George

Much to my dismay, I was bombarded with country music in my youth. Of course, today I love it. Years ago, it was not cool and I aspired to be cool.

In my house, we watched "Hee Haw" on Saturday night. And if my dad was driving the car, we listened to the country station.

George Jones was, and is, one of my Dad's favorite artists. We have been to his concerts. For the record, "No Show Jones" usually showed.

When George's ex-wife and love of his life (Tammy Wynette) remarried, George referred to her mate as his husband-in-law. I have often borrowed a version of that term.

He has jillions of great songs but the one that makes me reach for the tissues is He Stopped Loving Her Today. It's morose -- a love carried until his dying day:

"...They placed a wreath upon his door
Then they carried him away
He stopped loving her today..."

Today I went to the house to deal with stuff: his stuff, my stuff, our stuff, stuff nobody wants ...

And I admitted it to myself:

She stopped loving him today.

Don't Look Ethel!

Appropriate is a lovely word. It rolls off the tongue easily. It sits nicely in the gut or the soul until someone or something nudges: "Made you look!"

Like the truth, appropriate is self defined. For all our sakes, I'll err with brevity.

I am truly bone tired of the following:

Doing a visual inspection of anyone's tattoos.

Diverting my eyes and struggling to understand a conversation because a tongue implement has now become a speech impediment.

Guessing the circumference of any upper thigh area that I should not have to see.

Wondering why anyone would be so disrespectful to wear that (fill in the blank) to church, a funeral, a job interview, a dinner party, or anywhere in public.

I am a great fan of, "To each his own." Do it, live it, celebrate it.


Everything has its place. You can have it. Please don't make me look at it.

In Bloom

Yesterday was a day of endings and beginnings. And, time for a few memories.

The first thought that hit me was the date. If I had remained married to my first husband, yesterday would have been our 25th wedding anniversary. So I thought about him. I remembered that day and many other good times.

Then I went over to the house that I used to call home to help with sorting and cleaning, as we prepare to put it on the market. I spent the bulk of the day in the same living space, with the same man that I have shared the last 18 years with.

For extra fun, I went to the attorney's office to have my signature notarized to begin the divorce process.

As I reflected on all of these things, I decided:

My first husband was a really nice man but our marriage was not meant to be. I think his wife is really glad.

The house no longer feels like my home.

The man I am married to no longer feels like my husband; He feels like a stranger.

It felt right to sign the papers.

Later I walked the dog and tried to appreciate the beautiful day. So many gorgeous flowers opening up.

I want to be in bloom too. Time to get started.

Sleeping Like a Dog

I often struggle with sleep. I have my routines and some nights they work more than others. Lately, I'm sleeping better.

I sleep with my dog, Gabby. She's a good sleeper -- the kind that gives you a friendly warning growl if you try to shove her over. She sleeps best when she's had lots of exercise.

Yesterday, we did our daily walk in the park. Then a friend stopped by with his dog and they ran around the back yard.


They had such fun that I loaded Gabby in the car and headed to their neighborhood so the play date could continue.

There was no need to count sheep last night. We both slept like dogs. Maybe we both need more exercise.

Sisterhood

In the media blitz and subsequent judgement of Elizabeth Edwards' choice to write and speak of her husband's betrayal, an important point was lost in the criticism: women should not do that to other women.I've watched a couple of interviews and I've read an excerpt of the book, Resilience. We can all debate whether she should have left him -- probably not considering her health situation and their young children. We can argue about this possibly being a public flogging of him -- probably so; it is her story to tell.The puzzler (among many) is why would a woman intentionally do this to another woman? If she wanted a meaningless sexual encounter with a public figure, she could've targeted a single man. If she was longing for a husband, hearth and children, why seek that by destroying what another woman has spent decades building and nurturing?
A lot of the content is too sappy for me. The affair part is a stabbing reminder that a man she thought she knew took his clothes off for a woman with no respect for herself or the sisterhood of women.

The Right To Bare Arms

This little twist of phrase was used recently by President Obama in reference to the over-the-top attention to his wife’s frequent preference for going sleeveless. She’s done it for magazine photo shoots, state dinners – even in her official White House portrait.

I say, “Hooray Michelle!”

Many of us grew up hearing things like, “Women over 30 shouldn’t have long hair.” Or, “Bare arms are inappropriate for women of a certain age.”

I respectfully disagree. I still have long hair and I often have bare arms. I think the reason for the bare arm rule was none of those people worked out. Women whose arms resemble Dumbo’s ears should not go sleeveless.

Some women have arms I covet. Kelly Ripa comes to mind. So does Samantha Harris.


I’ll probably spend the rest of my life trying to camouflage my thighs and suck in my stomach. But as long as I keep a standing date with my free weights, I will bare arms.

Mothering

One of my favorite stories is when a girlfriend and her husband told their daughter the facts of life ... the details of how a baby comes into this world. Her response was an incredulous, "You did that for me?!"



This morning in church, the young children handed out carnations to the mothers in the congregation. I hesitated on whether or not to raise my hand.

I did not birth children. Whenever someone asks me if I have children, I always feel a bit like a fraud if I answer "yes." I do, but I share them. I did not go through the normal channels of:

First comes love,
Then comes marriage,
Then comes Sheri pushing a baby carriage.

My minor medical issues could've been overcome. But I also had enough brain cells clicking to ask myself, "Is this really the man you want your children to spend every other weekend with?"

Then I met and married the man I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. His two children became mine. Because I was given that gift. Because I grabbed it and craved it. Because I was taught by example that a mother's love comes from many who mother.

This afternoon I was still reflecting on mother's day, my goddaughters, the many women who have been a blessing to me. I was working myself into a pretty good funk about coulda, woulda, shoulda ...

My phone beeped and I read this text:

"Hi Mom. Happy Mother's Day. I'm at my cousin's graduation and I'll call you later."

Happy Mother's Day to me.

"Children love me. I'm the best mother they never had."
Anonymous

The Color Guard

This is not me or my mother. But, it works. It's a pretty good image of the expression we've both mastered.

I am drawn to colorful people. You know, the kind of people who start a story with:

"Remember that time we were so drunk and then we ..."
"How did it feel when we stuffed you guys in the trunk so we could pay less at the XXX drive-in and then we ..."

I used to wish (Oh please God, just once!) that I could tell her about an adventure gone awry or a risk that didn't pan out. And, she would say, "Oh Honey, everyone has done that. I did that." These wishes came often throughout my teenage years.

Like:
When the high school principal called to report that I was not in school and he suspected I was at the track.

When I rode to Purdue with total strangers to visit my boyfriend. I had my roommate lie for me the entire weekend. His roommate's parents lived across the street from my parents so the secret didn't stay secret for long.

When I was forbidden to get on a motorcycle -- EVER -- and I got on one with a boy. Turned the corner and pulled up next to my mother at a stoplight.

What I didn't get caught doing, I've long since told her the gory details. I don't think I shock her much anymore. Although running my life off into this latest ditch has spiced things up a bit.

She told me the other day that she has no desire to do any irresponsible or reckless things. But she's considering making up a wild-oat-sowing past to make herself sound more interesting.

Trust me on this: No one would buy it.

She is wise and responsible and wonderful. She has a wicked sense of humor and a heart of gold. How she wound up with me is a puzzle that confounds us both.

She did and I'm eternally grateful.

Happy Mother's Day to my mom and to all moms.

"An ounce of mother is worth a ton of priest."
Spanish proverb

Abuse

While I was out of town last week, I started receiving a series of unsettling emails. The instruction was to Google a person's name to get the full details. (If I seem a little vague here, bear with me.) I know and trust the people who were feeding this information and I recognized the name they told me to Google.

This is a true story about abuse, written by someone who does not know all the facts. I know enough.

A man comes home. He has had too much to drink. He is an egomaniac and one of those insufferable men with a God complex. He has probably let his semi-celebrity status fuel his narcissistic tendencies. He and his wife argue.

Like me, she is probably no shrinking violet.

The anger escalates. The threats begin. Of course, an innocent animal is involved.

The official press version from his attorney is "He decided to clean his gun and it accidentally fired."

He shot the dog in the leg and as his wife cradled the poor animal in an attempt to protect it, the bullet went through the dog's leg and along her head.




Her eardrum was blown. She was in the hospital for several days and is now recovering from surgery. The dog also required immediate care.



There is so much abuse in this story I can barely handle it. But let me be up front about this much. This is not an unbiased opinion. This is not an attempt to be fair. This type of story or a similar one is played out every day in every city across this country.

No, I can't be unbiased in telling you this story for one reason.

The woman in this story is my cousin.

A Road Trip

This weekend I drove to Memphis to visit one of my golden friends. Remember this saying:

Make new friends but keep the old. One is silver and the other is gold.

We have been friends since kindergarten so that definitely qualifies.

She and her husband built a gorgeous new home a few years ago and I was privileged to check it out for myself. Descriptive words would not do it justice so I will not even try. The greatest compliment I can give her is that for all of its grandeur and opulence, it feels warm and inviting. It feels like a home.

The trip there (and of course, the trip home) allowed me 8 1/2 hours of alone time. Just me and my brain. It was a fine time for reflective thinking. I beat myself up a bit, made some decisions, walked down memory lane and made some plans. It was therapeutic and time well spent.

Plus it was a lot cheaper than paying a therapist for 17 hours.