Drop It

I spend a lot of time chasing the dog and instructing her to "drop it." It might be a house slipper or a pillow. She ignores me and I look like an idiot running around with my whacker.

The husband often asks me to "drop it." I am mentally incapable of this and I blame my mother. I chew on it, stew on it and I want to discuss it to death. Then, I take a short break to gather my thoughts so we can discuss it some more.

So far, I've escaped the whacker.

I See Me

Most parents look at their children and see a part of themselves. I look a lot like my mother but I've decided lately that my predominate physical traits come from my father's side of the family. (Other than the legs.)

It's not just DNA.

I watch the daughter push herself in a challenging situation. I see me. I watch the baby make mistakes and have to figure it out. I see me. Plus, he's the most helpful person you will ever meet.

My goddaughters are these amazing young people. Both are beautiful and I don't envy them for that. They will be judged first on their looks which is unfair. People who bother to look below the surface will find some really smart women. When their good and bad traits come out in full force, I see me.

My maniac dog hates the word "No." She will get in your face and bark herself silly. I see me.

Impromptu Parties

If you're with the right group of people, a party can break out at any time. I live with an "out there" person. A lot of my friends can turn any occasion into a party. I used to think I was a victim of circumstance but now I accept that I am often the instigator.

Jan has a routine that cracks me up. She will call twice on the home phone. If I do not answer, she will call twice on my cell phone. If I do not answer, she will walk into my kitchen. When a girl needs her girlfriend, the barriers go away. Strong people just knock them out of the way. The message is, "I will find you." I am always relieved to be found.

Houseboy came in for a cold drink after spending many hours loading the fallen tree and many limbs into the chipper. (Abby calls him Poolboy, although I do not have a pool.) My next door neighbor's daughter, and my friend, came over with her puppy. We passed him around like old women do with an infant. I played referee with my maniac dog.

The iPod was rocking. We discussed children and dogs and storm damage. It was an impromptu party and the most fun I've had in weeks.

Will I Ever Learn?

I have been married to the husband for umpteen years. He is one of the most social men on the planet. We have always welcomed people into our home -- no invitation necessary. As long as I don't have to wait on you, come on in.

Between tromping around in the yard to assess storm damage and taking the dog for a walk through a fog of humidity, I felt pretty grungy yesterday evening. After I put dinner together (which I knew would shock the husband,) I took a shower. It was after 7pm so I opted for pjs and my ratty bathrobe.

Picture this: Dripping hair, scrubbed face and an ultra-cute outfit. The back door opens and the husband says, "Look who's here."

I tried to be nonchalant. (Like I always eat dinner in my bathrobe.) So I tossed the salad and served the pasta. Some women would've run to get appropriately dressed. I did not. I decided to go with the drowned rat look.

Little Pink Bellies

I like to tease the maniac dog and remind her that I too had a little pink belly once.

So did a lot of other people.

I have no desire to go back in time but I'd love to experience the feeling of wearing a two-piece suit with no reservations.

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.

The Spray Bottle

In my never-ending quest to control the maniac dog, I am open to any and all suggestions. I find her funny and delightful but apparently, I am the only one who holds this opinion.

I've tried the clicker, the whacker and the mean voice.

My mother suggested the spray bottle. I thought this was a little absurd since Labs love the water but as usual, my mother was right. Today was our first day with this experiment and she stopped jumping on people and counters within minutes. If I reach for the bottle, she becomes docile. Why didn't anyone tell me this secret?

Do you think this would've worked with the oldies? "Sit up, Hangdog or I'll spritz you!" Or, "If you fry one more thing in this kitchen, I'll blast you with my spray bottle!" We'll never know.

The only problem with the spray bottle plan is it has now become one more item attached to my person. Two pairs of glasses on my head or buried in my hair, cell phone clipped to a pocket, pen stuck behind the ear ... and now the spray bottle strung through a belt loop. I'm a freak but I'm prepared.

What Not to Say -- Part Two

This is not as eloquent as the post about military wives. But it does ring in with the "Duh!" factor. Here's some of my list of what not to say to me:

1. Your Dog is a Maniac.
Yes, I know that. I try my best to get her acclimated and when you are in my home, I try my best to keep her out of the way.

2. You drink/smoke/curse too much.Duh!
These are not honorable vices but until you've walked in my shoes, I'll get a little offended.

3. You're not aging well.
No, I'm not. Do you think I don't own a mirror?

4. You're a Saint.
Mother Teresa - yes; Sheri Roman - no.

5. It must be fun to have a rock and roll husband.
Yes and no. It's fun to watch the band perform and I am proud of their accomplishments. But you are not here while he's playing the same refrain OVER and OVER again trying to learn a part. The band takes up huge chunks of time and money. It's his release so I so go forward and enjoy. But sometimes I get a little cranky.

6. You're too thin.
Yes, I am. But I am well within the parameters that my doctor established for me. See number 3. I do own a mirror.

7. You spend too much time on the phone.
This is Hangdog's biggest complaint with me. Yes, I talk to my parents. Yes, I talk to girlfriends. I am also trying to run a business and most of my work is done through phone calls and email. I also seem to talk to him several times every day or in the middle of the night.

8. Don't you miss the children?
This is the ultimate on the "duh" scale. Of course I (we) miss them. The husband and I have spent many nights in a slump because we have an empty nest. We question every decision. Then we remember that it's their turn to make their own decisions.

What are your hot buttons?

The Plot for The Pill

As I suspected, Hangdog has not broken his hip. There's nothing wrong with him that wasn't already wrong before the fall. What does Oliver Stone have over me? I know a conspiracy when I see one.

After conferring with the nurse and the x-ray technician, I spoke with Hangdog. I tried to be the little reporter:

What made you fall? (I turned around too fast and got dizzy.)
Why were you up in the middle of the night? (I heard a ruckus in the hallway.)
Who was around? (No one. There's never anyone around.)

Those people in the hallway must have vanished into thin air.

This conversation was a little like talking to the maniac dog. There's some barking but no one is making progress.

He wants to be drugged. If that means throwing himself on the ground for attention, he'll do it. He's doing a different conspiracy now:

Me: Pop, your x-rays look fine. Thankfully you didn't break anything.
Hangdog: Yeah, that's what they say.

Where is Oliver Stone when I need him? Forget JFK -- let's make a movie out of oldies and their conspiracies.

Well Conditioned

Although I work out, my body could not be defined as well conditioned. Gabby, the maniac dog, is definitely not well conditioned. The husband is concerned about the condition of his golf game.

When I'm in a hurry, I love the shampoo and conditioner in one. Just a simple step and you're done. This morning I was drying my hair and I couldn't figure out why it was so gummy. Apparently it doesn't come very clean if you grab the bottle of conditioner instead of the two-in-one product.

This is not the first time I've made this mistake. I'm going to have to investigate reading glasses for the shower.

But my hair is well conditioned.

Chasing Things

This morning I spent more than 30 minutes chasing the maniac dog through the neighborhood. I did not realize her battery had expired on her wireless fence system. Of course, this is her favorite game and I am reminded that I am not the boss of her; I'm a litter mate.

Then, I chased down some information for a client.

Phone calls were made and documents were sent to chase down some closure on the Belle's paperwork.

Yesterday the husband and I visited Hangdog in the Home. I chased down his clean laundry and put it away.

Lots of conversations involve describing a situation to my mother. And vice versa. Often, we will ask each other, "Is that the right word?" If we don't know, we chase it down.

I've Got Your Number

Really smart people know to go into duck and cover mode if they see me approaching with a pen and notebook in hand. I'm not going to write an expose -- I just need your phone numbers.

I've never let a vet treat my dog(s) without knowing his or her home phone, cell phone, office phone and fax numbers. If you are not willing to make these available to me, I am not willing to work with you. Every single person treating the oldies has my numbers and I have all of theirs.

My mom went to visit Hangdog today. I will be heading up there later. She stopped by and mentioned that the thing on my face (non-malignant, but unsightly) needs to be removed. So, I thought I could perhaps fit that in over the next few days. I called my dermatologist.

Like all doctor's offices, I had to meander through the convoluted system until I finally reached a recording that told me she will be out of the office until Monday. I am working on patience but it hasn't kicked in yet. So, I left a message on her home phone and her cell phone.

She'll get me in. But she probably regrets that I have her numbers.

Looking at Both Sides

I'm not a dark or depressing person. I wouldn't say I'm chipper but if I have a choice, I'll choose laughter over tears. But I seem to be drawn to artists with a dark side.

Today is a Joni Mitchell day. She's dark, mysterious, slightly weird and definitely haunting. I've put "Both Sides Now" on constant repeat on my iPod today. It's gloomy but it matches my mood. (And yet, surprisingly upbeat!)

I've sent two smart young people off into the world. I've shed lots of tears. But they were headed to bigger and better things. This is different.

Hangdog will be taken to the Home today. I have a Sharpie clipped to my shirt and I'm writing his name in everything, pretending he's going to oldie's camp. It's just like when I take the dog to the kennel and I tell her she's going to puppy camp. The exception is I do go and retrieve her. The difference is she doesn't know or care. The other difference is his stiff upper lip. I admire it and I also want to curl into a ball.

Many of you are dealing with some version of this situation. From the musical genius of Joni Mitchell, I share these thoughts:

But now it's just another show
You leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away.

Or ...

But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads; they say I've changed
Well, something's lost but something's gained
In living every day.

Or ...

I've looked at life from both sides now
I really don't know life at all.

The beginning of the song is an obsession with clouds and how she doesn't know clouds at all. I've chosen to move beyond this weirdness because the rest of the song is poignant and heart wrenching.

May Danny Come Out and Play?

As children, we ran like crazy around the neighborhood. The season or the weather didn't matter. Sometimes we were called home for some silly reason like dinner but we ran back outside as soon as that obligation was over. I remember friends at the door asking, "Can Sheri come out and play?" Unless I was in trouble, I bolted. I get a little crazy that most children seem to have lost that magical childhood experience.

The other day the husband was kind enough to run some errands for me. It was snowing/icing, etc. But, he must've lost track of time. I answered our home phone and a friend (and one of his card-playing buddies) said, "Mrs. Roman, may Danny come out and play?"

I still have my play dates so I can't tease him too much. Even our dog has play dates. The oldies will never get this about us.

Digging

My dog is a digger, although I am trying to cure her of this tendency. There's one spot in the back yard that I'm pretty sure she's digging to China. As you know, if she succeeds, I'm going with her. Now we have five or so inches of fresh snow on the ground so she's digging through that. She throws her whole head in it. When I'm having a hot flash, I'm tempted to do the same.

I'm a good digger. (Please forgive the ego stroke.) Growing up, I never realized that I was a nerdy person. Yes, I liked school and had an abnormal affection for libraries. But I liked other stuff too. I choose to believe I was well-rounded.

I am rarely without a dictionary. I LOVE research. If I'm curious about anything, I will dig it up. The Internet and many search engines make me giddy.

The other day a friend was looking for a particular speech. Her husband wants to share it with their grandson. With undue bravado, I said, "I can find it." (My mother gave me the "You are crazy" look.) She should know by now that I love a challenge.

I like digging for useful information because I spend most of my days digging a hole for myself with my sassy mouth. Usually with the oldies.

On the Prayer Chain

I once inherited an administrative assistant who did not like me at all. She was used to a different kind of manager -- gushy ... honey, sweetie, etc. This is not me in a business situation.

I pray a lot. Sometimes, it's on the floor. I've either chosen to be on my knees or I've fallen over an oldie. I like being on someone's prayer list. When the baby was little, his prayer list got so long I had to change it to groupings, i.e. my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, my pets, my friends. My Uncle Ken used to pray for everyone and everything. I thought that was pretty cool. I especially liked it that he included my dog.

One day in my corporate life, I came out to check the fax machine. Everyone was at lunch. My assistant's church group sent her a prayer and tips on how to deal with working with me.

Numbers

I love numbers. (Self-diagnosis: Mildly autistic.) I count constantly, especially when I'm trying to get my brain to stop spinning so I can go to sleep.

Newspaper headlines or magazine cover lines immediately get my attention if they include a number:

10 Steps to a Healthier You.
One Out of 12 Live in Poverty.
Five Legal Documents You Should Complete.
20 Simple Ways to De clutter Your Life.
Six Sex Tips No One Ever Told You.
Eight Ways to Update Your Little Black Dress.
Seven Dinners in Seven Minutes or Less.

I'm thinking about writing my own series. Here are some of the headlines I'm considering:

Fifteen things the Dog Ate or Destroyed.
Only Six random pills discovered on the Floor -- When You know it's a Good Day.
Disaster Alert! When You Get Down to Five Pounds of Butter.
Ten Fun Ways to Celebrate Your 10th Fire.
18 Things You Never Knew You Could Bleach.
25 Things You Never Considered Frying.
150 Things You Forgot to Worry About.
Four Ways to Wear the Unabomber Hood.
Five Different Ways to Fall.
Seven New Guilt Trips You've Never Tried.

I'm not sure to whom I'll pitch this. I'll have to get my sources in order. Lucky for me, they're all around me.

Ho Ho Ho

I laughed out loud when I read a recent story from The Hartford Courant about an Australian company training Santa Clauses. The Santas are to avoid the phrase "ho, ho, ho" because it has a negative American slang connotation: whore.

Sometimes the girlfriends and I will attempt to be hip and use this language. It's usually commentary on a young person in the entertainment news. "She's a 'ho." My mother-in-law and I were having a conversation last night and she made the comment, "She's a 'ho." I'm having way too much influence on her vocabulary.

When I was in my mid 20s, I had a girlfriend who had an impressive job, lots of money and extensive life experiences. She was a 'ho and sort of proud of it. I had no desire to live her lifestyle but I was like a kindergartner in the reading circle: "Tell me the story."

My dog, Gabby, is a 'ho. Her vacation and play date friends -- all retrievers -- are male. She rolls on her back and invites attention.

Westaff, the Australian Santa training company, provides trained Santas to retail centers around the world. Their suggestion is "Ha Ha Ha." I think this is political correctness gone awry.

But, I will laugh every time a mall Santa or a Salvation Army volunteer barks out, "Ho, Ho, Ho." Just so they know I'm not a 'ho, I'll shout back, "Ha, Ha, Ha!"

Travel Agent

I am not a travel agent but if I have to get a real job, I think I may have the qualifications.

Booking a trip for myself is easy. Coordinate with travel mates, get on the computer and book it. Print out the itinerary and on the day before leaving, print out the boarding pass. The most complicated part is heaving my suitcase on the scale to make sure I won't be charged for it being too heavy.

I am the travel agent for the oldies.

One of the husband's brothers has invited them to Texas during the Christmas holiday. (Time out for my happy dance!) She wrote the dates on a slip of paper and gave it to me. There was finagling that needed to be done because their arrival time has to somewhat coincide with their grandsons arrival times. And, they all need to leave at roughly the same time so only one airport trip is necessary. Plus, it has to be as cheap as possible.

Okay, doable.

I researched it and was quite proud of myself that I met all of the criteria. I emailed my brother-in-law with the schedule. I called the airline to go over in extreme detail the kind of special services they will require. I gave her a copy and of course, kept one for myself.

Guess what? She wrote down the wrong dates.

I spent several hours trying to unravel the booked trip without them incurring $200 worth of fees. Once I got that accomplished, I started over from square one but the flights are filling up and the pickings are getting slim. I had the phone at my ear while I sat at the computer.

A massive headache came to visit. She poked her head in my office and said, "Don't forget to rent a car. The boys (her grandchildren) will meet us and drive us. (Neither boy is 25 yet so they can't rent a car.) At this point, a rental car was the least of my worries.

So, it's booked. The rental car is reserved. New itineraries are in the hands of all interested parties. When I handed her the revised schedule, she actually said, "I hope we feel up to traveling. We might not go."

In that case, I will spend Christmas at the nearest mental health facility. I hope the daughter, the baby, the dog, my parents, my friends and the husband will visit me. Or, I might throw my bullet at someone.

The Circus

We were invited to a friend's home the evening of Thanksgiving to watch our local team play football. The invitation came with a warning: There will be an infant here. Since all of our children are grown, they felt the need to point that out.

This is not a judgement, just an observation. I'm amazed at how many middle-aged people are willing to birth/adopt/go through surrogacy. This friend's brother is in his 50s and has some lingering health issues. The wife is in her 40s and also had some scares. They now have an infant.

I knew I would be thrilled to play with the baby. And, he was oh so cute and endearing. I'm far too old to raise a child but I could've stuck him in my bag and taken him home.

But during this phone conversation about the invitation, my wacky sense of humor got ahead of my brain. I said, "Yes, we'd love to come over. Since you already have two dogs and multiple houseguests, why don't we bring our maniac dog and the oldies? We could tape it all for Barnum and Bailey."

As it turned out, they have it down to a science. The dogs were well behaved. The baby was precious. One houseguest had already gone to bed before we arrived. They even served hor d'oerves. Get out! Didn't she just make a huge meal a few hours ago? Now, she's feeding us. Of course, we all dug in.

On the way home, I was reflecting. I'm jealous. Their home seems to work like a well-oiled machine. My house is the circus.