A Simplified Christmas

For the first time in at least 18 years, I will not be celebrating Christmas in my usual fashion. I will not be organizing a family photo, addressing and mailing hundreds of cards, decorating every room, trimming a live tree or hosting any parties. I will not be buying gifts and wrapping for hours. (Ok, I might buy the dog a new toy.) I will not be coordinating schedules to accommodate other people. I enjoy doing most of these things but this is not the year for it.

I am not skipping Christmas. I'm already listening to holiday music. I will help my oldies trim a small tree. I will keep my mother and sister company while they do their annual candy making. I will help my mother prepare a holiday meal. I will enjoy the children's Christmas show and the choir's cantata at church.

Tradition and rituals are important to me. This will be my first Christmas making some new ones.

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.

Seven Years

In one of my favorite books, "Nineteen Minutes," by Jodi Picoult, she opens with a few sentences about what can happen in nineteen minutes. Some are frivolous and some are profound.

Today is the seventh anniversary of the most devastating terrorist attack on American soil. I'm applying the same logic. In seven years, I've been through the mundane and the scary and the heartbreaking. So have you. Such is life.

Seven years ago:

I had a different dog. Also a maniac.
I had the same husband, the same parents and the same friends.
The baby was 13-years old and had no clue of the magnitude of that day.
I did not turn off the television for one solid week.
The oldies lived in Mississippi and they were those in-laws I visited once or twice a year.

During the past seven years:

I've lost several friends to cancer, car accidents and plain ol' old age.
I've cheered the baby through high school and caught a glimpse of the incredible man he is becoming.
I've held hands with someone having a biopsy and I've had my hand held.
I've witnessed marriages and divorces and welcomed new babies into my circle of love.
I've reconnected with some old friends.
I've screwed up. A lot. Repeatedly.
I've watched attorneys become judges and other people grow businesses.
I welcomed the oldies into our home and learned about love, loyalty and stubbornness.

I've become older, grayer and hopefully smarter. I think my heart has grown. And I will stop today to acknowledge the people who did not get the chance to grow older, grow grayer and welcome new babies.

Luggage

I have no idea how we accumulated so many suitcases. There's an entire wall in my basement and a huge collection in my closet. I received some baby blue ones as a high school graduation gift but those are long gone. The husband has received some as a favor at a golf outing or a corporate event but it still doesn't explain our abundance.

We inherited some from the oldies. I guess we'll weed those out at some point.

Even the dog has her own suitcase. She received it from Cynthia as a Christmas gift. It's a big canvas duffel bag with her name on it. (She ate part of one corner but it's still functional.) She knows when I get it out that she's going to the lake or puppy camp. I made the mistake of packing her bag first and leaving it by the back door. She's standing guard over it like, "You're not leaving without me."

I tend to send donations to veteran's groups and womens' shelters. When I get to my Fall basement clean-up, there are some women and children who will benefit from some slightly used suitcases.

A Vat of Oil

My dry skin and dry hair are a struggle. I"m constantly in pursuit of solutions. When we cleaned out the dungeon after the oldies' deaths, I kept a pot of the Belle's expensive face cream. I see no difference between using it or my drugstore stuff.

Sometimes if my skin feels especially dry, I make this concoction in the bathtub. It's a lot of oil mixed with some hot water. Then you just stew yourself in it. It's wonderful and slippery and a little weird but your skin stays soft for days.

The problem is getting out of the tub. I envision the headline, "Stupid woman slips in Vat of Oil."

Is It Miss, Ms. or Mrs.?

You know those forms where you have to check: married, single, or divorced? I like to check them all. I've been them all so I'm not lying. Do you think transgender people check male and female? When they give you the option of temporary address and permanent address, I like to put my current street address under temporary and then write, "Heaven, I hope" in the permanent box.


How about the salutation box? Your choices are Mr., Miss, Ms., or Mrs. Again, I have often checked all the female options. If you're a man, checking that box tells no one anything. As a woman, checking Miss says, "I'm single." Checking Ms. says, "I'm hanging onto my own identity." Checking Mrs. says, "I'm married." This is way too much information for a woman to provide when a man only has to check Mister.


I must write Miss Manners because I am very confused about the use of the term, "Mrs." My simple, but adequate, education taught me that the term literally meant "wife of..." So in those terms, this would be right:

Mrs. John Smith, (wife of John Smith)
Mrs. John Smith, (widow of John Smith)

This would be wrong:

Mrs. Susan Smith (Is she married to herself?)
Mrs. Smith (when she and John divorced eons ago.)

During our years of living with the oldies, there were two Mrs. Romans in this house and we both carried the title with pride. Callers were often confused but we got a giggle out of it. The Belle used to inspect me before a big event for the husband and say, "Remember, you are Mrs. Roman."


I won't even tell you how much I hate those boxes where you have to declare your age bracket.

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.

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.

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.

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

Multi-tasking

Some people claim this is a downfall to our society. We have to do too many things at once. I hope they're wrong because I'm pretty darn good at it. I can type, wait for the scanner to finish scanning and watch the news out of the corner of my eye. I can check my email and my voicemail at the same time. I can wash dishes and write copy in my mind.

Twenty years ago, I was likely the woman you saw driving with hot rollers in her hair, a cigarette in one hand and the mascara wand in the other. (I don't do this any more -- I gave up mascara.)

I watch kids texting while listening to their iPod, while carrying on a conversation. If I ever learn to text, I will be this person.

The oldies used to comment, "Would you slow down?" There's a lesson to be learned.

I suppose there's this Zen thing where you're supposed to quiet your mind and relax your body. I try. A dip in the tub and an engrossing book can take me a long way in that direction. But, I am usually swimming against the tide. My brain still races.

Multi-tasking also brings distractions. I just realized I've been running around all day with my shirt on backwards. Not the first time.

I Approve This Message

Is anyone else tired of this phrase? Did they pass a law about requiring this statement that I am unaware of? Is the voting public considered so idiotic that they could not/would not distinguish between a candidate's ad or a smear campaign from the competitor?

Last year, the Belle and I had a conversation about the 2008 presidential election. She told me who she planned to vote for and when questioned further, she said, "He will take the best care of the veterans." I confess, I had this thought:

Oh my Gosh, will you still be living here in November? (I was thinking moving, not death.)

Every vote comes down to personal circumstances and priorities. Mine might be property taxes. Yours might be the school system or gambling in your community. I don't think we choose by age, sex, race or religion, but I know some people who will rule a candidate out based on these factors. I guess you have to weigh it out, based on your own value system and your own priorities. Frankly, I don't care if a candidate smoked a joint in college. (Although we all know Bill Clinton didn't inhale.) I respect the freedom of religion but I admit to a little wariness with some of them.

The oldies don't get to vote this time. That makes me sad. This is the first year the baby gets to vote in a presidential election. That makes me giddy. I know he will vote because if I've done my job well, he is afraid of me. I have drilled it into him. This is the poor child that I have (more than once) dragged out of bed to watch some historic event. During Reagan's funeral, the cameras panned the crowds. I asked, "Who is that?" It might have been world leaders or important people in our government. Yes, his eyes glazed over but I choose to believe some of it was absorbed through osmosis.

I'm Sheri Riley Roman and I approve this message.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

Are you singing yet?

"Sock it to me, sock it to me..."

I'm a voyeur. A few years ago, a friend of mine decided to change her life. In her terms, it meant no more bullsh** and I'm not going to do anything I don't want to do. I respected it but I also kind of brushed it off as a mid-life thing. As an outsider looking in, I remember thinking the people who give her the most problems and the most pleasure are the people she values most. She married one of them. She gave birth to a couple of them. One of them gave birth to her. You cannot control these relationships. I hate this expression but, they are what they are.

When the oldies moved in with us, the elephant in the room was the alpha male position. Hangdog was used to being the head of the household. So was Big Daddy. The Belle was used to doing things her way. So was I. We worked our way through the maze and usually found compromise.

As you know, I tend to tell my parents everything. I'm not sure this is normal. We disagree on many things but Aretha would be proud, we do it with respect. (Or we just hang up.)

I'm taking a lesson from my friend. You (my friends, my parents, my relatives, the children, the husband) can tell me anything and I will listen. I will try to learn and correct my faults. There's one caveat: Please speak to me with respect. For who I am and who I want to be. For what I've given you and what you've given me. Respect our history. Respect my phase in life and expect the same in return. Actually, demand it.

Mothers get a free pass on some of these things. Every once in a while, I try to dodge a question. There's a reason Wild Bill called her, "The Prosecutor." She will get it out of me. It takes about 20 seconds.

Aretha would be proud. All it takes is a little prodding...

"Just a little bit... Just a little bit."

Quakin'

We had an earthquake Friday. I was clueless until my phone started to ring and I turned on the news.

Indiana is known for snow storms and tornadoes. We don't deal with earthquakes often, although we are close to a fault line. This one took every one by surprise.

I thought maybe I could count on the dog to clue me in on aftershocks. Since she barks at air, this does not seem probable.

I'm quakin' for other reasons:

Is the oldies' paperwork ever going to diminish?
Can I take some of my knowledge gained through my conference and turn it into productive activity?
Is my judgment so askew that I have misread situations and friends?
What can I do (more/better) to help friends in rough times?
Will I ever feel up to speed regarding technology?
When the husband and I have different goals, will I find the compromise? Will he?

A minor earthquake doesn't rock my world. The daily questions make me shake, rattle and roll.

Aging: A Silly Poem

The Anti-Love Affair with Aging

Your boobs start to sag,
Oh My Gosh, it's a beard.
The mirror is an enemy,
The body's gone weird.

The children are busy,
Our job is mostly done.
They may still need us but,
We're dorks; we're not fun.

The oldies are gone.
It's a jumble of emotions.
We've cleaned out the room.
It's clear of potions.

So, I start a new path,
One that's all about me.
I wipe a few tears and ask,
Who shall I be?

Should I wonder about
Every decision I've made?
Is it normal to ask,
What price have I paid?

In the blink of an eye
I look back through the haze.
What we considered normal
Was only a phase.

I spring from the bed,
Greet the husband and the day.
I have a moment where I say,
"Lookout world, I'm on my way."

The roots may be gray
The knees may be creaking.
I'm still drawing breath.
I'm still speaking.

Office Weirdness

As you know, I write on every available scrap of paper. I keep loose notes and ideas everywhere but most of them wind up in my office. Some may pertain to client thoughts; others can run the gamut from gift ideas to menus. When the stacks get overwhelming, I try to bring the paperwork into the manageable range.

The computer in my office is slow but it's the fastest one in the house. There are laptops and another desktop computer in the baby's room. Yet, everyone seems to want to go in the office. I allow it but it makes me crazy.

I have an inexplicable desire for space that is just mine. I've gotten pretty militant with commands -- "You may not download anything on my computer!" I put notes on boxes, i.e. "Not Trash!"

Hangdog and the Belle used to wander in my office. I never thought I'd say it but I miss that. They never touched anything. They just sort of hung out in the doorway like it was off-limits.

The husband can occasionally rival Heloise. He feels like he's helping if he puts things away or consolidates stacks of papers. The problem is that I probably just spent an hour sorting those papers. I leave pens and notepads everywhere. He puts the pens away and moves the notebooks. I have a meltdown. I put them back where I wanted them. We'll do the same cycle until the end of time.

Jeans

I watched a makeover show recently and they insisted the participant get rid of her "Mom" jeans. They made her look dumpy. No one explained the term "Mom jeans."

My selection of jeans is far too elaborate. I have jeans in various sizes and various lengths, depending on the shoes I plan to wear. I have jeans I wore in college. They are my faves, holes and all. I try to only wear them around the house because they are not the most attractive item in my closet. However, slipping into them is like welcoming an old friend. They're soft and comfortable. They're molded to my body. They bring back great memories.

Several years ago, the husband and the baby bought me a pair of jeans for Christmas. They fit low on the hips and have a little flair at the bottom. I said, "I cannot wear these." They were right. I wear them all the time.

People who wear jeans to church, weddings, funerals or any formal occasion get on my nerves. The husband loves to comment, "Those must be their Good Jeans." I find it disrespectful.

On one of my many shopping trips with the oldies, we bought the Belle some jeans. At first she was hesitant but she went with the flow and grew to love them. Of course, she had to kick it up a notch with jewelry, scarves and a great jacket.

When I took her to the hospital the last time, she was wearing jeans. She was also well accessorized.

Barking

My previous dog rarely barked. She had one exception: squirrels. I used to tell people, "If you plan to rob my house, I highly recommend you do not wear a squirrel costume."

Same breed; totally different dog. This maniac barks at the jar of peanut butter. Her barking dance with a bone is comical. If a dog barks on a television commercial, she feels an urgent need to respond. She also chatters and it's somewhere between a moan and a meow. I tell her she sounds like a wuss.

The husband barks and it's usually at the weather. Occasionally he barks at me and I have learned to take it in stride. Sometimes (just to keep it interesting,) I bite back.

The oldies did not bark at each other. At first I admired this. Then, I paid attention. An icy tone or a cold shoulder can be more destructive than someone barking in your face. The Belle did not do this often but it was in her arsenal.

My parents have two little yippy dogs. They swear these dogs are quiet and well-behaved when they go about their daily routines. When I'm there, they bark themselves hoarse. I should tell them, "Hey munchkins, I lived here first."

Two Holidays on the Same Day

It's not only Easter, it's also the husband's birthday today. He's never big on acknowledging his birthday but it seems especially odd to be celebrating his birthday when we just returned last night from burying his father.

My routine is completely off. I like knowing what we're doing year after year for various holidays. I tend to stick to the same menus and I welcome the traditional rituals. Not this year.

I didn't make it to church. Frankly, I was too exhausted to drag my sorry self to the shower to make it in time. I'm sure I've disappointed my parents -- again. I did not make it to the grocery so we are not having ham and the rest of our traditional menu. We're having spaghetti, salad and bread, supplied by my mother. I did not make Big Daddy's favorite cake to honor his birthday. But, my mother did. I did not get around to shopping for a small gift. I did buy a card and now I can't find it.

We will gather with my parents and the baby. We will play games until the husband tires of it. He gets to make that call since it's his day. We will spend a little time with the baby and it will not be enough.

I haven't forgotten that it's Easter. But for a creature of habit like me, it sure doesn't feel like it. The oldies ruined my Easter last year. This year, I've done it all by myself.

3:00 AM

Last night I shot out of bed at 3:00 AM. I had a great idea for a project I am involved with. This might seem a little odd but I wasn't sleeping anyway.

Something has re-fired in my brain. Instead of worrying about someone falling, what we're having for dinner, the next auto accident, I've begun to settle back into the brain cells that click for me. I'm proud of my conduct with the oldies -- remember we still have Hangdog -- but it's sort of fun to reclaim my space, my brain, my marriage, the children and my goals. I pretended it wasn't true but I existed on autopilot for a while.