Several years ago, Bob was sitting in the parking lot at Dunkin' Donuts feeling despondent about our marriage. We were going through a serious rough patch. As he sat there, an old gentleman pulled into the spot next to him and then walked around to open the door for his wife. He held her elbow as they walked in, helped her up onto her stool at the counter. They looked at each other and smiled. They held hands.

As Bob tells the story, he said tears came to his eyes as he watched them. That's what he wanted for us. He wanted us to be that couple some day. To grow old together and still want to hold hands. He wanted to take tender care of me, he wanted us to "love and cherish each other 'til death do us part." Was it still possible?

Bob went in and sat on the stool next to the woman. He turned to her, and still feeling a little choked up, asked her what their secret was? What was it that kept them close and in love after all these years?

Before the woman could answer, the old man leaned across her and loudly barked out, "Mind your own business!"

That story makes me laugh to this day. Thankfully, these many years later, I cannot imagine not having Bob by my side. Through God's mercy and grace, I believe with all my heart that we WILL be that couple someday. And if someone asks us what our secret is, you can be sure Bob won't bark out "mind your own business!"

Happy Anniversary, Babe!

My week sure got off to a bad start.

Sunday. The Lion's game. No elaboration necessary.

Monday. My dentist appointment. I go in to get a filling and find out I a need a root canal. Which means a crown. Which means hundreds of dollars. I'm warned if I don't get it, I might be flying one day and feel such agony I'll be writhing in pain in the aisle. I opted for the looming agony.

Tuesday. Brett's doctor's appointments. As usual, there isn't a single available parking spot. My handicap parking pass is obviously useless. I wonder if all the handicap passes are legitimate. I wonder this only because the handicapped spaces in the employee lot are always taken, too--not by handicapped people but rather by those that can leap out of their cars like jackals and sprint for the bus.

I finally spot someone leaving and creep behind them to get their spot. It's not a handicapped spot, so I need to angle my van so it's T-boning the car next to me. It gives me just enough room to get Brett out and park him safely against the wall, get back in the van and straighten it out.

Same rigamarole when we leave. Wheel Brett over to the wall, get in the van and slowly angle it into the T-bone formation. As I'm doing this, some guy yells out, "Lady, you trying to pull in or out?"

I force a smile, "I'm gonna be a while." Move along friend. I can hear the muttering, "Inept bimbo's like that shouldn't be allowed to drive."

I get Brett loaded up, finally ready to leave, and can't get the van in gear. I keep trying, fiddling with the gear shaft, getting more and more violent, feeling like I could break it off. Please God, please God, please God.

I'm so tense, it's like PMS on steroids. And who gets to feel the brunt of all this frustration? Bob. Poor guy. As if he doesn't have enough on his plate.

I get his voicemail. No, "Hey babe, I'm having a little trouble getting my van in gear."

Quite the contrary, it's a clenched teeth, "PLEASE PRAY!!! I can't get this STUPID van in gear." No hello, no goodbye.

I take a deep breath, utter another prayer and finally get it in gear.

Bob calls me back and I'm still tense and angry. He says he wishes I wouldn't get this way. It is decidedly the wrong thing to say.

He sends me a text after I get home suggesting we get a sitter so we can go out for a margarita. It is decidedly the right thing to say.

Not that I think alcohol should be our "go-to" (we'd be a couple of drunks if it was), but because it got us out alone and gave me a chance to tell Bob how much I appreciate him and all he does. If we'd stayed home, the TV would have been on, I'd have had my nose in a book and he'd of fallen asleep on the couch.

Instead, we talked about all we have to be grateful for, especially each other. It did wonders for my attitude, gratitude always does.

Growing up, my parents would constantly say they were, "making the best of a bad situation."  They always said it laughingly, with a hillbilly accent (it must have came from a line in a movie or a comedy show). "Situation" sounded more like "sitchy-a-shun." I began to hate the phrase. Why were we getting in to so many "bad situations" in the first place?

When my parents were newly married, my mom fell in love with an over-priced little dinette set, but they didn't have much money and couldn't justify buying it.

When Christmas rolled around, my dad decided to surprise her with it. He went out and bought it and strapped it onto his car. On the way home it broke loose, blew off the car and broke into a hundred pieces. He pulled over, picked up all the pieces and put them in his trunk.

When he got home he asked my mom to come outside to see what he'd gotten her for Christmas. She looked into the trunk full of sticks and asked him what it was.

"Kindling," he answered. I can just hear his big laugh.

My mom's response after hearing what it had been? "Oh well."

She could have said something like, "You'd think, being an engineer and all, that you might have figured out a way to strap it down so it wouldn't blow off."

But no, that wasn't her way and it certainly wasn't his. It was just the beginning of hundreds of times they'd be "making the best of a bad situation."

I was down in Florida visiting my parents when I came upon an interesting factoid claiming an average four-year old laughs about 400 times a day while an average adult laughs only about 15 times a day. I was curious how many times my dad thought he laughed in a day. He figured he and my mom laughed at least 100 times a day. My dad was not prone to exaggeration. In fact, to my knowledge he never exaggerated at all. Perhaps because of his background as a pilot and an engineer, he was more apt to make calculated guesses. Thus, there was no doubt in my mind that he and my mom really were laughing that much. It occurred to me that Bob and I weren't having near as much fun, that our comparatively paltry amount of shared laughter might be propelling us towards the big "D" (just kidding, Babe).

My dad always laughed easily and often. I'm happy to say I personally made him laugh easily and often. Oh, how I miss that big laugh of his!  Providentially, I made a television debut in 1980 that made him laugh for almost twenty years.

At the time I worked part time at my parents' travel agency and was often used as an errand girl. I've never been a morning person, always running late and taking minimal time to get ready. That particular morning was especially hectic. I'd overslept and didn't have time to shower or put on make-up. When I got to work, I was sent to the store to pick up a few items. When I got there I noticed a news crew set up in the parking lot. I vaguely wondered what the "big story" was but was more concerned about getting in and out without being seen by anyone.

Just as I was about ten paces from the door, the news crew started running towards me, like I was the big story. I tried to ignore them and picked up my pace a bit. They were persistent, saying they just had a few quick questions. Fine. They'd realize soon enough that I didn't know jack about whatever it was they were covering.

"Did you vote yesterday?" the reporter asked, putting a microphone up to my face.

I couldn't have looked more bewildered. You would have thought I'd never heard of the word "vote." What in the world would I have voted about?

I managed a meek, "Uh...no I didn't."

"Can you tell us why you didn't vote?" the man persisted.

Deciding honesty was the best policy, I answered, "I guess it was just...ignorance."

That seemed to satisfy them and they went on to find their next victim.

I didn't think much more about it until I got home and was eating dinner with my parents. I told them about my "interview" that morning.

"You don't think they'd ever put that on...do you?" The idea horrified me. I didn't want anyone to see me like that, much less an entire television audience. "What vote were they talking about anyway?"

Turns out it was Michigan's primary and there had been an unusually low voter turnout.
Please God, don't let me be on TV.

My dad turned to the right channel and just as we tuned in they started the segment with, "Here are some of the reasons voters gave for not voting in yesterday's primaries..."

And there was my greasy, bigger than life face emblazoned across the TV screen, squeaking out the excuse, "Ignorance." The "I guess..." part didn't make the cut, just the word "ignorance."

My dad howled with laughter. Every time I thought he had exhausted the laughter out of his system, he'd look at me and imitate that nasally, squeaky voice: "Ignorance." It would start him roaring all over again.

From that point on he could never use the word "ignorance" without using my particular enunciation. He would laugh just as hard as if he had just witnessed it. It makes me smile knowing I did something that made my dad laugh that heartily, for that many years.

I used to think a gorilla could do my job. Not anymore. I think it would shock most people to know just how much we need to know. Not just know, but prove our mental and physical prowess each and every year. It's either that or lose our jobs. Plus I doubt gorillas love people and love to travel.

Oddly enough, the more I fly the more I think passengers believe we're nothing short of little Einstein's.

They believe our geography knowledge is second to none. We can name every mountain range we're flying over, every body of water, each little city...we can even discern state lines.

They believe we are capable of predicting the future. We can tell them if the weather is going to affect our arrival or departure time. I always thought it would be fun to carry around a magic eight ball and when asked if they're going to make their connection, I could consult it and show them the answer: "Not likely." We can tell them if their seat mates are going to make the flight. Would they be able to spread out? I could give the eight ball another shake: "Fat Chance."

This is only a tiny sampling of how deep and vast they believe our knowledge is. Something mind-numbing must happen to them when they step on board. Many have trouble deciding if they should head into the cockpit or down the aisle. They have difficulty matching their seat number with the row they're in. They can't decipher diagrams that tell them whether they're at the window or the aisle. They can't distinguish the ashtray (that's in the center of the door!) from the door handle to get into the lavatory. On doors you need to push to get into, there's a big sign on the door that says, "PUSH." They find this so baffling I need to do a charade-like illustration of "pushing" to help them out. They can't remember the definitions of "occupied" and "vacant."

Remember those toys we played with when we were little? The ones that had different shapes that fit into different holes? Only the square shaped piece fit into the square shaped hole? That concept escapes them. At least we didn't break the toy trying to force a piece into a hole where it CLEARLY doesn't fit.

They have trouble differentiating the reading light button from the flight attendant call button...even though the light button has a picture of light bulb on it and the call button has a picture of a person on it.

I remember when Dane was only four years old and had to sit by himself on a flight. I drilled him on how to act. "Have your order ready, don't you dare ask what we have, tell them as quickly and clearly as possible what you want, say 'please' and 'thank you' and then sit there and look at your books."

The whole time I'm giving him his "coaching" he's staring up at the flight attendant call button and at the end of my explicit instructions to ONLY push it if there's an emergency, he adds, "....or if I want another drink."

"NO! Haven't you been listening?? I said NEVER push it unless there's an emergency."

"Why on the button is the lady carrying a drink?" he asks, logically enough.

"Why? Because flight attendants didn't design them, that's why."

And if some of our Einstein flight attendants did design airplanes?  The flying public would be much happier...and so would we.

Last month Caitlin and I took a mini vacation together. We visited a vineyard and spent the night in a quaint Bed and Breakfast in Charlottesville, Virginia, where Thomas Jefferson founded the impressive University of Virginia almost 200 years ago.

The winery was located in the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains. After our wine tasting, we bought a bottle of our favorite and took it out on the patio to enjoy in the bright sunshine. I sat there reveling in Caitlin's delightful company, marveling at the majestic surroundings, and thanking God that I live in "America the Beautiful."

When we left the vineyard we drove with the windows down, taking in the fragrant mountain air and singing loudly along to Taylor Swift. A joyful thankfulness engulfed me, not only for the means to spend this time together, but that in this season of Caitlin's life she is free to get away with me, that she wants to get away with me. My throat constricted with emotion as I thought that in this particular moment in time, if Caitlin could choose her mom, she would pick me. She would pick me!! I was afraid to voice the thought lest I start sobbing and ruin it, but I will cherish that memory for the rest of my life.

After spending an incredible few days in Virginia with my daughter Caitlin, we ran into some nasty D.C. traffic on the way to the airport. I began to silently praying God would allow us to get there in time in spite of the dwindling odds.

One of the reasons we were running late was a totally out of character shopping spree. I've never cared a whit about shoes and purses. I never change purses, only buying a new one when my old one falls apart. I've never sprung for a nice one. It needs to be big, so it's actually more like a small carry on than a purse. To give you an idea of just how un-chic I am, on a cruise eleven years ago, I carried around my plastic satchel even while clothed in a beautiful sequined dress (I have pictures).

Shoes? Same thing. I find a sturdy, somewhat fashionable pair and replace them when they wear out. I had a ten dollar coupon for DSW that was about to expire. Conveniently, a DSW was on the way. I headed straight to the clearance racks and found so many shoes and boots I couldn't carry them all to the check out counter. Caitlin saw me struggling with my enormous stack and thought I was joking. The good news is, the receipt says I "saved" 500 dollars. The bad news is, now I needed to check a bag.

We arrived at the airport 30 minutes prior to departure. I checked a bag but was stilled loaded down like a pack mule. The Known Crew Member security line (which doesn't restrict the amount of liquids you can bring through) closed minutes before I got there...which meant my expensive wine would be confiscated. Oh well, at least it appeared my prayers of making the flight would be answered.

Sweating like a pig, I made it to the gate only to be told I didn't have a prayer of getting on. Not wasting any time, I bolted back to security to beg for the return of my confiscated items. I bought a cheap bag to put them in and checked it for the next flight. I had the jumpseat on that flight so I was guaranteed a seat.

It had been more than two weeks since I had seen or talked to my best friend Tammy (very unusual). I was desperately missing her. We had so much to catch up on, and it was going to be another two weeks before I could see her.

Out of more than 22,000 flight attendants, guess who was working the flight and sharing a jumpseat with me? Tammy. It was a miracle! I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the unexpected gift. A gift God had planned for me all along, with the bonus of a much needed workout (the flat out sprints I ran loaded down with heavy bags).

If God had answered my prayers and allowed me to get on that first flight I would have missed out on that precious time together. We talked and laughed incessantly for an hour and a half.

God didn't allow me to get on the first flight, because He had something so much better to give me.  A miraculous set of circumstances only He could have arranged. So you see, sometimes, we really can thank God for unanswered prayers.