Oooh, Oooh, Oooh!

This started out as a story about girly expressions. I still say, "Whoops!" I still wave my hands and say, "Oh my Gosh or Oooh, Oooh!"

Then, I started thinking about other expressions. Yes, I do curse a little more often than necessary. The husband often points out that certain descriptive words (let your imagine flow,) only have one syllable and I've somehow turned these into three or four syllables. That causes the big words to come out.

Girlfriends have threatened to tie down my hands. Everyone is convinced that I could not have a conversation or make an argument without throwing my arms around. I've knocked over a lot of drinks and accessories trying to make my point.

Tonight, I sat outside for a bit with the oldies. The puppy got a little too close to the Unabomber and he started flapping his hands and saying, "Oooh, Oooh!"

Don't Leave Me in the Car

When I was growing up, we had never heard of car jacking. Kidnappings were between rare and never. Seatbelts and car seats were optional. Helmets for a neighborhood bicycle ride did not cross our mind. Parents kept us safe but a lot has changed in how that is defined in the past few decades.

In those days, it was not unusual to lock the car door and leave a child (for a few moments) while you ran in to pick up dry cleaning or paid for gas. I am not talking about babies. Children who can walk, talk, scream, etc. could handle three minutes alone in the locked car. No one does this anymore but at the time, it was not abnormal.

I hated being left in the car. I usually misbehaved and got out anyway. I would go searching for my parent.

"Stay" didn't work with me and it doesn't work with the puppy. Yesterday, I called ahead so I could pick up something at the drug store. The entire transaction would take 30 seconds. I had the correct change. So, I left the puppy in the car, with the window rolled down about 1/3 of the way. The next thing I know, the dog is standing beside me in the drug store.

I should've scolded her but I understand the concept. As Big Daddy always tells me, I've somehow managed to adopt a dog with my personality.

I'm Bored with this Conversation

This is another case of different memories. My aunt tells a story of a luncheon where she's relaying an important story. She notices my mother's eyes wandering and calls her on it. My mother says, "You're boring me." In all fairness, my mother has a completely different recollection of this conversation.

The husband loves to tell me about his golf game, his golf swing, etc. I don't care. One year, he won a big tournament and wanted to brag. He put half of his winnings in my palm and said, "There, I just paid you to listen." These days, I try to defer it. I told him in March that he could have an entire evening in October to tell me about the season. Whenever he starts in with, "On the first hole ...," I respond with, "It's not October."

I'm guilty too. He doesn't care about the puppy walks or some trivial thing in my life. I keep talking and he zones me out.

The Unabomber tells the same stories over and over. The mother-in-law is rapt with her attention. It's kind of like watching political wives. When their husband gives a speech, they look at him like he is splitting the atom. I do not have this talent. I take my brain to Sheriland; I nod occasionally. I do not ask questions. This would prolong the conversation.

One of the quirkiest (and funniest) things about my mother is that when she's bored, she just hangs up. I call her back and say, "I was still talking." It's not subtle but I know that she is bored.

Walk Sheri Walk

Walking is my escape. I walk the puppy twice a day. If I'm frustrated or brain dead, I go for a walk. When the oldies are cooking something strange in my kitchen, I go for a walk. When I am angry or antsy, I go for a walk.

I love my neighborhood. It's quiet and secluded. There's one way in and one way out. There's rarely any traffic. (I could never live in one of those neighborhoods with a million streets. I'd need breadcrumbs to find my way home.) In the movie, Forrest Gump, Jenny would bellow, "Run Forrest Run." I don't run anymore. My knees and hips can't take it. Other parts of my anatomy don't need to droop any further. But boy, I can walk.

If I ever find my way out of this neighborhood, I may end up in Utah.

He Walks with Me

One of my favorite hymns is "In The Garden." When the mother-in-law plays it on the piano, I stop whatever I am doing and sing along.

And, he walks with me
And, he talks with me ...

Last night, the husband and I took the puppy for our nightly walk. He kept saying to her, "Walk with me." Of course, she does. When I'm holding the leash, she's crazy.

It was a gorgeous, peaceful night. Every time Big Daddy said, "Walk with me," I started humming "In the Garden."

The Mean Voice

Just the girlfriend, her daughter and I at her lake cottage this weekend, plus dogs. It was bliss.

This was only the puppy's second trip so she's still wild and getting acclimated to different surroundings. A friend and neighbor suggested I should use my "mean voice." Stupidly, I said, "I don't think I have a mean voice."

My girlfriend laughed so hard I thought she was going to develop hiccups.

Mr. No Face

When I adopted my puppy, all of my girlfriends showed up with treats and toys. (We are very weird about our dogs.)

I started naming the toys, i.e. Mr. No Face, Mr. Snake Man, Mr. Ferret, Mr. Football, etc. Then I would instruct the puppy to "Show Mr. No Face who's the boss." Big Daddy pointed out to me that all the toys have male names and I might possibly have a man bashing/control freak problem.

I promptly renamed Mr. No Face. He's Mr. Big Daddy.

Reincarnation

I don't believe in reincarnation so this is a little bit of a fantasy.

Just like Wild Bill, my puppy has her tongue hanging out one side of her mouth at all times. Just like Wild Bill, she regularly runs away from home and always returns. Just like Wild Bill, she has one eye that waters nonstop.

Maybe it's the devil on my shoulder. Every once in a while, I whisper, "Hi Grandpa."

Not Yours

We hired a dog trainer to work with the puppy. (It didn't work.) One of the exercises was to plant things around the house -- a slipper, a cap, etc. -- and when she picked them up, we were to sternly say, "Not Yours!"

The other night, the husband started to get something out of my car. I quickly admonished him. Not Yours! I accidentally picked up his checkbook one day. He bellowed, "Not Yours!" I want to scream "Not Yours" whenever the oldies have overtaken my kitchen but that would probably be rude.

The husband and I have mastered this command with each other. The puppy still picks up slippers, caps and anything within her reach.