Body Parts

Men used to announce, "I'm a leg man." Or, "I'm a breast man." I have no idea if young men still do this -- I'll have to ask the baby -- but it always stuck with me.

Many body parts betray us as we age. Some parts get wrinkly and droopy. Others just diminish, like eyesight or hearing.

I am not a young person but I'm not an oldie either. One of my favorite things about the Belle was her absolute refusal to be old. Kicky clothes and kicky shoes made her happy. She was the Queen of Accessories. I was taking notes.

My mother asked me to stop writing about our weird legs. Sorry! You can't tell me what to write. I have been fighting these legs my entire life. Throw in a major dose of middle age and suddenly, they're not just weird shaped. Now they have wrinkly knees (too much sun) for added fun.

When I was a child, my friends Kim and Angel had beautiful legs. I haven't seen Angel in years but Kim still has them. Jan has gorgeous legs. My friends Mickey and Cynthia have serious gams. I've made the mistake, more than once, of being photographed next to one or all of them in a swimsuit.

Lately I am surrounded by young women with these gazelle-type legs. My goddaughters, my neighbors, my niece Kelly and daughters of friends. I stare. I drool. I know it's a sin but I covet them.

I still wear shorts and skirts. Leg men would run away. Deal with it.

Is there such a thing as men who are attracted to arms?

Betrayal and Forgiveness

Lots of people have self-imposed rules of behavior. I suppose I fall in that camp, although I seem to have much higher expectations of myself than others.

Here's the kicker. I have been betrayed. I have betrayed others. I can be just flighty enough to awaken at 3:00 AM and realize that I told a story -- one that was shared in confidence to only me. Talk about feeling like a fool. Flowers don't quite cut it when you've just exposed someone else's deepest worry or fear.

My mother thinks I am way too "out there" with my life. I disagree but I will give her this little bit of wiggle room. If the husband or the children hurt me, the people who were on the end of this sad, weepy story immediately want to buy guns and a wood chipper.

This is why I believe in forgiveness. I forget the last day I was perfect. Perhaps it was my birth and I know my perfection didn't last very long. (A howling infant with frog legs was not what my parents had in mind.) Girlfriends who have crushed me are still my great friends. The husband and I have struggled for umpteen years to come to grips with our Type A personalities and choices we've made. Still, I want to roll over and find him there.

I am not a doormat. Forgiveness is a huge part of my heart and soul. It's selfish: it's for me.

But I do have a mean memory.

The Sandbox

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

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

Antsy with Anticipation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Webster (Again)

I must find a new title for my mother. We've always called her "Lady Webster" but I am becoming her so maybe she'll become "Queen Webster."

She has a command of the English language like no one you know (with the possible exception of English professors.) Just possible ...

I spent my entire childhood learning the proper way to say things, finding the proper words and being told, "Look it up." A habit that continues to this day.

My parents sent me to college. I earned a degree in journalism. Not bragging, just a life experience. My mother can run circles around me in the proper use of any comma, any hyphen or the difference between sit/set, lay/lie. Sometimes she will ask me, "Is that the word you really meant to use?" They could've saved a lot of money on college and I could've camped at her feet.

So here I go down that slippery slope. Girlfriends will be trying to tell an interesting or horrific story (usually about an oldie) and some look will cross my face. And they ask, "Is that the wrong word?" I'm surprised they don't just run. The baby often looks at me like I have a mental illness.

Often, I take a deep breath and let it go. To some, it's insulting to be corrected.

I love to be corrected. I am 44-years old and my mother still gives me little grammar and punctuation tips. She tells me to write it down and I do. Forget gifts -- this makes me giddy. We could probably spend endless days on a deserted island. We would take our dictionaries and diagram sentences and forget to make that "HELP" sign out of twigs.

Three People -- One Special Day

I'm very possessive so I like to use "my" a lot. My husband, my children, my parents, my oldies, my work, my friends, my dog. I try not to do that in this blog but here is an exception. Three of my favorite people share a birthday. And they are MY people.

I used to be good with cards but now people are lucky to get a phone call. Time gets away from me but I did wake up yesterday knowing it was a special day. (This was after I chased down oldies and dealt with the car in the mailbox.)

So, I wish greetings to these three people:

My Aunt Cess: I look like you and we share the little people syndrome. I have your passion for writing. I need the guidance you provide. I think we have the same wacky sense of humor. Plus, you provided me with some really great cousins.

My Emily: I held you when you were born. I will always be here for you as long as I live. I will hold you in my heart forever.

My Cary: You are a princess and I say, "Work it girl!" Let me know if I can help. I've had a few princess moments myself.

So, it's a day late but I salute these three amazing women. To borrow a phrase from my mother, I'm extremely grateful they were born.

I'm the Secretary

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

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

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

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