Giving Up the Keys

I'm convinced this was the breaking point for the Belle. When she started mowing over the mailbox and parking the car in the front yard, we had to act.

Driving is a privilege, not a right. I've given this lecture to teenagers and I've given it to oldies.

I admire people who can say, "You are driving. Here are my keys"

China and crystal

If there is a fire or a natural disaster, what would you grab? Other than the obvious of getting your family and pets to safety, most people choose photos or other collectibles.

I want my china and crystal. I want the bowls my grandmother and Aunt Judy gave me. I have an obscene and bizarre attachment to my dishes. The Old Country Roses collection is my favorite. Second to that would be my Lenox Christmas collection. I also have a 12-days of Christmas dessert collection. I have a set of plain white china rimmed in gold that I got at Pottery Barn. I have a set of plain white china rimmed in silver that I use whenever somebody feels like polishing the flatware.

As I learned this weekend, lots of people have duplicate photos of our family and friends.

I would go for my dishes. And, of course, my laptop.

I do realize someone is now going to think I am obsessed with possessions. Not really -- just dishes.

Clean Up on Aisle Four

When you're in the grocery store and you hear over the loud speaker, "Clean up in aisle four," you probably think it's some toddler running wild. No. It's probably me.

I'm renaming my life. I'm Aisle Four.

I used to be organized but now a clean-up is needed. I've got to stop looking for vital information on scraps of paper.

I've got to clean up my attitude. Right now, people are avoiding Aisle Four.

I've got to gain some weight. (I know that is irritating to those of you who struggle with losing pounds. Trust me, a struggle is a struggle on either end of the spectrum.)

I've got to declutter this house. Aisle four has permeated every room. I used to blame a lot of this on the oldies but lately the husband has developed a bizarre attachment to the shredder and I'm shuffling little scraps of paper from room to room. Truthfully, I don't mind. It makes me think of the oldies. But I tend to run around with a broom or a vacuum.

Rolling the Dice

It's easier to get into trouble than to get out of it.

Weren't we all taught this as children? I was. Of course, it didn't stop me from occasionally rolling the dice and risking the repercussions. This is one of those lessons we were supposed to learn early.

Many households are in trouble -- so much trouble that they may not have a household. Banks are holding onto money like a squirrel that found the last walnut. The $750 billion, trillion, gazillion government bailout is shaky and not working yet. At some point, these numbers stop making sense to me.

I'm over self-indulgent children and I include myself. I'm over leveraging my future and yours because our government chose to roll the dice.

My Editor

In another attempt at blatant self-promotion, I will share that I have been invited to join the blog staff of our local newspaper. (www.indystar.com/intouch)

When I was in journalism school, editing was a dose of empowerment and a dose of fear. I could glide through the day on a compliment of a well composed sentence. I could put my head in the pillowcase over a typo.

I love having an editor. I'm trying not to drive her crazy. I will learn when to make my case and when to shut my mouth. She will learn when to ignore me.

As they said in Casablanca, "This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

I've had teachers, editors, bosses and more. My favorite editor is the one I call and say, "Hi Mom. What do you think?"

Horoscopes

I don't believe in horoscopes any more than I believe in Nostradamus' ability to predict the future. Yet, I read them and I often go "Whoa!" I also read the husband's.

Today my horoscope was:
You can mourn over recent losses, but you're starting to realize that there is too much living to do and you simply don't have the time.

This was jarring to me on several levels. First of all, I've been enjoying quite the pity party for myself. Then, I will admit to some startling opportunities in my mix. They may pan out-- they may not, but they are there for the plucking.

Time is something we all juggle.

I'll stick with prayer and some hard work. But, I'll still glimpse at my horoscope.

Missing Halloween

My neighborhood is filled with people similar to us -- empty nesters. Almost all the children of this small circle have grown. In our old house, we used to get oodles of trick-or-treaters. In this house, we usually get one or two.

We used to attend Halloween parties and/or golf outings. I can't count the many costumes I've made or adapted.

I miss Halloween. Maybe this year I'll don a hooded sweatshirt and sit at the kitchen table eating my bag of candy. I'll be Hangdog a/k/a the Unabomber.

Blank

Some writers admit to writer's block. This rarely happens to me. My brain is wired in a different way and I'm the one you see writing on cocktail napkins. I'm the one with pen and paper on every surface of this house. I think of the blank computer screen as an invitation.

Today, I am blank. My mind is racing and if I wrote about everything soaring through it, I would have to sit here through Christmas.

Shut My Mouth

This is me in college. Apparently, I'm channelling Wild Bill. I have not done it well. I have not learned to shut my mouth.

Aging is supposed to bring wisdom. I'm definitely wiser but I'm also balancing when to tackle the issue and when to let it go.

I'm still learning that lesson.

Dogs on Meds

Apparently, it's a new trend to put your pet on daily tranquilizers. Maybe they jump or bark too much. Maybe they suffer from "separation anxiety."

Maybe we're all getting lazy.

Some people have legitimate needs for mood-altering substances. In college, we called this, "Friday night." Some children may have autism, ADD or ADHD. But what if we tried some alternatives before drugging them for life?

My maniac dog could probably do well with some drugs. Meanwhile, we've got a generation of children who can't face a test, a job interview or a nervous situation without a pharmacy.

Do You Wait?

When I was in college. the standard rule was to wait 15 minutes. If the prof didn't show up, you were free to leave. (This was before mass texting and the invention of cell phones.)

I am compulsively punctual. Unless there is a disaster, I will be on time or early. I will sit in the parking lot. I will sit in the waiting room. And yes, I will get antsy. I will get an attitude -- "So your time is more important than mine?" That's probably not the best attitude so I squelch it and say, "Oh, it's okay." The other day, I waited more than 30 minutes for a scheduled meeting.

It is definitely not fine with me.

Sometimes you have no choice. You are at the mercy of the person in control. This can be a job interview or a plumber. Maybe it's waiting for a return phone call or test results. Waiting is painful. People who do it as a control mechanism turn me off.

Water and Fire

You know my obsession with water. Give me a lake, a pool, an ocean, a bathtub ... I'll take a swim. Now it's autumn and there's a chill in the air. It's time for fires.

If I like something, I want "two of 'em." It's a trait I was born with. Selfish? Yes. But the giving part of my personality wants everyone else to have one too.

We bought a fireplace for the oldie's room. Our bedroom also has a gas fireplace. Our living room has an old fashioned, wood-burning fireplace that I enjoy hauling wood to keep it going. I consider it two minutes of camping.

I grew up without a fireplace in my home. I was very confused about how Santa was going to shimmy down the chimney when we didn't have one. Lucky for my parents, I was gullible enough to buy whatever story they told me. Even when they broke the bad news, I knew I was lucky. I don't need some fat man at the North Pole -- I lucked out with them. (I still like the fantasy.)

We also have one of those fire pits on our patio. On my best days I can sit in front of a fire and then swim in the tub.

My Girl

I've got sunshine on a cloudy day.
When it's cold outside I've got the month of May.
I guess you'd say
What can make me feel this way?
My girl (my girl, my girl)
Talkin' 'bout my girl (my girl).

I've got so much honey the bees envy me.
I've got a sweeter song than the birds in the trees.
I guess you'd say
What can make me feel this way?
My girl (my girl, my girl)
Talkin' 'bout my girl (my girl).

I don't need no money, fortune, or fame.
I've got all the riches baby one man can claim.
I guess you'd say
What can make me feel this way?
My girl (my girl, my girl)
Talkin' 'bout my girl (my girl).

I've got sunshine on a cloudy day
with my girl.
I've even got the month of May
with my girl.

This is an old Temptations song that we all know. I'm sure it's meant to be a love song between a man and a woman but I'm dedicating it to my girl.

She's the one who has a separate ring tone for me. She's the one who answers my phone calls in the middle of the night. She's the one that I can say "to the grave" and she knows I am serious. She's the one that can make fun of my middle-aged pooch and still make me laugh.

She's the one that's allowed to open my mail.

We both have bad days and this has not been a great year for either of us. In the midst, we've swapped some clothes, swapped some stories and laughed. just like old times.

I called her this morning and said, "I have to tell you something horrible I did." Without missing a beat, she said, "Tell me. It's to the grave."

I'm still standing on her shoulders.

Pressed Jeans

There was a period where pressed jeans were "in." Probably the 70s.

Now jeans run the gamut from skinny to "in the hood" look. The husband and I both own many pairs of jeans. I have a huge bias about men in pressed jeans. I think they look stupid. I think it shouts, "I'm trying too hard."

This is a running joke with us. I do laundry and smooth them out. I hang them up. The husband comments, "There isn't a crease in them."

There won't be unless he follows the breadcrumbs to the ironing board or the dry cleaners.

The Cane

This photo was taken at our friend Mome's 90th birthday party. I'm sorry the oldies didn't get to have a 90th birthday.

On good days, the Belle did not need her cane. Toward the end, the Captain used a walker but we knew it was a good day when all he wanted was the cane. Just like their personalities, her cane was bright and festive. His was solid wood -- no flash.

Do you remember the end of the movie "Miracle on 34th Street?" Natalie Wood finds Kris Kringle's cane in the house he has directed her to see.

This morning I was in the garage and I looked up to see the Captain's cane propped against the wall. It has to have been there for at least eight months.

There are miracles everywhere and sometimes they are simple enough to jar you. I don't think the Captain/Unabomber/Hangdog was Kris Kringle. I do think I was reminded to spend some time thinking about him today.

Weight and Mothers

This is an observation and most definitely NOT a dig at mothers.

During my childhood, several of my friend's mothers struggled with their weight, including my own mother.

There's an old saying, "If you want to know what your wife will look like in 20 years, look at her mother." I wish that were true. I would be beautiful.

But I stood next to two friends last weekend while we celebrated our childhood and it struck me that we were the smallest women in the yard. One has birthed two children, one has birthed three. One of my mother's best jokes is she's still trying to lose her pregnancy weight -- I'm 45.

Sometimes we choose to emulate our mothers. I try. Right after, "What would Jesus do?," I ask myself, "What would my mother tell me to do?" Other times, we go to the opposite extreme. It's a little like saying, "I'm not you and you can't make me."

A Doctor in the House

We've had a few brave visitors during the husband's surgery incarceration. Last night, I came out of another room to find our doctor in the kitchen. (Not the surgeon, the internist.) And to think there are people who don't believe in answered prayers.

Since I don't have "M.D." after my name, my opinions about medical and surgical expectations are met with a certain amount of skepticism. It's nice to have some back up.

Plus, the golf talk was a great distraction and I'm not good at it.

Unplugged

I am married to a very tough guy. (He was an Army Ranger after all.) But having his sinuses packed is driving him nuts. He's handled it like a trooper but he is ready for the unplugging.

Today is the day. He has asked me five times about his appointment time. Our appointment isn't for about five hours but he wants to go now. We have the first appointment after our doctor gets out of surgery so we are not going early but this logic does not seem to register.

He doesn't want logic; he wants relief. Plus, he's been trapped with me for days. I'm pretty sure he wants relief from that too.

Matzo Ball Soup

In preparation for the husband's surgery, I reminded him that he will need to keep something in his stomach to avoid any side effects from pain meds. Crazy me, I asked what he might want us to have on hand.

"Patsy would've brought me matzo ball soup."

Yes, she would have. It would've been on our front porch before we returned home.

They had a very cantankerous relationship so it cracks me up that he wants her soup. Of course, I don't know how to make it. I can make chicken noodle soup or chicken and dumplings. I can make a mean chicken pot pie.

I called her husband. "Did you save any of Patsy's recipes?" Of course not, they were all in her head. I called her daughter. She talked me through it but ultimately, she is as clueless as we all are -- add this to taste, season to taste, etc.

I made the soup. It's not as good as Patsy's but we're enjoying it.

I used to make meals for her too. The last thing I made her was chicken enchiladas.

Food connects us all.

When is it ok to tell?

When someone tells me something in confidence, I keep the secret. Oh, I've messed up a few times but mainly because I didn't realize it was supposed to be private. I have hung onto some nuggets with my tongue clamped between my teeth and a serious need for duct tape.

I usually ask if it's OK to share with the husband. If the answer is no, I don't do it. If the secret is coming from the husband, I usually ask if I can tell my parents. (I have to have someone to talk to.) I also ask, "Who else knows?" I'm big on perspective of the whole picture.

My one rule about secrets is this:
If someone is endangering his or her life, health or sanity, all bets are off.

I don't keep a lot of secrets about myself. But, if something is really festering, I may choose not to talk about it for awhile. People know to let me brood -- I will tell them in due time.

I was talking to a friend the other day and she made an off-hand remark: "That's why I never disclose anything." She doesn't. I understand the fear of getting hurt or embarrassed but sometimes sharing is the quickest road to recovery -- even when the advice isn't what you want to hear.

Big Girl Panties

Every once in a while, some negative comments come on the blog. They usually have to do with me being self-involved. Guilty. Last time I checked, this is the only life I get and if I'm not involved in myself, who's going to be?

The comments don't bother me. I like it that someone has bothered to read the blog and disagree. It does crack me up when the troops rally in my defense.

Like the saying goes, "Put on your Big Girl Panties and Deal with It." I do.

If you live a life with no fears and no worries, we do not occupy the same planet.

If you've never had an evil thought or lashed out with mean words, you are better than I.

If you are interested in a glimpse of an ordinary life that deals with aging, children, marriage, childhood and various topical issues, please keep reading.

If you are living in some Utopia, you might want to Google "Saints" or "Eden" or "Perfection." I'm sure there are blogs for you people. I hope you will still read this one to see how the rest of us live.

Back to Fantasyland

The doctor who performed the husband's surgery yesterday is a friend of ours. In fact, he and the husband were on a golf trip last week and managed to win a trophy as partners.

Obsession does not begin to describe the husband's passion for golf. During their trip, he kept asking the surgeon, "I can play the weekend after surgery, can't I?" Prior to surgery (no drugs yet,) he told me he had booked a golf game for the weekend. Trying to remain calm -- the man is headed to surgery -- I explained that he is nuts. And not just a little.

About that time, the nurse came in to check vitals or whatever and he started talking to her about playing golf this weekend.

Her response was, "Well I'm going to dim these lights so you can go back to fantasyland."

It's What Moms Do Best

The husband had surgery yesterday and he is fine. Well, he's in pain and cranky but all went according to plan.

My mom was there. I know she had genuine concern for the husband but she was mainly there to hold my hand and make sure I was okay.

We sat together and did the crossword puzzle. We read our books. When I started getting antsy, she held my hand again. As she pointed out, "If the Belle was still with us, she would be here."

Sometimes it frightens me how much I depend on the emotional support of my parents.

Nervous Times

The economy is a mess. I realize this is not news to you but it's scary. All of us are feeling the pinch in different ways.

The election is less than a month away. I try to be an independent thinker and study the candidates and the issues that I care about. I'm still nervous about both teams.

The husband is having surgery tomorrow. I am not worried about the actual surgery; I'm worried that he will be trapped with me for at least three days. We are used to coffee and crosswords in the morning and evenings together. Even when we go on vacation, he plays golf and I go to the beach.

Some years are better than others. We lost the Belle in January and the Captain in March.

I don't need to get on a treadmill; I'm pacing enough to get my workout done.

Quips and Quotes

With due respect, I will not use any names. But I fell asleep last night thinking of someone saying:


"That was the night he got her pregnant."
"They were nice enough to cuff me in front."
"I jumped off that roof."
"I never used the fire extinguisher, I was just in the car."
"Now I have to pay for that hair."
"The eastside girl came out and I was not taking any more."
"I punched you in the stomach."

I hope the children of that neighborhood and the grandchildren who visit regularly have a safe and healthy childhood. I also hope they get to experience the magic.

Homecomings

My sister and I went through the Christmas decorations yesterday. No blood was shed. In fact, we didn't even have to arm wrestle. We were in unison on several items as we turned to my mother and said, "You have to keep this." I took a few things. Like I really need more decorations.

Then I started getting antsy. I wanted to shout, "It's time to go to the neighborhood party!" I did not want to miss a minute.

Everyone should have an occasional day that includes hours and hours of laugh-out-loud fun. I think I've filled my quota for the year. Even my mother stayed until the bitter end. She must have been enjoying our antics and I know she enjoyed the stories. I liked it best when she would say, "Sheri, do you remember so and so?" With complete disrespect, I said, "No Mom, I only went to grade school, middle school and high school with this person. Why don't you introduce us?"

Then the photos started circulating. The stories got a lot more interesting. (That's the great thing about this age --what are they going to do, ground us?)

The neighborhood is right behind a naval plant. Well, I don't know what they make there now but when I was growing up (Cold War Years,) it was all very hush-hush. As far as I know, none of us are radioactive. The military underestimated a group of kids who ran along that strip. As we sat behind my friends' homes last night, the fence (with barbed wire) is still there. Many of us said, "I've scaled that fence." One said, "I could still do it." Thankfully, level heads prevailed.

We danced. We sang. We ate well. We told stories that no parent should ever have to hear.

I could write forever about this. Trust me, there's more to come. But I have another homecoming. The husband comes back today. He missed a great party.

Salmon, Mushrooms and Sushi

For someone who is pretty cautious about portions, there are very few foods I won't eat. In fact, I can't think of one.

Like most of you, I was raised with home cookin'. I loved it and I still love it. But I grew up and was lucky enough to travel a bit. I married a man who is adventuresome with food. I found out that I absolutely love foods that were never part of my childhood:

Salmon -- I could eat it every day. Blackened, poached, grilled -- doesn't matter.
Mushrooms -- Skip the steak, give me the mushrooms.
Seafood -- I love oysters, mussels, clams and almost all sushi. Ahi tuna is one of my favorite meals.

Many years ago, the husband and I were in NYC with my parents. My father (who would get the certificate for "Best Eater") took risks and ate whatever the husband recommended. My mother did a great imitation of Samantha on "Bewitched" and wrinkled her nose. I perplex her. I've been doing it for 45 years.

The baby went through a phase when he was young where he would announce foods he didn't eat. Today this grown-up kid eats whatever is put in front of him. Plus, he could eat his weight in sushi.

The Party

The husband is out of town and I am so sorry he will miss the party of the season. It's not black tie. In fact, most participants (including me) will be in jeans and t-shirts.

Other than paying for fried chicken, I'm pretty sure no one will ask anyone for money.

This weekend, we will gather in my childhood neighborhood. I will greet people who helped raise me and I will see people who have been there my entire life. I will laugh with people that I have played tag, hide and seek and spin the bottle. I will see children -- now grown -- that I used to babysit.

I love tradition. I am comforted by routine. I love it that my parents still live in my childhood home. It looks completely different and my room is no longer my room but the heart warming feeling of walking in there is still there. I love it that the same neighbors still live next door and across the street.

I attend lots of parties. Everything from black tie fundraisers to simple dinner parties with friends and I know what to wear and which persona to present. Tomorrow, I'm going to the party of the season and I get to just be me.

Big Butt Judy

My parents frequent the same restaurants and are familiar with many waitresses. The other day, I was killing time before a lunch meeting so I hung out with them while they ate. My mother filled me in on their waitress and some of her many life trials. Then she said, "Your dad calls her Big Butt Judy.'" (Not to her face -- or her butt.)

They have a communication style that I envy. They speak in code and they get each other. I'm a little piece of it because I do get their humor. I also get the logic. If he refers to Big Butt Judy, my mother immediately knows to whom he is referring, instead of maybe her sister or anyone else they know named Judy.

They call me names too but they do it with great humor and a lot of love.

I have met Big Butt Judy and the nickname is appropriate.

Pastor Appreciation Month

Someone in our church reminded the congregation that October is "Pastor Appreciation Month." Here I thought it was just Breast Cancer Awareness month and Stock Market Crash month.

But, I am well trained. I sent him a note acknowledging his contributions and my gratitude.

Considering my spotty attendance in church since he became our minister, I'm pretty sure he'll open it and ask around, "Does anyone know who she is?"

Tests for Oldies

Dave Barry (The Miami Herald) is one of my favorite comical writers. In fact, if I need a giggle, I reread "The Book of Bad Songs."

I hate those segments the morning shows constantly do about health. I'm having coffee and cereal -- I don't want to discuss lumps and tests. I hate these "awareness months." Aren't we all aware of breast cancer, colon cancer, heart disease all year? Is there someone who has not had this touch his or her life?

But, a friend sent this to me and it is worth sharing.

Dave Barry's Colonoscopy Journal:>
> ... I called my friend Andy Sable, a gastroenterologist, to make an
> appointment for a colonoscopy. A few days later, in his office, Andy
> showed me a color diagram of the colon, a lengthy organ that appears
> to go all over the place, at one point passing briefly through
> Minneapolis .
>
> Then Andy explained the colonoscopy procedure to me in a thorough,
> reassuring and patient manner. I nodded thoughtfully, but I didn't
> really hear anything he said, because my brain was shrieking, quote,
> 'HE'S GOING TO STICK A TUBE 17,000 FEET UP YOUR BEHIND!'
>
> I left Andy's office with some written instructions, and a
> prescription for a product called 'MoviPrep,' which comes in a box
> large enough to hold a microwave oven. I will discuss MoviPrep in
> detail later; for now suffice it to say that we must never allow it
> to fall into the hands of America 's enemies.
>
> I spent the next several days productively sitting around being
> nervous.. Then, on the day before my colonoscopy, I began my
> preparation. In accordance with my instructions, I didn't eat any
> solid food that day; all I had was chicken broth, which is basically
> water, only with less flavor.
>
> Then, in the evening, I took the MoviPrep. You mix two packets of
> powder together in a one-liter plastic jug, then you fill it with
lukewarm
> water. For those unfamiliar with the metric system, a liter is about 32
> gallons.)
>
> Then you have to drink the whole jug. This takes about an hour,
> because MoviPrep tastes - and here I am being kind - like a mixture of
> goat
> spit and urinal cleanser, with just a hint of lemon.
>
> The instructions for MoviPrep, clearly written by somebody with a
> great sense of humor, state that after you drink it, 'a loose watery
bowel
> movement may result.' This is kind of like saying that after you
> jump off your roof, you may experience contact with the ground.
>
> MoviPrep is a nuclear laxative. I don't want to be too graphic,
> here, but: Have you ever seen a space-shuttle launch? This is
> pretty much the MoviPrep experience, with you as the shuttle. There are
> times when you wish
> the commode had a seat belt. You spend several hours pretty much confined

> to the
> bathroom, spurting violently. You eliminate everything. And then,
> when you figure you mus t be totally empty, you have to drink
> another liter of MoviPrep, at which point, as far as I can tell,
> your bowels travel into the future and start eliminating food that you
> have not even eaten yet.
>
> After an action-packed evening, I finally got to sleep. The next
> morning my wife drove me to the clinic. I was very nervous. Not only
> was I worried about the procedure, but I had been experiencing
> occasional return bouts of MoviPrep spurtage. I was thinking, 'What
> if I spurt on Andy?' How do you apologize to a friend for something
> like that? Flowers would not be enough.
>
> At the clinic I had to sign many forms acknowledging that I
> understood and totally agreed with whatever the heck the forms said..
> Then they led me to a room full of other colonoscopy people, where I
> went inside a little curtained space and took off my clothes and put
> on one of those hospital garments designed by sadist perverts, the
> kind that, when you put it on, makes you feel even more naked than
> when you are actually naked.
>
> Then a nurse named Eddie put a little needle in a vein in my left
> hand. Ordinarily I would have fainted, but Eddie was very good, and
> I was already lying down. Eddie also told me that some people put
> vodka in their MoviPrep.
>
> At first I was ticked off that I hadn't thought of this, but then I
> pondered what would happen if you got yourself too tipsy to make it
> to the bathroom, so you were staggering around in full Fire Hose
> Mode. You would have no choice but to burn your house.
>
> When everything was ready, Eddie wheeled me into the procedure room,
> where Andy was waiting with a nurse and an anesthesiologist. I did
> not see the 17,000-foot tube, but I knew Andy had it hidden around there
> somewhere. I was seriously nervous at this point. Andy had me roll
> over on my left side, and the anesthesiologist began hooking
> something up to the needle in my hand. There was music playing in
> the room, and I realized that the song was 'Dancing Queen' by Abba.
> I remarked to Andy that, of all the songs that could be playing
> during this particular procedure, 'Dancing Queen' has to be the
> least appropriate. 'You want me to turn it up?' said Andy, from
> somewhere behind me.
>
> 'Ha ha,' I said. And then it was time,the moment I had been dreading
> for more than a decade. If you are squeamish, prepare yourself,
> because I am going to tell you, in explicit detail, exactly what it
> was like.
>
> I have no idea. Really. I slept through it. One moment, Abba was
> shrieking 'Dancing Queen! Feel the beat from the tambourine ...' and
> the next moment, I was back in the other room, waking up in a very
> mellow mood. Andy was looking down at me and asking me how I felt. I
> felt excellent. I felt even more excellent when Andy told me that it
> was all over, and that my colon had passed with flying colors. I
> have never been prouder of an internal organ.
>
> ABOUT THE WRITER
> Dave Barry is a Pulitzer Prize-winning humor columnist for the Miami
> Herald.
>
> Colonoscopies are no joke, but these comments during exams were
> quite humorous...... A physician claimed that the following are
> actual comments made by his patients (predominately male) before or
> after their colonoscopies:
>
> 1. 'Take it easy, Doc. You're boldly going where no man has gone
> before!
>
> 2. 'Find Amelia Earhart yet?'
>
> 3. 'Can you hear me NOW?'
>
> 4. 'Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?'
>
> 5. 'You know, in Arkansas , we're now legally married.'
>
> 6. 'Any sign of the trapped miners, Chief?'
>
> 7. 'You put your left hand in, you take your left hand out...'
>
> 8. 'Hey! Now I know how a Muppet feels!'
>
> 9. 'If your hand doesn't fit, you must quit!'>
>
> 10. 'Hey Doc, let me know if you find my dignity.'
>
> 11. 'You used to be an executive at Enron, didn't you?'
>
> 12. 'God, now I know why I am not gay.'
>
> 13. 'How far up did you go? I now have a sore throat.'
>
> And the best one of all..
>
> 14. 'Could you write a note for my wife saying that my head is not
> up there?

Everyone should have a teddy bear

My grandparents are gone and I miss them. I like to write about crazy grandma and Wild Bill because they have certainly provided the best stories. Bobbie (my name for her) showed us love and nurtured us all. Her husband, my Pa, took care of us also. I like to think that my creativity is a little gift from him. He could take a fallen tree branch and turn it into a Christmas tree. He was magical.

Years ago, probably at Thanksgiving, the family was discussing Christmas. Pa mentioned that he had never had a teddy bear. That year, he got one.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, I have lived this life without wanting for much. (Okay, nothing!)

Never underestimate stuffed animals. I have a floppy llama that Pa gave me when I was a child. Occasionally, I sleep with it. I look at it and get flooded with memories.

The Mom Finger Wag

Chances are you've been on the receiving end of the Mom Finger Wag. Odds are pretty good that you may have done it yourself. It's pointing your finger at a child while you're scolding or making a point. (My mom preferred the head thump.)

Our city has one east-to-west street that is renowned for crime. I swear every time I read of a murder or drive-by shooting, it's on (or near) this street. It's a major thoroughfare and lots of people travel it everyday. I use it but I'm also pretty cautious to make sure my doors are locked and I make eye contact with no one.

The other night, after leaving the dreadful "I killed a goat" party, my friend and I needed to be on this street for three blocks. We're chatting and laughing. At an intersection where she had the right of way, a group of young men almost ran the light.

She pointed and did the Mom Finger Wag.

I started screaming, "Are you crazy? People get killed for less than that!"

Then I became obsessed with looking behind us to make sure they hadn't turned around to follow us.

Obviously we are okay but for a while there, I was sure we were going to be the goat.

Maniac

I rarely gripe about my dad. He's my hero. Plus, he accepts me while my mom is still trying to control me. She's always right but it's annoying at this age to admit I still need her advice and counsel. It's even more scary that I seem to need it more as I age.

The other day my dog jumped on my dad. Repeatedly. She is not a small dog. It hurts. I have been on the receiving end.

Here comes the big, sassy mouth part. When he said, "You need to get that dog under control before she hurts someone," I said, "So your dog that bites everyone in her path is ok?"

Later, I was reflecting. First of all, I should not have said that to him. It was disrespectful. I am working on my mouth but I have not conquered my need to have a comeback. Will I ever learn?

We went in the back yard and I threw the tennis ball until I wore her out.

My friend Patsy used to say (about her husband,) "He may be an a******, but he's mine." I feel that way about everyone I love. The husband can truly annoy people, including me. He's still mine. My friends can hurt me but they're still my friends. My aunts, uncles and cousins put up with my quirkiness.

The maniac dog is mine. I may never control her. Sort of like the way that the husband may not control me, my parents may not control their biting dog, my friends might have to accept the person I am instead of the person I want to be.

Finding Stuff Everywhere

My church bazaar is coming up. This is our big event of the year. I may or may not attend this year because the husband will be recovering from surgery. He's a pretty strong guy so maybe if I drop him at the club, I can pop over there for a while.

I've filled up my dad's truck with donations and I still have more to come. I've requested boxes from my local drug store and taken them to church. (I'm sure the church appreciates that they're all liquor boxes but hey, they are the sturdiest ones.)

Yesterday, I ran into a friend in the parking lot. Our cars were parked side by side. I commented on the stuff in the back of her SUV. She said, "I'm headed to get rid of it at Goodwill." I have no problem with Goodwill -- I give them tons. But now, I'm in bazaar mode. She gave it all to me to add to the bazaar.

A couple of the things are so cute that I may have to try them on before I decide if they go to the church. I'm trying to be a good steward but I am not a saint. If those pants she bought in Rome fit me, I'm keeping them.

My drug store manager friend is saving more boxes for me. I have been accumulating piles of more stuff to add. I'm trying to do my part.

I've been doing this for many years and one of the biggest hits seems to be my books. Some church members go through them before the bazaar and pick what they want. (They pay for them.)

I walk for charities. I donate to various causes. In honor of my oldies, I support many veteran organizations. For the next ten days or so, I'm all about the bazaar.

I hope I get to go.

Religion, Sex and Politics

The rule of polite society: don't discuss religion, sex or politics. Probably money too. Here's another example where I break the rules. I don't want to inflict my theory or beliefs on you -- I want to know what you think.

Prior to the VP debate with Biden and Palin, we were having dinner with friends. I was dancing with both candidates -- where they could excel and where they might embarrass themselves. One of my closest friends disagreed with me.

I talk to him a lot. During every election of the last 12 years, he is my touchstone. On election night, we have talked repeatedly -- all night. I know I can call him. I know he will be awake.

On the way home from this dinner, the husband said, "I think he's really mad at you."

He was probably miffed at me. I'm sure I annoyed him. But I think I called him at least five times during the debate and he answered the phone every time.

Part of my love for this man is he allows me to be me. We're free to agree or disagree. He can throw up his hands and say, "I cannot believe you said that!" I can roll my eyes.

The next debate is tonight. I will call him.

The election is less than 30 days away and I will be calling him all night.

Man Hands

Although I look a lot like my mother, I share so many characteristics with my father and his side of the family. This is particularly apparent to me as I get older. My father's sisters (one is deceased) are/were little people. Not tall and small enough to get knocked over by a strong wind. I am also short and sort of petite. The other thing we most definitely have in common is our small hands and feet.

When I got married the first time, they sold my husband-to-be a gold band from the children section. (Why they make gold bands for children is a puzzler!)

The husband has a client and we have often socialized with them. We've been on corporate trips with them. She has man hands. At times, I cannot listen to the conversation because I become so obsessed with her hands. In my little pea brain, they are HUGE. She could probably wrestle a bear and win. I'm glad we're "hug you and kiss you on the cheek" people because a handshake with her could break my little bones.

While watching "Dancing with the Stars" the other night, Jan called to inform me that one of contestants has man hands.

I don't have man hands but I have graduated to oldie's hands.

Perspectives on Aging

Now that my oldies have passed on, I forget that the title of this blog is, "Living with the Oldies." The oldie I live with is me. The husband may be older in years but he's much younger in spirit. When his band plays, I am a ball of fire at first and then I can barely stay awake for the next sets.
My mom shared this with me. We agree it is fitting. I wish I could credit the author but I have no clue.

Getting Old is a Gift.

>> I am now, probably for the first time in my life, the person I have always wanted to be. Oh, not my body!
>> I sometime despair over my body, the wrinkles, the baggy eyes, and the sagging butt.
>> And often I am taken aback by that old person that lives in my mirror (who looks like my mother!) but I don't agonize over those things for long.
>> I would never trade my amazing friends, or my wonderful life, my loving family
>> for less gray hair or a flatter belly.
>> As I've aged, I've become more kind to myself and less critical of myself.
>> I've become my own friend.
>> I don't chide myself for eating that extra cookie or for not making my bed, or for buying that silly cement gecko that I didn't need but looks so avante garde on my patio.
>> I am entitled to a treat, to be messy, to be extravagant.
>> I have seen too many dear friends leave this world too soon, before they understood the great freedom that comes with aging.
>> Whose business is it if I choose to read or play on the computer until 4 AM and sleep until noon?
>> I will dance with myself to those wonderful tunes of the 60 &
70's.
>> And if I, at the same time, wish to weep over a lost love … I will.
>> I will walk the beach in a swim suit that is stretched over a bulging body,
and will dive into the waves with abandon if I choose to, despite the pitying glances from the jet set .
>> They, too, will get old.I know I am sometimes forgetful.
>> But there again, some of life is just as well forgotten.
>> And I eventually remember the important things.
>> Sure, over the years my heart has been broken.
>> How can your heart not break when you lose a loved one, or when a child suffers, or even when somebody's beloved pet gets hit by a car?
>> But broken hearts are what give us strength and understanding and compassion.
>> A heart never broken is pristine and sterile and will never know the joy of being imperfect.
>> I am so blessed to have lived long enough to have my hair turning gray and to have my youthful laughs be forever etched into deep grooves on my face.
>> So many have never laughed and so many have died before their hair could turn silver.
>> As you get older, it is easier to be positive; you care less about what other people think.
>> I don't question myself anymore; we've even earned the right to be wrong.
>> I like the person I have become.
>> I am not going to live forever, but while I am still here, I will not waste time lamenting what could have been or worrying about what will be.
>> And I shall eat dessert every single day. (If I feel like it.)

With apologies to the author, I changed a couple of lines. I also will not eat dessert every single day.

We Don't Change

Yesterday I had lunch with three friends:

One I see regularly and talk to multiple times a day.
One I see occasionally but we have enjoyed a reconnection of our friendship.
One I had not seen in 25 years or so.

Maybe it's a problem with my eyesight but they all look the same to me. Their voices sound the same. The sense of humor is intact. Yes, I realize we've aged but I had a couple of "Oh My Gosh" flashes. We could've just as easily been sitting in our high school instead of discussing children who are in college.

As you know, I'm not big on organized reunions. I prefer the smaller ones.

In this microcosm yesterday, I admired each of them. But it also made me wonder:

Did the girls who were the most popular in high school maintain it?
Did the jocks keep up their studly appearance or did they become people with big bellies?
Did the druggies survive? Are they still druggies?
Did the brainiacs go on to do something brilliant?
Are the nerds conquering the world? Or just wearing pocket protectors?
Did that cutest couple in high school stay married?

I have detectives on the case.

Joys & Concerns

In my small church, we have a period before prayer time where the congregation is encouraged to express joy or concerns. Some weeks I think every person there is going to talk. I try to imagine them doing this in a huge church; they would all be there until Monday morning.

The joys are often:

A family member home safely after a trip
A new job
Successful surgery
A new baby or grandchild

The concerns are just as you would expect:

illness
death
financial woes
other tragedies

This part of the service always sticks with me. It reminds me to find joy when I'm having a crummy day. I spend a little more time counting blessings and less time feeling sorry for myself.

NFL Record

If you had told me 20 years ago that I would be a crazy football fan, I would've told you, "Never going to happen."

Never say never.

Yesterday my team, The Indianapolis Colts, broke an NFL record with a comeback score in the last few minutes. I was home alone and I was screaming. My dad was here for a while and when it looked hopeless, he decided to go home. I kept calling my mother with updates and finally she said, "Your dad is sitting in his truck listening to the end of the game."

I knew he left too early. Never say never.

Do You Know Who Has Photos of You?

This blog has been a learning experience for me.

I've reconnected with friends.
It allows me to write every day.
I get feedback and I love the good and the bad. I also know who the wimps are that send me an email instead of posting a comment.

Once I started posting a few photos, it became an obsession. I've ripped up tons of albums and I've only just begun. I have boxes and boxes. I love this information age.

Here's a terrifying thought: People let me know that they have photos of my youth and college days. Bad hair days. Cigarette in hand. Me draping myself over other people.

Employers now routinely search Google and MySpace. Jobs have been lost and careers sunk due to some bad choices.

My little blog is not likely to wreck anyone's career. But, I am extremely careful to ask permission before I post a photo. I also try to let someone know if I've floated one out there. I've never had anyone ask me to remove a photo.

My mother used to tell me that a lady does not allow herself to be photographed with a drink or a cigarette in her hand. Ooops!

But, I can say with confidence that no one has photos of me nude. No one has photos of me doing anything illegal.

Sometimes boring pays off.

Spontaneous Combustion

Before I tell you this story, I must state very clearly that there was no alcohol involved.

I attended a party last night. The intent was a networking event for a mixed group of women. Different backgrounds, different ages, different races. I knew our hostess and two other people.

Do you remember the Mary Tyler Moore episode where she lost it at Chuckles The Clown's funeral. This is how I behaved. I could not help myself. When I'm in that weird place, there is no "off" switch. In fact, I start to crack myself up. I am not subtle. I try to pretend it's just a little cough or something and then I end up screeching. (My mother has the same problem.) Once I go there, it's impossible to find my way back to appropriate behavior.

We went around the room to introduce ourselves -- this took hours! I am used to corporate meetings. You make it relevant to the situation. You don't introduce yourself by going through your entire childhood, your marriages and divorces, your children and pets. Nobody cares!

Our hostess went to a lot of trouble. Her home is lovely and she had obviously put a lot of thought into her guest list. Guess she'll be rethinking that.

Here are some things that came out in the introduction session:

Women described killing a goat or a chicken.
One woman explained how energy is sold across this country.
I learned a lot more than I ever wanted to know about some of their family lives.
Several of them tried to "out poor" each other. My parents were far from wealthy but I didn't see how this was relevant.

Jan and I have been friends for decades. There's a reason we used to be separated in school. If someone was talking too long last night, she would lean over and say, "Ding!" Like "Hello, your time is up."

Then, our hostess announced we were going to move outside for two activities. One was a cheer. I am not kidding. I found this absurd but hey, I'm here and I've partaken of the food and soft drinks. I'll go with the flow. Plus, I was kind of excited to go outside. I did a cheer and had a cigarette. Yep, I'm a multi-tasker.

The second activity was to go around the circle and tell the group something that brings us joy. Jan and I both looked at each other and said, "You!" Every one else said something boring like:

My children and grandchildren
My church and my Lord

There is nothing wrong with these answers and they are a significant part of my life also. But it kind of reminded me of beauty pageants where the standard answer is "World Peace." I wanted to say:
Friendships

Getting my nails done
Pants that fit
Napping on the dog pillow
Seeing the name "Dad" when my cell phone is ringing
Getting on a plane
Autumn leaves and Houseboy bringing me apples
Knowing someone I love has passed the bar exam

That's probably why they didn't let me talk. I would've turned into one of those women with a goat story.

Jan and I rode together. We figured we could catch up on the way there and rip people on the way home -- my favorite post-party activity.

Truthfully, I did not want to attend this event but I'm glad I did. I'm pretty sure I won't be invited back.

Bye Bye Love

At one point in my life, one of my aunts lived with us and the other lived down the street with her husband and two children. My great aunt and her husband lived a few houses away and her daughters were my idols. Needless to say, our lives were intermixed.

The young man in this photo is my cousin. Even though we live in the same town, I haven't seen or spoken to him in years.

I've given up. I could float a boat on the tears I've shed.

But we sure had fun as kids.

Whores

Why don't we ever call men whores? I've known a few who have done everything short of selling their soul.

Years ago, when someone would ask a friend of mine what she did for a living, she would respond, "I'm an art whore." She's probably the most talented artist and creative person I've worked with but I loved it that she put it out there like that.

I've never been a traditional whore but I've been a writing whore. I've written flattering profiles of abysmal people because I was paid to do so. I've written speeches on subjects that I totally disagreed with. I got paid. I've written brochure copy for products that I don't trust. In my corporate days, I often gave little pep talks to the team, all the while knowing some bad stuff was coming.

I am a whore no more.

Peggy Lynn

There is a fourth goldie. Or, she was supposed to be. The goldies call each other, text and email. We are not afraid to say, "I am in my closet and I am scared about my life" Until the other night, I had not spoken to Lynn in 25 years or so.

So I answered the phone to hear, "Hi Sher, it's Lynn." (Very few people call me Sher." Just hearing her voice sent me over the moon.)

I couldn't put a sentence together or gather a coherent thought. I kept picturing us in high school. I was so busy with memory lane that I could not concentrate.

She was the smartest person I knew in high school; she skipped graduation ceremonies.
She was the first person I knew to get a tattoo.
She was the first person I knew to have a baby out of wedlock, even though I personally took her for birth control.
She was the first person I ever knew to steal a car (her parents) and wreck it.
She left a toilet on my parents' lawn. Her sense of humor was contagious.

In our brief conversation, she still managed to shock me:

She does not have a computer, therefore no email.
She does not have a cell phone.
She only gives her phone number to trusted people. (I have it.)

Here's the kicker: she told me she named her second son after my father. For someone who did not spawn a boy, he seems to have a lot of people name their sons after him. She also asked, by name, about my mother. I could not tell you her parent's names if you threatened to pluck my fingernails out.

Jan and I are having lunch with her on Sunday. I cannot wait. I wish Deb would get on a plane and come along.

Perms -- Photo Overload

Although I grew up in the 60s and 70s, I did not fall for the fad of getting a perm. The bottom photo shows why. I've never needed one. I spent my entire youth, hence the second to last second photo, trying to calm my hair. The invention of blow dryers, styling products and hot rollers was more important to me than penicillin.

I did not include a photo of the husband but he also had a perm in the 70s.

I hope the other people in these photos will forgive me for sharing. I've seen them all within the last year and there were no perms. But for that moment in time, they wanted to be big hair people.