What not to say ...

I heard on the radio recently a list of things not to say to women. While some of them were appropriate, such as "Where did you get that idea, your mother?" the majority, I thought, were, well, more than likely written by men. Therefore, my first reaction was, I can do better than that. So in light of that, here's my list ...

When your wife asks you "How'd you like the new dish I made for dinner?" don't reply, "It was different." She'll take that to mean "horrible" and you'll be eating peanut butter and jelly from here to eternity.

When your wife asks, "How do I look?" don't reply with a "fine." Trust me, she'll interpret that as (A) you didn't look or (B) she looks bad, but you're afraid to tell her. Either way, she'll go change.

When it's Mother's Day --even if you don't have kids --never, ever tell your wife, "You're not my mother."

Speaking of mothers, never tell your wife, "That's not how Mama did it, made it, fixed it, etc." Just don't.

If your wife is sick, never tiptoe into the bedroom and tell her you have a problem, all of the forks are dirty. Just ask my mama.

Never ask your wife why she's not as (fill in the blank) as so-and-so's wife. No matter what the fill in the blank is.

Never ask your stay-at-home wife and mother of a toddler and infant what she's done all day. Trust me, she'll take it wrong, and you wouldn't believe her if she told you.

Never try to tell your wife that traveling for work is work. Believe me, no matter what section of town you have to stay in, it will sound like heaven to her.

Never criticize your wife's ironing.

Never ask, "What's the deal with all the clothes on the floor?" Chances are they are yours.

Never tell your wife she is being too sensitive, or you'll make her, yes, you guessed it, sensitive.

Never ask your wife if her purse is new. She'll immediately be defensive because we all know that question does not lead to a compliment.

Never ask your wife why she hasn't taken out the garbage.

Never ask your wife if she's bought a present for your mom yet.

When your wife comes home from having her hair done, never (A) say nothing or (B) ask what happened or (C) tell her it looks the same. "It looks good," is the only safe answer here, even if her hair is purple.

Never tell your wife she doesn't know what she is talking about, even if she doesn't know what she is talking about.

Never tell your wife she shouldn't feel a certain way. Just say you understand.

Never suggest going to Hooters for your anniversary, especially if she's just had a baby and the only clothes she can fit into are overalls. Trust me on this.

If she says she's going on a Girl's Night Out, never ask, "Again?" Tell her to have fun. You can thank me for it later.

And most of all, never accuse her of being interested in someone else. She loves you, even if you don't follow all of the above.

Speaking of which, if you do follow all of the above, she's going to wonder what you're up to. And when she does, don't tell her she's being unreasonable! Instead, just say, "I love you, too."

Les toilettes

There's a universal part of women and road trips, and you can probably guess what it is. Yes, it's, as the French say, les toilettes. I used to think they called it "Les salle des bains," until I asked for that a few times on my recent trip to France and learned that it meant, literally, "A place to take a bath." Big difference. Well, in most cases, that is ...

But back to the toilet issue. Women need them, and we need them often, and we need them to smell like roses. I don't know why God made us this way; he just did. As a child, I remember my dad hating to stop, as he put it, "every 15 minutes," though I'm sure it was more like 30 in reality.

My husband is pretty good about stopping, though inevitably he does it at some of the worst-looking places on the planet. I think it's a passive-aggressive way of discouraging me from asking, though I must admit I'm picky, and there have been times when we've pulled up and I've blatantly refused. After all, a girl has to have her standards.

This leads to some driving around, and, after a few tries, I'll find an acceptable place. When I return, he'll ask, "Well, how was it?" Though I realize he's joking, I always end up giving him a rating and some critique of the place. You know, areas they could improve upon and so forth.

After traveling to France, I realized that, as Dorothy says, "There's no place like home," especially when it comes to bathrooms. One thing we take for granted is -- clean or not -- in the U.S., they are bountiful. Trust me, there are more bathrooms in the stretch of road between here and Statesboro than there are in most of Paris.

Don't get me wrong, our tour of the country was incredible. We saw Notre Dame, Arc d' triomphe, the Louvre, the Mediterranean coast, Avignon, Arles, Monaco, and, of course, the Eiffel Tower, but the tricky part of our whirlwind trip, which included 12-16 hour days, was locating a decent powder room. I traveled with a group of women, and we soon bonded over this common issue. Believe me, when we asked each other "Well, how was it?" we meant it!

Soon, if we discovered a place, we'd quickly tell the others, and give them a few tips, as foreign toilettes are not like ours.

"You have to pay for this one," we'd say, or "Just FYI, this one has a male attendant inside the restroom," or "OK, they are in the back of the restaurant, but don't look to your right while you're waiting because the men's urinal has saloon-type doors," or "Save your receipt and use the code to get into this one, but there's no toilet seat (common in most of Paris, I learned)."

But perhaps the most bizarre bit of advice came in Les Baux, a wonderful, quaint place in the Provence area of France. My friend, Staci, and I went to use the bathrooms, which were unusually easy to locate. Fortunately, the rest of our group was there and were coming down the stairs when we arrived.

"There's a trick to this one," they said.

By this time, I'd been in the country four days and felt that I had seen everything, so I wasn't too worried.

"OK, what's that?"

"Well, you have to push the button to get in, and then once you get in, push the button, and the door will lock, the light will come on and the lid will lower."

"OK, I think I can handle that."

"But that's not the tricky part. The tricky part is that when you get out, once you close the door, it automatically locks and showers the place down."

Well, that was different, very different, but seemed relatively easy enough.

"OK, got it!" my friend and I said.

Off went our companions, and I ran up to push the red button. First of all, a red button never stands for anything good. Red equals panic and that was soon the case. I entered the first small silver stall and gave it a push. Immediately, the light went out, and I found myself standing in pitch-black darkness.

"Staci!" I cried and hurriedly opened it back up.

"Why don't I watch the kids, and you go first?" I asked like the good, considerate friend I am.

Staci, whom I learned remains calm through any situation, had no problem doing so.

She emerged with a smile on her face, and, as she exited, I grabbed the door, and quickly went in. It was seconds away from closing when she yelled, "Wait, Leigh! Don't let it close! If it shuts, it will shower on you!"

I stopped it in the nick of time. Flustered, I went out, closed it and heard the downpour of what sounded like Niagara Falls. Once it had finished its car wash-like cycle, I went back in and pushed the button. No problems there. When I tried to exit, however, I couldn't get the door open and soon found myself in an all-out panic: "STACI! STACI! STACI! I CAN'T GET OUT!"

"Push the red button!" she yelled.

I did and, of course, survived.

Now, nine days and approximately 40 bathrooms later, I'm home, and I'm grateful.

My husband should be, too, because something tells me when he stops at some roadside dump and asks, "Well, how was it?" my reply -- as long as my clothes are dry and my hair's not dripping wet -- will be, "Absolutely perfect."

Hey, kids, watch this!

Ever notice how the older your kids get, the harder they are to impress?

When my kids were younger, they thought I was magic. I'd simply walk up to the automatic door of the grocery store, wave my hand and say, "Abracadabra!" and it would open. If I wanted money, I drove to the ATM, punched in a few numbers, and -- presto -- money for McDonald's would magically appear. In the kitchen, they were in awe of me. I could take a cup of flour, add a dash of food coloring and a pinch of cream of tartar, and -- wham -- playdough. And if they were thirsty, I'd sprinkle a little fairy dust into a jug, add water and sugar, and -- oh, yeah -- it's Kool-Aid time.

Sigh ... those were the wonder years.

Nowadays, I'm lucky if they even go to the grocery store with me (though I'd never thought I'd hear myself say that) and $10 from the ATM doesn't dazzle them much. In fact, it no longer buys us lunch. They haven't touched playdough, homemade or store bought, in years, and after their first sip of Coke, Kool-Aid was no longer their drink of choice. Somehow, between the ages of 6 and 13, I had lost my magic.

Today, my jokes aren't quite as funny (well, they are, but they won't admit it). My daughter can almost beat me in tennis, and my son has realized that I throw like a girl. My job makes them roll their eyes, and my cooking ... well, let's just say I raised them to know better than complain about that.

All this to say, when I see an opportunity to show off for them, it's carpe diem. We spent Memorial Day on the lake and such an opportunity presented itself in the form of water skis. I grew up skiing, though unbeknownst to them, I'm not really the best. I never learned to slalom, much less do the tricks my older cousins could. Mainly, I would just hang on, hold my breath and cross the wake occasionally until my legs gave out.

As an adult, not much has changed, except for the fact that my kids were watching. Forget the long haul, I quickly realized I was good for a short burst, so I might as well give it all that I had. I waved and crossed the wake repeatedly, hanging on by one hand, bounding over the waves and ignoring the water in my contact lenses. In the boat, I could see my kids excitedly waving and pointing.

As I neatly let go of the rope and slide into the water near the dock, the kids cheered and bragged. I stayed in the water to swim a little longer, which delighted them and prolonged the inevitable for me -- getting out. My legs were so tired from exertion, I knew they would quiver the minute I hit dry land. Eventually, they went up to the cabin, and I unceremoniously crawled out, feeling happy and satisfied that I had managed to impress them once again. I fell asleep not long after reaching the cabin.

The next day, I woke up and realized I could not move my lower half without agony. My back was killing me, and the kids were hungry. Determined not to complain, I limped over to the stove, and after standing for a while, I couldn't help but mumble about it being sore.

"What's it sore from?" my daughter asked.

"Skiing," I said, surprised she had to ask.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot you skied," she said and then let out a short laugh. It could have been misinterpreted, but I knew what it meant. My back may have been killing me, but I had regained just a little bit of magic that day, and to the parent of a teen and tween, it was worth it.

Now, if I can just use my magic wand to find the muscle relaxers.

The big, comfy couch

When my husband and I were newlyweds, we lived across the street from a very nice family with four boys. The matriarch was a great mom, neighbor and friend, but there was one thing that bothered me about her — her couch.

It was the rattiest thing I’d ever seen. OK, not ever, but still pretty unsightly. We, on the other hand, had just purchased a beautiful white leather couch. Whenever I’d go visit, I would shake my head and mutter under my breath, “Why don’t they buy new furniture?”

Fifteen years later, as I sat on my faded, cracked, now off-white couch with children of my own, I realized she had four good reasons not to.

Looking back on it, my parents were the same way. We had an orange, brown, yellow and black plaid couch as long as I can remember. It’s a constant in all our family pictures. In fact, it wasn’t until my sister and I moved out that they got a new one.

Of course, there are other extremes, my grandmother kept plastic on hers for the longest time. I grew up living in fear of that couch and thought that eating on it was a mortal sin.

As for my family, we enjoyed our pretty white couch with built-in recliners on each end until the day the recliners would no longer go down, and pillows couldn’t hide the tears in the leather. The kids aren’t quite grown, but it was time for a new one. I just had to talk my husband into it.

I began by giving him a coupon for a recliner for Christmas. He opened it and looked a little disgusted.

“What?” I asked.

“You never bought me the recliner that you promised me last year or the year before.”

I had apparently given him a coupon for furniture for the past several years.

“You have to go sit in it,” I said.

He looked disgusted again.

So, to make things easier for me — I mean him — I scoped out some that had potential. My husband shops in the big and tall section and needed a couch that matched. My requests for extra-long recliners got some strange looks from sales people. It might have something to do with the fact that I’m 5 feet, 2 inches.

After stretching myself as far as I could go, I narrowed it down to a few choices and managed over a recent weekend to lure him into the store. He tried a few, but each lacked the key factor that he was looking for.

As we marched into our final store, he realized what it was and declared, “I want something with power!”

I snorted and asked, “How hard is it to pull a handle?”

But the salesman nodded in complete understanding. Perhaps it was a man thing, I thought.

That was before I sat in one.

Today, I’m proud and slightly ashamed to say we’re the owners of not one, but two couches with built-in power recliners. Despite my earlier prejudice, I do most of my work — thanks to my laptop — after pushing that magic button to just the right position. The downside of finding the right position, however, is inevitably someone will need something. I find myself saying, “Oh, come on! I just pushed the button.”

To which my daughter responded that an eject button might be in order.

As for our old couch, it was a bittersweet day when the truck came to take it away. My husband and I stood at the kitchen window and watched it break in half as the truck picked it up and dropped it with a bang into the back.

It may have been ratty and without power, but on that couch, I snuggled with babies, nursed sick little ones, helped my children with their elementary school homework, scolded them for stray ink marks and laughed at many an episode of “Seinfeld.”

I miss it already. Now, will someone please bring me a glass of water? I just pushed the button.

Boys will be boys

My boy has turned 10, and you’d think that by now I’d understand him a little better. But, the truth is, little boys continue to amaze me.

The older my son gets, the more I realize my husband really can’t help it. Men and boys are different animals. And, apart from the mess, it’s not that bad — particularly when it comes to planning birthday parties.

When my daughters were young, we spent hours planning unique and beautiful ways to celebrate their big day. Every item was coordinated, from the balloons to the cake to the party favors to the menu. For girl parties, all must be perfect, a trend that continues until the big wedding day. In addition, girls want to invite everyone because they don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I must say, when my 13-year-old daughter watched the royal wedding and announced she didn’t want that many people at hers, I breathed a big sigh of relief. That was right before I asked her, “Can I have that in writing?”

Back to the boy. No kid should turn 10 without a big celebration, and the girl in me was determined to make this one the best one yet. After much stress (on my part) over where to have it — gymnastic center, park, rock climbing facility, laser tag, bowling alley — we decided home parties were best, especially because all the aforementioned places were booked. (Perhaps, someone had called ahead and warned them.)

We agreed that as long as I had my valium, a spend-the-night party with a small group would work (I’m teasing about the valium, unfortunately).

“What do you want your theme to be?”

He thought for about half a second and replied, “War,” his theme for the past 5 out 10 birthdays.

Armed (pun intended) with my theme, I set off to buy decorations. As I perused aisle after aisle of cute party goods in search of camo plates and napkins, I couldn’t help but think, “Thank heaven I have my girls!”

Finally, I discovered a surprisingly good selection of items — banners, dog tags (a big hit), little parachute men and even party invitations featuring a big Army tank on it. I was so excited that when I ran into a friend, I said, “Look, what I found! Isn’t this great!”

She looked down at the invitations and feigned a smile, “Uh huh.”

It was then I remembered she had two adorable little girls and no boys. No wonder she looked so horrified. I was the same way before I had my son. Guns, even toy ones, scared me so badly. I even ran a boy out of the yard once for having one that was too realistic.

I’ve come a long way. Not only did my son have a full on Nerf war for his birthday, we allowed the boys to shoot paintballs (highly supervised) into a wheelbarrow. In fact, when my husband asked, “Leigh, do you want to shoot?” I replied, “I thought you’d never ask.”

The party ended up being a huge success. I’d like to think it had something to do with the little touches that I made — the camo banners I artfully hung, the strategically-placed green and black balloons, and the cookie cake topped with little green Army men, complete with a soldier holding a shovel next to the indention I had made with my thumb. But, ultimately, I think it had more to do with my ability to stay out of the way, and, on his special day, to let boys be boys.

Remember when?

I just found a photo of me from my 9th birthday. I had forgotten the bowl haircut my mama used to give me (because I detested brushing my hair), but I remember the party very well.

I have a selective memory, it seems. Don’t ask me to recall what I had for breakfast or where I put my keys or the name of the lady I just met five minutes ago, but I can tell you what I wore on just about any given day, details of conversations from childhood and every bit of juicy gossip I’ve ever heard.

I also have a knack for memorizing things and then immediately forgetting them. In fact, this is what got me through college. Memorize what I need to know, take the test and then hit the delete button. It may have gotten me an A in history, but it hasn’t helped me win many trivia contests.

Then there are things I guess one never forgets. And one is this birthday party. It rained. I know this because my birthday is near the end of February, and it has rained almost every year since the Sunday I was born.

All the neighborhood kids were over. The thing with neighborhood kids is you don’t always like them, but back in my day, we were sent outside and had no choice but to play with somebody. I’m sure my mom was trying desperately to keep us entertained on this rainy day. I distinctly remember her saying, “I know! We’ll have a contest. Whoever draws a picture that most closely resembles Leigh wins!”

The excitement was in the air, “Can I draw, Mama?”

“No, Leigh, it’s a picture of you. You can’t draw.”

I don’t need to check with Mom to know I probably crossed my arms, stuck out my lip and stomped my foot. I don’t need to check with her because, 31 years later, I’ve been known to do the very same thing.

My neighbors took the task seriously and began drawing, bearing down hard with their pencils and crayons.

“Turn sideways, so I can get your profile, Leigh,” said the boy next door.

I hesitated. Well, maybe being a model wasn’t so bad.

“Smile,” said the girl from across the street. I grinned and held it while they furiously scribbled, glancing up now and then at me to make sure they got it just right.

I began to eagerly anticipate the masterpieces they would produce.

One friend held hers at arm’s length comparing it to the real thing.

“Perfect!” she declared. “This looks exactly like you.”

I was about to burst with delight and curiosity.

“Can I see now?” I asked.

“Wait, Leigh, you go in the other room while I judge the winner,” Mom said.

I skipped away and waited and waited and waited.

“Mom! Are you done yet?” I shouted.

Little did I know, my mom was undergoing her own dilemma. Ultimately, she made her decision.

“OK, Leigh, you can come back in now. We have a winner!” she said with a hint of false cheerfulness in her tone.

I ran in and took one look at the pitiful green stick figure with distorted facial features and huge feet and hands and cried, “That’s not what I look like!”

I quickly grabbed the other pictures — Mom really had chosen the best one — making for a very bruised 9-year-old ego. My antics soon offended my poor guest artists, and it wasn’t long before several of them were in tears. About that time, I was taken into the other room and given a stern talking to about manners.

“This is the worst birthday ever!” I thought, knowing better than to say it out loud, and, perhaps it was, but the funny thing is, when I look at the photo I can’t help but remember it and smile.

So, as I sit and fret about my son’s upcoming birthday party, striving, as we mothers do, to make it the best one yet, I realize that sometimes the happiest days don’t lead to the fondest memories. And if it rains and we have to (God forbid) have his party indoors, I know just the contest we can have —it’s called “Draw Leigh.”

And this time I’ll be the judge!

Coach and Biscuit

“Hey, Biscuit!”

My son grins and heads to the door of his elementary school, pretending to ignore the greeting of the man in the funny hat opening the door for him. I’m not sure why he plays it cool because I happen to know he relishes it.

“I’m one of the few at school with a permanent nickname,” my son told me once. One thing I’ve learned about nicknames is you never forget the person who gave it to you; and my son, like so many other students and parents, for that matter, will never forget Coach.

Some folks may see him as simply an elementary school P.E. teacher, but those who know him, know better. Coach is an unsung hero. Each morning, my husband or I drag ourselves out of bed and sleepily drop off our son. No matter how grumpy or tired we feel, once we’ve seen Coach, we drive away smiling. And, trust me, it takes a rare gift to make me smile that early in the morning. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that he’s often in full costume — just because it’s a Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday — you get the idea.

Coach is usually joined by his partner-in-crime, a fantastic male chorus teacher who somehow manages to be one of the kids yet maintains discipline in the classroom — when he and Coach aren’t riding up and down the halls on big wheels, that is.

Each morning, as Coach opens the car door, he always has something positive to say to everyone inside. And, for the poochies who ride to school, he carries a pocket full of doggie treats.

Inside the school, Coach is a lot like the Fonz. He enters the cafeteria, and the kids all yell “Coach!” and frantically wave, while the lunchroom monitors roll their eyes in mock exasperation because they have just gotten the kids quiet. Coach will then make his rounds, giving high-fives, calling kids by the special names he has given each one, asking them how their school work is going, and making sure they stay out of trouble — something the kids strive to do because, believe me, no one wants to disappoint him.

On special occasions, he’ll play music in the lunchroom and has been known to pull kids up to dance, including — to their embarrassment — certain visiting moms. Coach coaxes even the shyest kids to participate in karaoke, leading by example (he does a great Johnny Cash). The amazing thing to me is that he’s not like this just now and then. His enthusiasm remains the same day in, day out, and I’ve known him for almost 10 years.

There are several Coach-related events that the kids look forward to each year, and a big one is track.

Each day, my son ran a little farther and a little harder in hopes of getting picked for the team. We found out last Friday that he did. At least, he thinks he did. He said Coach also takes a big group of kids who don’t make it, just to watch. Either way, my son is happy to be a part of it because as he said, “Coach is not about the winning; he’s about the trying.”

I think that says it all.