My long-time friend, Janice, arrived at our girls’ only luncheon grinning like a Cheshire cat. She held out her hand and announced, “Look who’s engaged.”

In her late fifties, Janice had been divorced for over twenty years and finally met a great man. We were all ecstatic. She deserved to be happy.

Everyone congratulated Janice as they checked out her beautiful engagement ring and asked about the wedding.

“What color are our dresses?” I teased.

Another girlfriend chimed in, “I look good in black.”

“Remember, we’re all blondes now,” one quipped.

The following weekend I watched a movie about a girl who was always a bridesmaid, never a bride – to the tune of twenty-seven weddings. The gowns, ranging from hilarious to downright ugly, hung in her closet as a constant reminder.

That gave me the idea of throwing Janice a shower requesting guests to wear a bridesmaid dress, style and color of their choice. Enthusiasm bubbled, but there was just one small problem. Even if we’d kept the dresses we’d worn in weddings years ago, there was only a slim chance we’d be able to wear them now, thanks to our middle age bodies.

Gowns that no longer fit were pooled for a free-for-all. Everyone eyed the formals discretely, hoping they’d be able to squeeze into one. Some browsed garage sales, while others checked out resale shops. One friend found hers at Goodwill.

Who needs the Academy Awards? Guests paraded in wearing long gowns and sporting beehives and bouffant hairstyles. Charm bracelets jingled from their arms. Suddenly our days as bridesmaids didn’t seem all that long ago. Conversation turned to styles we’d been asked to wear by our so-called friends. Not even a model could have pulled off some of those dresses.

Guests were given the job of voting for the prettiest gown, the ugliest, the shortest and the tightest. The Southern Belle ensemble won hands down for the prettiest, even though the gown used more material than Scarlett O’Hara’s dress sewn from curtains. The girl with the ugliest formal, shoes dyed to match, wore it in a friend’s wedding and managed to forgive her. From the looks of the dress, that couldn’t have been easy. Shortest was a no brainer, but tightest a close call. After much thought, Large Marge was declared the winner. She wasn’t the only one afraid to eat a second piece of cream-cheese filled cake, iced with colorful bridesmaid dresses. Most of our vintage clothing left little wiggle room, a few held together only by safety pins.

As Janice opened gifts, Sonny and Cher crooned softly in the background, “I Got You Babe.” We warned the guest of honor that each ribbon she broke would represent how many prescriptions the newlyweds would need instead of the

number of children they’d have. She unwrapped each present slowly.

We’d participated in traditional shower games too many times. Instead, we played games geared toward our era. In the unscramble-the-words game, Menopause, Viagra and Depends replaced bride, groom and wedding cake.

Next, guests triumphed when it came to recognizing theme songs from popular 50s & 60s TV shows. Like Mary Tyler Moore, we knew we were going to make it after all. And didn’t we all enjoy those Happy Days? Of course, everyone laughed at the mention of Lucy. And like Laverne and Shirley, we’d been busy making our dreams come true.

Commercial jingles kept us on our toes. How many times did we wonder, does she or doesn’t she use Clairol? And who wasn’t Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs? Two days after the shower, I still had “See the USA in your Chevrolet,” stuck in my head like Bazooka bubblegum.

As guests departed, everyone agreed it had been a while since they’d laughed that hard. Our shower proved that, although we might be showing our age, we were still young at heart.

Mom never thought of herself as a good cook, but everyone in our family disagreed. Her pies were delicious, her fried chicken mouth-watering, but her rolls – they were the best. After I was married and had children of my own, I asked her to teach me how to make the rolls, but she said she didn’t have a recipe. She insisted she just threw the ingredients together until the dough felt right.

A few years later, Mom was diagnosed with a rare, fast-growing cancer. She fought a hard battle, but sadly she was losing the war. Early one morning, she called and asked if I could come over right away.

My heart pounded as I grabbed the keys and rushed to my car. Thinking the worst, I drove as fast as I could.

In a state of panic, I flung open the back door. The look on Mom’s face mirrored mine. “What’s wrong?” we both asked at once.

“It’s time for you to learn how to make my rolls.”

“Jeez. You scared me half to death.”

At the kitchen table, we sat next to each other while she showed me how to add flour a little at a time. While we waited for the dough to rise, I wrote down the ingredients. She chuckled when she read the title, “Mom’s Secret Hot Roll Recipe.”

We talked and laughed while the dough doubled. Then I placed the pans on the racks to bake. When I opened the oven door, the sweet aroma of yeast filled the kitchen. I snuck one, broke it open and buttered it. Butter dripped down my chin as I ate the scrumptious roll.

“Look at your face!” Mom said, smiling. “The rolls are perfect,” she added.

When I got ready to leave, she said, “I need you to drive me to the hospital tomorrow morning. It’s time.”

I nodded and rushed out the door, tears dripping down my face. Mom had fought to stay home as long as possible, but she could no longer eat or sleep and grew weary of the constant struggle to say alive.

The next morning when I pulled in, Mom was standing in the driveway, suitcase in hand. She shuffled one last time around her flowerbeds and garden.

Then she whispered, “I’m ready now.”

We rode in silence to the hospital, and I somehow managed to hold it together. She lost her battle a few weeks later without shedding a single tear.

That Fall, everyone in the family was surprised to see Mom’s delicious rolls added to the Thanksgiving feast. I hadn’t told anyone about the day she and I shared in the kitchen. From that first holiday after Mom died, I gladly made the rolls for all family gatherings.

Twelve years later, Dad passed away during Thanksgiving week. Exhausted from the funeral, we decided to skip our traditional holiday celebration with the extended family.

Thanksgiving morning, I started making the rolls for our small dinner when the phone rang. It was my daughter. “Mom, will you tell me how to make Grandma’s rolls?”

I started to say I just threw the ingredients together. Instead, I slowly recited the recipe and explained how to knead the dough and shape the rolls.

As soon as I hung up, the phone rang again. This time it was my daughter-in-law asking for the hot roll recipe.

Throughout the day the phone continued to ring. I answered questions like, “Should I grease the pans?” “Is the dough supposed to be sticky?” “What’s the oven temperature?”

Half a dozen calls later, I answered with, “Hot Roll Hot-Line!” The last few calls were triumphant. Everyone was thrilled with how their rolls turned out.

Mom would be proud to know her hot roll recipe remains part of our family tradition.

While my husband and I sat in our lounge chairs watching TV, I read an article out loud that touted the benefits of proper eating. Ignoring me, he cranked up the volume on the football game as he crunched Doritos.

When I persisted in sharing the dietitian’s suggestions, he turned to me and said, “That’s your problem. You believe all that crap.”

Lord knows I’d harped at him constantly about losing weight, but it was for his own good. Our golden years were just around the corner, and I wanted to spend them together, in good health.

Nothing I said or did changed his poor eating habits. He continued to scarf down chips and dip while watching me count calories and carbs. As far as he was concerned, salads were rabbit food. Vegetables? Only if I found a way to fry them. Skim milk. Why bother? Exercise was a sore subject. A waste of time. He had real work to do.

One day, I asked what he wanted for supper. Out of the blue, he suggested a salad. I’m not sure, but I think I blinked twice before asking him to repeat himself.

“A salad sounds good,” he said.

Where’d that come from?

I smiled while I prepared a delicious spinach salad, thinking my nagging had finally paid off. Later, I found out the real reason for his change of heart. Fear.

When he’d gone for his annual check-up, his blood pressure was sky-high, stroke level, off the charts. The doctor gave him an ultimatum – lose weight or else. No ifs, ands or butts. He warned my husband to go straight to the hospital if he felt tingling in his arm or tightening in his chest.

The next morning, my pork sausage, biscuits and gravy man fixed himself a small bowl of Raisin Bran. At first, I was elated that he’d decided to change his ways. He even helped plan low-fat nutritious meals. We switched to grilled foods, whole-wheat spaghetti and pita bread. Dessert was a no-no.

Pounds melted off him – not me. He lost five, then ten, then twenty. Soon he needed a smaller pant size and complained his belt was too big. Friends and family commented on his weight loss. I was happy for him, of course. But come on, I’d been exercising and eating healthy for years. Why hadn’t the scale rewarded me?

The final straw came one day when I caught him standing with the refrigerator door open muttering about the yogurt I’d purchased.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

He shook his head and turned to me. “Honey, this brand has nineteen grams of carbohydrates.” Puhleease.

There’s nothing worse than a reformed man. I kept my mouth shut until it was time to go shopping. In a soft, innocent voice, I asked, “Sweetie, would you mind going to the grocery store from now on? I’m not sure what foods will work for you.”

He surprised me when he said, “Why don’t we both go?”

As long as I’d known him, the man had not set foot inside a grocery store. We each grabbed a cart and parted ways with our separate lists. Ten minutes later, I rounded an aisle and stopped in my tracks. There stood my husband reading the nutrition label on the back of a package. I couldn’t stop snickering. He looked up and grinned.

Recently, I didn’t feel like cooking, so I suggested going out to eat. But no matter what restaurant I chose, it wasn’t on his diet. Jeez! Believe me, it took all I had to refrain from pointing out all the times he had sabotaged my weight loss plan – tempting me with a deluxe pizza or an ice-cold Bud on draft. Never mind the warm Krispy-Kremes.

Fast food was out. By the time he made his choice, my stomach was growling. When it was time to order, I let him go first. Naturally, he chose baked chicken, steamed broccoli and mixed vegetables. My turn.

It’s true there’s nothing quite as sweet as revenge. His eyes opened wide when I ordered a deluxe double cheeseburger with the works. So what if the scale climbed higher the next day. It was worth every calorie-laden morsel to watch his reaction.

When the waitress turned to leave, I added, “And I’ll have fries with that.”

My teenage daughters make fun of my bargain shopping. If an item isn’t on sale, I refuse to buy it.

One Christmas, my sixteen-year-old handed me a large box wrapped in shiny paper and tied with red ribbons. Inside I found several smaller boxes. The last one revealed my gift – a “Coupon Queen” button.

I wore it proudly.

When the holiday clearance sales began, I stormed down the aisles grabbing decorations, wrapping paper and bows. Hours later, arms loaded down with bargains, I snuck in the back door and overheard my husband and daughters.

“Mom’s late. She must’ve found a super sale,” my oldest said.

The younger one chimed in, “Jeez. I hope it’s something that fits now and not when it’s out of style.”

My husband chided, “Girls, you know as far as your mother’s concerned, finding a bargain is like winning the lottery.”

They all looked up as I slammed the door and rushed by with my loot. I’d show them. My treasures would remain a secret.

On another shopping trip, paper towels were on sale, so I used my ten Bounty coupons before they expired.

My husband spotted the rolls lined up in the cabinet like soldiers and asked, “Are we getting a puppy?”

Penney’s green tag sale had entire racks marked down, plus I had an additional 15% off coupon. Giddy, I bought three identical sweaters, in different colors, and headed home.

Bags rustled as I hurried past my husband to unload my stash. He followed me into the bedroom and watched as I pulled out the matching garments.

Grinning, he asked, “Do we know someone with triplets?”

My youngest daughter walked in and said, “Mom’s slipping. She forgot to buy one in pink.”

Over the years I’ve been burned a time or two. Once I used a fistful of coupons to purchase thirty containers of yogurt at half-price.

My husband opened the fridge and teased, “Eat up. Your yogurt expires in three days.”

When I heard the forecast of heavy snow, I grabbed my coupons and rushed out to stock the shelves. My funny man glanced in the pantry and said, “With all this food, we could survive a blizzard.”

For years, my husband waited impatiently while I dug through my purse for a coupon. One day I rode along with him to Cabelas. When he sat the waders on the counter and pulled out a coupon, I did a double take. The sinking economy must have taken its toll.

“Pardon me. Do I know you?” I asked.

“Very funny. I just saved twenty dollars.”

I called the girls immediately. “You’re not going to believe who just used a coupon.” They chuckled when I told them.

Once my daughters married, it didn’t take them long to find out extra savings come in handy. I stopped by my oldest daughter’s and spotted a stack of coupons on the kitchen counter. I scooped them up and asked, “Are these for me?”

She snatched the coupons out of my hand and said, “Not on my budget!”

My youngest daughter shocked me when she whipped out a coupon holder at the grocery store. Praise the Lord! My frugal ways had rubbed off.

Laughing, I said, “I can see us now. I’ll trade you my Charmin coupon for your Tide.”

My family had become such good bargain hunters, I worried the Coupon Queen might find herself dethroned.

After one of their shopping sprees, the girls stopped by to show off their savvy bargains. The youngest held up half-price bath towels from Kohl’s. When I asked if she remembered to use her coupon for an extra 20% off, her shoulders sagged. The oldest purchased a Bunn coffee maker on sale at Wal-Mart. Having studied the sale ads, I said smugly, “Did you use the Sears competitor ad? They advertised it five dollars cheaper.”

A huge smile spread across my face as I strutted away declaring, “Long Live the Queen!”

He who does not economize will have to agonize

– Confucius