle raising your children, I don't think whatever else you do matters very much. (Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis)

A mother's love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity. It dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path. (Agatha Christie)

And now, some fun ones:

Whenever I'm with my mother, I feel as though I have to spend the entire time avoiding land mines. (Amy Tan)

My mother could stop you from doing anything, through a closed door even, with a single look. Without saying a word, she has that power to rip out your tonsils. (Whoopi Goldberg)

You're not famous until my mother has heard of you. (Jay Leno)

If you've never been hated by your child, you've never been a parent. (Bette Davis)

Happy Mother's Day to my mom and all the mothers in the world. It's a tough job but somebody's got to do it.

Hard to Undo

As difficult as it may be to believe, we are still dealing with the oldies' paperwork. I ran to pick up carry-out food and came home to hear the husband having this conversation:

"You are not listening to me. I do not authorize further charges. You are not listening to me!"

I know this tone and I know this phrase. It's been thrown at me once or twice or twelve million times. I know that throbbing vein when he's frustrated. I know the look on his face when he's about to lose it. Ah, love.

The oldies were extremely responsible about their bills. They set up automatic payments for a few things and this has been a nightmare. We've sent death certificates. We've paid the balance in full -- yet those automatic charges just keep on coming. You can set it up in minutes. It takes weeks to undo.

Sometimes, life situations need a delete button.

Sleeping Around

I've slept with lots of people. That does not mean I've had sex with lots of people. Mostly, I've slept with my husband(s) and some girlfriends. And my parents. When scared or lonely, I've crawled into their bed. I haven't done this in a couple of decades but I suspect they wouldn't kick me out.

The 70s brought freedom for lots of young women. Free love and access to the birth control pill. Burn that bra and flash your sexual freedom! I might have been the missile but my parents were the silo. They held the key and the pass code.

A couple of times, my built-in moral code emerged. We must get married! Yeah, that worked out well. I've had more than one wedding but only one marriage.

My cousin (one of the smartest people I know) and I had an email conversation the other day. In the midst of solving the problems of the world, I asked, "Was marriage meant to be hard?" His response was, "It just is." I used to watch the oldies get cranky with each other and I was amazed that they had anything left to bristle about.

Having participated in the rearing of two children, I will be the first to acknowledge that the double standard still exists: Men who sleep around are studs. Women get the bad rap.

I know women who wish they had saved their virginity until their wedding night. I know women who regret not sleeping with someone in their past.

I know friends who come from huge families and sleeping with a sibling was the norm. I never had to share a bed with a sibling. I did crawl in bed with my parents the night before I left for college.

I had a roommate in college that had no qualms about having sex while I was in the room. I pretended to be asleep.

The baby will be 20-years old this summer. When he was in high school, my slightly demented father used to ask him, "How's your sex life?" I think he liked to watch his face turn red. I come by it honestly because I made him watch everything possible about STDs, teenage pregnancy, etc. Then, although he rolled his eyes a lot, I made him discuss it. At some point, he figured out that he was bigger than me and he could just heave himself on me to shut me up.

I still sleep around. You might find me on the patio. I have wandered into the guest room trying to escape the television. I have napped on the dog pillow. I have a key to my parent's house and I know their alarm code. More than once, I've been tempted to drive over and crawl in bed. Of course, their dog would bite me.

I Pick Kind

Throughout my life thus far, I have been surrounded by brilliant people. Some are phenomenally talented. Some have multiple degrees. Others have great common sense and what we used to call street smarts.

I'm awed by smart people. I want to bask in their aura and hope some of their brain cells and talents get absorbed through osmosis. I'm infinitely curious about how they became who they are. I'm not impressed with money, the huge house or the Ivy League school. I'm impressed with people who take their lot in life and use it to improve themselves and hopefully, the world.

Mostly, I am in awe of people who choose kindness. That doesn't seem to be in favor these days. We're all justifiably frightened of sexual predators, car jackers, rapists, serial killers, etc. We turn our heads and look the other way. We lock our doors and turn on the alarm. Blame the media or the Internet but I think a lot of this is blown out of proportion. We just know more now because we have access to it.

It's kind of like being struck by lightning. Yeah, it might happen but the odds are in your favor.

I crave learning and I love it when someone thinks I'm smart. But, in the end, the world would be a better place if we chose to be kind.

Must Love Dogs

The husband swears I have never looked at him with the adoration that I reserve for dogs. On the flip side, he doesn't drool over me quite the way he used to.

The daughter gave me a calendar for Christmas. It's all about dog things. Yes, I will be that crazy old lady who gave her life to the dogs. My favorite quote (so far) is:

The more people I meet, the more I like my dog.

Occasionally, the husband is in his "Be the Boss of Me" personality. He makes big pronouncements like, "We will never have another dog after this one." I kind of remember my mother doing this with my father and then all of a sudden, they had four dogs.

I will be the first to admit that I own a maniac dog. She's almost two-years old, which is the magic age for Labs. They calm. They sort of, kind of, get the rules. They are pleasers. And then they proceed to eat everything in sight.

Being single again is not in my plans. But if I'm ever faced with that situation, I will have two criteria:

Must respect your mother.
Must love dogs.

Locks and Lots of Love

My sister has three children -- 2 boys and a girl. Like lots of young women, her life revolves around these babies. From an outsider looking in, she seems to have it all: a loving husband, healthy children, a nice home, etc. She's been through more than her share of adversity yet she didn't let it destroy her. She grew a bigger heart.

Her daughter, her baby, had long and luxurious hair, complete with the baby curls on the ends. She cut 10 inches off her daughter's hair and donated it to Locks of Love, an organization that helps children with cancer or other diseases that support children who simply want to look normal and fit in.

This girl -- my sister, not her daughter -- has put up with me for decades. I have a big, fat mouth. I have criticized many of her decisions. I have bullied her, hopefully in a loving way.

They say it takes a village to raise a child. I say it takes one decision, one sacrifice to make a difference. There's a girl out there who will fit in because of this donation. Way to go, Baby Sis.

Waterbeds

Remember when everyone thought water beds were the ultimate in cool and sexy? I've never owned one but I have slept on one. It wasn't sexy. I was sleeping with my mother on a visit to see her sister.

I think it was 1983 or 1984.

My mother and I flew to Phoenix. My mother carried a sheet cake on her lap and got a little irritated when the passenger in front of her threw his seat back and almost smooshed the cake. The airline food union was on strike (this is when you actually expected a meal on a flight) so to compensate, we got free drinks. Yahoo!

The bed my mother and I slept in was not the wave less kind. (I'm not even sure they had been invented yet.) I remember each of us rolling over, trying to get comfortable and sending a tidal wave across the bed. It's hard to go back to sleep when the other person is screeching uncontrollably.

Bursting!

The daughter is one of the smartest women I know. She has a spine of steel and a work ethic I aspire to. (I also aspire to have her looks but I think those days are bye bye.)

Here's what I admire most: She is not afraid of a challenge.

In high school, she was quite the social director. She began the same path in college until Big Daddy stepped in with some ultimatums.

I am not a big fan of standardized tests. But, it is funny how some people excel at them and others freeze. The baby seems to ace every standardized test. The daughter struggles and works extra hard. Yet, she pursues her goals and marches on.

We were so proud when she graduated from law school. We were so proud when she passed the Indiana Bar Exam (on the first try.) Then, she moved to Texas. Another Bar Exam loomed. This one covers things like oil and immigration laws -- things she didn't have to study in law school in Indiana.

We share some qualities and one of them is preparing people for the worst. She repeatedly told us that she probably did not pass.

Look out Texas! There's a new licensed attorney in town and she will kick butt.

When I heard the news, I burst into tears -- although I never doubted her for a minute.

And Yet, She Annoys Me

I try to be a faithful and dutiful daughter. I would gnaw off my arm for any person I love. That includes parents, children and friends.

What is it with mothers and daughters?

How can I spend an entire day anticipating time with my parents and then within 30 seconds, I want to strangle her with my bare hands? (Just maim her.) It takes less than five seconds for her to make a critical comment. In the next second, I begin making faces and rolling my eyes.

We spent the evening together Saturday night. I had the water mister out so the dog would behave. My mother spritzed the dog because she had the nerve to look at her.

My dad plays referee. He says things like, "Well, here we go. Fasten your seat belts, this should be fun."

Thankfully, my pseudo sister was here too. She's a great diversion, a good card player and she makes me laugh.

My mother only birthed one child. She repeatedly called me by my sister's name.

Family Photo Rules

My Uncle Ken had a rule about photos, particularly photos that captured the event. It could've been a holiday or a family reunion but the rule was this:

If you are not related to or married to someone in this family, please step away as we take the family photo.

The first time he ever met the husband, we were not married. My father had not seen his sisters together in decades. An aside: We don't go to many reunions and we get a lot of grief for it. My paternal grandmother's maiden name was Strange. It's a little jarring to be driving through the countryside, looking for a particular park or gathering place and watching for signs that say, "Strange Family Reunion." God does have a sense of humor.I think it was 1992. We have a photo of my father, his sisters, the husband (who was not a husband at the time) and me. My mother keeps this photo on her desk. I visit it in my mind.A few months later, my Uncle Ken came to our home and performed a wedding blessing ceremony for us. He loved us but I'm also convinced he was validating the photo.

I'm Glad Elvis Never Met Her

Prepubescent and teenage years are tough. Hormones, weight fluctuations, braces, etc. Come to think of it, it's kind of like mid-life without the braces.

This is going to come out wrong. I mean it as a compliment but I also want it to be a lesson to young girls and a tribute to the older ones.

For the young ones: You may never live up to your mother's beauty and that is OK.
For the older ones: You are as beautiful today as you were then.

In the late 60s and early 70s, we were divided. It wasn't Democrat v. Republican. It was a worship fest for Elvis or the Beatles. (That is my memory -- don't mess with me.) The Beatles had split. Elvis had gotten fat and drugged out. My mother used to tell me stories about lying on her bed as a teenager and listening to Elvis. She was certain that if they had met, he would have chosen her over Priscilla. Trust me on this one -- she's right.

The oldie's home in Mississippi was less than an hour from Graceland. In every visit I can remember, the daughter took the opportunity to go there.

Priscilla Presley looks a little odd these days. Meanwhile, my mother has managed to age gracefully.

Dotted Swiss and Other Bad Fashion Ideas

It could be rickrack. It might be dotted swiss, ruffles or just the general Gunny Sax look. It comes back to haunt us. Beware friends of mine!! I have lots of photos. Here are just a few.

The Belle loved to buy dresses for me. I was in my 40s while they lived with us, yet she would primp and fuss over me like I was going to a prom.

I was looking for a particular photo and stumbled across every bad dress I wore to a dance or prom. My dates' attires were even worse: baby blue tux, etc. One date brought a top hat and a cane. We didn't date long.

There are no photos of me with a bad perm. The good news is that I never needed one. The bad news is my hair looked weird enough on its own.

Isn't it funny how a photo (or a song) can transport you in time? I like to look at them and ask, "What was I thinking?" I do remember. Mostly I wonder what my parents were thinking.

I wonder if the grown daughter feels that way about her Madonna stage. I wonder if the baby will regret dressing like the boyz in the hood. Or will they embrace it as just a stage?

Paying Attention

Even when I seem to be ignoring advice coming my way, I am paying attention.

The experts say that children learn by example. They're paying attention to your actions far more than your words. We don't have young children anymore but I could definitely list our mistakes. Still, they managed to become good human beings. Like me, they've spent their entire lives surrounded in love. It's frightening to recognize how many children don't have that in their lives.

That tight wire act where you try to help someone without offending them is tricky business. When they're children, you have a captive audience. They cannot escape. As adults, whether it's parent to child, friend to friend or something else, the safety net is not quite as reliable. I know people who do not speak to their siblings. I know people who see or talk to their parents a couple of times each year. This is as foreign to me as living on Mars.

I'm no expert but I have a lot of experience with unsolicited advice. I let it run through my head as I try to fall asleep. My eyes may have glazed over and I may pretend to be ignoring you but trust me, I heard you and I was paying attention.

Some people get annoyed. I get encouraged. I may not heed it immediately but I heard you.

A Different Obit

I wish I knew who wrote this. It spoke to me and I hope it speaks to you. The oldies lived their lives with this philosophy, as do my parents. I try too.

“COMMON SENSE HAS DIED”

My parents told me about Mr. Common Sense early in my
life and told me I would do well to call on him when making decisions.
It seems he was always around in my early years but less and less as
time passed until today I read his obituary.


Obituary - Common Sense
Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who
has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was
since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape.
He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as
knowing when to come in out of the rain, why the early bird gets the
worm, life isn't always fair, and maybe it was my fault. Common Sense
lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you
earn) and reliable parenting strategies (adults, not children are in
charge).


His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well intentioned but
overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a six-year-old boy
charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended
from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for
reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.


Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the
job they themselves failed to do in disciplining their unruly children.
It declined even further when schools were required to get parental
consent to administer Aspirin, sun lotion or a sticky plaster to a
student; but could not inform the parents when a student became pregnant
and wanted to have an abortion.


Common Sense lost the will to live as the Ten Commandments became
contraband; churches became businesses; and criminals received better
treatment than their victims. Common Sense took a beating when you
couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar
can sue you for assault.


Common Sense finally gave up the will to live, after a woman failed to
realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in
her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement. Common Sense was
preceded in death by his parents, Truth and Trust; his wife, Discretion;
his daughter, Responsibility; and his son, Reason.


He is survived by three stepbrothers; I Know my Rights, Someone Else is
to Blame, and I'm a Victim.


Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone. If
you still remember him pass this on. If not, join the majority and do
nothing.


Author unknown

Dressing for the Doc

I am compulsively on time for most meetings. Usually, I'm early. It shows a respect for the other person's time and it gives me time to freak out.

I had a doctor's appt. this morning and I was so early that I had time to kill. I try to do cosmetics and dress appropriately for clients and friends but I do not dress for my doctors. Dermatology is all about seeing your skin in its natural state. So, clean face and no make-up. I sat in my car and was cracking myself up remembering the many times I helped the Belle dress for various medical appointments. I was constantly griping, "Why are we doing this? You're just going to have to take all of this off." She made Hangdog wear a tie for a doctor's visit. I wear jeans or sweats.

I do not wear slips and girdles. I rarely wear pantyhose. I like some fun tights in the winter but that's about it. My docs know to expect me "as is."

Get that Needle Away from Me

The Belle was a nurse. Needles were a constant companion in her life. Her only fear of needles was that the incompetent nurse or tech would stab her repeatedly trying to find a viable vein. We used to joke that the only person we could trust was the nurse in our doctor's office. She was a miracle worker when it came to finding a vein for the Belle.

I'm thinking of the Belle today because it seems to be a medical week. A girlfriend had a procedure yesterday. When they use words like "punch" or "puncture," I want to run. She's brave and stuck it out. When they use the word "biopsy," I want to run like the wind.

I had a teensy procedure this morning. When I asked my doctor, "Will it hurt?" She said "Yes, but not much." If the Belle were here, she would've insisted on going with me and that's one more battle we would have endured.

Hangdog never went to the doctor without her at his side. Of course, he could not drive himself. Even if the husband or I took him, she went along.

Their dentist did this really cool thing. He would schedule side-by-side appointments so the Belle and the Captain could get their cleanings and exams at the same time. Isn't is nice when professional people are accommodating?

Our primary care physician (saint-in-training) would often examine them at home or fit them in for a last minute office visit. He also held our hands and guided us through the maze of hospitals, hospice, VA care, assisted living and more.

That little needle headed my way isn't quite the problem it used to be.

Rotting

Something is rotting here.

This is our latest adventure with this money pit of a house. It began two days ago. Every time I opened the refrigerator, water would squirt from the ice maker on the freezer side. I tried to ignore it, thinking it was a random ice cube or something. The next morning I was greeted by a puddle on the kitchen floor. I let the dog lick it up and then mopped the rest. I had to run out for a meeting so by the time I returned, it was not even on my radar screen.

This morning I returned from an early appointment and noticed a distinct odor. It's not the freezer on the fritz; it's the whole darn appliance. They can't get here until tomorrow to repair it so I will be tossing a bunch of rotting stuff. Yes, it smells pretty yummy in here. I suspect we will go out to dinner.

I'm sure this would not have gotten by the Belle. There are people who are in tune with their homes. I am not one of them. I want things to work the way they are supposed to and I don't want to have to think about it.

The bright side is that we're not loaded with butter, bacon and eggs. There's not much to worry about and if they fix it tomorrow, I'll start with a clean slate.