Author: Sheri Pardini

The media loves nothing better than a good pandemic. Makes for a big news day, and the more they can fan the flames of panic, they can stretch that into a week, maybe two, and if they get lucky… months. They say they don’t, but they do. Listen to their choice of words. The last few days I’ve been hearing catch phrases like “shelter in place”, and the “new normal”. This isn’t the new normal! It’s not normal at all, and to call it the new normal would infer that it’s here to stay. It’s not here to stay!!! This is a moment in time. As for “shelter in place”, that’s what you hear when it’s too late to escape in front of a hurricane, or make it to a basement in the face of a tornado! We aren’t sheltering in place from an approaching storm. We are prudently keeping a distance from our neighbors if we suspect we might be sick. We’re giving those who provide our food and supplies a chance to catch up. We’re doing our best not to spread this virus. I live in hurricane country. I know what it means to “shelter in place” and this isn’t it! That phrase only serves to conjure up visions of “War of the Worlds”, “The Zombie Apocalypse”, and creates the panic shopping we are seeing now. Besides, if people are “sheltering in place”, that place must be WalMart, or Target!

It all started with toilet paper, not food. A phenomenon that baffles me. When the CDC announced that it was a good plan to be prepared for 30 “days”, people took that to mean 30 “months” of toilet paper!  I realize that the Coronavirus is serious, but this is a respiratory illness, and though it can have a gastrointestinal component I don’t think you really need eight cases of toilet paper to deal with it! I walked down the paper product aisle at the market last week and saw that all the toilet paper was gone! All of it, except four packages of Greenwise. I have never looked, but either Greenwise is very expensive, or people don’t like the idea of recycled toilet paper. I actually felt a little sorry for those four lonely packages. I need not to have worried though, because a man quickly stepped in and swept all four of them up, cradling them in his arms as if he were holding precious quadruplets! Astounding! Now the store was “officially” out, and the hoarding continues! Perhaps the CDC should have been more specific. If you have to go out and buy a freezer, or move your car to the driveway, so you can warehouse supplies in your garage…you bought too much!

I had to go to the store today. It’s hard not to buy more than you need with the vultures circling overhead! Empty shelves leave Americans in a panic, and though people now seem to be buying soup by the case, canned goods, and frozen vegetables, nobody is desperate enough to reach for that bag of frozen okra. As I saw four boxes of my hair color in stock, I had to refrain from buying more than one, reminding myself that others need to cover that grey too. It’s not all about me!

My kids will tell you I was a hand sanitizer nazi long before anyone knew about COVID-19. They know not to ask me for a stick of gum, because I don’t chew gum, but if they need hand sanitizer they don’t start with, “Mom, do you “have” hand sanitizer?” They simple ask, “Can I borrow your hand sanitizer?” Consequently the shortage of this staple has been a problem for me, and I’m trying not to hyperventilate. I’m pretty sure I’ll make it through with soap and water. After all, I wasn’t born in this century. It hasn’t always been around, but I didn’t say I was going to like it!

Be good neighbors. Stop stockpiling! If you do, there will be plenty for everyone. Be careful around the elderly. They are truly the ones at risk for serious consequences. This is not armageddon, unless we make it to be. This is NOT the new normal. This is a moment in time, so snap out of it!!

Oh look! Oreos are buy one get one free! I should stock up!! What?

 

Several weeks ago we received a phone call from our son-in-law.  He wanted to go camping, and he wanted us to go with him. Once upon a time we would have been the ones making that request, but older joints, some artificial, have made sleeping on the ground less than inviting, unless you consider getting off the ground an exciting game of chance. And then there’s that having to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night thing, which necessitates getting off the ground more than once, and venturing outside, if you consider a flimsy piece of nylon standing between me and nature, being inside. But, being the kind of in-laws, parents, and grandparents that we are, and having once had camping in our blood, we said “yes”, with a few caveats.

First we needed a tent. Oh, we have one, but a two person backpacking tent is at least a decade removed from my vocabulary. Why do we still have that thing?! So, Dusty found a great deal on a used 6 person, 2 room tent. He asked, “Will you go in half?” We now proudly own half a tent! Then we needed a camp stove, which we were able to borrow from our son. Now, we were ready, more or less.

Is it beginning to sound like none of us are prepared to go camping? What’s funny is we all use to camp quite a lot. Now it was like we have never been. Kim and I were avid backpackers back in the day. Our biggest accomplishment was the 200 mile John Muir trail, and that was only one of many backcountry adventures.  Dusty not only loved to camp, but is a hunter, so camping out isn’t new to him either. We all just suddenly found ourselves without the proper tools. Mariah and Dusty don’t even have sleeping bags! Kim and I at least have those! It’s not like we don’t enjoy it anymore, or that Kim and I feel too old to go tent camping, but interests change over time, and I’ll admit to being a bit more attached to indoor plumbing. One thing was for sure, we were taking our inflatable mattress! If it didn’t fit into the tent, we wouldn’t be staying the night. My artificial knees don’t like me kneeling on them. I can get off the ground, but it’s now a team sport.

“So, where are we going?” “The Everglades.” The Everglades!? Where panthers prowl, and pythons play, and alligators lie in wait? Don’t forget the bears. Yes, there are bears in the Everglades! Bears and panthers are one thing. I’ve camped in their neighborhoods before out west, but alligators and pythons are predators that cause hesitation, and it wasn’t long before I was having nightmares about snakes!

Technically we were going to the small “e” everglades ecosystem, not the big “E” national park. We were heading to “Big Cypress National Preserve”. A very close neighbor to  Everglades National Park. Same wildlife, same ecological environment, fewer government restrictions, though still managed by the National Park Service.

A large pond, with crystal clear water, was the centerpiece of our campground. It didn’t take long for us to spy a decent sized alligator, and when he spied us he turned to swim back toward shore, engaging in a stare down with us. This is the result of people doing something they should never do, and that’s feed them! Take away any natural fear they “might” have of humans, allow them to associate us with food, and you’ve just made a dangerous reptile all the more so. We backed away and doubled our situational awareness around camp. Knowing he was there, possibly with friends, made that nighttime trek to the bathroom all the more thrilling!

We stopped at the Visitor Center and bought our two year old granddaughter binoculars, because the two things you want to find in the swamp are gators and birds. They were pink, and matched her boots, because wherever you are, you need to be stylish. Aurora loves looking for gators. We all do, because there is just something about them. You ask her what they say, and she’ll say, “chomp, chomp”. Translation, “Let’s find one, then pick me up!” The world is a safer place in Daddy’s arms.

We read a sign at the Visitor Center. The tracking collar on Florida Panther #150 had stopped transmitting. If we were to happen upon him, would we please let them know where so they could fix it. Let me see, they lost one of their panthers and wanted us to what? Call out, “Here kitty, kitty, let me take a look at that radio collar”!! There was a large rat that was scampering in the brush by our campsite. Mariah and I exchanged glances and joked, “It’s 150!” Wouldn’t it have been funny if it was? Probably not!

We enjoyed a day of searching for alligators, finding several, and one that was so large it looked like a fallen tree! If I hadn’t seen his eyes and his feet I wouldn’t have believed it! Florida birds are second to none! The beautiful plumage of Great Egrets against the background of pristine water, Bald Cypress, and Spanish moss was stunning. They capture your attention even if you aren’t a birdwatcher. But, as we discovered, while we’re watching them, there are usually eyes of one or more alligators watching us! We hiked a short trail searching for liguss tree snails, which are endangered, and like their name, live in the trees. We found several. Some are very colorful, and their shells quite beautiful. It’s a veritable safari in our own backyard.

The real joy of camping comes long after the sun goes down, when the fire provides a tranquil peace at the end of the day. You look up and the stars just go on forever. We saw the Milky Way, the Seven Sisters, Orion, the Big Dipper, and Draco. Venus shown brightly, and the moon looked like it was smiling.  They feel so close, like you can touch them, and suddenly you feel so very small. It’s beautiful. What a great idea, Dusty, to go camping in the everglades!

I love my daughter-in-law. She can be a lot of fun, has interest and insight into deep and thoughtful topics, gets excited about life, laughs easily, and most importantly, loves my son. When she invited Kim and I to go along with her and our son, Ben, next weekend to look at furniture for their new home I was thrilled. I won’t be offering any suggestions though. We share similar tastes in many things, but color isn’t one of them.

Realtors are fussy about color. Interior decorators can be too. They insist on neutrals in paint, carpet, furniture, and say to “accent” with color. Well, that sounds boring! I love color!   

Many years ago we built a house in Colorado and painted it a nice shade of green. It blended perfectly with the surrounding forest. The inside walls were white, not egg shell, just white, and the carpet was sea-foam green! It was gorgeous and complimented the green patina copper accents on the whitewashed cupboards, and terra cotta tile. When we went to sell it, the realtors hated that carpet and the white walls. Too much color in one, not enough in the other. That was long ago and the people who bought it from us have now sold it again, but not before they ripped out the carpet and replaced it with wood laminate, and painted the outside of the house a pleasant “neutral” gray.

The neighbors who live behind us have a yellow, orange, and green house. It may be a bit bright for most people’s tastes, but they have enough foliage planted around it to give it an attractive Key West flair that fits right into our Florida neighborhood.

I have an eclectic collection of furniture in my house. The kitchen table chairs are padded with fabric depicting green leaves and pink flamingos. There’s a living room chair with a tropical foliage and parrot print, and the couches are adorned with palm trees. A large picture of a giant sea turtle hangs on one wall, and a print of bamboo on another. You’ll find the walls are painted white, blue, sea green, and yellow. Not all in one room, of course, and I’m thinking peach might fit in nicely somewhere.

My clothes have gotten more colorful over the years too, with bright fuchsias, blues, greens, oranges, and purples, replacing of my old “go to” black and white. After all, my opinions on things aren’t neutral, why should my clothes be neutral either?

Bright colors make me happy all over. They dial up my mood, and in general make me feel like it’s springtime or summer, no matter what month of the year displays on the calendar. Of course, living in Florida helps with that too.

But, not everyone is me. Some people are attracted to more subdued colors, dark or light, but in the neutral zone. Perhaps they find those colors comfortable and peaceful, and that’s okay, because we’re all different. We need to be different. Too much of the same thing is tedious. So, I’ll support Rebecca in her quest for a neutral colored couch, but she shouldn’t be surprised if a cobalt blue pillow, with a bright yellow, red, and green parrot magically appears on it!

 

We practically worship hair! We spend hundreds of dollars on it, from cutting, styling, shampooing, conditioning, straightening, curling, combing, brushing, coloring, highlighting; you name it we do it, and everyone seems to notice. “Did you get your hair cut?” “I love your hair that way!” “That hair color is gorgeous on you!” .

Don’t for a moment think that men are immune from the siren call of rich, thick, glorious hair. They spend money, just like women, on thickeners, shampoo and conditioners, mousses, gels, and color to keep the gray looking the right balance between distinguished and old. When theirs begins to thin they have three choices. Go bold and shave it off, go really short, or embrace the dreaded comb-over. Don’t choose that third one! I would just like to say to every man out there, if you’re losing your hair, own it! You don’t have to shave what little you have off, but cut it short. It’s a much more attractive look, however I do recognize that hair is very personal, so that’s just my “strong” suggestion.

My hair for most my life has been very fine, and very straight. I couldn’t do anything with it. I would ride my bike to school and see other girls riding their bikes as well, only their hair was gently swaying back and forth as one unit. Mine was blowing all over in different directions, like I was riding along in my own personal tornado! We always want what we don’t have. My daughter asked me for a straightener one year for Christmas for her beautiful, thick, wavy hair. I said, “What in the world for?” Why would anyone want to straighten their hair! She was blessed. I was cursed! Didn’t she understand that? But, straight was in. The hormones of bearing children does weird things to your hair. Don’t ask me why. For me, my hair got wavy. Well, it was about time!!! But, now of course waves and curls were out. I was fashionable before my prime, and once again, currently out of step!

I now shed like a Persian cat! My hair can be found just about anywhere! I shed so much its amazing I have hair on my head at all, and my family notices my runaway tresses since those blonde strands are like a neon announcement on the back of any dark colored blouse I may be wearing. My grandson found a long hair on his leg while laying on the couch. He pulled it off, and holding it like some sort of vile vermin, announced to his mom, “MeeMaw’s”, my grandson’s name for me. She looked at it, and saw that it was clearly red, and said, “No, that one is mine. Sorry.” His response, “Nope, MeeMaw’s!” Obviously my shedding has a reputation, but my hair is not red. Hers is! Besides, I wasn’t even there!!!

Why is it when hair is on your head it is gorgeous? We run our fingers through it, we caress it, but when it ends up on the floor, in the sink, cloaking the bathtub drain, in the swimming pool, or worse yet in your food it suddenly becomes “Gross!” Okay, I get the food, but once I found a clump of hair floating around a public swimming pool like a chocolate jellyfish. That had to go! I’m sure when it was attached to some woman’s head earlier in the day it looked lovely. Now it was way too gross to come into contact with, and had to be removed like a dead spider, preferably without touching it!

As for myself, one minute my hair, according to my husband, is gorgeous, but at any given moment, one strand at a time, it too becomes gross! Don’t judge me, none of you are immune!

 

It’s been awhile since I’ve written. My mom passed away in late September, and then my mother-in-law passed away suddenly in mid-December. It’s been a bit tough to write anything without my heavy heart weeping all over every word, but 2019 has ended and not only a new year has begun, but a new decade! There are possibilities on the horizon. Not so fast!!!

On New Year’s Eve, with the dawn of all things new just waiting in the wings, I broke a tooth! Seriously?! It was as if 2019 just couldn’t let me go without taking one more swing at me. The good news, if there ever is good news with a broken tooth, it was a wisdom tooth, so I don’t need it. I have three more, so still plenty of wisdom stored up to share with anyone who cares to listen. (That’s directed at my kids.)  The bad news….I’m not a real fan of the dentist, so first thing in 2020 I get to visit one of my least favorite people. Not that she isn’t awesome, just that I don’t like her hands in my mouth. You’d think by the 21st century we’d have some Star Trek like dental scanner that could take care of this problem with my mouth closed.

Now it is time for me to put fingers to keyboard and begin writing a new blog. Slow down there eager beaver! An update is required in order for me to get WordPress to talk to my website via Jetpack! Okay, this shouldn’t be too hard. Hahaha! What am I, new? This is technology and I was born in the 20th century. Specifically the mid-20th century. We’re not even talking the same language. Oh, it sounds like English, but is it really?

I start by updating my version of WordPress. Oh, but now I have to update Jetpack, which should be easy, and would be easy if I knew what they were talking about. I know what a Jetpack is. It’s that cool thing you strap on your back like Buck Rogers and fly all over the sky with, skipping traffic, and commute times. I don’t have one of those. I do apparently have one that allows WordPress to talk with my website. Outside of that, I really don’t know what it does. Not only can I not see it, I can’t fly it. Lame! I had plenty of other things to do, so back burner it went.

After putting away all the Christmas decorations, and finding myself without any other pressing matters, I decided to sit down once again to figure out this necessary update. I finally caved to reading the directions, or at least skimming them, clicked the appropriate keys and amazingly, I’m back in the game.

So there 2020, I forced myself to be adult enough to call the dentist, and mature enough to read directions. Take that! The losses of 2019 are still heavy and will be for awhile, but looking forward there are all sorts of possibilities. It’s not just a new year, it’s a new decade! Get out there, and get after it!

I don’t remember ever seeing these in Colorado, and you can’t really see them here in Florida either, but they are here. These little monsters are so tiny you don’t notice them, until it’s way too late! I swear they are nothing but mouth, with a full set of teeth. They only feel like they have teeth, instead they are equipped with an alien like probe, seeking out blood, and from the looks of my legs, they prefer my blood to any other! These beasts are known as no-see-ums!!! Yes, that’s an official name! Like I said they are tiny. When they fly you hardly notice them. They appear to be innocent, and barely register on our radar. When they land, they look like a tiny speck of dirt, and if it didn’t hurt so bad you might never notice what had bitten you. Even when you’re looking to find the culprit you often don’t see it. I’d rather take my chances with a mosquito!!!

At least with a mosquito you have a fighting chance. They don’t attack from the shadows in silence. They make their presence known with their obnoxious whine-like buzzing. We anxiously search the air around us, hoping to swat them in mid-flight before they have a chance to insert their hypodermic needle into us. When mosquitos do land, you can usually feel their presence on your skin, giving you a chance to level the playing field, so that the mosquito’s friends don’t think you’re an easy target.

No-see-ums…no such chance! They are nothing if not stealthy. They know we are oblivious to their presence. Last week Kim and I, along with our daughter and granddaughter, attended an evening event at the Naples Botanical Garden. October is a big month for these nasty creatures, so we sprayed up with insect repellant. It’s not the perfect solution, but it helps. A few no-see-ums made it through the gauntlet of Deep Woods Off, but the results were not too miserable. On Saturday evening we were pushing our luck when our son, a pilot, flew into the Naples airport. He doesn’t do that too often, so we were excited to get an unexpected visit. Kim and I went to the airport observation deck to watch him land. We had used the last of our repellant at the Garden, but we caught a break with the wind. Nature’s protection from flying insects. The following morning, when we went to see him off, it was a different story. The air was calm, but the no-see-ums were not! They were hungry! For 30 minutes we stood out there waiting to see Ben off, and wave our goodbyes. It was 8:00 in the morning, and in that short time those no-see-ums devoured their version of Thanksgiving dinner!

My legs are a tangle of red welts that make it appear as though I have chicken pox! I itch! They say not to scratch. Seriously! And just how am I suppose to subdue that overwhelming urge? I use cortisone cream during the day, take Benadryl at night, and curse these invisible creatures always! The effects last longer than a mosquito bite, swell larger, itch more, and even hurt. So, before cursing them all into extinction I looked to see what, if any, redeeming value they have. Turns out they are the only natural pollinator of the cocoa plant. Figures! It just might be worth giving up chocolate to rid the world of these nasty vermin, but I’m going to need to think on that.

It was late at night on September 19th when my mom slipped away from this world. She was 81 years old. Three days shy of her 82nd birthday. We had been waiting for it, actually wanting Jesus to take her, releasing her from the pain that was tormenting her. It was curious how I could want something for her, and yet be so afraid of it, and what it meant.

A year and a half ago my mom was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. My sisters and I knew then that she would not fight it with anything other than a sheer force of will. The three of us accepted her decision, and came to terms, each in our own way with what that meant.

In that time it became easy to pretend nothing was wrong, as life seemed to go on as usual, and then suddenly Mom became tired, really tired. She complained of pain that went beyond her normal arthritis, and she couldn’t pinpoint what hurt. She retreated more often to bed, and I took to searching for answers online. This had to be the cancer, and it was.

Overnight she made the decision to enter into Hospice. My heart skipped a beat as I read the requirements, “…terminal illness, when taking its normal course, would likely end in death within 6 months”. Okay, time to get my ducks in a row and get to Arizona. I suspected we would lose her somewhere close to Christmas. What I didn’t expect was that in fact, we had a week!

It all happened so quickly! There was no delay! She entered Hospice one day, and then fell twice the next, which required assistance from 911. The following day she moved into my older sister’s house, and that same day I got the call that I needed to come. Two days later I was there. That morning she had gotten up, with help, and then received “Last Rites”. The church doesn’t call it that anymore. Technically it’s called the “Anointing of the Sick”, but when you have cancer, and you’ve progressed to Hospice, we call it what it is, “Last Rites”, and it meant this was serious! By the time I arrived at the house, just after noon on Saturday, she no longer had the strength to get out of bed.

My sisters and I were blessed. We spent the next couple of days talking to Mom, and she to us. It was a struggle for her, but we were able to share memories, laugher, and tears; each of us saying goodbye in our own way. We bathed her, fed her, gave her fluids, and medication. And with each day a little more of her slipped away; one foot in two different worlds.

We meticulously gave her pain medication. Carefully recording each dose. Increasing it each day, until finally we were increasing it by the hours. We gently massaged her feet, her head, her hands, because our touch, no matter how light, would elicit a grimace of pain. Our goal of keeping her pain free was out of our hands, but we did the very best we could. Cancer, such a heartless beast!

However, in those six days we gave Mom the best gift we could ever give her. She died how she wanted. She was at home, with her three daughters by her side. Her hospital bed in the family room where we sat, talked, ate, prayed…all the things you normally would do as a family. We physically and spiritually took care of her. We gave her 100% of ourselves, until Thursday night, at 11:00 p.m. when she took her final step from this world into the next.

And now I’m in a dense fog. I can’t focus. I have no energy. Every task makes me feel like I’m walking in quicksand. My feet being sucked from beneath me. I’m having anxiety attacks. I cry a lot, feel out of control, and oh so sad. This is the darkness of grief. Grief will not be cheated. It will not be ignored. I cannot hide. I am forced to face it head on. In time I will move through it, for grief is a desert to cross, not a place to live. I will never get over losing my mom, just like I never got over losing my dad 17 years ago. But to honor them, I will get on with it, and continue to live as long as I’m alive.

On our way to our daughter’s house we drive by several soccer fields. This time of year we begin seeing those fields occupied by children of varying ages, along with their parents cheering them on, as they run up and down kicking a soccer ball toward one goal or the other. It reminds us of a time gone by when our kids were young, and our Saturdays were not our own, but predestined by the game of soccer!

We didn’t mind that our kids played soccer. They were having fun. The exercise was good. The skills they learned were valuable from just the gameplay, to the sportsmanship. The first season was fun. The second season was fun, but I’m pretty sure by the third season I was over it!

First of all, both Ben and Mariah played, which meant two games every Saturday. And it wasn’t just the games. It was the practices too. There was at least one practice, sometimes two a week, multiplied by two kids, and before we even got to the weekend I’d been observing some form of soccer four times already! Saturday games sometimes overlapped, which meant Kim and I had to split up, taking two cars to town, so that I could attend one, and he the other, or simply so one of us could leave one game in the middle to get the other child to their game. After game “snacks” required a schedule, so that all moms took a turn at providing something for the team, plus their siblings. You can’t give a popsicle to a child on the team, but not to their brother and sister watching. The anxiety of always worrying whether you would have enough for every child who showed up at the cooler was more stress than I needed on any given Saturday.

Kim coached Ben’s team one year. He was great at it, because for him it was simply a game, and his goal was for the kids to have fun. When the opposing team’s coach came out with a white board, drawing diagrams to show his seven year old superstars plays before the game, Kim rose to the occasion and taught the boys a chant! I don’t remember if they won or lost, but I do remember they enjoyed yelling that chant at the top of their lungs.

Ben and Mariah played for years. I don’t know if they did it because they liked the game, or because their friends played, or because there seemed to be this implied expectation that you were suppose to play soccer in the fall, and then again in the spring if you were really serious. That “really serious” part only happened once, thank goodness! They only played on the Parks & Recreation teams. Kim and I were not interested in them joining a traveling team, though the parental pressure to do so was strong. “If they want to play in high school they have to play on a competitive team now!” Those kids lived and breathed soccer, and so did their parents. Those kids also hosted a Mother’s Day Tournament which lasted “all” weekend. The moms said it was fun, because the dads would set up camp stoves near the field and make pancakes for the moms. If Kim wanted to cook breakfast for me, good for him, but on Mother’s Day it better not involve me having to drag myself out of bed early, get dressed, and balance pancakes and syrup on my lap, as I sit in a camp chair in the middle of a soccer field, scarfing them down quickly, as they rapidly become cold in the chill of morning mountain air! I don’t care how those moms would spin it, I wasn’t convinced, and truly, I don’t think they were either.

By the time Ben was in the 8th grade he decided he was done with soccer. While I asked the obligatory, “Are you sure?”, inside I was cheering “Yes, yes, yes!”, and doing a happy dance! Mariah decided she was done as well. Thank goodness! Now Saturdays could be Saturdays. We could have a plan for the day, or just roll with it. Free at last! Free at last!

So fast forward to the present. We’ve informed our kids that if they want to enroll their kids to play soccer that is their business, but MeeMaw and Paw would not be attending every Saturday morning game. Don’t ask, it is not going to happen, and we refuse to feel guilty. We will make a few games during the season. A specific number to be determined by Kim and I when the time comes. Besides, in Florida who knows how long soccer season is. This isn’t snow country. You can play year-round here, God forbid! We are not bad grandparents. We try to attend as many things that our grandkids are involved in as possible. There’s swimming lessons, gymnastics, Gymboree, and preschool activities, but we can’t be there all the time, and truthfully we probably shouldn’t be. This is their time. We did our time. Er, um, I mean, we had our time.

 

 

 

What is the deal with public restrooms? Who designs those things? I’ve been in upscale restaurants and museums where they are quite nice; very comfortable, above and beyond useful, but all I really care about is that they work, and they’re reasonably clean. Well, maybe that isn’t quite true. User friendly might be considered when someone, whoever they are, designs them.

I can only speak of women’s restrooms, as I have no experience in the men’s room, but I have a few helpful suggestions. I realize we are talking about maximum occupancy in a small space, but come on people! You shouldn’t have to be Flat Stanley, or in this case, Flat Sandy in order to use the facilities. I was in one recently that I had to literally lift my leg up and over the toilet in order to make enough room to open the door, so I could get out.  I am not tall, more of a Hobbit than an Amazon, so this is tricky. I’m not sure a seven year old girl could actually squeeze by this door, but even with the acrobatics, I still had to wedge myself between the stall door and the wall, pushing and pulling, and holding my breath to get by. I know I’m not alone. I’ve seen other women performing this maneuver from time to time as well. We all laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, but it’s frustrating more than funny, and so unnecessary.

As for the door only clearing the toilet by one and a half inches, I have two suggestions. Make the stall deeper, which I have seen, so there is actually enough room for an average adult to walk in, turn around, and close the door. The other option, if there isn’t enough room, have the door open out! Now there is a concept! Rarely does anyone ever bolt out of a restroom stall so fast as to knock over anyone standing nearby, unless it’s overflowing, and then everyone is running. And by the way, if you are standing that near to a stall door, you shouldn’t be, so back up!!

My second pet peeve is the toilet paper roll, or rather the industrial size holder. You know the one; big, black, circular plastic thingamajig that holds 4 or 5 rolls of toilet paper. I appreciate the attention to quantity, but placement leaves me baffled. They are always placed at shoulder height. Why? That means that you must pull your shoulders in while using the facilities, because there is no room for them, leaving minimal clearance for any movement right or left. You are sandwiched, especially if it’s a particularly narrow stall! Here it would be advantageous to be a 10 year old girl the size of a pencil.

How hard could it be to place the toilet paper dispenser say, slightly above head level of the average person? We have arms you know. Reaching up for toilet paper can be just as easy, possibly easier than reaching down. With your shoulders pinned as if in a strait jacket, you only have the rotational use of your hand, along with a very slight movement in your forearm to actually reach the toilet paper.  Even head level would work, but shoulder level appears to be someone’s idea of a solo twister game.

Attention architects! Don’t keep doing something just because it’s always been done that way, or just because you can. Why don’t you actually use the restrooms you design, and see if you still think it was a brilliant idea!?  I have no idea how mothers can manage to get themselves, along with one or two small children, into a single stall while shopping, or traveling alone. Unless of course, their names are Candy, Stanley and Sandy, all members of the Flat family.

It’s been awhile since I’ve written a book, yet after more than a few starts and stops, “Mom do you have time to do….”, and “Sheri, when you get a chance can you…”, and then there’s that nasty interruption of a “real job”, which I only do part time, but still it’s a day not writing. And if I’m honest, there’s the days I’m just too lazy to write. Nevertheless, I finally got this one finished. It’s available at Amazon on Kindle, and in paperback if you prefer. You can access it by title, or my name. I do hope you enjoy it.    

“Where Was I Going?” is a short story taken out of the pages of my own life, told to you as if we were enjoying a cup or two of coffee in your living room. I take you on my journey, however one that is familiar to all parents. The kids are growing up, and it’s time to give them wings. It’s an exciting time, but there is a sadness as well.

Watching them fly means parents get let behind, and mothers especially can wonder, where was I going before I got here? If you are a parent, you can relate. If you are an adult with children of your own, you will hear the clock ticking. Whether or not you have children, you will come to better understand what your parents went through when you left to make your own mark on the world.

In this book I tell of my own emotional surrendering of a time gone by all to quickly. I weave the tale of the search for colleges, and two separate cross-country trips with my kids when they were college bound. I share with you the adventures we had on the road, the vastly different landscapes, and the diverse cultures we encountered along the way.

The story is sometimes humorous, yet you’ll feel the underlying sadness, and raw emotions that rise and fall along with the passing terrain, for every day we drew nearer to our destination. As the ticking of the clock grew louder, I wrestled with wanting to hold on, yet knowing that I must let go, and seek out my own path.

It’s been many years since this life voyage took place. My kids have long since completed college, began careers, and now have families of their own. The emotions I felt then are hushed, yet still entangled in my heart, woven into the very fabric of who I am. Every step we take in this life leads to another, and then another, so “Where Was I Going?”