I’ve got this crazy love/hate relationship with computers and all things 21st century/technical. Let me list a few: voice mail (which I call voice misery), camera (always missing something – the battery, the chip inside or the camera itself), cell phone (missing calls, erasing important messages, dropping one in a cup of coffee), passwords and numbers (is it my birthday, my anniversary, my maiden name or a combination of all three?) and banking online (pending for $1.00? – I thought my gas bill was $53.45?). I have friends and family who play games on their computer/laptop – but not me. (I’ve been told I’m not a “game player.” Oh, stop! You know what I mean.) Others play games on their iPhone or iPad – but I don’t own one and honestly, I’m not really in a hurry to get one. I will say that I’ve only been texting for a few months now. I don’t exactly have a problem with texting, but Oscar the Grouch does: Russell said he won’t pay for texting on our bill, and he simply commanded, “Don’t!” But I say at 10¢ per message, it’s no big deal.

I spend so much time on the computer working: writing humor columns and other genres, researching for writing or studying the craft of writing, that when I get up from the computer, I’m “done-zo.” But my guilty pleasure if I DO indulge in extra time on the computer is reading and posting on Facebook. Before I got into Facebook, I tweeted for a while, but it was frustrating to me. Being a long-winded Southerner – you KNOW we preface almost everything that comes out of our mouth and use terms of endearment constantly – I couldn’t say what I wanted in 140 measly characters. For instance, “Honey, let me tell you what happened to me the other day,” is 56 characters. Now I only have 84 left. That’s nothing! I still blog occasionally, but in the back of my mind, I know writing a blog isn’t a good idea for me, per se. I figured out why: because I was writing what would be a column, as in, writing for Sasee (and others), writing books (three in print) and speaking about my writing. So, the more I think about it, maybe tweeting does make sense and is preferential over blogging. Oh, my goodness! See what I mean? Love/hate!

But with all that said, I get a kick out of the texting codes and abbreviations. I got a message recently that gave the “middle age texting codes.” These are hysterical and though I DID NOT make them up, I added a few of my own at the end of this list:

ATD: at the doctor. BFF: best friend fell. BTW: bring the wheelchair. BYOT: bring your own teeth. FWIW: forget where I was. GGPBL: gotta go, pacemaker battery low. GHA: got heartburn again. IMHO: is my hearing aid on? OMMR: on my massage recliner. ROFLACGU: rolling on floor laughing and can’t get up. And finally, TTYL: talk to you louder.

Then I cut and pasted the above to my Facebook status and heard so many variations that I DTWATIS: decided to write about this in Sasee. AYR: are you ready? And by the way, since some people predict books are on the way out (I HOPE NOT!) and Kindle, Nook and other e-readers are taking over the world, maybe we better all learn this crazy-shorthand-phonics-lazy-form-of-communicating.

Here’s my complete list: WAI: where am I? HDIGH: how did I get here? WDIC: why did I come? HAIGOOH: how am I getting out of here? WAIG: where am I going? And finally, WAIL: when am I leaving? And a few very personal ones: NAMAP: need a manicure and pedicure. MRAS: my roots are showing. ICYC: I cook, you clean. YGLTTC: HNCTE: headache, not cooking tonight, etc. WWSMW: who wants some more wine? This last one’s from Niecy Nash, doing a parody of Nene from “The Real Housewives of Atlanta.”

Later, on Facebook, some super-cool friends wrote a bunch more and these are priceless: WDYS: what did you say? MBID: my butt is dragging! WDICIHA: what did I come in here after? DYKM: do you know me? DIKY: do I know you? YPAKM: you people are killing me. WDIP: where did I park? WAMK: where are my keys? HYA: how y’all are? HYD: how ya durrin’?

So there’s my list. After you read this, friend me and send me a few of your text codes ASAP. (I think you know that one.)

Because I enjoy lots of variety in my life – be it clothes, home décor, hobbies or entertainment – I sometimes find myself truly perplexed as to what really pleases me and, maybe even, who I really am. Don’t worry; I’m not getting all new-agey or mystical at this time in my life. In fact, I’ve always had trouble making decisions. Even with simple tasks like deciding on what to cook for dinner, I stand in the grocery store, mentally rattling off the choices, “Chicken, pork, beef or seafood” (over and over)! At other times, I freeze at the nail shop and absolutely cannot decide on a French manicure, OPI “red” or OPI “pink before you leap.” Some days at the gym, I’m in anguish over the choices: should I join my aerobics class or hop on the treadmill? After a recent automobile wreck which totaled my car, I sat at the sales desk in the Toyota dealership saying, “Avalon, Camry or Prius?” (If you must know, I settled on the Avalon – ultra-classy, and I’m now over the moon happy.) But years ago, I chose sporty and zippy, and loved my little SUV, the little red Kia Sportage.

Decisions! I once heard a minister say we’re all having trouble making decisions because our brains are stuffed with too much information. Our “to do” lists rival a Fortune 500 CEO and even simple tasks can get put off to eternity from sheer confusion. He went on to say, “Why do you think so many people eat fast-food burgers? Because they are delicious? No! Because they are fast and cheap.”

This same indecision spills over at home. Like many women, I stand in my closet, looking at my clothes, jam-packed, wall-to-wall and find I have “nothing to wear.” And yet, sales fliers promising me savings of 20-30-40% and higher lure me in to buy even more. When I recently read an online Stein Mart ad, “9 makes 29,” I became almost short of breath, ecstatic with the possibilities. But I doubt I could get nine new pieces in my aforementioned closet. Plus, I’d have to coordinate them all in 29 different ways – decisions! So this week, I’m making not a New Year’s resolution, but a mid-April’s resolution – Out with the old to make more room for the new. But what should I pack up for Goodwill? And what should I buy for replacements? Do I want to be trendy and cool? Sophisticated and tailored? Island and tropical? Sleek and glamorous? Preppy and sporty? Honestly, I DON’T KNOW!

Remember the Sonny and Cher era when we all wore bell-bottoms? A few years later, it was jumpsuits in light denim. How about the humongous shoulder pads and dare I say – even, bows in my hair? Then there were hand-painted sweat shirts and leggings to match. What was I thinking? Whether it’s my age, my size, my vocation (book signings and public speaking) or all of these, I suddenly don’t know how to dress anymore. Understated black and white? Or island people, “stick figures” stamped black onto white linen? Painter pants with lots of snaps and grommets? Dressy dresses with chintz bows? Long flowing Bohemian skirts? Ruffles and balloon hemlines? Ultra long, breezy vests to the knees? Structured short jackets?

Finally there is a book that solves the puzzle of your personal blueprint. It’s broken down into four parts that include quizzes and assessments, personal examples, interviews and definitions. Part 1 is Explore. Part 2 is Inquire. Part 3 is Define. Part 4 is Design. The book is titled Style Statement: Live by Your Own Design and is co-authored by Carrie McCarthy and Danielle LaPorte. The authors say, “Your style statement is an affirmation, a declaration, a symbol of the real you – and all your facets.” Then, there’s “The Lifestyle Map,” which explains self-expression and relating. The authors claim that your foundation is 80% of your style statement and your creative edge is 20%. Therefore, there are combos like Refined Treasure, Sacred Dramatic, Cherished Playful, Organic Treasure, Timeless Constructive, Contemporary Flourish and Genuine Legacy. These combos are backed up by real people (and photos), plus their individual bios. Honestly, the quotes and the photographs are worth the price of the book – not to mention the motivation and inspiration from reading along. One quote I particularly love is by Carl Jung, “The self is our life’s goal, for it is the completest expression of that fateful combination we call individuality.” There’s a Q&A section at the end and an Ask-a-Friend survey. I feel this book can absolutely change one’s life, and I for one am anxious to find my true style. But first, I have to make the decision to read the entire book and then implement the results. Wish me luck!

The self is our life’s goal, for it is the completest expression of that fateful combination we call individuality.

Carl Jung

I’m fighting this aging thing pretty hard – oh, I know that sounds shallow, petty and ungrateful. It’s not that, I promise. Okay, maybe it’s a little shallow, but the truth is I want to feel good AND look good. I don’t see any reason why I can’t have both.

Yep, I’ve been through the menopausal, hot-flash curse, and boy, am I glad that’s behind me. Phew! As I sit here writing, I’m wearing black yoga pants and a long-sleeved tee shirt, and it’s 65 outside. I couldn’t have done that five years ago, so that’s one irritant that’s vanished. At the same time, I dread the days when it will hit 82 degrees, and I’ll be shivering in a heavy coat and wool socks, while my grown children are wearing shorts and tank tops.

One plus: my vision is holding out pretty good. I couldn’t believe my ears (or eyes) when the optometrist declared I was one of those lucky people whose vision had stabilized, giving me a visual advantage. My near-sightedness shifted to slight far-sightedness and evidently my astigmatism improved on its own. Feeling elated, I questioned the woman at the highway patrol office on my license renewal. I begged her to lift the restriction, i.e., corrective lenses. She sniffed and snorted, doubting me, I could just tell. She whipped out an eye chart and drilled me. I read to line three, then stumbled, and I swear I saw an “I told you so” smirk coming from her.

Because I love wearing sleeveless tops in the summer, I’m working my biceps and triceps (along with gluts, abs and rhomboids) like crazy, three times a week at the gym. I walk when I can – though it’s often to the pantry for some salted nuts or dark chocolate. But even that’s good for you in moderation, right?

Sleep? Well, coming from someone who has always been a night owl, I’m seeing a pattern shift. I’m sleeping less, but possibly enjoying it more. I know from studying dental hygiene way back when, that as we age we require less sleep. But I ask you this: If I sleep less, do I have to work more? If so, I’m going back to bed.

Like Nora Ephron, I also hate my neck. The dermatologist told me that’s the first thing to go. Go where, you might ask? It’s that saggy, baggy, turkey gobbler that gets to me. But wait! That’s not half as bad as the Howdy Doody jaw staring back at me in the mirror. My sister, Nancy, and I constantly compare ours. If you don’t know who Howdy Doody is, then Google it. Maybe you’re too young for ANY of this column to make sense, but just ask your mother, grandmother or great-grandmother. She’ll know.

But, by far, my worst angst comes from my aches and pains. I’m talking elbows and knees, but lately, more upper back than anything. Though not daily, it’s worse when I’m hunched over the computer long hours. And lately, I’ve done that. Between column deadlines, web site updates, a temp medical transcribing job and, oh yes, Facebook! Oy! I swore I’d never get into that crazy social media. Helllllooooo? Here I am, a fan! It’s already like a full time job perusing my news feed daily, clicking “like” and/or making comments with my nearly 600 friends. How do those with 1200 friends – our daughter, Katie, for example – keep up? (Does this make Katie twice as popular as me?)

I recently visited my parents and was mentioning my achy-breaky-back to them. Dad seemed more concerned than usual. “Where is it?” he wanted to know. I asked him what he meant. “Exactly where is the pain?” Oh, this is scary, I thought. I’m the one that usually gives them medical, dental, psychological and social advice. Kidding! But I do suggest Tylenol for headaches and Melatonin for sleeplessness.

But no, Dad walked right up to me, holding a bottle in his hand, praising his newfound miracle drug. Y’all, it was horse liniment! I began to “neeeeeiiiigggh,” shaking my mane and clomping my horse hooves, but Dad explained that a good friend and nurse recommended he try some. “Smell it!” he said, removing the lid. It had a minty, medicinal scent. I was skeptical at first, but today I drove to my pharmacy and asked the clerk if they sell it. She turned to the pharmacist and said quite loudly, “Do we sell horse’s cinnamon?” By now, everyone was staring at me. My face turned ten shades of red. I felt light-headed, confused. Then the pharmacist mouthed something inaudible. But I just stuttered, “Th-th-thanks anyway,” and headed out the door, positive that my hearing was gone. After all, I’m getting older by the minute.

Today is Valentine’s Day, a perfect time to announce our daughter, Katie’s, engagement to Michael.

He popped the question a few weeks ago, and it’s an amazing story. Their introduction was perfect – when it finally took place – and they’ve been together ever since. Though it was their friends’ second attempt to set them up, it almost didn’t happen at all.

At the first gathering, Michael came, hoping to meet this blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl who sounded pretty cool. But Katie didn’t make it, so she missed meeting this black-haired, blue-eyed boy who also sounded pretty cool.

A second get-together was set. This time Katie went, but Michael couldn’t make it. As a chemist, he was finishing up four days of twelve-hour shifts. About 10 pm the group of seven drove to the Triangle Lounge. Katie said she’d pass; she was tired and had to get up early the next morning. But they persuaded her since Rodney and April had a secret plan: they called Michael – who was snoozing comfortably at home – and insisted he come and meet Katie RIGHT THEN! Michael fell back asleep, but mysteriously was jerked awake. (He says now that something made him get up and go.) Finally they met.

The next morning Katie was all smiles. She said they talked the whole night, and she liked him a lot. Later that day Michael invited her to play tennis, even mentioning future dates: walks on the beach, skiing. She agreed and reciprocated, by inviting him to her cousin Lindsay’s wedding, in Raleigh (Katie was a bridesmaid), and he gladly accepted. Just imagine, on their third date he met Katie’s entire family!

Talk about a unique first date: they met at a sushi restaurant downtown, each driving separately – too bad, I wanted to meet Michael! On the sidewalk, an acting scout invited Katie to be an extra in Hollywood East, a locally filmed TV show. Katie was intrigued, but said her date was waiting upstairs at Yosaké. “Fine,” the woman said, “he can be in the show too.” Michael loved the idea and was ready to leave. But Katie insisted they have dinner first. Afterwards, they went across the street and were assigned parts as extras. I ask you: what are the chances?

Michael has already blessed our family immensely – I hope we have his. Interestingly, I discovered Michael’s parents own Olympia, the finest Greek restaurant ever. The shock was, Russell and I’d been going there three years but had never met the owners. Michael himself is a wonderful chef. He prepares divine pasta carbonara right here in our kitchen! He’s even teaching Katie how to cook.

Also, we’ve fallen in love with his dog, Gus (now Katie’s dog, too), non-animal lovers that hub-Russ and I are. I even wrote a column about him. When Katie returned to school (for nursing), Michael’s family hired her as a part-time waitress. Michael often bartends – he, too, is going back to school. His family is very close, warm and gregarious, and his relatives hail from New York, Pennsylvania and Greece. We’ve enjoyed New Years Eve at the restaurant, complete with authentic belly dancing, and an amazing Easter feast where we experienced delicious new foods and interesting customs. At Christmas, we hosted his family in our home for my first ever standing rib roast – which was magnificent, if I say so myself.

But my favorite story deals with their engagement. In December, after dating fourteen months, Michael asked Katie to go snow-skiing in Sugar Mountain. I knew they were getting serious and had discussed marriage. Both seemed ready, yet time marched on. As Christmas drew closer, I imagined Katie was hoping for a ring. She’d hinted that when the time came, Michael would first ask us for her hand in marriage. The trip was fast approaching, and I was getting nervous – at least, for her sake.

The night before their trip, Russell and I dined at Olympia. They were both working and visited our table, even sitting with us off and on. Katie was getting us drink refills (about fifteen feet away), when Michael sat down and blurted out, in a hushed tone: “So, I’d like to ask you for Katie’s hand in marriage.” Do what? No warning, no casual leading up to it, no clearing his throat or cracking his knuckles. I was so shocked my jaw dropped. During this time, Katie would walk over, chat a moment, then leave. In between her visits, I (being the big mouth) told Michael how much we adored him, and how happy he’d made Katie. Russell echoed my sentiments and offered best wishes. Keep in mind, we couldn’t react: no hugs, handshakes or pats on the back. Eventually I realized we’d not answered his question, so I said, “Michael, the answer to your question is ‘YES!’” This, I also had to whisper. He smiled and nodded, appreciatively. Katie came back to the table, and Michael went back to the bar. I don’t know how I kept a straight face. I do know we quickly left after that.

That night Katie packed, and I remained quiet (a tough feat). When they arrived the next day, she called – but didn’t mention a ring. She called again the next afternoon, describing the cozy surroundings but difficult skiing maneuvers. Again, no mention of a ring. Finally, she called that night, and I knew instinctively “this is it!” I picked up the phone and heard her breathless squealing, “Moooooooom! I’m engaged!” And what a celebration it has been!

The date will be September, 2012, because Katie wants to finish nursing school. The location will be our beautiful church in downtown Wilmington. It’ll be a great affair because Morris weddings (my maiden name) are often interesting, sometimes quirky and always entertaining! (And did I mention FUN?)

We are thrilled beyond measure! Isn’t this what every parent wants for their child? To find true love and happiness? One thing’s for sure: whether it’s a big fat Greek wedding – we’ve already been asked – or a small skinny Greek wedding, it’ll be a marriage made in heaven with a honeymoon in Greece!

I love pearls! Diamonds may be a girl’s best friend, but pearls run a close second. They are so feminine, so charming, so Southern! What’s not to like about them? They are just plain classy (an oxymoron, perhaps – but, nevertheless, true). When I think of pearls, I think of Audrey Hepburn – and who doesn’t? – also Marie Antoinette and the famous Vermeer painting, Girl with a Pearl Earring.

Pearls are great! And they’re so versatile. When a twenty-something-year-old friend of Katie’s came to our house recently, she was wearing blue jeans and heels, a starched white shirt and – you guessed it, pearls! When I commented on them, she told me they were a high-school graduation gift from her mother. She wears them every day. And since she looked ravishing, I could see her point.

Pearls also go great with the LBD (little black dress) and of course, wedding gowns. I remember when Barbara Bush made the three-strand pearls famous. I went right out and bought a set. I also have a long set, a short set, a fat, chunky set (newest of all, with a pinkish tinge, and a large clasp for pendants) and my choker pearls.

So special are my pearl necklaces, that I keep them – five in all – inside a dressy, zippered pouch. But of all these, the choker is the one I cherish the most because it was given to me by my sweet, precious and genteel Aunt Margaret. What a lady! They just don’t make them like that anymore. Seriously. She was the sister of my Granny Pinky (paternal side) and though I had Granny pretty high up on a pedestal, Aunt Margaret was at least par with that. To say I adored her was an understatement. In fact, I was named for my maternal grandmother, Julia Margaret. (My given name was Margaret Ann.) But truthfully, the way I admired Aunt Margaret and just gushed over her, I used to pretend I was named for her. I reasoned: if she was the queen, I wanted to be the princess. Years later, when I learned the name Margaret meant “pearl,” I found that quite poignant.

She and Uncle Nathan lived in Henderson, N.C., (but visited our coastal home from time to time) and were what I referred to as our “rich relatives.” He owned a television station back in the day when there were only three channels to watch: ABC, NBC and CBS. How can I describe Aunt Margaret? Her skin was like porcelain – honestly; her face had the shape, color and sheen of a porcelain doll. She always smelled heavenly – just a subtle wafting of a flower-like perfume. Her perfect rosebud lips and manicured nails were always painted red to offset her beautifully coifed silver hair. She dressed impeccably with a great sense of style. Aunt Margaret had a Southern drawl, quite refined, and she was soft spoken. When she laughed, her eyes twinkled, and she laughed a lot. She thought I was funny and it’s true that I’d show off for her. She always treated me like I was special, even though she had beaucoup nieces and nephews. I don’t mean to brag when I say I think I was her favorite. She once gave me a $5 bill and told me not to tell anyone. I couldn’t imagine why because I was thrilled, and I wanted to share the good news, but I didn’t.

Another time she gave me a lovely doll, about 9” tall, named Margo. Margo had wavy, blonde hair and wore a shiny pink-flowered dress with a solid pink satin trim and tiny heels. Even the doll was CLASSY – French, I’m guessing. Her arms and legs moved. I still have that doll, though one arm has fallen off and been repaired a couple of times. Aunt Margaret always had time to listen to my childish stories, and she never rushed me. She got down on my level, literally and figuratively, and I loved that about her. Few adults really listened to children in those days, but she did.

I can’t remember exactly how I acquired the pearls. It’s been many, many years ago. For a long time I didn’t wear them. One day I noticed they were “loose.” That’s the only word I know to describe them. I found the phone number of someone who restrung pearls, and I had them done. They came back to me, good as new, and I kept them tucked away in a small jewelry box for a long time.

The day Caroline, Katie’s friend, visited, it got me to thinking about those pearls. I felt a bit sad that I’d neglected them. I felt a bit hopeful when I remembered I had a formal affair coming up and they’d set off the outfit, for sure. I tried them on, but they felt too tight to be comfortable. So, I took the choker to a jewelry store, to have it extended, if that was possible. The lady at the counter began working on them, adding a small silver rope extension, all the while admiring them, even calling them “exquisite.”

I considered asking if they were “real.” I felt like I wanted to know (the adult Ann), but part of me thought I might be just as well off not knowing (the child Ann). What if they weren’t real? Would that change the special relationship I had with Aunt Margaret? After all, I’d defended her for years against certain family members who doubted her affection for me was anything beyond family-friendly. Somehow, I knew those pearls were just as genuine as her love for me. It turned out I was right when the jeweler confirmed my hopes. Indeed, they’re cultured pearls (as opposed to natural). “You are a very lucky woman. Your aunt must have loved you immensely.” I smiled, wanting to comment, but the lump in my throat stopped me. I wish every young girl could have an Aunt Margaret in her life who offered gifts of love. May she rest in peace.

April is a special month for hub-Russ and I, as our wedding anniversary is April 6. But this year, it’s bigger and better than ever as we celebrate 30 years of wedded bliss and an upcoming trip to a “British overseas territory in the North Atlantic,” as one source describes.

I thought long and hard about the best way to celebrate our upcoming milestone anniversary. The choices ranged from (jointly) a cruise to a far away island, a retreat at a mountaintop B&B or an all-day spa for couples; and (individually), a Bose sound system for me and new golf clubs for him. After spending countless hours on the Internet, I presented my pick to Russell: a cruise to Bermuda on the Royal Caribbean cruise line. We’ve cruised to the Bahamas four times, so I liked the thought of a new place. Plus, we would embark at Norfolk, thus avoiding the long drive to Port Canaveral that we’ve made in years past. And that’s another plus: a new cruise line for us, because we’ve cruised Carnival in the past. I know he must really love me to agree to this because his first choice was a trip to Scotland, home of golf – his much adored sport, and a dream he’s had since I’ve known him.

But, I’ve felt like I needed a “do-over” cruise for four years now. Our last one found me sick with a case of Norovirus. Out of the seven days, I was sick five and quarantined for forty-eight hours. Thank goodness our daughter, Katie, was with us then; or Russell would’ve had to go alone for dining, Broadway shows and shore excursions.

Though I write humor, I can tell you that for us, the secret to a happy marriage is balance. (And since we are polar opposites, sometimes that’s easy and other times, it’s flat out impossible.) Russell’s take on a happy marriage is this; and it’s a story he heard a while back: At his wedding, a young groom asked an old man, “What is the secret to a happy marriage?” The old man said, “You can be right, or you can be happy. But you can’t be both.” I guess the old man knew his place. But we both know our place too – and it’s called Home Sweet Home. Just to make sure you understand Russell’s dilemma and my angst, I’ve listed a few “problems” we’ve encountered.

I once hit his car in our own driveway on the way to a Southern Living Christmas Show in Charlotte. And no, he didn’t press charges.

He once stopped so I could pick wild flowers – Queen Anne’s lace, if you must know – then found big fat ticks crawling in his lap and around the car.

I’ve drug him not once, not twice, but many times to our annual “four day Morris family reunion” with 21 people under one roof. NOW we’re talking real drama!

I once used supper club as an excuse to renovate our home, ending with a carpet purchase of $2,500.

Russell loves to say, “Girl! You ain’t right!” I remind him I wasn’t right when he married me thirty years ago, but I was doing the best I could. Joke! Kidding! (Not really!)

I should’ve known when I began writing, nearly twenty years ago, that my best writing would be about Russell. The guy is hysterically funny! People actually stop me on the street and ask about him. Not about me, but about him! If we ever go to a party or an event, when I go to introduce him, folks say, “Oh! I know all about YOU! I’ve read Ann’s books.” He’s a celebrity in his own right; unlike me, “a legend in my own mind,” which Russell accuses me of.

Russell is deadpan serious, cynical and sarcastic. You never know when he’ll come up with one of his “Russellisms,” and, believe me, there’s plenty. I think if my mother ever had to choose between us, she would pick Russell, hands down. In her book, he’s that entertaining. He is my sidekick, my straight man and my centering force. He keeps me from falling off a cliff (metaphorically) or going into a tizzy, being the Drama Queen that I am. He slows down my impatient, hurry-up and get-it-done-yesterday self. He is my George Burns, and I am his Gracie. He is my Roy Rogers, and I am his Dale Evans. He is my Desi, and I am his Lucy. He is the glass half empty (for sure, pessimist that he is). On the other hand, I am the glass totally full, running over – make that Dom Perignon – rung up on a charge card that is maxed out. In other words, we really do balance each other out: When he’s driving 45 mph and the sign up ahead says, 55 mph, I beg him to “speed up,” but he won’t, “not until my car passes the sign. That’s the law,” he says. Argh! But I’ll never stop begging. And when he hangs curtain rods (or pictures) but first carefully measures for the exact center within a hundredth of an inch, I grab the hammer and say, “Oh! Just go for it!”

When we got married, the minister said, “Do you take this woman for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?” Russell picked “better” and “health.” He thought it was multiple choice. That should have clued him in right there of what was to come. When we moved into our first home together, I needed a whole closet just for MY shoes. He swore he counted fifty pairs, but he was so wrong. It was fifty-seven. Even now, in our little bungalow patio home, my clothes and shoes take up 4/5 (I measured the closet) and he is down to one Closet Maid rod with three, one-foot shelves for shoes. Five years ago, on April 6, when I asked Russell what it felt like to be married twenty-five years to me, he simply said, “Like I’ve served half of my sentence.” I wonder what he’ll say this year.

For every shortcoming I’ve had, he’s tried to solve it, bless his heart. For instance, Russell is now a Dave Ramsey “Financial Peace University” facilitator. He even made me (okay – I volunteered) take the class. Everything was fine until ole Dave told us we had to cut up our credit cards. Ouch, that hurt! But that’s okay: I came home, cut them up and made pocketbooks out of them, which I now sell at Blue Moon Gift Shops in Wilmington. I am getting better with my spending, though. I definitely don’t own a charge card. Also, I definitely pay cash if I’m trying to hide a moderate purchase from him. I say moderate because I know hub-Russ will probably read this. After I pay cash, I hide the item for, say, a week or two. Then when I put on those new shiny red flats (that I bought today) and he says, “Are those new?” I can honestly answer, “Nah, I’ve had ‘em a while.” Well, what can I say? I needed some cute little red shoes to go with my new/old (I’ll never tell) black-and-white party dress, with the red sash, for our cruise!

Not to boast, but I’ve been reusing and recycling for several years now. Like most every one else in these green-conscious, environmental friendly days, I’m doing all I can not to be wasteful. In fact, when we moved to Wilmington two years ago, I asked the real estate broker were there any “green” houses we could look at? He looked at me like I was crazy. I’m not sure if he thought I meant a place to grow plants or a house with green aluminum siding, (puhleeze!). So I explained myself. I guess the term hadn’t quite caught on then, but it sure has now.

In that vein, I’ve just rebooted, or should I say, had the heels of my favorite turquoise-studded, brown-suede boots repaired. That’s because part of the heel fell off recently. After wearing them out and about all morning, I came home; noticing that one of them felt funny. As I walked on the hardwood floor, it was obvious that one boot felt unstable. It even made a strange sound coming from the floor. So I sat down, raised my foot and discovered one entire heel was “gone,” not the sole, but the heel only. Oh, y’all, this is so weird that I just have to explain further. The outline/framework of the heel was still there, (I could even seen itty bitty screws) but there were actual holes where the quarter inch flat part had separated. Strange, but I never saw it come off. Then I walked into my office, and there lay a mess: the dark brown hard plastic heel, about the size of a small coffee cup saucer, sitting in a little pile like someone had hammered it into a million different pieces.

For those of you who’ve read my columns over the past ten-plus years, you know my Dad owned two shoe stores when I was growing up, and we kids all worked in them. So, yes, I’m a shoe addict, shoe freak, shoe fashionista, whatever. I truly don’t buy as many as I used to – who can with this ridiculous economy? But I have my favorites, and some are old, really old. I’ve decided that’s not a bad thing.

Though these particular boots aren’t that old (a couple of years) I figured I must’ve just worn them out, literally. Anyway, the super-odd-unbelievable thing is that not two weeks earlier, when I was in Barnes and Noble, of all places, just before Christmas, I nearly tripped while wearing another pair of shoes – this time, high heels. I looked down to find that the sole of the dressy black heel, left side, from the toe to just where the heel began had come unglued. As I said, I nearly tripped, and then I looked down to discover one shoe bottom flapping in the wind, if you will. Therefore, I could not walk; or at least, I could not lift my foot. Picture this: Me standing (or trying to) in a store that sells my books and has twice hosted book signings for me; and I’m planted to the floor. Talk about embarrassing. I had to slide my left foot and then raise my right foot to move at all. Hubby Russell (Oscar) found me in the Bargain Books and said quite loudly, for everyone to hear, “Ann, why are you walking funny?” Oh, really, men!

But the point is, and I do have one (stay with me here) is that when I went to have my boots re-heeled at the shoe repair shop, I found the most wonderful experience. Upon flinging open the door, I looked around. Suddenly all my senses were engaged. The unmistakable heavy smell of leather; the comforting sight of the almost magician-like cobbler (for their feats are sometimes nothing short of a miracle); the old, heavy Singer sewing machine right there in the “lobby;” the odds and ends of boots, shoes, belts and purses and even new products like Kiwi shoe polish. This all brought back a flood of childhood memories. On one side of the counter were good as new, repaired products, simply waiting for pick up. On the other side was the worn out “help me if you can” pile, waiting for repair. That’s when I realized the shoe repair shop is a great metaphor for life.

As a society, we’re so fast to throw away things that are used, abused, weathered and withered. But you know what? Some of the best things I’ve ever owned or loved have a history and attachment that nothing new can ever replace. That’s probably why I love seeing folks drive super old Mercedes; or, like my neighbor down the street, that darling golden yellow Saab that is nicked and scratched, even rusted in places. I often imagine it’s full of great memories; perhaps it traveled to exotic locations, or even brought a new baby home, or maybe rescued a family during a threatening hurricane. I can just imagine the great roads it’s traveled and the outlandish tales it’s witnessed.

With the current push of resale stores and the trend of wearing vintage apparel being all the rage, I’m sort of glad to know that the so-called new and improved, i.e., shiny, bright and (sometimes) boring, can’t always replace the harmony, comfort and love that comes with something old. This includes not only material things, but human connections, past endeavors and hopeful futures. Along with “Yes we can,” maybe we ought to “Salvage if we can.”

Especially in these hard economic times, that’s a timely lesson, a good reminder, a necessary wake up call that will help us to all take a good, hard look before we throw away the next thing – be it a pair of worn boots, a dated car or a rocky relationship that indeed can be mended.

In the book, The Five Languages of Love, author Gary Chapman lists the following as tokens of love: words of affirmation, quality time, receiving gifts, acts of service and physical touch. He explains how we as human beings react to each of these in varying degrees. While all of these are important, most of us find we respond more towards one than the others.

With that said, here are my thoughts: Regarding words of affirmation, who doesn’t enjoy a nice compliment as opposed to the commercial where the wife says, “Does this dress make me look fat?” and the apathetic, clueless husband responds with, “You betcha!”

Quality time I get as well. Maybe that’s why I love going out to dinner with hubby Russell: No TV blaring, no noisy pots and pans, no messy kitchen. It’s just the two of us with an occasional interruption of, “More tea?” It also gets me out of cooking. Hey, it’s no accident when I tell him how much I’d enjoy sitting at the local café, staring into his baby blue eyes, hearing all about his day.

Performing acts of service is a biggie, and I’ll be the first to say Russell helps out around the house a lot! He does most of the vacuuming, tons of laundry and other assorted honey do’s. That’s probably because with this house there’s no lawn mowing, branch cutting or vine pulling for him to hassle with. When we bought our patio home in Wilmington almost two years ago, he made sure we had a HOA that took care of the lawn (as opposed to the 1/2 acre in Pawleys Island that he maintained). So I guess now house work pales in comparison.

I honestly don’t think anyone in the world (with the exception of my mother) loves back rubs more than I do. But my favorite are foot rubs – physical touch is paramount for me. When I was pregnant with Katie, our youngest, Russell would rub my feet almost every night, then apply witch hazel with a cotton ball. Ahhhhhhhh – so soothing. It was almost a good enough reason to continue birthing babies right up until menopause, but not quite.

Still, all in all, my favorite of these token pleasures is gifts – making them and receiving them. It doesn’t have to be a big thing. My sister, Nancy, is famous for giving magnetic note pads for the refrigerator, always in a girly-girlish style, say, pink-and-brown polka dots. A dear friend in Myrtle Beach is known for taking photos – I saw this happen over and over at our church; and mailing the photo with a sweet note to the subject. Gifts don’t necessarily have to be purchased either. In fact, some of the best ones aren’t. My other sister, Cathy, makes potpourri from her garden flowers and herbs, then fills sachet bags and gives them away. Actually, my entire family at one time or other has worked with their hands to create home made gifts. Simply the thought of someone selecting just the right thing, laboring in love and using their talents and brains is indeed special.

Mom made silk flower arrangements, crocheted afghans (I have a crocheted pineapple-patterned bed skirt she made 25 years ago from tobacco twine), Cabbage patch look-a-like dolls, Barbie clothes, decoupage plaques and ceramics. After Dad sold his shoe stores, he built a humongous wood working shop and began making gifts (I’ve kept an inventory of over 400) for family, friends and friends-of-friends. His largest gift to date was a solid oak seven-piece bedroom suite he made for Kelly, our oldest daughter, when she married Chuck eleven years ago. We’ve all received hope chests, entertainment centers, kitchen tables, beds, baby cradles and even – in our case, a Honduran mahogany shaker table that features a cross-stitched Rainbow Row design (done by Russell) under clear glass. Nancy and I’ve both done cross stitch and crewel embroidery. My brother, Steve, and his wife, Lori, have themselves built a humongous deck and tiki bar that provides a gift of entertainment to friends and family – be it a pig pickin’, an engagement party or a Jimmy Buffett themed get together.

So with all that said, I took a few years’ break from crafting things – with the exception of crafting stories (such as this). But I’d get to “itching” as the Southern expression goes, and I’d crave something that was missing from my life. As I wandered around craft stores, hardware stores (one of my favorite shopping experiences), hobby shops and art studios, I’d wonder both what I’d be good at and what I’d enjoy. Then I remembered my Rattleheads. Before we moved away from Pawleys Island, I created these “classy dolls on a wand” and sold them at Art Works in Litchfield. Linda Ketron was a big supporter; she sold a half dozen or so. But the craft was tedious, and they were so much WORK! Gathering the supplies, finding just the right boa, hair, paint, adornments and even the base to hold the dowel (or wand). And sometimes they were painful – hot glue gun burns notwithstanding. Still, it was something I had to do: I visited various stores to gather my goodies, spread them out on the kitchen table (and bar and china cabinet, etc.) and went to work. One problem was the base: I needed something sturdy but attractive, and Dad came to the rescue with cypress crown molding that is strong and attractive. Here’s the best part: No two Rattleheads are alike, a tiny mistake can be endearing (much like character flaws in people) and each one takes on a personality of its own. So once again, I’m creating gifts that I hope will be cherished. Being back in the art world is the best therapy I know of: It is self expression brought to life. And for me, art is one more thing: A gift from the Creator, interpreted by the artist and given to cherish.

It occurred to me recently while visiting my parents that life is like a box of soap. I was ready to jump into the shower when I realized that the gooey soap sliver lying in the dish wasn’t quite enough to lather my non-sliverish body. Yeah, I know – the bigger the body the bigger the bar of soap required.

Anyway, that fateful day, I searched through the cabinet to find a new bar. Why is it always me that has to replace the soap, refill the toilet paper or replenish the sugar bowl? I don’t get it; well actually I do, no pun intended. That day, I saw two bars of Dove and one bar of Zest. Now, Dove to me is absolutely boring. It has no real smell and if it does, it’s totally nondescript. It makes me think of those Dove models whose porcelain-like faces don’t seem believable: no wrinkles, no ruddiness and no realism. I am not a Dove girl. Dove chocolate? Yes (especially dark). Dove soap? No. Even the name is innocuous. With the symbol of a dove representing peace, it’s no wonder I can’t associate. I’m not a peaceful person. Ask anyone when I come storming in out of the rain, bombarding the first person I see with: “Do you have a towel, a blow-dryer – an umbrella?” (for when I’m leaving).

So I pushed aside Dove in favor of Zest – now that’s a bar of soap I can sink my teeth into. Uh oh! Wrong metaphor. I don’t eat soap; unless you count that time I got my mouth washed out with soap for saying a bad word. It might have been “Yankees” for all I know; but it was enough to make me remember that disgusting foamy, frothy taste and feel.

Zest smells great! The scent is fresh, alive and woodsy; which could describe me except for the woodsy part. Even though I am a nature lover, if a buzzing bumble bee or protective mockingbird starts harassing me, I’m out of there. It’s ridiculous! When I think of Zest, I think of a burst of energy, or better yet, food – zesty Italian salad dressing, zesty lemon grass tea.

When I take a shower I don’t want boring. I don’t want dull, and I don’t want nondescript. So I reach for all the gusto I can get; and no, I’m not doing a beer commercial – or a soap commercial. I’m just telling you that though “life is like a box of chocolates,” an expression I borrowed from Forest Gump, it’s also like a box of soap.

There’s another flavor, I mean, soap that I love. Have you tried the brand Kiss My Face? Seriously, that name is adorable. Any frou worth her weight in pink-and-lime green polka dots would agree to that. Just the thought of it conjures up a new born baby’s skin, nuzzling up against your face. Plus the green liquid gel smells like a perfect combo of tea tree oil and eucalyptus.

But as good as Kiss My Face is, here’s one that’s completely opposite. That would be Safeguard. I’m over it! That is about the most manly-man scent I can think of. Plus, Safeguard is the brand name of a burglar alarm. I don’t want to smell safe, I want to feel safe.

Yardley lavender is a great soap. Maybe that’s another reason I like to go to Outback Steakhouse. It’s not just the Victoria filet, although that’s a good reason. When I go there I’m like a child who’s anxious to visit the bathroom to take in the sights, except I like to use the soap they provide. But get this: I can’t find that tall white plastic bottle of liquid Yardley soap anywhere else but Outback. Oh yeah, most places sell it in the bar form in both lavender and oatmeal – that’s another story, but I’ll tell you now with a quick interjection. I don’t like oatmeal soap. I like oatmeal in a cereal bowl with brown sugar, but not on my body – I don’t think so. So, if this restaurant has some kind of smart, clandestine, covert plan going on, thinking – like, “the food must be good, the service must be good and the prices must be good, but the soap: Oh, the soap, it must be great!” Then, I say, hey guys, your marketing plan is right on the money. I’m all about the soap.

And finally, the all time winner of the worst soap is Dial. Why? Because I grew up using Dial. It was a staple in my house. It’s old school and it smells like mouthwash. The commercials are so cheesy. Aren’t you glad you use Dial? I say no! Don’t you wish everyone did? To which, I say, h*#@, no! When I think of the word dial, I think of Wheel of Fortune. Spin that dial, honey! The company came up with the name Dial because they felt it offered “round the clock” protection – but I say protection from what? I don’t want protection; I simply want to smell good.

One of the things that I hate about growing older is that you actually have to grow up. Anger is an emotion. Forgiveness is an action. So it would stand to reason quite simply that if someone makes you angry, you merely forgive and forget, right? Not necessarily. It’s really kind of satisfying in a sick, yet grandiose (and childish), way to be able to enjoy the smug, self-righteous indignation for at least a while. In other words, “I’m right. You’re wrong. Nanny nanny boo boo.” In my case – first, I let it all roll around in my little head a couple of minutes, then I project a sly smirk of the lips and a pensive tilt of the head. Then I get all mushy and Pollyanna-like and cave (or, try to).

Psychologists tell us that to grow up is to let go of petty thoughts, childish ideologies and immature character flaws. (Dang – no more fun, I guess!) Then again, I know lots of adults who don’t see it that way. Please don’t ask me to name names.

The truth is, I became a fan of the sitcom, My Name is Earl, in part because I liked the way Earl tried to right so many wrongs. But it’s his mannerisms (flighty, quirky and out of touch) that make the show so enjoyable – that, and Joy, a good old Southerner who grew up just 45 miles from my hometown. The show is kind of a Dumb and Dumber meets Billy Graham. Of course, it’s a comedy and that’s the point: Whatever Earl starts out to do each week usually backfires or causes even more trouble. But you’ve got to love him for at least trying. Poor Earl is a case of not only leaving well enough alone, but in fact, leaving well enough worse off. A lot worse off.

Still, this is the how Earl’s show has affected me: I’ve been thinking a lot about people I need to forgive, and I made a list. This is in no particular order. Not chronological, not alphabetical, not even psychological. It is what it is.

Mrs. Jackson: In seventh grade history class when you made me stay after school because Jane and I pulled out our shirttails, and you humiliated us in front of all the cool guys: I forgive you. Even though it didn’t make a pea diddly bit of difference, you were just doing your job (I guess). Or then again, I still don’t know when the War of 1812 was, so maybe it did scar me for life?

Mr. Woodward in Sunday school: When our class got so rowdy that you had to get back-up help from the main building, and you wouldn’t allow us to utter a word. Instead, we sat in stoic silence for the next thirty minutes staring straight ahead: I forgive you. Of course, most folks can see that that little incident did not ruin me for life. I am able to talk freely and nonstop as the situation calls for.

To the stranger who asked me when my baby was “due” when in fact, I’d given birth four months earlier to Katie: I believe your glasses were fogged up or you were just plain clueless – nevertheless, I’ve decided to let you slide. But next time, use your noggin’ woman: “Don’t ask. Don’t tell.”

When that grouchy lady in Litchfield told me to move my car “or else” because it was in her way of walking (!) and that I was in a no park zone (was not!): I have decided to let you off the hook. Even though you shook your finger at me and bobbed your little gray head every which way. All that anger was just making me crazy every time I saw a road sign. Not worth the trouble. You’re marked off the bad list, too.

To the bundled up beach babe (in the dead of winter) who let her dog chase me near the ocean one cold October, and then laughed the whole time. Now that was downright rude, wouldn’t you say? And to make matters worse, she let her other four dogs circle me and sniff for some time before she finally called the pack off: You are forgiven.

To the publishing company that offered me a contract and then backed out. Now, I’ve had to work real hard at forgiving you, but as Irene Peter once said: “Ignorance is no excuse – it’s the real thing.” Perhaps it was your loss because I did survive and oh yeah, I even started my own publishing company. I probably should forgive you and thank you at the same time.

To the brokerage firm that didn’t offer me that job way back when because they said I didn’t pass the math test. Duh! No one ever said I was good at arithmetic. Case in point: 9 x 4 is not 32, I don’t care how many times you work it. Believe me, I found that out the hard way. I forgive you, Mr. Fancy Pants, because bigger and better things were coming my way.

And now I’ll play “Earl” and ask anyone out there to please just forgive me if I’ve done anything wrong to you. (This includes my Dearly Beloved Russell, though I’m sure he’d be hard pressed to find fault with moi in twenty-seven short, blissful years of marriage…right, honey?) To everyone else: Fair is fair and I think I’m mature enough now to simply say, “I’m sorry. Can we still be friends?”