SHMILY

I slowly backed out of the driveway, every fiber of my being dreading the drive to Lubbock on that rainy Monday evening in May of 1998. My car was filled to overflowing with everything a 41-year old graduate student might possibly need to survive a summer semester. Everything but that handsome gray-haired guy sadly waving goodbye from the driveway.

As I watched the blurry, fading form of my husband through the rear view mirror, I could not believe that I was leaving my family at a time when all I wanted to do – needed to do - was pull them close and hold them tight.

Just two days prior, I had buried my Daddy. My husband had lost not only his father-in-law, but his surrogate Dad. My sons had said goodbye to the only grandfather they had ever known.

When I realized our battle with Dad’s cancer was nearing the end, I surrendered all intentions of going ahead with grad school. I felt that I needed to be with my family, to grieve with them. Besides, I couldn’t imagine how this heart of mine could endure losing a parent AND pump enough blood to my brain to learn new concepts. The three-year masters program that had once seemed exciting, now loomed ahead like an insurmountable mountain. At least from my forlorn perspective.

Not so much from my family's perspective. Nobody would listen to my sound reasoning for dropping out. All of my excuses were blasted to smithereens. At one point I was even told: “Your Dad would have wanted you to go.” Nah. My Dad never wanted me to do anything that I didn’t want to do. Nevertheless, there I was - driving off in the rain - completely sure I was doing the wrong thing. Or maybe it was the right thing, but definitely the wrong time.

I thought there would be plenty of time to prepare my bachelors-to-be for the separation. Instead of cooking and laundry lessons, our last few weeks had been spent in hospital and hospice rooms. I found myself leaving behind a trio of ill-prepared knuckleheads: The Dickman, who had never done a load of laundry in his life (and considered Campbell’s soup home cooking); 17-year old Lucas, blinded by visions of his senior year; and 14-year old JP, my sensitive one who hated changes and separation. Instead of culinary lessons, I had no other option than to leave handwritten instructions for my hapless guys.

And instructions I did leave. The house was plastered with them: hanging in the laundry room with instructions to NEVER wash colors with whites; taped to the kitchen cabinets outlining recipes for one-skillet meals; notes on the desk listing phone numbers and contact info. Everything my husband and sons needed to know about running our household had been quickly reduced to notes – designed for them, but in reality written to make me feel better. Because even though I was only driving 120 miles away, even though I would be seeing them again in 5 days, we all knew I was going somewhere that would change our lives. I was taking a solitary trip that would impact us all. I remember wishing I loved them less, so leaving them would not have been so painful.

The gloomy weather matched my mood. I soon gave over to it and cried all the way to Lubbock. Not the sweet, silently tragic tears that you see in the movies. I wailed and sobbed and wiped copious amounts of snot away until my nose was nigh to bleeding and my eyes were puffy slits. The only bright spot was that by leaving home at the very last minute, I arrived in the darkness of night. I pulled up to a silent dorm parking lot, praying my secret superhero power of invisibility wouldn't fail me now. I loaded my arms with everything I could carry in one trip. As I ran through the rain towards the girls' dorm (kill me now, Baby Jesus) my pillow fell into a puddle of mud. I kicked that blasted pillow – hard! – stomped it once for good measure, and left it to rot forever in the muck and mire. Finally I made my way into the sanctuary of my tiny dorm room, quietly closed the door…and slumped down on the floor in my own puddle of muck and mire.

**********

This year marks the 10th anniversary of my graduation as a physical therapist. I will forever look back upon those 'school days' as some of the best and worst years of my life. Although I gained a career that I passionately love, and am blessed to have patients that remind me that I am indeed doing exactly what I was born to do...I’m still amazed that we all survived those hard years.

Undoubtedly, the credit goes to my spectacular wealth of family and friends…the ones who lifted me up with their prayers, held me together with their hugs, cheered me on with their love. My three guys who did indeed learn to do laundry without ever reading my notes. Who learned to cook at least well enough to sustain their bodily functions. Who hopefully learned to never ever give up.

It was a collective effort of sacrifice and love and commitment. That is why it was important to find a way to express my love and gratitude when it finally came time to walk across the stage at commencement. I wanted to make a statement...but how?

The evening before the graduation ceremony we were required to attend a meeting on ‘how to graduate’. When I heard the speaker tell us that we were in NO WAY allowed to write anything on our graduation caps…that decorating mortarboards was HIGH SCHOOL TACKY and beneath the DIGNITY befitting a college commencement…my plan was clear.

As the oldest graduate in the TTUHSC PT Class of 2001, I was gonna break the rules and spell out my love in bright red TACKY glitter on the mortarboard of my hat for everyone to see. Dignity be danged. I wanted my message to glitter loud and clear, a message my family would recognize at once: S.H.M.I.L.Y.

♥ SEE HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU ♥

ACID ROCK to ACID REFLUX

Just last week I was somewhere on an Indian reservation in New Mexico shaking my Money Maker at a Paul Revere and the Raiders concert, reliving the music of my youth. And as any Baby Boomer worth his/her salt knows: there is nothing like the music of your youth to make you feel young again…to transport you back to a time when the Realm of Possibilities was not yet a barren wasteland.

I tend to forget on a regular basis just how depleted my Realm has become. I forget I have more years behind me than ahead of me. And I seem to have a hard time remembering I am no longer thirty-something but am *gulp* Over Fifty. With all that forgetfulness, imagine the shock to my psyche whenever I pass by a mirror and catch a startling glimpse of someone older, heavier - yet vaguely familiar – who is wearing my clothes. Imagine how unsettling it is to open my mail and read notices about joint replacement recalls or discounts on burial plots. It’s traumatic enough that for the first time in my life I am older than the POTUS, but even worse…I no longer recognize a single performer on the MTV Music Awards.

Yet, I do not despair. Because I, Rockin Robin of the 70’s, have stumbled upon the secret to everlasting youth: Oldies Concerts.

That’s right. Cheaper than botox, less painful than a facelift and comes with an added bonus: at the innocent age of 54, I’m usually one of the youngest groupies at an Oldies Concert geared to Baby Boomers.

Ahh, Baby Boomers. No other generation has ever been so defined and thoroughly united by their music. Collectively, sometimes painfully, we’ve made the trip from Acid Rock to Acid Reflux (thanks for the line, Mr. Revere). These are my peeps, whose nostalgia for our music knows no bounds.

This was the seventh Oldies Concert I had attended this year…and I could barely contain my excitement. I settled in to my assigned seat and as always, the shock of sitting amid an auditorium full of old people smacked that thirty-something in me right upside the head. I looked around and saw men and women in various stages of aging…wearing thick glasses...sporting receding gray hairlines...sporting no hairlines. To get a better look, I dug into my purse (the Black Hole) for my glasses and caught a glimpse of the Dickman out of the corner of my eye. Reality clicked back into place as I remembered, oh yeah…WE are also gray-headed and WE also wear glasses. Therefore WE belong.

Just about the time the seat beside me filled with a noisy little old lady parking her squeaky walker in the aisle, the theatre lights dimmed, the stage curtain floated up and there they were...a bunch of...uhh...middle-aged guys dressed in spandex and top coats. Led by 73-year old Paul Revere standing tall front and center - masterfully in control of his musical mustang.

When I first heard the Raiders a few years ago, I had the same response I’ve had at every other Oldies Concert. Seeing the senior versions of the rock icons of my youth, the teenager inside my soul could not subdue the knee-jerk reaction of "How dare they get older?!”. But not so anymore. Now I just smile and drink in their beautiousness like a baby waiting to be soothed with a pacifier. I love these guys. They hold in their magically talented hands the very instruments that unleash the fountain of my youth. With the first note of the first chord I am instantly transported through time.

The backbeat of the drums pound through me like some kind of primordial déjà-vu. Almost four decades are peeled away and I swear – if anyone dared to tell me that I was anything but 16 again - I would demand nothing short of carbon dating for proof. As I look around, I realize I am not the only Boomer experiencing de-fossilization. I look at my fellow concert goers and no longer see the receding hairlines and expanded waistlines. Instead, I see a room filled with fellow time travelers enjoying revitalized bodies and kick-started hearts partying their socks off. Even the REALLY old ones wearing support socks! They may dance a bit slower – but with no less commitment.

We’re out of our seats, dancing in the aisles, singing at the top of our lungs to anthems that evoke memories of a simpler time. We’re singing the songs that once blared from the 8-track tape players in our Daddy’s gas-guzzling sedans as we dragged the streets of our hometowns. With the same brain that can’t remember my own cell phone number, I’m recalling every word of the decades-old songs. (Could it be that the reason I can’t remember the important stuff is because I have 54 years of rock lyrics stuck in my head?)

I count it nothing but honor to grow old alongside these proudly aging groupies. Even though we may not be so well preserved, thankfully our music has been. And the old musicians can still rock and roll with all the energy and conviction of their youth.

Act my age? No Way. It’s: Damn the decades and full speed ahead! This wild and crazy hippie chick will keep right on rocking through the years…even when I’m in my rocking chair instead of dancing in the aisles.

Riding on the GETTING OLD Train

Being the realistic idealist that I am, it is not a surprise to discover this new train I'm riding on the way to Getting Old is barreling down dichotomous tracks. While I certainly miss my old brain...I have a growing appreciation for the moments of hilarity that happen along the journey to Getting Old. Seldom a day goes by without an opportunity to laugh at myself. Or even better, to poke fun at the Dickman.

I think it is fair to say that our new favorite recreational activity is to catch each other in the act of Getting Old. I also think it's fair to say I am losing. But only because I prefer quality over quantity.

Last week, I made plans to meet a friend for lunch in Borger. This was a friend that I had not seen since our high school days, but had enjoyed reconnecting with on Facebook. As I was running amok in an effort to get ready, she texted to ask if I would pick her up at the Borger library. I texted back and told her "No problem".

It really would not have been a problem 10 years ago. But because I am Getting Old, I couldn't find my shoes. Clearly, somebody had taken my shoes. With my butt up in the air and my head stuck under my bed, I found myself cursing "whoever took my shoes" with increasing volume. As I ran through the kitchen to answer the phone, I spied my shoes sitting by the back door - exactly where I had left them. Since I was now running late, I hurriedly put on my shoes, jumped in the car and started backing out of the garage...when I realized I didn't have my phone. I had to pull into the garage and go back inside to begin another search.

After spending five minutes tearing my house apart, I gave up and called my cell from the house phone. With great relief, I heard the faint sounds of Gloria Gaynor belting out "I Will Survive" (my ringtone) coming from the garage. I returned to the car and dug my cell phone from the depths of the Black Hole of my purse just as Gloria shouted out her last, "hey, hey".

Finally. I was on my way.

Here is where the dichotomy comes in: while the idealistic side of me wanted to be pleased about finding my lost items and glad I wouldn't have to murder whoever took them, the realistic side of me was frustrated about being an absentminded putz that can NEVER manage to get anywhere on time with everything intact. As I pulled into Borger both selves suddenly realized --- not only was I fifteen minutes late, but I didn't have a clue about how to get to the library. Once again, I dug my cell phone out of the Black Hole and called the Dickman.

I swear this was our exact conversation:

ME: WHERE in Borger is the library?

DICK: (silence--loooong silence)

ME: Is it on Weatherly Street? WHERE in Borger is Weatherly Street?

DICK: Shoot, Robin. I was in the 3rd grade the last time I set foot in that library. I remember, because I checked out "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer" and never returned the book. So even if I did know where the library is, I could never go back there. I'm a wanted man with a bazillion dollar library fine.

ME: How can it be that we grew up in Borger, graduated from Borger High, were married and had two sons in Borger, and neither of us know where the freaking library is? That is SO embarrassing. I CAN'T tell my friend I don't know how to get to the Borger library. I haven't seen her since high school. I don't want her to know how stoopid I really am.

DICK: I've got it! You can call OnStar and ask for directions. They already know how stoopid you are. And hey - make sure you don't tell anybody at the library where to find me.

***
I only had to wait a few days until an opportunity to get even with him presented itself. And of course, I took it.

***
We arrived in Ruidosa on Saturday with barely enough time to check in at the hotel and get Dickie to the golf course for his tee time. The Dickman - who is never late - was flustered and rushed. He unloaded his golf clubs and frantically began searching through the pockets of his golf bag.

"Whaddya looking for?" I asked.

"My good pair of sunglasses...I don't like the ones I'm wearing. Oh well."

I took one good look at him and said, "Uh...I know you're in a hurry, but I really want to take a golfing picture before you go."

I knew his harried self would oblige. The Dickman loves having his picture taken...

"My memory’s not as sharp as it used to be. Also, my memory’s not as sharp as it used to be."










`

...if you're YOUNG AT HEART

Don’t get me wrong…I’m a total sucker for a good love story. But with all the sadness going on in the world, I just couldn’t seem to stir up any enthusiasm for The Royal Wedding. Oh, sure, I wished nothing but happiness for the handsome young prince and his beautiful bride-to-be, but only in a benevolently offhanded kind of way. And I wasn’t alone. I found my sense of apathy to be widely shared by most other members of my generation.

It’s not surprising that we had all grown a bit cynical since the last time the royals threw a wedding. In 1981, I didn’t miss a single moment of the pomp and circumstance that heralded the nuptials of Prince Charles and Lady Diana. My eyes came near to popping out of my rose-colored glasses as I watched the lovely Lady become a beautiful Princess. But in the intervening years since that ill-fated union, my rose-colored glasses had been misplaced. I had, in fact, come to the same conclusion as every other starry-eyed young lady of my generation:

Fairytale weddings might be real, but there is no such thing as a fairytale marriage.

Try telling that to young hearts; nah, you can't tell them anything. They don't listen to reason. And young hearts won't be bothered with worries about the infinite obstacles waiting to trip them up along the path to ‘happily ever after’...not when they are focused on fluffy white dresses and fondant covered cakes. There has never been a blushing bride who could possibly imagine how much there is to be done after she says ‘I do’. But indeed, life does happen. And much too soon after the top comes off the wedding cake, the fairy tale bride and her tuxedoed groom are forced to return to flesh and blood mortals. And we all know how messy mere mortals can be.

We quickly learn that wedded bliss hardly ever begins in a mortgage-free castle, but instead resides in a drafty apartment or a house filled with dust balls and a toilet that requires constant handle-jiggling. Before we know it, we find ourselves painfully giving birth to stretch marks and squealing babies who poop in their diapers, never sleep when we want them to, and generally wreak havoc on our routines. It’s all we can do to keep up...as those babies become children who pick their noses, skin their knees and bring notes home from school informing you of their bad behavior. Behavior obviously inherited from their Dad, the Handsome Prince. Who - by the way - now snores like a buzz saw, steals the covers and squeezes toothpaste from the wrong end of the tube. Hurrumph...

We no more begin adjusting to these annoyances before we start to wonder if our belief in ‘happily ever after’ has become nothing more than a lovely idea that has somehow been tossed into the same box as our fancy lingerie. The box that is awaiting donation to a women’s shelter.

The point is...even though your prince may have lost some of his charm, you still love him madly. Even so, you can’t help but wonder how your fairy tale wedding morphed into a marriage that has now become a crazed dance of coming together and pulling apart and twirling around and stepping on toes in a flurry of frenzy and breathless emotion all intertwined with love. The only constant through all the years is love.

So, there I was Friday morning…stumbling out of bed, donning my robe of diminished expectations as I begrudgingly tuned in to The Wedding. And there they were…smiling out at me in all their regal glory. The oh-so-handsome prince and his newly wedded bride. My heart began to melt as I saw Prince William now standing on the very same balcony where his mother had stood thirty years ago. The royal progeny of a marriage that had begun as a fairy tale and ended in such tragedy, stood smiling on that balcony with his heart every bit as full of hope, his eyes shining just as brightly with love. And as I watched him lean down to kiss his shiny new duchess, I couldn’t help but smile at the scene before me, once more filled with inspiration to believe in fairy tale endings.

Because what is more inspiring than a young couple in love? And what emotional act of faith is greater than pledging your life to another till death do you part? In a world full of tragedy and sorrow…what better reminder of what we were put here for - to love each other in spite of our differences; in spite of the pain our selfishness causes one another; in spite of those times when staying together seems more an act of willpower than of love. To hold fast to the promise to love each other no matter what.To always remember to stay young at heart and to never ever give up on a happily ever after…

BIRTHDAY TRIALS & APHORISMS

I took a step back from my strawberry birthday cake to admire the silly words I had written in blue squeeze icing.

For the record, I try to never toot my own horn OR decorate my own cake. But this year my birthday happened to fall on Easter, and in our family any holiday is an excuse for a party.

So, when I saw the misspelled word, I had to laugh.

Because, yes indeedy, birfdays can sometimes be a trial. But they are special days that are always worthy of celebration and acknowledgement.

And when all the cards have been re-read and all the guests have gone...it's always good to sit back with a big ol' piece of leftover cake and reflect on the many lessons life has beat into my hard, hard head.

Here's a few of my favorites; okay...more than a few. There are exactly 54, one for each of the more-than-a-few years of my life:

1. JesuslovesmethisIknow.

2. Never go to sleep with chewing gum in your mouth.

3. The only normal people are the ones you don't know very well ~ Alfred Adler

4. You will ALWAYS run into someone you know when you try to sneak into Walgreen’s wearing stained sweats and no makeup.

5. You should never roll down a hill in a cardboard barrel.

6. If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bull ~ W.C. Fields

7. When a guy says ‘pull my finger’…don’t do it.

8. A deal's a deal.

9. Don’t cry over anything that can’t cry over you.

10. Time is relative. Sleeping for five minutes after hitting the snooze button goes waaaay faster than sitting for five minutes in the gynecologist’s office with your feet in the stirrups.

11. If it has tires or testicles, you're going to have trouble with it ~ Linda Furney

12. Hell hath no fury like a mad Mama.

13. If you tell your husband you dented the car then flash your boobs, he won’t get nearly as upset.

14. You really are exactly as happy as you make your mind up to be.

15. It is possible to cram your way through grad school. But not
recommended.

16. Never try to explain the stains on your lab book to someone who has never taken Gross Anatomy.

17. People who were hurt as children need lots more hugs as adults.

18. You can imply a lot with a well-placed ellipsis…

19. Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end ~ Paolo Coelho

20. A mother’s love can’t heal everything.

21. You should never do aerobics in a push-up bra.

22. An hour spent in a hot bath with a good book can change your perspective.

23. Political Correctness is for pussies.

24. Never laugh at a naked man --- unless you’re absolutely SURE he’s trying to be funny.

25. Nothing makes you feel as young as slow dancing in the arms of your high school sweetheart to the music of your youth.

26. There is nothing more humbling than watching the sun set over the ocean.

27. Never pass up an opportunity to pee.

28. It's true: when one door closes, another opens. But those hallways sure can be a beeyotch.

29. I’ve found that all people really care about holding onto when they leave this earth is the hand of someone they love.

30. Having grandbabies is like love on crack.

31. Being kind is more important than being right.

32. Don’t mistake religion for spirituality.

33. Never take for granted the wisdom of someone older than you.

34. Family is everything. Friends are next to everything.

35. Whatever doesn’t kill you – or hurt your knees – makes you stronger.

36. Whether things are really good or really bad…they will eventually change.

37. All it takes is all you’ve got.

38. Rest assured that at any given moment in time there will always be
somebody somewhere that does not have their sh*t together, either.

39. Everyone I’ve ever met is better than me at something.

40. Menopause is not for sissies. Or for sissy husbands.

41. I would rather be wise than intelligent.

42. There is nothing more magical than watching your grandbaby fall asleep in your arms.

43. It is sometimes easier to ask forgiveness than permission.

44. Never offer up a defense with an apology.

45. Serenity is an inside job.

46. A stroke patient once taught me the difference between a victim and a survivor. It's all in the attitude.

47. I believe there are angels among us. In fact, mine is big and hairy and smells like Old Spice.

48. Moderation in everything. Especially brussel sprouts.

49. You are tougher than you think.

50. Never trust anybody who thinks they know everything. Or who starts a sentence with "Trust me...".

51. When I’m waiting for a storm to pass you probably won’t find me dancing in the rain. But you will find me standing underneath an umbrella.

52. You teach people how to treat you.

53. It's harder to fly when people keep tugging on your cape.

54. God will always give me what – and who – I need.

And because I hope to never stop learning...here's one to grow on:

55. Every day is a school day. Sometimes I’m the student and sometimes I’m the teacher.

We Are FAM-I-LY...

Our pest control guy called Saturday morning to tell us he was on his way, which of course was my cue to run around the house like a crazy woman...moving piles of crap from one room to another.

Now ordinarily, I would not have bothered to clean up the clutter in anticipation of bug killing, but this bug killer just happened to be related to me. In other words, he already knows that I'm crazy, so I couldn't very well let him know that I'm both crazy and messy.

As my first-cousin-once-removed removed my pesky roly-polys, it once again occurred to me just how blessed I am to have landed in The Best Family Ever. Not the sanest, nor the most functional, but absolutely the best! I especially love that there are so many of us - with a couple more waiting to join the fun, even as I write. In fact, little acorns fall off our family tree at such a rapid rate that we should ALL be wearing protective gear :o)

Our big, boisterous, beautiful extended family is living proof that there is strength in numbers. Irregardless of our varied levels of dysfunction, at any given time there is at least ONE of us doing something right. Which means even though Cousin Joe might be in the pokey for a DWI and Aunt Beth has run off again to join the circus...we can always find someone to brag about.

Truth is, we would make for a very lively and entertaining reality TV series...falling in a category somewhere between The Cleavers and The Osbournes. Probably more along the lines of the Grizwolds.

Those of us that share common ancestors, share them proudly. But ancestors only provide the initial connection...love and life and marriage provide a connection just as strong. In laws, outlaws, halfs, steps, by birth, adoption or marriage...once you connect with ONE of us, you connect with ALL of us. We've even learned to embrace the (thankfully few) mixed marriages. In our family, a mixed marriage means somebody went and married an uninformed, unenlightened soul who does not root for the Rangers or the Cowboys, thereby proving that craziness in our family is not just, well...relative.

But the biggest perk of belonging to the special-est of families, is that we are literally surrounded by specialists. How lucky am I that at any given moment I can reach out and touch a family connection who can help me through just about any situation? We've got an Optometrist and an Optician; an Exercise Physiologist and a Physical Therapist; an Accountant, an Investment Specialist - or if it's too late - a Foreclosure Expert. We have a Draftsman who can draw up plans for a home, a Contractor who can build the home, a couple of Insurance Providers who can insure the home, a Carpenter who can fill the home with lovely handmade furniture, a Seamstress who can cover the windows, and Interior Decorators to pull it all together with a pop of color.

We have access to Nurses, Nutritionists, one and one-third Pharmacists and a Cardiologist-in-law. There is a Birthing Coach who can deliver our babies right in our own homes, Teachers to teach those babies how to read and write, Athletic Coaches to teach them how to run, throw and wrestle, and a couple of Preachers who can marry us with joy...or bury us with love.

Amongst our ranks you'll find Artists, Writers, Musicians, Singers, Comedians and Public Speakers. I can seek advice from experts and specialists in the fields of Computer Programming, Web Design, Management, Marketing and Business Administration...as well as several Expert Hunters and Master Baiters. And at the end of the day...we can call our very own Massage Therapist to make all the knots go away...or a Life Coach to make all the 'Nots' go away.

And now my very own Bug Zapper. Sigh.

It goes without saying that I am blessed. Even so, I say it as often as possible. I am blessed.

And not just because my roly polys are gone...

A. Hot. Mess.

As I stumbled into the kitchen this morning with mascara smudges beneath my eyes, hair all over the place and my t-shirt smelling of last night's buttered popcorn...I was greeted by the obnoxiously smiling face of my handsome husband as he sweetly presented me with a breakfast tray of hot tea and scrambled eggs.

"Why?" I whined. "Why are you so nice to me - I'm such a mess." And in true Billy Joel fashion he replied, "I love you just the way you are". Now, I'm pretty sure Billy never intended for his song lyrics to be abused in such a way, seeing as how those words were written about the always perfect Christie Brinkley. That wench probably doesn't even eat buttered popcorn.

As for the Dickman, I really think the man is crazy for putting up with me. Him with his OCD and me with my 'Oh What the Heck'. We both find it hilarious when we come across people who actually think I have my crap together. Because seriously, I haven't had my crap together...in years.

I'm not exactly sure when the bottom of my pathetic box of organizational skills dropped out like an overloaded flimsy paper plate. Although I have always had a penchant for procrastination, it seems my descent into disorganization progressed rapidly in direct correlation to my never-ending trek into the wretched Valley of Menopause. Well, that and the fact that I have pickled my brain with mass consumption of Diet DP.

This lack of having my sh*t together has never really bothered me until lately. Lately, my tiny 4-year old powerhouse of a G-girl has begun to notice "things". And in all her well-meaning diligence, she never hesitates to point them out to me. Or anyone else within earshot.

Last night it was my legs, and the fact that I hadn't shaved them since my cruise in January. I really didn't think anyone would notice the sparse hairs showing below my capris. Silly me. How could I have forgotten Mandie Lee the Nazi Inspector? She not only noticed, she became thoroughly engrossed in watching the very few and fine hairs blowing hither and fro in the wind like brownish stalks of hay.

So, I did what any self-respecting G-Mom would do. I went straight home and shaved. (Out of the mouths of babes and all that crap.) When I put my reading glasses on so I wouldn't mutilate myself with the razor, I was amazed to find a 3/4-inch long hair growing right below my knee. I became fascinated with this long and lonely dark straggle of hair. I took pity upon that hair and decided to keep it for awhile. As a, uh, scientific study...to see how long it will actually grow. The hope here is that it will eventually grow long enough for me to string brightly colored beads on it and let it hang down my leg. Thereby distracting Mandie Lee from the fact that my second toe is freakishly longer than my big toe.

It's not that I'm scared of her (okay, she scares me a little). It's mainly that I want her to be a bit older before she realizes just what a hot mess her MiMi really is.

Now, please excuse me while I go from room to room collecting last year's receipts to begin working on my taxes. I was so hoping the government shutdown would buy me a few more days...