In the end, the love you make ...

When I die -- and I'm not planning on it since I'm real busy right now -- I want a woman in charge of the funeral.

Al Neuharth and Mildred Lawrence have made me think about our traditions of burying the dead. And I found myself asking: why?

Al is the founder of USA Today and wrote about funerals in his column this week. Mildred is a founder of the Town and Country Garden Club in Laurel, and she was in her own funeral recently.

So, in thinking about the social event that finishes out my life, I have strong feelings. Maybe everybody does.

First of all, I don't expect it to be a party. Grief is cleansing and healing. Remembering can be inspiring and fulfilling. I don't want to shortchange my funeral guests.

When I go to a funeral, I want to grieve. Especially when I truly loved the aunt or grandmother or -- God forbid -- teenager in the casket.

A funeral is one of the few times we allow ourselves to hurt deeply, hold one another's hands, feel the jagged scraping in our souls.

So please, I say to my mistress of ceremonies: let them cry.

Second, I don't want people to be bored and uncomfortable. So totally ditch the funeral parlor and the long sermon. Long lines, guest books with attached pens, tiny rooms crammed with flowers. Platitudes ("she's in a better place") and euphemisms ("passed away"). Bleck!

It can be at my house -- or if I live in one of those assisted living places -- just do it at a barn or someplace relaxed.

No preaching. Just stories and prayers and praise songs.

My guests don't have to dress up either. They can if they want to. They can wear a hand-painted silk top in fuschia and golds with their straight-legged jeans for all I care. I might wear that myself.

I hope my friends will speak through their tears about the richness of life and my efforts to get it right. I hope they will share in my passions and make fun of my faults. I pray that, looking back over my life, it won't be about collecting seashells or paintings or furniture or fashion, but about walking alongside people and truly living with them.

I love how Mildred insisted on a cocktail party at the Country Club after her memorial service. So maybe we'll finish up with a great meal and a laid-back band.

The deceased is always the star of the show, so she gets her name in the paper. She gets to pick how things are done -- just like oh-so-many years ago at the wedding.

Too bad she won't be there to dance.

Potential emcees for the final social event

Won't take nothin' but a memory

I'm not one to live in the past. Heck, I don't even visit very often.

But sometimes you find yourself in the neighborhood ... and you just have to stop and pay your respects.

Like when Kate was driving through a sketchy part of Jackson and realized she was near the cemetery and her mom's grave. Getting out of the car felt too raw and jagged, so she just slowed down ... and maybe let a butterfly of a thought rest on her mind.

I took a little backwards trip recently while passing University Hospital in Jackson. That particular trip was not a butterfly memory at all, but a big, fat, pain-filled hornet. Post traumatic stress is a real thing. I had to pull over and open the car door because I thought, "Seriously? I am going to vomit."

I don't wanna dwell there. Not in that past. Forever on the bathroom floor with a cold rag on my forehead.

But the richness of old neighborhood memories -- bike riding, short cutting through friend yards, the Blue Bees club (a secret artistic society for girls) -- those are places you might want to go back to occasionally.

Places like Hattiesburg High School, where there are lots more bars and fences now -- but the fighting Tiger mascot is still attached to the bricks.

Or the now-filled-in Jaycee pool, where they would fish you out with a big hook during a terrifying swimming lesson.

Or the Teen Center, which could also be terrifying.

Back to the days of I C H (Independent Chicks of Hattiesburg) and the Debutante Association.

Be forewarned: visiting the past in person doesn't look a lot like the memory. It's all tiny now, and campy and drab, really.

But the mind can re-play it as rich and colorful and oh-so-vivid. Just like it used to be.

300 Dixie Avenue today

"The House that Built Me"

Tricia and Forrest at an ICH dance: Circa Seventh Grade

Scott and Kent senior year:

to make you sing Kenny Chesney's "I Wanna Go Back"

Get Crunk

I asked God NOT to give me a boy child. I promise I did.

I know it was wrong. I know you should be happy with whatever you get from God: good, bad, sickness, health, rich, poor.

But instead, out of my limited knowledge, I prayed for daughters. And God obliged... for a while. Then he gave me Russ.

I thought, at first, Russ might be God's punishment for my girl request.
He kind of showed up at my house one day, like a stray cat (sorry Russ). And he didn't leave.

I would come in from grocery shopping and he would be there taking phone calls, checking his email, asking me what we were having for dinner. He borrowed tennis shorts and shoes when he needed them. He ate what he wanted. He showered. He napped.

He introduced us to all kinds of crazy words and sayings that remain in our vocabulary:
"GET CRUNK!" (when you really just needed peace and quiet)
"Oh, that's nastificrocious!" (when finding some rancid leftover in the fridge)
"Hello, this is Shakiki." (when answering our house phone)

Dang, I miss that guy.

If you were assigning categories, he certainly wouldn't fit in mine. He has done numerous things I have not had the pleasure -- or the horror -- of doing. A few of the least dangerous:
eating an entire habanero pepper in exchange for $10,
climbing the water tower on 84 East,
irritating gang members in Heidelberg,
flying airplanes,
playing in the state soccer championship in a thunderstorm.

Russ has moved on, but I doubt he will ever grow up (please, no) or be far from our hearts.

Russ is on my top ten list of good people favorites and all-time best friends.
He's the kind of person you would pick to spend your birthday with or take on a trip to the mountains because he's so... much.... fun.

And Russ is the metaphor -- the living picture -- of a blessing you would miss if God only gave you what you asked for.

Congratulations, today is your day

Twenty five years ago today the Tooth Fairy, Little Mermaid, Rapunzel and Glenda the Good Witch got together to sprinkle a little fairy dust down on the delivery suite of South Central Regional Hospital.

There, not one, but TWO unsuspecting moms were laboring away, unaware of the floating enchantment. So the magical mavens doubled their potent gifts, bestowing them on both of the newborns.

Ariel and Glenda bestowed the gift of song and an inordinate love of dressing up,

dressing down

and dressing in costume.

Rapunzel threw in a bucket of tears for frequent use as well as a strong desire for escape.

The Tooth Fairy contributed her love for adventure and traipsing around late at night.

Thank goodness there were some hefty guardian angels assigned to supervise the results.

Both new moms named their little fairy princesses for strong women in their families to give them courage to face the days ahead.

Days of Disneyworld and disco nights

of crushing heartbreaks and captivating romance

of drama and music

of pain and sickness

of super accomplishments and sad discouragements

and, all the while,

love, love, love, love, love.

As you celebrate 25 years ladies, blow lots of fairy dust kisses around.

We can all use a little magic.

Sara-Claire Lightsey

Mary Katherine McKelroy

Born October 8, 1985

All dogs go to heaven

Our friend Mary Parker is disturbed -- and rightfully so -- because some religious authority told her there will be no dogs in paradise. She is reconsidering her plan to go there when she dies.

In all seriousness, sweet M.P., for a animal-lovers like me and you, that is a hard thing to hear. Surely "you can't take it with you" does not apply to our beloved Toby, Hershey, Eli and Sadie. The satanic, psycho-cat? Well, he made his own choice.

If good works got you into heaven, then Toby would be first and the psycho cat would be last.

Toby, a cream-colored labradoodle who dog-smiles while doing tricks for treats, visited at the hospital in Hattiesburg yesterday. And in so doing, went pro with his hobby of standing beside the road and being a friend to man.

It was a glorious day as Toby, red bandana flying, visited first floor, rehab, the oncology wing and pediatrics. Between elevator rides, he made friends and influenced people.

A precious 12-year-old surgery patient smiled through her pain as she gave Toby a treat. A one-year-old stared in awe as he watched Toby's majestic lumbering. An elderly man called Toby over to his wheelchair: "This is my dog," he said. "I raised him from a pup." Who were we to argue? All we could say was: "You did a great job!"

The nurses welcomed Toby and the patients begged him to come back soon. One doctor inquired about Toby while boarding the elevator. "He is here to meet patients and let them pet him," Toby's people explained.

Sounds like a great line of work for a dog.

Toby can't deny that. Though he knows works don't get you into heaven, he puts his hope in a higher power.

And with the love of God in his heart, he keeps on workin' for the kingdom.

Put on your red dress mama

Win or lose, there was some pretty fun game-playing on Saturday. Most of it not on the football field.

Way up north at THE University of Mississippi there was a party going on in the Grove. And, thanks to fashion directives from Coach Houston Nutt, we were seeing red.

Typically, Ole Miss is a place where we don't really dress in team colors... nothing obnoxious like those purple and gold scrubs I've seen my neighbor wearing in support of the LSU Tigers. But Coach Nutt asked the fans to wear red, so lots of fans rallied.

The Grove is a place to see and be seen, to perspire moderately and fan heartily. It is the place where we dig our manicured nails into tradition and stubbornly cling to Col. Reb, even if he's NOT an officially sanctioned school mascot. (Come on! Who wants their picture made with "muppet-like" characters Hotty and Toddy? Puh-leeze!)

At Ole Miss, we wear our dresses and high heels on game day and wonder why the rest of the country marvels -- and hates us for it. It's all part of the game: brownies and chicken strips, tabletop televisions, overworked lawn chairs, over-told tall tales and, occasionally, a fabulous little red dress.

You better shop around

Guys are always talking about learning life lessons on the football field. Pshaw, I say. The place you REALLY learn is at the outlet mall or the boutique or the fabric store ... at Dirt Cheap or T.J. Maxx.

Know what I'm talkin' about?

These are the shopping skills to live by:

examine the advertisements,

know what's real quality,

seek out a bargain,

get what you really need,

count the cost.

And here's where the shopping advice gets its best use ... shopping for a mate.

Coach Barlow was telling me the other night that, during the 70s, most every student came from two-parent homes. I lived the 70s. I had not one friend whose parents were divorced. It was another time and another place.

Today, in this place, my favorite people in the world are divorced. I could name them and put them in the top ten. I love them and the pain that has made them who they are.

I've been through hell with them and, like Winston Churchill said, "when you're going through hell, you just have to keep going."

If you want to see that hell live and in color watch "Sixteen and Pregnant." The tears and the trauma are gut-wrenching. There are joys, of course, along with the terribly difficult stuff.

But for the grace of God, I'd have been there...or my daughters.

So I ask my precious 16-year-old friends.

Will you look for flaws and cracks that weren't repaired? (Everybody has some, but some are deal-breakers.) Will you exhaust every shopping place until you are struck by the beauty of the perfect thing? Will you get the most for your money, or will you settle?

Most important, will you only buy the thing you cannot live without?

Because, in shopping for a boyfriend or girlfriend -- a husband or a wife, you need to follow the advice of that renowned philosopher, Smokey Robinson:

Gotta get yourself a bargain
Don't you be sold on the very first one
good-lookin' guys (or pretty girls) come a dime a dozen
try to find one who's gonna give ya true lovin'

True Lovin' ... now that's a priceless thing. Take your time shopping for it.

I don't want to be a raisin

My good friend Jon is "Alice in Wonderland."

She can't help it. She's beautiful and always feminine and amazed and excited. "Alice" fits perfectly on her name tag.

But when the name was bestowed, it didn't sound so adorable to her.

"Alice in Wonderland" labeled her as lost and unaware and living in a fairytale. The name hurt in the way words can always hurt you ... even if they never break your bones.

Several of my friends told of other sticky names that were clinging -- unwelcome -- to their hearts: Fatty, Jerk, Stuck-up, Liar, Irresponsible.

Just to name a few.

"Julius, the Baby of the World," could be my all-time favorite kid book. In the book, Julius's parents goo and coo over him, but his feisty sister, Lily, calls him "a raisin" and says "a raisin tastes like dirt."

We, like baby Julius, don't want to be a raisin OR taste like dirt.

If you listen to the names other people give you, you will be crippled and handicapped. Take those to heart? You'll never feel good about yourself. You will always be insecure. You will hear voices -- those seventh-grade girls whispering: "high waters" or "greasy head" or "loser with a big L."

My friends had to get some new names.

A little bit of looking revealed some welcome name tags written by the God of the Universe.

Some of our favorites:

Friend of God

Better than an Angel

Expensive

Brand New

Powerful in God

Wise Person

Extra-terrestrial

And here's one for Jon:

"Straight-up Royalty."

But please, your highness, just every now and then, can we call you "Alice"?

Would you just sit still?

Solitude: A good place to visit but a poor place to stay -- Josh Billings

My little brother made me a fan of peace and quiet. He's no longer little, but he's still loud.

After thirty years of living apart from him, I still love a little solitude.

A quiet hotel room. An early morning run in a place where nobody knows me. No television. Nobody to suggest we go somewhere. No housekeeping tasks waiting.

Luxury.

My friend John says that most people who love a dinner party or an action-packed girl trip or a roomful of noisy teen-agers are truly introverts. Introverts, by his definition, are those who refuel by being alone.

Okay. Then I am one of them there introverts.

Sudoku, books, prayer, silence, tea, coffee. What a great way to refuel.

Of course I wouldn't want to live in the house of solitude, hoarding papers and bits of broken machinery and antique memorabilia like Homer and Langley - as fascinating as they are. (Read the book, you'll see.) That's a different kind of solitude -- based on fear and anxiety and mental illness.

But life is often full of blaring music,

beeping oven timers,

frantic car rides,

misunderstood communication,

tearful phone calls,

tough choices,

midnight worries

and migraine headaches.

Know the feeling?

Pour yourself some solitude. Just like the slogan on the Holiday Inn Express key card, you'll find yourself saying ..... Ahhh.

Peace and quiet at the Gholson house? Not so much ... but that's a good thing!

Mi Casa es Su Casa

I love a party and the best way to make the party last is to have a house guest. A "house guest" is usually someone who sleeps in a perfectly made bed and drinks coffee from a silver urn.

Sadly, at our house, that's not how it works.

If you stay here -- and we want you to -- it's more of an extended sleep-over. You make your own coffee, scrounge around for an extra pillow, put up with the dog's bad breath. And, of course, you watch Jeopardy with us.

Our current house guest is adjusting to our merciless criticism of the awkward Jeopardy contestant geeks. She wisely ignores the bickering and pouting when the dad refuses to phrase his answer in the form of a question.

For a house guest, it's best to just sit silently and not take sides.

Tonight our current sleep-over girl, Lynn, got some Jeopardy answers in ahead of the more obnoxious contestants on the sofa. Rachel Beth and I kicked butt in the kiddy lit category. In the category of foreign country leaders? not so much.

Lynn has only been here a week, but before Lynn there was Aunt Rachel. I believe that sleep-over lasted about a year. Aunt Rachel became accustomed to -- even slightly dependent on -- her daily dose of Jeopardy.

Before Aunt Rachel, there was the delightful Richardson LaBruce, a law clerk who conversed eloquently under the back porch fans and occasionally watched Jeopardy.

The Perrys lived with us several months after Hurricane Katrina left an oak tree in the center of their kitchen. But, sadly, they were not Jeopardy fans. We even had trouble getting them to use our washing machine. Still, they stayed long enough to have the outside game room named in their honor. It will be forever known as The Perry Suite.

Anybody who drops over and spends the night makes our lives a little richer. So we leave the light on for them.

And they get to make their own coffee.

Kitty Perry has the game room named in her honor.

Richardson, and his lovely bride, Jean.

Aunt Rachel, our fashionista house guest!

Drilled in the art of play

If they're looking for a few good men, they got at least one. And crazy good.

The National Guard may not know it, but this kid they are sending to Afghanistan has incredible skills.

At the age of 16 or so, he jumped off my roof --repeatedly -- onto my trampoline.

A few weeks later he built a ramp for skates during the middle of a kid skating party and showed off his roller gymnastics.

And then there was the time he loaded himself into a grocery cart and went careening -- on purpose -- down the asphalt into a row of boxwoods.

Skim boarding? barefoot skiing? piece of cake.

Once, during a tennis match, I saw him run halfway up the chain link fence to return a tennis shot -- while wearing tennis shoes with the tops cut out.

And there was the time we were vacationing in Colorado and he showed up at the base of the mountain, "borrowed" my skis, boots and lift tickets, and hopped the lift. Five minutes downhill, he found the pro ski jump practice area and launched -- looking comfy in his too-small ski boots as he sailed through the mountain air.

I've seen him dance across a roof at World Changers and watched him, red soccer cleats spinning, dribble past opponents on the soccer field.

I love this guy, but he scares me to death!

This past Wednesday, this grown-up Lt. Satcher stood with his 184th transportation division at Temple Baptist Church in Hattiesburg for the official send-off. Today he goes to Ft. Hood for training, then on to scary Afghanistan.

He leaves behind his sweet wife, adorable baby and the rest of us who, jaws dropped, feared long ago he would kill himself on a scooter, a four-wheeler, a motorbike, a boat or just a pair of cut-out tennis shoes.

Godspeed Josh. Do not be afraid. Do not be discouraged. For the Lord your God will go with you wherever you go. And yes, He's been working overtime.

Baby Andi fell asleep during the send-off for her daddy.

I don't wanna be conformed!

I hate sameness -- buying the same, wearing the same, doing the same.

So, of course, I hate uniforms. Uniforms are a twisted form of control. They are like the window locks on cars that prevent passengers from getting fresh air without the permission of the driver.

For me, uniforms -- or even dress codes -- trigger an irrational frenzy in a heart that is usually peaceful.

When I was in the sixth grade, my grandma Tressie made me a maxi dress. It was yellow striped and oh-so-fundamentalist looking. But wearing it, I saw myself as a free spirit, running through fields of clover in slow motion while "Come Together" played. It was the furthest thing from sexy and it may have been "distracting" in its ugliness.

Still, I was incensed when my teacher sent me home to change clothes. My GRANDMOTHER had made this dress for me. I wasn't chewing gum or getting to school late or disobeying any of her impossibly rigid rules. I could have worn hot pants, which were also all the rage in the 70s. But no. I was sporting the pioneer wife look.

Nowadays, the uni is the upscale trend. When our town's public school switched seven years ago, my then-senior-high daughter did her dying roach routine: "I will NOT, I can NOT. It denies freedom of expression. It stifles my spirit. It's boring and ugly." I could only agree.

In contrast, or maybe resignation, my youngest daughter wears a uniform to school every day with barely a complaint.

Here's what educators say about uniforms:

They are the great levelizers -- stripping kids of status or wealth.

They promote a sense of belonging, taking the place of gang regalia.

They improve test scores.

To that I say: bull malarkey.

Here's what moms say about uniforms:

They make it easy to get dressed in the morning.

And who wants to trade that for a large dose of freedom of expression?

Freedom of expression circa 1973

Scary freedom of expression circa 2010: a case for uniforms!

A cheerful heart does good like medicine

Every now and then God makes a bright person. I'm not talking about somebody smart, or excessively pale and shiny -- just the kind of person who makes a day, or even a moment, better.

Bernard is "bright." So is Roland.

I ran into Bernard at the Corner Market this morning. Five minutes later, I left feeling good. A rare handful of people have the same effect and I've been trying to figure out why. I really don't think it's intentional or planned. It's just their nature.

Take Roland:

He's not a big talker. In fact, the day this picture was made he was talking only into his bananaphone because he lost a bet. (Teen-agers do the darndest things!)

Roland puts these fancy middle names for himself on his Facebook page, so we'll know what he's really like. Today his name is: Roland "Prettyboiswaggin" Jones. Translation: Roland is adorable and cocky today.

I know it's a black teenage thing -- this middle naming yourself. But don't think other races or ages don't do it. What about "the honorable" in front of judges' or lawyers' names? (even those who are not so honorable.) And lots of people clue you in with their t shirts or bumper stickers, as in: "I'm with Stupid" or "Antique Person."

Just as a warning, I came up with a few middle names for myself.

Melinda "a little out there"

Melinda "left my dress in the fridge"

Melinda "Mom of the World"

Melinda "too hot for the hot tub"

If you try this at home, remember your middle name does not have to be accurate. The more grandiose, the better.

Of course changing the middle name to reflect the mood or circumstance could become exhausting.

Unless you're forever making people's day. Then you can post your middle name permanently, like Bernard or Roland -- "day brightener."

Jumper Cables for Your Brain

Every day you learn something.

Using what you learn -- or even remembering it -- now that's a different subject.

The term for the day is "potentiation." It's a brain science word, part of a high school summer studies course. I am not a high school student, a brain scientist or even the least bit science-savvy. But sometimes moms get called on for tasks outside the comfort zone.

After studying Wikipedia, here's what I think about "potentiation": It means powering up inside your brain. That makes sense. Potent means strong. Omnipotent means all-powerful. Impotent means weak or useless, lacking power.

This "powering up" can happen when drugs add power to the nerve connections -- weed smoking or ecstacy can take you there.

But the cool thing is that "powering up" happens at other times: when you are excruciatingly happy, or exhaustingly sad. When you are horribly embarassed or irrationally frightened.

Emotions power up the nerve endings in your brain and make things unforgettable.

I remember the turqouise color of the vinyl hospital bench from 15 years ago. I was napping there, my cheek stuck to the vinyl, when Dr. Fitzwater came in to give me my child's diagnosis -- kidney failure. I remember the resident standing beside him, the way my husband nudged me and even the words "you might want to hear this." I remember the shape of the room and the way my mind started racing frantically. I remember the nurse interrupting to say my mother-in-law was calling.

I remember Christmas morning from 45 years ago at my grandmother's house. The presents, a Chatty Cathy doll and a Dr. Kildare medical kit, were positioned on the deacon's bench underneath the picture window.

I don't remember football plays or baseball scores. No emotion -- or even pain, I guess -- in that.

I definitely don't remember phone numbers, gate codes, usernames and passwords.

But dulce la leche cheesecake at the Cheesecake Factory? Man, I remember that!

Emotion creates the memories to give us hope.

Or hold us back.

Now what was that word for the day? "Potentiation." Use it with power.

No wash out for Em

Emily is no average washer-woman.

Her cheerleader looks and glowing smile make her look more like a sitcom star or a cosmetics model.

But this brown-eyed girl in the laundry at Young Life camp is an orphan, and a rebel and a former drug user. And that's just part of the story.

When Emily was 12, her little sister got cancer and died. Her single mom came home from the hospital and found comfort in alcohol. So Emily left to live with her father, who had never cared for a kid, much less a drug-using 13-year-old.

That arrangement didn't work. Emily found herself alone.

Her parents weren't dead, but they might as well have been. Then she met her real Father.

I've heard testimonies and turn-arounds and turning-overs. But Emily's is astounding.

This month she is washing bedding and towels from morning to evening WITHOUT PAY -- hoping that the campers, many of whom hurt like she did, will see God in her carefully folded towels and hospital-cornered sheets.

This mite of a girl reminds me of the widow Jesus pointed to as an example of true giving. She had nothing, but she gave it all.

Emily's story can make the average teen feel ashamed to have two parents -- or even one -- who loves their guts.

Sad to have a brother or sister they push around.

Reminded that those who have been given much are expected to give back more.

St. Francis of Assisi said, "It is in giving that we receive."

Emily proves it.

She is one rich little girl.

You were made for this

To really live life, you have to get out of your comfort zone.

You've gotta spit crickets,

and dress up like a hillbilly

and sing along with Miley Cyrus

and drop to your knees and pray.

We'll be doing that and more -- way, way more -- for the next week, living the Young Life at camp in Asheville, N.C.

There is not enough blog-space to explain what Young Life is. You can't REALLY understand it without turning off the TV and experiencing it.

But here's a vignette from last year's camp that gets to the heart of it.

The song "I'm Not Who I Was" is playing in the dark. Hundreds of kids are sitting cross-legged or propped against each other. In the quiet. Listening.

I wish you could see me now
I wish I could show you how
I'm not who I was
I used to be mad at you
A little on the hurt side too
But I'm not who I was

Quietly and solemnly a young woman walks onstage carrying a poster-sized piece of cardboard. On the front it says: "Abandoned by my dad."

Turning it over, she reveals the truth she holds:

"My heavenly father will never leave me."

Behind her is a muscular Latino guy with his cardboard message:

"Addicted to porn."

Smiling, he flips his sign: "Satisfied in Christ."

In walks a wisp of a lady, with her tears. Her sign says: "Cutter"

Eyebrows raise in the audience as she overturns her cardboard. On the new side: "Totally healed by God."

One after another they appeared, baring their old lives on cardboard:

"Anorexic"

"Party-girl"

"Whore to the world"

And, one after another, their signs turned, revealing their new lives:

"Fulfilled by the life-giver"

"Dancer for Jesus"

"Pure in Christ"

Pretty dramatic.

Drama, adventure, lavish love. All part of a time often called "the best week of our lives."

Mine too, my precious teenager friends... mine too.

Say a little cheer for me

Dr. Seuss is the best rhymer of all time. Who would think to rhyme "deft" and "left"?

As in: "Just never forget to be dexterous and deft and never mix up your right foot with your left."

I was talking with my friend Cindy Lou Who this morning via text message. She is in a particularly difficult, useless place that Dr. Seuss rhymes about: the waiting place.

You know, that excruciatingly painful spot where nothing seems to be happening -- at least not to you. It comes in stages of your life.
Just after college.
Pregnancy.
Before and after surgery.
When you have one or more kids under the age of five.

As much as you long for accomplishment and activity, there you are --
"Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or a No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting."

A rhyme seems to make it more beareable.

When things get kind of bluesy-foggy, we make up a little cheer -- a stupid rhyme that's not even close to Dr. Seuss poetry.

If you're lucky, you might get a birthday cheer like this one for Meg's birthday:

Shake your pom poms and be a Meg Turner fan
She married the son of a preacher man
Everyone knows she's a gorgeous creature
But her smile is her very best feature
She loves a party, you know she's a hottie
And everything she wears flatters her body
Meg Meg Meg Meg
Love Love love Love Love

Or a cheer to help you through law school exams:
Prince Peter the first deserves a toast.
He's the son-in-law so it's right to boast.
He's a guy with looks and brains
Who never ever gives us pains.
So here's a tip for the graduate hubby:
Live a good life and never get tubby.

Oh well. It's better than a greeting card by Anonymous.

"So...
be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray
or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O'Shea,
you're off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So...get on your way!"

Thanks for the cheer, Dr. S!

Got a meeting in the ladies' room

We've come a long way bather. If you want evidence, here it is: bathroom excess.

The crown jewel of every fabulous house I've seen lately is the living-room-size bathroom. Marble, granite, glass, chrome -- even a chaise lounge or two for relaxing before and after your bathroom duties.

Hmm..Wonder what that says about us?

At Mawmaw Tressie's house there was one toilet and one white enamel slop jar. That could make for desperate times when grandchildren were visiting and one kid locked himself in, flushing away the key.

Personally, I'm all for bathroom comfort. I like a roomy shower and a place to spread out all the smell-better, live-younger potions.

But my Rachel is a fanatic about her bathrooms. At home, she never confines herself and her beauty products to just one -- she makes good use of them all. Out in public, she is a bathroom connoisseur. Ever since she was old enough to toddle to the ladies' room, she insisted on examining each one, whether she needed to or not.

We now know that....
At Macaroni Grill, a sexy lady's voice speaks Italian while you pee.
Walnut Circle Restaurant has a fountain flowing outside the restroom to get you in the mood.
At Purple Parrot Cafe, the bathroom walls decree that creamed corn is better than sex.

The pinnacle of all restaurant bathrooms, however, must be at Caliza in Alys Beach, Fla. Push your way through a cascade of metal beads to reach the Meditteranean mosaic tile. Inside, there's a shower with multiple heads and individual stalls with mahogany doors. All part of your fine dining experience.

If you find an incredible "comfort station" in some exotic locale, no need to search for a deeper meaning. Enjoy the comfort. You'll need it next time you walk, spatula-size key in hand, around to the back door of the Shell station.

This dog had his day

Toby has the love of God in his heart. All he wants to do is stand beside the road and be a friend to man.

Maybe he'll get to spread more love now that he's passed his therapy dog test. The test certifies that dogs are safe to visit in hospitals, nursing homes or other therapy situations.

It wasn't easy. The evaluator gave him a little leeway because the white picket fence around the testing ring was obviously discomfiting. Maybe the metal latticework reminded him of prison bars at Sawmill Animal Hospital.

There were 18 challenges and Toby had to pass all 18.

I knew he would be great with kids -- he's used to teenagers worrying the dog out of him. But I feared the required encounter with numerous old people speaking gibberish and buzzing around on crutches. That would be scary to any species.

Not Toby.

He acted as if the ranting handicaps didn't exist.

He sailed through "sit," "stay," "come" and "wait with a friendly stranger."

His family was so proud -- even Papa called to congratulate him.

So let him be an example to all of us easily-agitated humans.

Toby's advice:
Don't be afraid of loud noises or uncomfortable encounters.

If they ask you to perform, share your talents with others.

Make friends easily.

Be tolerant of children and old people.
and, oh yeah...

Don't get fenced in.