Life on the Far Side of the Five

Are You Out Of Your Mind?

2011-09-27T08:41:00.004-05:00

I certainly hope not, but, even if you aren't right now, there's an excellent chance you will be in the future.

With the gigantic strides medical technology has made recently, the life span of the average human has increased dramatically. Joint replacement surgery is on the rise among Baby Boomers, and it's very common for someone to have not one or two, but even three or more "bionic" parts, allowing them the freedom to live a more active physical life, free of pain and discomfort, well into their Golden Years.

If only that were true for their minds as well. Sadly, the hard fact is that living longer greatly increases your chances of getting a form of dementia. It's not a matter of if you'll get it, it's only a matter of when and what type.

That being said, doesn't it make sense that we make finding a cure for dementia related diseases a high priority? Of course it does.

We are not a passive generation. We pride ourselves on our initiative and the fact that we are pro-active rather than reactive. Let's channel that drive and determination towards finding successful treatments that will lead, ultimately, to a cure.

Research is ongoing and great strides have been made. Experts tell us the breakthrough is just beyond the horizon, well within our grasp. We'd be out of our minds to slow down now. But, research takes funding, and here's where WE can do our part and be PRO-ACTIVE while we can still make a smart, informed decision.

All over the country, chapters of the Alzheimer's Association are gearing up for one of their biggest research fund raising events - the Walk To End Alzheimer's Disease.

I encourage, urge and BEG you to make the smart decision and pledge your money for a cause that will affect each and every one of you who is reading this.

Contact your local Alzheimer's Association or go to www.alz.org and make your donation today. I'll be making my dollars count at: http://walktoendalz.kintera.org/brazos/jproza

After all, it's just the smart thing to do.

All Creatures Great and Small

2011-06-27T13:50:00.005-05:00

I've always hated our backyard. Oh, it's a perfectly nice backyard, but the problem is it's owned by two people who have no idea how to landscape. Basically, our idea of landscaping is to buy whatever looks good, bring it home, slap it in the ground and either totally ignore it or smother it to death. Surprisingly enough, the ones we ignore tend to do a whole lot better than the ones we try and nurture. I'm sure that says something about our parenting skills, but I don't want to think about it too much.

Once upon a time, when the boys were small, we had an above ground pool. It was great and the boys loved it. They'd swim with their friends every day, having lots of swimming type fun. Even Roger liked it, and he's one of those annoying types who doesn't like to swim (you know the type I'm talking about).

Me? I hated it...to me it looked like a gigantic cattle tank, sitting in our backyard...sorta like the water tower on Petticoat Junction, only uglier, because we didn't know how to camoflauge it. It was just a big, old, ugly bowl of water.

Okay, fine, in typical Proza fashion, we decided to throw good money after bad and we got an in-ground pool installed. A real, honest to goodness swimming pool, with plaster, deck coping, tiles and everything else that comes with it...including the huge price tag.

No problem - it was an investment, right? We're investing in years of family fun and sun here! Who needs a vacation? We'd vacation right here in our own back yard and enjoy our new beautiful pool and all of the wonderful closeness and family memories we'd have as a result of all of that terrific splashingingly good fun! Right?

Well, maybe, except that Alex and Joseph picked that exact time to STOP SWIMMING COMPLETELY! Really? When does that happen? Let me tell you, when I grew up, there was nothing else to do BUT swim. If you had a pool, you were instantly the most popular, fun person to be around with an unlimited number of new best friends. At least during the hot, summer months; and if your pool was heated? SCORE! Lifetime Popularity, I guarantee it. Sure, we were shallow, but we were also HOT and BORED. Don't judge!

So, it only made sense to spend EVEN MORE money on the backyard, right? Are you sensing the pattern here? Good, maybe you could tell us, because, apparently we're not real bright.

We decided to have a pergola built in the backyard. We had a spot that was too shady to grow any grass and we were tired of lugging our chairs across the yard to sit under the trees.

Of course, we got our across the street neighbor to build it for us. He comes from a talented family of builders. You know the kind of people who watch the DIY channels and point out all of the mistakes. People who know it's not a good idea to clean paintbrushes in the bathtub (I'm looking at YOU here, Roger).

The problem with having someone like that building something for you is the snowball potential involved. One little innocent comment, one little "You know what would look good in that corner? A fish pond". Just one slip of the tongue and BAM, you're at the pond store paying way too much money for stuff you used to catch in the creek with a coffee can.

And ROCKS? Good Lord, I never thought I'd actually pay money for ROCKS. Seriously, I didn't think you could even BUY rocks. Don't you just dig them up out of the ground?

Let me tell you, I'd like to meet the genius who thought that one up. You know his parents are relieved, since they probably thought all of that sitting around digging in the yard with a stick was never gonna pay off. Ha! Jokes on them!

The good news is, we have a beautiful backyard. Complete with a stunning pergola, which is wired for electricity, with a ceiling fan and a stereo system. There's a gorgeous waterfall that tumbles water musically down into a charming fish pond, filled with fish and tadpoles. Frogs have found out little haven and have made it their own with nightly serenades and, judging from the number of tadpoles, more than one successful romance.

You see the obvious, right? The reason why the yard is now a beautiful oasis, instead of a desolate, barren wasteland?

You got it - we didn't do any of the work OURSELVES. We hired someone else to do it. And there ends this lesson, grasshopper.

How Do I Tell You Goodbye?

2011-04-07T13:17:00.006-05:00

It's the summer of 1964 and a little girl is playing. She's jumping from the framing boards of a garage down onto a ground covered with sawdust and wood shavings. That summer I turned 4, you were built and our life together began; a life that lasted 47 years.

We shared secrets, you and I.

I know the tar smudge on that certain brick of the fireplace and the fine, hairline crack of the one on the mantle; and the tricky two-step it takes to push open the screen door and make it down the back steps before the door swings back to deliver a smack. The front door lock doesn't give up without a fight and it takes a firm hand to convince it to cooperate. The back door is much nicer, but has a certain way of closing that has to be done in two stages. Not stubborn, exactly, just lazy.

You kept my secrets, too. My name, spelled out in stickers down the inside of my bedroom door, and the hole I put in the wall by kicking off my shoe a little too hard. Remember the persimmon tree my friends and I jumped over and permanently bent? And the fact that I learned to climb using the columns in the living room and found my mom's candy stash by climbing the shelves in the kitchen pantry?

We grew up together, you and I. When we were young, I played hide and seek in your gardens, running up and down the rows of corn. I climbed onto the roof of your greenhouse to reach the best plums and I knew the turns of your garden paths so well I could run full speed and never step off into the dirt.

You were my first love, my childhood home for 25 years and, even when I left, you stayed the same. Always waiting for me to return for a visit...to come home.

We have staked our claims on each other, you and I. My initials are in your sidewalks and every year iris, daffodils and spider lilies from your gardens bloom in my backyard.

I can't remember a time when you weren't a part of my life, and even though someone else owns you now, in my heart you will always belong to me. My special place, my shelter, my secret garden, my first true love, my childhood home.

You Say Sushi, I Say Bait

2010-09-13T12:43:00.002-05:00

Recently, Roger and I succumbed to peer pressure and decided to try sushi (or as I previously and shall forever after refer to it - BAIT).

I have always been suspicious about the whole "raw fish" trend. I've accidentally eaten raw seafood before and that experience left me thinking it was definitely not something I wanted to do again. Turns out, I was right.

My oldest son, Alex, has always been a big sushi fan. But, you really can't depend on Alex's recommendations when it comes to food. One of Alex's favorite past-times is to wander into a hole-in-the wall where he's the only person who speaks English. He'll proceed to peruse a menu that he can't understand and make a selection by pointing to something that looks interesting. Then, in a surprising show of faith and courage, when the mystery food is served, HE ACTUALLY EATS IT.

See, I blame his dad. Roger has always been an adventurous eater. You know the type, someone who will actually eat things from the Roach Coach. A person who sees nothing wrong with eating a sandwich from a gas station. That's not to say Roger doesn't have his limits. For some reason he draws the line at anything white. Yep a tamale out of the trunk of someone's car? You betcha! Just keep your mayo, cream cheese and sour cream to yourself.

Like I said, Alex was always a big sushi fan, and we never pay attention to Alex's food recommendations. But, then we got some surprising news from our youngest son, Joseph, (who is a really picky eater) and his girlfriend Audrey, (who manages to live on a diet consisting of all things potato). Both of them jumped in the sushi fish tank and LOVED it!

Okay, that's it! Roger and I were tired of being the old fogey, sticks in the mud. Let me just step in here and say that maybe the REASON old fogeys live long enough to actually become old fogeys is that they know better than to eat things that are routinely put out on a trot line. I'm just sayin'.

We went to a sushi restaurant Alex recommended (mistake number 1) and ordered the items that Alex suggested (mistake number 2).

We were nervous, sure, but it all started out pretty well. The edamame was a little salty, but you could brush the excess salt off, right? Miso soup came next and I tried really hard to distract Roger from the little cubes of tofu floating around on the top...SUCCESS! We both ate the soup and it wasn't too bad.

On to the entrees! We had ordered the California Roll and the Alexander Roll. Both came beautifully plated and we eagerly (I was eager, Roger was scared), took a bite.

The minute I got that first bite of California roll in my mouth I knew we were in trouble. From what I've been told, the California roll is actually COOKED. It has no raw fish in it. So, maybe someone can explain to me why my California roll tasted like I'd just reached into the koi pond and popped Goldie into my mouth.

I looked at the expression on Roger's face and at the pain in his eyes and I knew drastic measures were called for.

I hopped up and went looking for our waiter. I told him we'd had an emergency phone call, and had to leave and we needed two to-go boxes. (What, we'd spent $30.00 on this stuff, you think I'm leaving without it?)

We packed up, swung by Alex's house to drop off the "offal", and high-tailed it to our favorite rib joint, where food servings are huge and fixed the way God and Nature intended - cooked over an open flame and served with two of your favorite side dishes.

Oh, and just so you know, I asked Alex the next day how he liked his surprise sushi meal. Turns out he only got a couple of bites. He claims while he was eating it straight from the to go box, the box flipped over and all of the sushi fell onto the floor.

Uh huh...I think it says a lot that even his DOGS didn't try to snatch it up.

Death With Daddy, The End: Angels Do Exist, and They Work For Hospice

2010-08-05T13:28:00.003-05:00

I started this saga by saying there was some humor in my father's death. After what I've written, it's hard to believe there was anything remotely funny about this debacle. Oh, but there was...

Help did, indeed, arrive for our family, and it arrived in the form of Hospice Workers from Christian Care Center. We first used Christian Care Hospice for my mother and when Daddy needed hospice care, we knew we wanted those same caring professionals to help him through this final phase of his life.

When we moved Daddy to Garnet Hill, Christian Care Hospice made special arrangements to be allowed to care for my father. They checked in with Daddy daily and, when the time came to have someone there around the clock, they settled right in.

While we were upset with the lack of care my dad was receiving from Garnet Hill, the hospice workers were shocked and appalled. They marshalled the troops, surveyed the situation and made immediate improvements.

They went over the nurses' heads and contacted staff doctors themselves. Medicines were changed and new procedures were started. Oh yes, there was definitely a new sheriff in town, and this one took no prisoners.

One special hospice nurse was a sweet woman named Lucy. Lucy is an elderly woman with strong religious beliefs, a passion for her work and a true dedication to her patients. I'm not real sure what Lucy thought about our family, but we'll be forever grateful for the way she came in, took control and made sure my father's passing was as easy as it possibly could be, for him and for us.

Lucy had the day shift with my father for a couple of days, and on the day of his death, my sister, Michel, my niece, Suzanne, Roger and I were all there in the room, visiting. Even though we had complete faith in hospice, it was hard for my family to let go of the feeling we had to be there all of the time. I guess you could say our experience with Garnet Hill left us with some trust issues.

Daddy's body was slowly, gradually losing this final battle and Lucy let us know he was close to passing. We gathered around my father's bed, holding his hands and telling him we loved him and that it was okay to move on, that we'd all be fine.

Daddy stopped breathing for a time and then took one huge breath. Lucy told us that was very common and it would probably happen a few more times before he actually died. It was all part of the process, but very normal and predictable.

Daddy's breathing started and stopped several times. As the times between episodes became longer and longer, Lucy would reach forward, feel for a pulse and listen to his heart.

Each time she assured us this was a normal part of the process and it wouldn't be long before Daddy passed peacefully.

My father took a breath and we all leaned in closer to the bed waiting to see if he'd take another....waiting......waiting......waiting. Silence, nothing but silence.

Then BOOIINGG! Roger's cell phone went off, all of us jumped and Lucy grabbed her chest and declared in a loud voice, "Okay, I don't know WHAT that was!"

That's okay, Lucy, we know what it was...it was my Dad, making sure he left us laughing with one last practical joke.

I think it's fitting that I end this four part story on this day...what would have been my father's 89th birthday.

I love you, Daddy.

Death With Daddy, Part Three - Fighters To Your Corners

2010-07-27T13:51:00.006-05:00

My father probably had one of the longest deaths in the history of mankind, especially considering the fact that, according to him, he'd been living on borrowed time for the last 45 years.

I've read the best way to look at your life is to view it as an adventure - it's not the destination that matters, as much as enjoying the journey you take to get there. Since we're all going to reach that same destination (death), it sounds like a good idea to enjoy the journey (your life) and not worry so much about the end of the trip.

I just wish the end of Daddy's journey would have been a little easier...more like a calm, peaceful easing into the next phase, instead of something closely resembling a fight to the death cage match on pay per view.

Over time Daddy's cancer metastasized to the point where he began having the predicted physical and mental difficulties. He suffered from weakness and confusion, making it harder and harder for him to be the self sufficient person he wanted to be.

Even with the assistance of hospice workers, meals on wheels and daily visits by my sister and me, it soon became clear that Daddy needed to be in a place where he could be monitored 24/7, with around the clock medical care available, if needed.

The search began for just such a place. Daddy wanted it close to his current home, but my sister lives 45 minutes from his part of town and Michel worried about getting to him in an emergency.

We finally settled on a place practically in my sister's backyard - Garnet Hills Rehabilitation Center and Senior Nursing Facility in Wylie, Texas. This is where the final stage of this adventure begins.

First of all, a little advice...be very careful when you choose a "nursing home". They go by a variety of names nowadays: Senior Nursing Facility, Adult Day Care, Assisted Living, Independent Living. These facilities are all structured to provide services to people who are in need of different levels of assistance. Some people need constant supervision and help and some need very little. The best of these facilities are honest about what they can and can't provide and they do their best to care for their patients.

And then there are the others...Unfortunately, my family learned the hard way about the others - namely the Rehabilitation Centers. One thing the good AND the bad facilities have in common is, at the end of the day, they are BOTH businesses, businesses who have to show a profit to remain IN business. That's fine - I don't begrudge anyone the right to be successful. But when striving to make a profit compromises the health, safety and welfare of the very individuals the facility has agreed to care for, that's when I have a problem.

Unfortunately this has been the case with our experience with rehabilitation centers. My family's first dealing with a rehab center was when we placed my mother in one after her stroke. Even though we were assured they could handle my mother's Alzheimer's and her need for constant monitoring, it soon became apparent they were not set up for nor equipped to deal with someone in the latter stages of the disease.

When it was time to place my father, my sister and I both met with the woman in charge of admissions at Garnet Hill, as well as the facility's administrator. We very thoroughly laid out my father's needs; what he was capable of doing himself and what he'd need help with. Both managers assured us the nursing staff was well equipped to meet all of my father's requirements.

Read that last sentence again and I think you'll see the problem: the MANAGERS assured us the NURSING STAFF could provide the necessary care for my dad. There is the disconnect..the managers are promising things the nursing staff can't (or won't) provide. The front office is trying to fill empty beds and the back office (nursing staff) is overwhelmed and possibly not qualified or even aware of the promises being made on their behalf.

The problems started early for us. Even though we were assured someone would check on daddy every one to two hours, it soon became apparent that as many as six hours would go by without anyone checking on him, including NOT taking him for meals or seeing that his meals were brought to him.

Experiments with the call button were futile and I soon learned why. Once, while standing at the nurses' station during one of the daily battles, I observed the call button from another room light up. The nurse at the desk looked at the call board, stood up, walked over to the board and deleted the call message, without checking on the patient. So much for their prompt, attentive service. Ooopsie! Hope that wasn't life or death!

Every day brought another obstacle to overcome and pitched battles and pitched fits were soon the order of the day. I remember waking up one morning and saying to Roger, "I wonder how many fights I'll have to get in today."

Incompetence and negligence ran the gamut. These "professionals" lost medicine, mixed up patient charts, didn't follow medicine dosage times, wouldn't answer call buttons or help with moving my father to the bathroom or clean up the mess when we couldn't get him there in time.

In desperation, we began leaving the door to Daddy's room open in the hopes we could flag somebody down when we needed them. The problem with that thinking was no one ever walked down the hall. I have no idea where the party was - but it obviously wasn't anywhere near us.

One truly memorable night, my sister called me almost in tears. She'd been single-handedly trying to get Daddy to the bathroom, and they hadn't made it in time. When she went to the nurses' desk to report the mess and ask for someone to clean it up, she was told housekeeping was closed. They suggested she clean it up herself.

I have to admit, when Michel told me that, I sort of lost my mind and my temper. The Director of Garnet Hills had made the mistake of giving me his cell phone number, and I immediately called him. I don't remember a whole lot of what I said, but it was enough that he showed up at Garnet Hill within minutes, looking disheveled and worried.

You'd think that would be all it would take, wouldn't you? Rooting the Boss Man out of bed in the middle of the night should have been enough to get things whipped into shape, shouldn't it?

Apparently not. Things continued to get worse and it soon became a matter of survival. Trying to secure basic care for my father at a premium price (keep in mind, Club Garnet Hill was costing us around $150.00 a day), with a family member present 90% of the time to provide the majority of that care.

Tell me there's not something wrong with THAT picture.

Death With Daddy, Part Two - And So It Begins

2010-07-20T12:41:00.003-05:00

No matter how healthy we are, at one time or another, each of us will have to deal with being less than perfectly healthy. The strange part about my father's life-long flirtation with poor health is, when he actually did fall ill, his method of coping was to ignore the problem.

A few years ago, my dad developed a particularly virulent strain of basal cell cancer. Within a few months, the cancer had spread and pretty much decimated his entire nose. Its' appearance was alarming enough that doctors entering the exam room during one of my mothers' examinations would stop in their tracks and begin quizzing my father about the obvious cancer that was slowly consuming his nose.

It took several visits with a dermotalogist and an ENT to convince my dad that the cancer was something to be taken seriously AND taken off. Only after being told the cancer would advance into his brain would he agree to the necessary surgical procedures to save his face and his life.

Daddy was lucky enough to dodge that particular bullet. Doctors removed the cancer in its' entirety and follow up plastic surgery left him with a nose that bears hardly a trace of the entire experience.

Even though he dodged that bullet, he wasn't able to dodge the next one. Ironically, that bullet also took the shape of cancer: bladder cancer and this time surgery wasn't an option.

When my father began passing blood in his urine, his internist referred him to a urologist. Tests and biopsies showed Daddy had a massive tumor in his bladder. Even though this tumor was removed, the doctor felt it was only a matter of time before it would return.

How right he was...within 6 months the tumor was back with a vengence. Not only had it grown in size, but MRI and CT scans showed it had metastasized to his lung, breasts and thyroid.

I remember sitting next to Daddy when the oncologist, Dr. Caruso, scooted her chair close to him to give her diagnosis. She took him by the hand as she told him the bad news. He had terminal bladder cancer and his age ruled out the possiblity of surgery. In her opinion, while chemotherapy and radiation might prolong his life, the quality of that life would be miserable. She told Daddy he'd lived a long, wonderful life full of many blessings, and she encouraged him to live the rest of his life enjoying each and every day as the gift it was.

Let me just stop a minute here to point something out. During this entire journey, we saw several different doctors and specialists and none of them had the nerve to do what this one doctor did. None of them had the courage to look my father in the eye and tell him he had terminal cancer. No one would admit he wasn't a candidate for treatment. That basically, his life was nearing the end and the best advice they could give was to enjoy what was left.

Oh, they'd manage to catch my sister and me alone and tell us the bad news, out of daddy's hearing. But, when it came to informing my dad, their action was always the same - they'd refer us to ANOTHER doctor, for MORE tests.

Only this tiny woman doctor had the guts to deliver the heartbreaking news to my father, and she did it with grace and compassion, and for that I'll always be grateful.

Because, even though those other doctors might have thought they were doing daddy a favor by not being totally honest with him, they weren't. What they were doing was allowing my father to live longer in denial, fear and confusion; thinking there was hope and not understanding why nothing was being done to beat this disease.

I think it speaks to the amount of damage these well meaning doctors actually did, that, when Dr. Caruso finally told him the truth, Daddy couldn't grasp it - couldn't understand why he'd been sent to so many doctors and had so many tests if there wasn't anything that could be done.

I will always remember a phone conversation I had with my dad one morning. Daddy was asking me what would happen next, what was our next step, our plan? I had to tell him all over again that there was no plan, no next step, no treatment, no medicine, no future beyond the limited time the cancer gave him.

Instead of telling my father the truth about his diagnosis and illness, those well-meaning, well-intentioned doctors left it to me to break the bad news. I just don't think that's something any child should have to do, do you?

Stay Tuned - Part Three on the way...

Death With Daddy, Part One

2010-07-16T13:20:00.003-05:00

I'm sorry I've been AWOL for so very long, but I have a really good excuse, and it doesn't have anything to do with an unfortunate incarceration, I promise. Although I'm fairly certain an orange jumpsuit is lurking somewhere in my future, it's just a matter of time.

The reason I haven't been posting lately is that I've been kinda busy with other things, things that have to do with my father's recent death. Uh huh, NOW you feel guilty for being cranky about no new posts, don't you? Good, I'm glad I'm not the only one.

Aris Franklin (Frank) Erskine, my father, passed away peacefully on June 25, 2010 in Garnet Hill Rehabilitation and Skilled Nursing Center in Wylie, Texas. He was surrounded by family - my sister Michel, niece Suzanne, me and my husband Roger.

How we all got there and the journey along the way was, as is typical for me and my family, a pretty funny story. I'd like to take you along and tell you all about it. But, be warned - some of you may take exception to the humor in this story and the way I tell it. That's too bad, I believe genuine laughter should be enjoyed no matter the circumstances. So, settle in, y'all...you know I can't be brief.

My dad's death was probably the longest death in the history of the world, seeing as how, according to him, it started approximately 50 years ago, when he was just 40 years old.

It's safe to say that my father actually enjoyed poor health - or at least HIS version of it. Actually, he was probably one of the healthiest individuals you're ever gonna meet. That became apparent in the last few years, when he'd check into the hospital for a minor procedure, and the admitting staff could NOT believe he'd NEVER had an IV, or any type of medical procedure, except for a minor bout with a bleeding ulcer several years ago.

Instead of being proud of the fact that he was so very hale and hearty, Daddy got kinda ticked off at the exclamations of hospital staff over his obvious good health.
The fact that, at age 88 he was fully capable of pushing his Ford F150 out of the garage to jump start the battery, was nothing he wanted spread around. In his mind he was an invalid, by God, and he wanted some attention!

That had pretty much been Daddy's attitude his entire life, and unfortunately, he got his bluff in on my Mother, who was certain he would kick off at just any moment. After a lifetime of that, I'm starting to wonder if she was afraid of it or kinda hoped it would happen. Waiting for that other shoe to drop must have been exhausting.

The rule in our house was that Daddy was to be coddled and treated with utmost care and attention. So much so, that it was my job, at the tender age of 4 years old to travel everywhere with Daddy. That way, when he did suffer the heart attack that he was certain was just around the corner - I'd be there to give his info to the paramedics and doctors.

Looking back on that, my sister and I can see how very weird that was. For one thing, why would you send your daughter along for the ride, if you're convinced you're a heart attack waiting to happen? For another, in a life or death situation, would YOU want a 4 year old to be in charge of your vital information? No? I didn't think so. But, that gives you an idea of just how life worked at our house.

Over the years, Daddy did have brushes with mortality - kinda. Once, he was on a ladder, sawing a tree limb down with a chain saw (yeah, like THAT'S ever a good idea), when the chainsaw kicked back and knocked my dad right out off the ladder. He fell a good 8 feet straight back and landed flat on his back.

Paramedics were called and our entire family trooped to the hospital in a show of support. As a group, we barged past admittance desks and scurried along behind as my Dad went from the intake room to the x-ray room, and finally back to an exam room. You have to wonder what the doctor thought when he had to push his way through the crowd just to enter the room. Another celebrity casualty in Dallas, ala John F. Kennedy? Nope, just my Dad and our family.

In case you're wondering, my Dad's tree trimming adventure didn't put a mark on him. No internal injuries, no broken bones, nothing - not even a scratch. My mom hyperventilated, my sister got hysterical and I almost passed out. But, Daddy? He was just fine.

My Dad's second close encounter of the possibly fatal kind happened several years later. Around 15 years ago, Daddy called in the middle of the night to tell us he was bleeding profusely (he wouldn't tell us WHERE he was bleeding from, but it wasn't too hard to guess when he and mother drove up in the car, with Daddy sitting on about four large bath towels.)

That was always puzzling, even though we were all supposed to be fully aware of my Dad's tenuous grip on life, which could be severed at ANY time, we were never supposed to ask for any details. Those things were NOT to be discussed with daughters. As maddening as that was at times, little did I know the day would come when I would YEARN for the blissful ignorance of those years.

Of course, Daddy lived about 10 minutes from one of the best hospitals in the country, Baylor University Medical Center, but THAT wasn't where he wanted to go. No, he insisted Roger and I drive him and mother to Lakepoint Medical Center in Rowlett, a good 25 minutes away...IF you take the freeway, that is. Daddy wouldn 't let us take the freeway - no sir, we had to take the backroads, through the pitch black night, like we were fleeing from the Revenuers. I guess he felt that it was HIS death and he'd do it the way he wanted to.

Again, it was pretty much a rerun of Tree Limb Fiasco, with our entire family camped out in the Emergency Room waiting area. Note: This time our family wasn't allowed to push our way into the actual patient area, although you KNOW we tried. All family members had to wait in the waiting rooms. I'm sure that rule went into effect nationwide after they witnessed our behavior during the Tree Limb Fiasco.

Diagnosis from Daddy's Midnight Ride? A bleeding ulcer. No surgery necessary - problem solved with diet and medicine.

Oh, and this is when we as a family, became aware of Mother's Alzheimer's Disease. As Daddy's wife, she was allowed back in the exam rooms with him, and apparently she was having difficulty processing things and understanding what was going on. We now know that's typical behavior for an Alzheimer's patient. Any trauma, physical, emotional or situational, will make them spiral downward in behavior and will magnify the effects of the disease.

It was a frightening thing to be told by the nurses that "Your mother is having some confusion issues, and can't be back here without one of you to supervise".

WHAT? What did that mean? We were terrified and confused. All except Daddy...Daddy was mad the nurses were having to deal with mother instead of paying attention to him.

Readers, trust me when I tell you there is much more to this story. I'm stopping now, but I'll be back with Part Two very soon. I promise.

Technologically Pathetic

2010-05-20T10:10:00.002-05:00

I have always admitted, loud and clear, that Roger and I are not especially smart when it comes to the various technology that's available today. I have no idea how to use about 90% of the features on my cell phone and, without my cheater glasses on, I can't even see well enough to use that remaining 10%. I routinely surprise perfect strangers by shoving my cell phone in their faces and asking "Who's calling me?" Yes, I'm an IBM Selectric II girl, living in an I-Pad, Kindle, SmartPhone World. It's lonely and cold out here in the Land of the Obsolete.

Still, just when I thought I'd reached the depth of my personal technological ignorance, I find that I can still humiliate myself even further with my complete and total absence of knowledge. Really, it's a gift.

Our oldest son, Alex, bought himself a new hi-def, flat screen, plasma tv the other day, at least I think that's what it's called..all I know is it's about as wide as our old mini-van and it took three people to move it.

Feeling generous, Alex volunteered to give us his "old" hi-def, flat screen, plasma tv, which, being only the size of our dining room table, was inferior and out of date..obviously.

This was great news for us, especially since the television we were currently using was several decades old, wasn't hi-def and came no where near being flat, in spite of the several attempts by the dogs to knock it off of the table.

In fact, our old television was so out of date, our across the street neighbor would routinely comment on how badly we needed a new one. The neighors would come over for a visit and Dave would sit there, staring at our gigantic dinosaur of a tv, just shaking his head and sighing. When Alex made us the offer of his leftovers, we thanked him with the heartfelt sentiment of "Yes, thank you..you've made Dave a very happy guy."

Roger and Joseph got the new baby in the house and hooked up and Alex instructed us we'd have to call the cable company and upgrade to the hi-def service. No problem, the televisions, computer and cell phone may be a challenge, but calling the cable company? That we can handle.

One quick call and we are the proud new viewers of all things Hi-Definition. Roger and I are marvelling at the wonderful, detailed picture, vibrant colors and sharp images. Oh yes, we should have done this YEARS ago...who knew this type of viewing paradise was available?

A day or two later, Alex called to see if we'd had any problems getting the extra service from the cable company. We assured him it was no problem at all, the company merely flipped a switch at their headquarters. "No one came out to give you a new cable box or install a new hi-def cable?", he asked. "Um, no", we replied, "But the picture is amazing."

I should stop this story right here and save myself the further humiliation of telling you what you, being the technologically smart person you are, probably already know. We needed a special cable to receive the hi-definition signal from the cable box. Oh yes we did.

Roger and I had been sitting there, oooohhing and ahhhhing over the very same television signal we'd had all along, it was just bigger and kinda stretched out on this larger screen. At first, I didn't believe it could be true. Surely the cable company would have TOLD us if we needed a special cable, right? Apparently not. According to Alex, the cable company probably thinks if you're smart enough to get a hi-def tv, you'll be smart enough to know how to use it.

Hah! That's what THEY think! Look who's being ignorant, NOW!

Incredible!

2010-02-12T15:01:00.002-06:00

Sunday Relaxing

2010-01-24T17:23:00.004-06:00

Around here there's no such thing as saving your place on the couch.

Fondue? For My Family It's More Like "En Garde!"

2010-01-21T09:03:00.005-06:00

For Christmas this year, I gave my sister, Michel, a gift certificate to a local fondue restaurant. I wanted to do something special for her and my niece suggested a meal at this specialty restaurant would be a fun, different kind of treat. Something she would enjoy and remember...something like that.

Now, my sister is wonderfully generous. So generous in fact, that she insisted she and her husband, Chuck, use this gift certificate to take Roger and me out to celebrate our 25th anniversary. Yes, Michel is generous - she's also very smart. Smart enough to make sure she's not the only fondue rookie seated at the table.

Looking back, the entire evening reminded me of the joke about the two guys who attended a fight and a hockey game broke out. We went out for fondue dinner and a hockey game broke out, or something really close.

I'd already gotten some tips from my oldest, Alex, the Dining Adventurer. He warned me about the different cooking times for each type of food and that it takes a fairly long time for each piece of food to cook. He suggested we cook more than one thing at a time.

See? That's the problem..fondue is DINING, as in the European style of leisurely enjoying a meal. The focus is on the people and conversation instead of stuffing your face with the food in front of you, at warp speed, while wondering WHERE is the dessert cart?

My family definitely believes eating is more of a sport, and we all play to win. So, I guess it's no surprise that if you give us each a couple of long forks, a pot of hot oil and many small pieces of food, you've got a food version of a hockey game on your hands.

Oh sure, we started off slow and easy, but impatience (and hunger) reared it's ugly head and before long we were stuffing all of our food-laden forks into the pot at the same time. In fact, Roger and Chuck, in an extreme show of unsportsmanlike conduct, started throwing pieces of food straight into the pot - without even using their forks. I kept expecting to see a flag thrown or hear a whistle, but no such luck. Where's the call Ref?

By this time, the fondue pot is fairly disgusting with globs of breading floating on the top and God Only Knows What hiding on the bottom. When my sister's steak fell off of her fork, she grabbed all of the other forks and hoisted them up while she searched in vain for her missing bite of food. In my family we don't play fair..the Fair is in October.

Oh sure, it was embarassing when the restaurant manager, seeing the horrible condition of our fondue pot, immediately sent the waiter over to clean out all of the debris. But, it didn't stop us from high-fiving over the table when we found Michel's missing steak AND a forgotten piece of potato. SCORE!

I guess you could say the fondue restaurant was definitely an experience. An experience that we might not want to repeat, one that left a bad taste in our mouths so to speak.

Yeah, you could say that, except the only taste I really remember is the big ol pot of warm chocolate they slapped in the middle of the table at the end. After that, everything is a blur.

Told ya it was cold!

2010-01-09T14:06:00.002-06:00

This is the fountain at The Harbor in Rockwall.

Embracing My Inner Old Fogey

2009-12-11T14:58:00.006-06:00

Recently it has come to my attention that I'm getting old. I don't mean older, I mean OLD, as in "old lady Proza" old (that, by the way, happens to be one of Joseph's favorite nicknames for me, yeah, he's a real laugh riot, that Joseph).

It's not that I feel old, I'm still waiting to feel like an adult. It's more that my actions, opinions and concerns have changed in a really annoying, mature kind of way.

I cannot believe the things I actually say and do. Like asking the dogs who they think is going to get their treats if they knock me down and break my hip? When did staying warm become my main survival concern? And fiber? Dear God, when did I become interested in the amount of fiber I consume each day?

Things confuse me more than they did when I was younger. Technology has been out of my grasp for quite some time now. I've accepted it and learned to live with it. Even though some people I've given birth to keep trying to drag me into the light, I'm perfectly comfortable in my technologically ignorant darkness.

Fashion? I've never understood it and, judging by the fashions some young people are wearing, I doubt if I ever will. Why would young men want to walk around with their pants worn so low that a good 3 inches of their underwear is showing? Is this supposed to be attractive to women? Really? Because as a woman who has raised two sons, I can tell you that one of the LEAST attractive things about males is their underwear. It's kind of like the sun, if you stare at it too long, you're risking permanent blindness.

Partying has also undergone a radical change as I've gotten older. I grew up in the Disco Age and not a weekend went by that my friends and I weren't shakin' our grove thang until the wee hours of the morning. Now? Not so much. Roger and I were going to try and make it until midnight this past New Year's Eve, but we didn't last much longer than 9:00 p.m. (I blame the Dallas Stars for this. If they had played better we'd have made the effort to stay awake..maybe.)

Still, some people just don't get it. Recently I was griping on facebook about the possibly fatal (at least to ME), cold snap we're having and a friend (Hello Alton!) had a different perspective. He commented he was grateful for the cold weather, because it made his arthritis act up and that let him know he was alive.

Can you believe it? Is there anything worse than a cheerful old fogey?

Let Your Heart Be Light

2009-11-27T12:52:00.005-06:00

Except in my neighborhood it's Let Your YARD be light. I love my neighborhood, I truly do. Roger and I moved here in January of 1985 and we were lucky to land smack in the middle of a neighborhood in the best sense of the word. Our kids grew up with other neighborhood children, playing pick up games of basketball and street hockey and roaming from house to house for spur of the moment nintendo tournaments.

Of course, that was almost 25 years ago and, while our kids have all grown up and moved out, I'm happy to say we still have a pretty neighborly way about our 'hood. Especially when it comes to holidays, most especially Christmas and definitely when it comes to Christmas lights.

Many years ago, our area was the first to put up the candy cane Christmas lights which you can now find PRE-MADE at most stores. What is this world coming to? In OUR day you made them yourself, cutting lengths of PVC pipe, wrapping them with red tape and jamming them into the ground, risking lacerations and possible impalement, but, hey, it's Christmas!

Lights were then strung from pole to pole attached by jumbo paper clips and it was definitely a bonus if all the lights worked the first time around, and the plug reached all the way to the electrical outlet. That would be the Universe's way of telling you to go buy a Lottery Ticket, because it was your Lucky Day!

Our neighborhood has definitely changed over the years. While some of the original owners have moved out, we still have a surprising number of "oldtimers" living here. A fact that I point out to Roger when he asks "who are all of these OLD people living here?" He's always a little surprised to find that they're the same people who have lived here for almost 25 years, just like WE have.

Age has nothing to do with Christmas Spirit though. Most of us still drag out our candy cane lights and extension ladders every year, and the majority of the decorating starts on Thanksgiving afternoon. Not because we're especially FESTIVE, it's just that's the best time to grab the visiting adult children..AFTER turkey and BEFORE pumpkin pie. It's called leverage, or bribery, if you want to know the truth.

Fathers, who were once in charge of climbing tall ladders and navigating steep roofs now gladly turn those chores over to much younger (and possibly dumber) sons. Mothers who, once upon a time, had the duty of adjusting lights and breaking the bad news of blown fuses, now step back and watch while their daughters deal with those seasonal joys.

Every family has its' own traditions. The neighbor across the street from me sells holiday yard art, one family hosts a yearly Christmas concert and Roger still stands in our kitchen window on weekend nights, watching the long line of cars creeping slowly down the street, with passengers enjoying our neighborhood's beautiful light displays.

If you stand close enough, you'll hear Roger's own yearly Yuletide message, "For crying out loud, it's 11:00, don't you people have HOMES to go to?"

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! Let Your Yard AND Your Hearts Be Light!

2009-11-27T12:49:00.001-06:00

Thanksgiving, 2009

It’s Not The Size Of The Dog In The Fight

2009-11-20T16:05:00.002-06:00

I’ve heard that expression my entire life and it’s proven itself to be true in several different ways. The latest being my sister’s brush with death after her recent hip surgery.

My sister, Michel, went into the hospital on a Monday morning, thrilled to finally have the surgery she needed to put an end to her constant battle with hip pain, caused by the erosion of her right hip joint due to hereditary hip dysplasia. We never dreamed it would turn into a fight for her life.

Michel sailed through the surgery with no problem. In fact, after surgery, when her doctor showed us pictures of her new hip he made the observation that she definitely was one tough woman. The surgery revealed Michel had been walking “bone on bone” for so long she had actually worn groves in the bone itself. She had been dealing with extreme pain for a long time.

Which makes it all the more surprising that this same doctor turned a deaf ear and a blind eye when Michel started having chest pains, difficulty breathing, and hallucinations?

My niece, Suzanne, and I became concerned when other patients, who were operated on the same day and were significantly older than Michel, were buzzing down the hall for their daily physical therapy workouts. Michel, who required constant oxygen, was unable to get out of bed even for a brief bathroom trip, without gasping for air and grabbing her chest in pain. Questions to the nurses resulted in answers of “it’s a reaction to the pain medicine”, even though Michel had received no pain medicine for over two days.

And so began a journey that amazed my family and taught us many valuable lessons. When seeing that the nurses and even doctors attending Michel were less than interested in her care, Suzanne dug in her heels and began to wage a calm, dignified campaign to get her mother the care she so desperately needed.

Suzanne began keeping a log of her mother’s medicines – the doses and times they were administered. Which was a good thing, since the nurses couldn’t seem to remember what medicine was needed or when it was supposed to be given; and she made sure she was there every time a doctor was due for a visit. She patiently began questioning them about her mother’s lack of recovery and apparent downward spiral, making sure they knew exactly what Michel’s problems were. She never backed down, even when she was patted on the hand by a very patronizing surgeon and told she “didn’t need to worry about things like that”.

I’m sure he regretted those words when, the next day he ordered Michel to take a shower, go to physical therapy and be discharged to go home. The crisis occurred when a nurse, assisting with the shower, witnessed Michel almost lose consciousness, and double over in chest pain.

Now, let me just step in here and say that Suzanne is a college graduate and an extremely smart woman. After her first child was born, she chose to take the same path I, and many other women, have followed and is currently a stay at home mom to three young children. To stand toe to toe with medical professionals, question them and even politely disagree with them would be a difficult task for most people. Maybe more so for a woman who society might feel has taken the “easy way out”. I have to admit, the fact that, amid all of the medical professionals, my sister’s survival depended on the perseverance of two stay at home moms just boggles the mind.

The nurse, witnessing Michel’s obvious distress, called the doctor and emergency tests were performed. Not surprisingly, the tests revealed Michel had thrown multiple blood clots to both lungs, resulting in damage to her heart and lungs.

Believe me when I tell you things definitely changed and all of a sudden, the unconcerned, apathetic hospital workers became highly interested and motivated to ensure Michel received the care she needed.

Cardiologists and Pulmonologists were called in and, after reviewing her case, more than one doctor commented that Michel would have died if not for her daughter’s perseverance and determination.

As I write this, my sister isn’t out of the woods yet…she has over a year of daily blood thinners and monitoring her blood levels in her future as well as damage to her heart and lungs which may end up being permanent.

And yet, it could have been so much worse. Like I said, we’ve all learned lessons from this experience. Do not have any medical procedure done without thoroughly checking out the doctor and the hospital. A lot of suburban hospitals are quite good at what they do, but, often times, they are not equipped to deal with a patient who experiences life threatening complications.

Don’t EVER have a procedure done, even a minor one, without someone with you at all times. Don’t count on the medical staff to have your best interests at heart. Make sure you have your OWN advocate to speak for you, if you can’t speak for yourself.

And, finally, remember: It’s not the size of the daughter in the fight…it’s the size of the FIGHT in the DAUGHTER.

Thank you, Suzanne.

When I Die, Just Scatter My Ashes At Super Target

2009-10-14T09:18:00.004-05:00

Christmas came early for me this year. I got something I've been wanting for a long time. Not jewelry, clothes, an i phone or one of those snazzy new netbooks I've been wanting for so long (fire engine red, please, Santa?).

Nope, my gift came in a huge, concrete box with red polka dots scattered all through it. Give up? I'm talking about the new Super Target in Mesquite.

For years now, I've been wishing for a grocery store that carried everything I needed, all in one place, at the same time...quite a concept, isn't it? Apparently, it's very rare. At least it is where I live.

Oh, we have plenty of grocery stores - no question about that. But, just try and get everything on your list at one single store. I'm not talking anything rare and exotic. No almost-unheard-of-spice you'll use only once or twice in your entire lifetime.

No, I'm talking things like, fat free Pringle's potato chips, 8th Continent Soy milk, Pedigree Dentalstix for dogs, and Diet Peach Snapple. Very rare fare indeed, if you want to find it all at the same store. At least it WAS rare until Super Target opened their pearly gates and admitted me into my version of grocery store Heaven.

I admit I entered the store ready to be disappointed. I'd had high hopes for grocery stores before. Wal-Mart Market, The Wal-Mart Super Store, Tom Thumb, Albertson's and Kroger had all lured me in with vague promises of satisfying my hunter/gatherer needs by crossing every single item off of my grocery list all in one trip.

But, no matter how many chances I've given these stores, they've always left me with one or two items still on my list, which meant one or two trips to ANOTHER store. Believe me, there is nothing sadder than a woman with a packed shopping cart, trudging through the store looking for that last item she needs. It's like we're begging them to take our money, please?

Now, you might be wondering why I didn't just ASK the store about carrying those items? Well, been there, done that. When I asked the Asst. Manager at Wal-Mart Market about the Diet Peach Snapple, she assured me they didn't carry it anymore. (They did - it showed up at Wal-Mart Market two weeks later, AFTER I had made a special trip to Kroger's.)

During my trip to Super Target this week, I had to stop myself from joyfully skipping up and down the aisles. And, I admit to startling more than one customer by turning to them and blurting out: "Look, they have fat free Pringles in regular AND BBQ!" I also think I sobbed out loud a little when I saw the Shiritaki noodles in the produce section, but I don't think anybody noticed.

Yes, Super Target has earned a loyal customer this week, and it was so easy really. All they had to do was realize that consumers want to be offered quality and diversity, even in Mesquite, Texas.

Hmmmmm, a lack of diversity in Mesquite? Don't get me started.

One Of The Many Reasons Why I Love This Man.

2009-09-20T13:35:00.003-05:00

This picture was taken right after Roger got back from taking both big dogs for a walk in the pouring rain.

He Does Have His Issues

2009-08-31T14:02:00.004-05:00

This is a small example of Dudley and his issues. He routinely "hides" with his head under furniture, apparently believing in the old saying, "if I can't see them, they can't see ME".

Who Needs A Phone In The Bathroom? Well, Apparently I Do.

2009-08-31T12:29:00.002-05:00

Have you ever stayed in a hotel that had a phone in the bathroom? Usually located right next to the toilet? Have you ever wondered why on earth anybody would want a phone there? I remember the first time I saw such a phone set up I thought to myself, Why? I certainly don't want to phone anybody when I'm in the bathroom and, I don't want anybody calling me from there, either. There is no way I could even concentrate on what they were saying, instead of the images flashing through my brain.

Well, people, I'm here to tell you that whoever came up with the idea was a genius. Someone with obvious forethought and consideration for his or her fellow man (or in my case woman).

Roger and I were eating dinner at one of our very favorite places the other day, the Flying Fish restaurant at Firewheel shopping mecca in Garland. The restaurants at Firewheel all share one building feature that boggles the mind. Each one has only one restroom for men and one for women. I don't mean "restroom" in the larger sense of the word - one big room with several stalls and/or facilities. Nope, I mean ONE room with ONE facility for EACH gender. Makes you wonder where the building code inspector was when those plans were approved, doesn't it?

During my latest trip to the facility, I discovered that the door latch, which had worked so well going into the locked position, had decided it was NOT going to cooperate and move into the unlocked position. I was solidly locked in, all alone and by myself, with no one to share my dilemma and mounting hysteria.

I tugged on the bolt, I banged on the bolt, I tried to heave the door up, back, sideways and forward and nothing was going to give. What was worse, I'd left my purse at the table and didn't have anything I could use as a tool. I'm sure there is some way toilet paper can be used as a pry bar, but, since I never took a single physics class I wasn't likely to come up with that know-how any time soon.

I'd like to say I remained calm with the certain knowledge that Roger would miss me and come to my rescue. But the truth is, Roger was sitting in a booth with one of his all-time favorite meals and adult beverages in front of him. Roger was a happy boy, Roger definitely WAS NOT thinking about me.

Nope, I was gonna have to get myself out of this one and do you know what I needed? A PHONE! A phone in the bathroom would have been a perfect solution to this problem. Oh, there's no guarantee Roger would have actually STOPPED eating to answer his phone and come to my rescue. But I could at least have called Zeke, Flying Fish's General Manager, to come let me out.

They say everything happens for a reason, and I'd like to think I've learned my lesson from this. Now I know there is a perfectly good reason to have a phone in a bathroom (although I'm still not sure why it has to be right next to the toilet).

Oh, and I'll never use public "facilities" again without taking along my cell phone. I've got just the spot for it in my new toolbox.

My Youngest And My Kitchen Are Headed Off To College

2009-08-21T12:04:00.003-05:00

It's that time of year again, the Back To School season. The signs are all there, if you know what to look for: stores with so many school supply displays they spill over into the garden section, kids sporting new backpacks, along with the latest popular lunchboxes, and neighborhood streets clogged with U-Haul trailers. Okay, that last one is probably only in neighborhoods like mine, where the babies have all grown up and are now preparing for their return trip to college life.

Notice I said "return trip to college". It's a pretty safe bet that students leaving for their first year of college don't require the use of a trailer. Actually, they could probably store everything they have room for in your average airplane overhead compartment; this I know from experience.

Most colleges require their students live on campus in a dorm room during their freshman year. Dorms are buildings with multiple cells, I mean rooms, crammed on several floors. When we took Joseph down to Texas A&M last year, we got our first look at the room where he'd spend the next eight months of his life. I managed to make it almost out of the parking lot before I started sobbing out loud. I've seen jail cells that were nicer than that room - and bigger, too.

By their second year of college, most students are done with the whole up close and personal aspect of dorm life and manage to find themselves an apartment that is within biking, walking or bus riding distance to campus. An apartment, while more expensive than a dorm, offers something most sophomores crave - MORE ROOM, PRIVATE BATHROOMS and REAL LIFE KITCHENS with working stoves and full sized refrigerators. No more trying to survive with a bar sized ice box, mini-crockpot and really micro-mini sized microwave.

Unfortunately, this also means that more of the parents' stuff will be making the trip to college with their child. So far, Joseph has looted my kitchen for sets of silverware, dishes, pots and pans, glasses, a coffee maker, casserole dishes, and another crockpot. Once I made the mistake of complaining about how heavy my enameled cast iron cookware was in front of him. Before the words were out of my mouth, he declared, "I'll take it." Ummmm, no you WON'T. He also wants my entire set of stainless steel pots and pans because "You never use them". Of course he'd think that - he doesn't make it into the kitchen until AFTER the food is on the table.

Truthfully, I don't mind if Joseph borrows some of my stuff, especially if it means he'll cook more and eat better. But, I'm not taking any chances. I'm going to engrave my name on everything he takes with him. After all, there's no telling WHAT he learned during his stay at the Big House.

I Want Patience, and I Want It Right Now!

2009-08-13T12:09:00.002-05:00

It's not an exaggeration to say that I am probably one of the most impatient people you'll ever meet. I can't help it, I was born that way. The best way to describe my incredible lack of patience is to say that not only was I not in the room when God was handing out the Patience Virtue, I was down the hall in another room, asking what was taking so long.

I thought maybe this flaw of mine would improve over time. After all, when we age, aren't we supposed to gain wisdom and patience? Isn't that written down somewhere? Where do I go to file a complaint - and is there a line? Because that's gonna be a problem.

It could be my imagination, but, lately it seems that people are just TRYING to annoy me. Everywhere I go, people are IN MY WAY. Now, admittedly, I move pretty fast (probably related to that whole impatience thing). So it's natural to think I'm going to encounter some human obstacles along the way, and when that happens, I try to exercise what little patience I do have.

But, I am about ready to draw the line at those motorized scooters. I am beginning to think those geriatric go-carts were put on this earth just to punish me. Possibly Karma's way of trying to force me to slow down.

Don't get me wrong, I think the idea of motorized scooters is wonderful and whoever came up with the concept has done a great service for humankind. I'm just saying there should be some basic operating rules and regulations and, yes, I'm going to say it, some common courtesy involved in their use.

First of all, if you're using a scooter, please don't park it in the middle of the grocery store aisle while you leisurely peruse the shelf. Pull it over to the side, so people with carts can get by.

Second, I don't know if there IS a speed limit with those things, but, try to observe basic traffic laws. Just because you're on wheels does NOT give you the right of way, and if you're going fast enough to create a breeze, SLOW DOWN! Forcing people to fling themselves into the produce bin may seem enjoyable to YOU, but, it can be painful for others.

Also, one scooter riding family member at a time, please. While there is definitely strength in numbers, descending in a motorized pack upon an unsuspecting public is just unfair. I myself, have seen a family of three running amok at the local Wal-Mart. It wasn't a pretty sight, believe me.

Of course, I know just by writing about this I stand a good chance of ticking off the Karma Fairy. You'd think I'd know better, especially after what happened the other day.

Roger and I were running into the store for a couple of things, and we parked next to an elderly man who had been using one of the store's scooters. He looked at us and told us we could return the cart for him (apparently you can order people around like that when you're elderly - I can't wait for that part).

The only way you can get those carts back into the store is to drive them in and since Roger beat me to the seat, I had to walk along beside him. Everything was going great until we got to the ramp leading into the store. The cart was running low on power and couldn't make it up the ramp, so I had to get behind Roger and help out by pushing the cart while he steered.

Nothing wakes you up quite as well as a tiny glimpse into the future. I had a perfect vision of what Life may just have in store for me one day. Maybe those scooters aren't so bad after all. In fact, let's just forget I even mentioned them.

Want To Know Your Real Age? Well, How Do You Feel About Mud?

2009-08-03T13:03:00.005-05:00

Occasionally, I'll come across an article on how to determine our "real" age. Not your chronological age, mind you, but the age you are inside. Of course, the older I get the more I know that even if I AM a kid inside, it's the OUTSIDE age that's calling the shots.

These articles often show up on internet sites and are accompanied by short tests you can take to determine your "inside" age. I'm not allowed to take these internet tests because every time I try, my computer freezes up and has to be restarted. I have no idea why it does that. My youngest son says the computer probably has a virus, but the computer doesn't have a forehead to check for fever, so I'm not real sure how he knows it's sick.

Instead, I've come up with a sure-fire way to determine the true, inside age of ANYBODY with one simple question: How do you feel about mud?

I'll try and explain - the recent and almost unheard of rainfall we've gotten around here has resulted in our family having several up close and personal Close Encounters Of The Mud Kind. First, we encountered the challenge of keeping a very dedicated, hole digging, mud loving puppy from re-landscaping our entire back yard into something that closely resembled a nuclear bomb testing site - only with more holes.

Then our youngest was caught in a surprise rainstorm during a game of disc golf. For those of you who have no idea what disc golf is, let me tell you that disc golf is someone's latest money-making brainstorm. It's a game, very similar to regular golf, but instead of clubs, players use small discs, similar to miniature frisbees. These discs are sold at sporting good stores and specialty disc golf stores (I'm not even kidding about that), and cost anywhere from $10.00 - $20.00 (just as in real golf, there are different discs for different shots..seriously). Of course, I've seen the EXACT same type of disc at the local dollar store for, oh, ONE DOLLAR, but I've been assured by hard core disc golf players (my two sons), that those discs, even though they look EXACTLY THE SAME are definitely different and obviously inferior. Whatever - back to the mud.

When caught in the torrential rainstorm, instead of stopping the game and running for cover, Joseph and his friend decided to play through, rain, mud and all and ended up having what Joseph said was the most fun game he'd ever played. They splashed through puddles, slid down trails and just basically wallowed around, stopping occasionally to let the rain wash some of the mud off.

When he got home, he stripped off his muddy clothes in the garage and came in the house with a huge smile on his face. He told his father and me about the wonderful time he'd had before he jumped straight into a hot shower. His father and I looked at each other and sighed that long-suffering parental sigh (you know the one). Roger took Joseph's shoes outside to hose the mud off and I started washing the mud encrusted clothes.

Later on that day, we were watching something on the Animal Planet about elephants. The narrator spoke about how much elephants love to take an occasional mud bath to help cool them down and protect them from insect bites. Footage was shown of several elephants, young and old, frolicking in a huge mud-hole, spraying mud on themselves and each other, thoroughly enjoying themselves.

Roger looked at me and asked the following question: "Would you ever want to wallow in the mud?" I thought about it and the first thought that popped into my head was "Who's gonna clean all of that mess UP?"

AND THAT'S THE TRUE AGE TEST! If you are asked to wallow in the mud and the first thought that comes to mind is CLEANING UP THE MESS, I've got some bad news for you. You, my friend, are a GROWN UP! It's time to pack away our toys and sports gear and slip into our comfy no belt pants and slip on shoes. It's okay, though, we can't bend over far enough to tie the laces, anyway.

Happy Birthday To Me!

2009-07-25T18:56:00.001-05:00

Our Latest Redecorating Story...or How We Learned To Leave Well Enough Alone

2009-06-27T14:02:00.003-05:00

I'm not a big fan of change. In fact, it's not an exaggeration to say that I flat hate change with a passion. I like things to be the same way every day, with no surprises. Yes, it's a fairly deep rut I live in, but it's comfy and it suits me.

Recently, however, I allowed change into my life. I still haven't fully recovered and I probably never will.

It all started with a simple request from me. All I wanted was to get rid of the horrible carpets in our home's three bedrooms. Now these poor carpets were, once upon a time, very nice looking, white patterned berber carpets (yes, I said WHITE..further proof that sometimes when I travel into the land of change I often leave my common sense at home).

Over the years and due to the unnatural state of things around here - and I'm talking life with three males of various ages and two huge dogs who are shedding drool machines (the dogs, not the males, but it's a close race sometimes)the poor carpet had disintegrated into what closely resembled the aftermath of a crime scene, with several interesting, but definitely disgusting stains. Every time I walked into the room, that carpet begged me to put it out of its' misery and out on the curb.

One day I lost my mind, took a deep breath and asked Roger to please replace all of the carpet with laminate flooring. Roger is a pro at laminate flooring, having installed it in our home twice before with hardly any bloodshed and no emergency services needed (emergency trips to Lowe's don't count. I have it on excellent authority that NO home project can be completed without numerous trips to Lowe's and Home Depot. Really, just ask your husband and he'll tell you).

With Roger's previous experience, I felt safe in just turning this project over to him...which could arguably be an early sign of future dementia on my part. Would he rip out the carpet and install new flooring? Of COURSE he would...but we'd have to paint those rooms first. Walls, ceilings, baseboards - all of it would have to have new paint. What colors did I want and when did I want to go look at paint samples? Lowe's is open until 9:00 p.m., you know.

And so it went that my simple request for new flooring turned into a much bigger home redecorating paint-a-palooza. I tried to stay calm and hope for the best. After all, tons of people redecorate on a fairly regular basis - how bad can it be? Bad enough, I guarantee.

We've been married long enough for me to learn that Roger and I aren't always going to agree on the WAY things should be done. In fact, I've learned to make myself scarce during his projects to avoid conflict and a possible nervous condition. Sometimes that strategy backfires, like on the first painting day when I arrived home and discovered Roger had thought it would be a good idea to clean the paint brushes in the bathtub. (The flecks of paint on the wallpaper and the puddles of paint water were what tipped me off...and ticked me off.)

Things got even better the next day when I looked out the back window in time to see Roger and Joseph in the backyard, sawing boards for the floor, oblivious to the clouds of sawdust blowing directly behind them and into the swimming pool.

And doesn't it always warm your heart when you see traits in your children you KNOW they have inherited from their parents? Or maybe not so much - like when Joseph got distracted and stepped smack in the middle of the paint pan. He felt really bad about that and apologized, but did point out that it was a good thing they had decided to paint first before replacing the floor. That meant the gigantic size 13 green shoe print on the carpet really wasn't that big of a deal, was it?

I'm happy and relieved to say that at long last, all home redecorating has been completed. Roger and Joseph are finished and the bedrooms with their new paint and new floors DO look beautiful.

But the next time I start getting the urge to do another home improvement project, I hope I remember to lay down until the urge passes. A person can only take so much change, you know.

Just A Little Hand

2009-06-03T11:42:00.005-05:00

It was just a little hand, viewed through the rear window of the car in front of me in the drive thru lane. Just a little hand, waving slowly back and forth, fingers curling and uncurling, one at a time.

It was just a little hand, but it brought me to my knees. It reminded me of truths I know, but usually can manage not to think about. The fact that my boys have grown into men. I won't see their chubby baby hands reaching for things in wonder and curiosity again.

Those days went by so fast, although it seemed like it would last forever at the time. The day to day routine of babies and young children can wear you down with it's sameness. At the same time, it can rob you of the knowledge of just how precious that time really is. And it is precious, more precious than words can describe.

It is so precious that I am routinely inspired to stop mothers with young children in the store to tell them to cherish this time. (Yes, I'm one of THOSE annoying women). Most of the mothers look about as irritated as I was when dealing with my youngsters and I'm sure they think I'm out of my mind, or at the very least they wish I'd keep my opinions to myself.

If I had the chance to go back in time, would I do it differently? I'd like to think so...I'd like to think I'd view the beginning of my childrens' lives more like an adventure and less like a job. Something to be enjoyed and savored slowly with pajama days, middle of the week slumber parties and picnics in the backyard. To greet each day with the wonder at what the day could bring, instead of the rigidness of a schedule of chores, meals, and naps.

Maybe I'll get a second chance without going back in time. Some people say that's what grandchildren are for. I don't know if Roger and I will one day be blessed with grandchildren or not, but I hope so.

I hope I remember to savor the time and appreciate the view from a different perspective...that of watching my sons' adult hands, which are beautiful in this mothers' eyes, reaching for their own babies in love and wonder.

Dear Technology: In Your Face (book)

2009-05-11T12:56:00.003-05:00

I've been out of the working world for over 20 years now and there are days when I'm fairly sure I couldn't ever go back. Not because I wouldn't be a hard worker, but because technology has made such huge strides since my time in the work force.

I've tried to keep up, but so many of the advances are way over my head. Dealing with the computer was easier when my boys lived at home. If I got into a problem, I'd sit in front of the frozen screen and yell "Help" until one of my sons came to fix whatever I'd done wrong. Most of these bail-outs began with them telling me, "Don't touch anything else until I can see what you've done!"

What can I say? I'm an IBM Selectric II girl, living in a world of Facebook, Twitter and YouTube. Most of the time I view technology like a caveman who gets his first glimpse of fire. It fascinates me and flat scares me to death. Yep, technology and I have a rocky relationship...I hate it and it hates me right back.

Recently, I blundered onto the social networking site known as Facebook. I didn't actually MEAN to sign up for it, but after clicking on a link sent to me by a friend, I found I had joined the eleventy billion or so other people who use this site to stay in touch with friends, both old and new. This habit of clicking first and asking questions later has gotten me in trouble with the internet before, so you'd think I'd know better. Yeah, you might think that, but you'd be wrong.

Actually, I thought Facebook would be a handy way to keep tabs on, I mean check up on, I mean STAY IN TOUCH WITH my two sons, both of whom are also on Facebook. The problem is, you can only view someone's profile and actions if they agree to be your "friend". Only ONE of my sons has approved me for friendship...the other STILL ignores my friendship requests. Somebody has some issues and I just hope he remembers this when they read my Will.

It doesn't matter, though. It turns out, I have plenty of friends of my OWN. Who knows why, but countless forty and fifty somethings have discovered the joys of Facebook and other social networking sites. These sites allow us to keep in touch with current friends, reconnect with old friends and even make new ones. Sort of like a mini-high school reunion, without the nagging worry of wrinkles, baldness or the extra baby weight you still haven't lost (especially when "the baby" is 25 years old!)

So many Baby Boomers are on-line, and "surfing" (a term that has NOTHING to do with water, believe it or not),the sites' younger users are starting to complain about the sites being taken over by the "older generation".

I say TOO BAD. We're on Facebook and we're on it to STAY! But, I'm going to have to find me some technological back up...these dogs don't do a THING when I yell for HELP!

Common Courtesy Is Always Appreciated

2009-04-30T14:40:00.002-05:00

I know we're smack in the middle of a potential Swine Flu Pandemic, but even if we weren't, it would be nice if people showed one another some common courtesy.

I just got back from a trip to the main branch of our local library and, while I hate to admit it, I cut my visit short because I feared catching whatever the woman standing next to me was suffering from.

I was enjoying myself, browsing the best sellers' section, when a woman walked up to check out the selections. Only I'm betting she couldn't see too much due to the violent coughing fits she kept having. Now, while I'm not usually one to panic over catching some random germs, I have to admit that standing there listening to the woman hack and wheeze, then watch as she reached out and pulled a book from the shelf, definitely made me a little uneasy - okay, I admit it, I practically held my breath until I got out in the parking lot.

This just proves how very susceptible we are to the current panic over the spread of the latest biological scourge to hit...the Swine Flu. You can see evidence of concern all around us, from the prominent display of anti-bacterial hand sanitizer at Walgreens, to pictures in the media of people sporting a variety of Michael Jackson type face masks, and employees actually washing their hands in the restroom. People are becoming more worried every day.

Some of the reactions might be a little over the top, in my opinion. Countless public events are being canceled and, in fact, the entire Ft. Worth ISD has decided to cancel classes until May 11 (although I'm not sure what's so magical about May 11th).

Roger and I listened to this news with mixed reactions of fear and disbelief. Mine was mostly disbelief, his was mostly fear. Here's a tip: Want to strike terror into the heart of a professional educator? Just wait until summer break is so close they can feel it and tell them there's a chance you'll be slapping another week onto the end of the school year. But be warned - it's not a pretty sight, let me tell you.

I don't know how this whole Swine Flu scare will play out, but my guess is there will be more cases of the illness and, possibly, even more deaths, before it's over. I hope not, but I think it's smart if we all play it safe and use basic common sense.

Let's stock up on the hand sanitizer gel and if you're coughing up a lung, do us all a favor and STAY HOME!

Casualties Of War

2009-04-23T11:45:00.003-05:00

The baby bird I rescued from the dogs the other day is no doubt suffering from some bumps and bruises, and he's not the only one.

My shoulders hurt, my legs hurt, my hands hurt...I'm a regular walking pain. I strained some muscles I didn't even know I had, and Tylenol is my friend.

Apparently Dudley is suffering from some Post Traumatic Stress as well, as evidenced by the raw spot he's licked on his belly. Consequently, he's wearing his oh-so-attractive toilet seat anti-lick device hat.

Wit? About the only effect our free for all had on her was to make her CONVINCED that any bird should be viewed as a potential enemy.

Smart girl, that Wit.

And I Don't Even Like Birds!

2009-04-21T13:39:00.005-05:00

Do you ever wonder how birds have managed to survive on our planet for so long? Especially when you consider the theory that they are descended from dinosaurs; and if so, have lived on this planet millions of years and conquered countless threats to their survival? Not just predators, but an ever changing environment with a merciless credo of "adapt or die"?

Unfortunately, I have to ponder this question at least once every year...usually in Springtime, when the idiot birds who repeatedly nest around my house force me to rescue their young from our dogs, or the pool, or sometimes the dogs AND the pool. I'm telling you, these are some dumb birds.

Now, maternal instinct among our feathered friends is supposed to be strong, isn't it? With the exception of the cuckoo bird, who lays her eggs in ANOTHER female's nest for HER to hatch and raise (seriously, you can't help but admire the GENIUS of THAT particular maneuver, can you?), birds are known to be good providers and caring, protective parents.

So, what's the deal with the dim bulb birds that live around HERE? Didn't they notice the big, deep hole of water in the back yard, and the two extremely large HUNTING DOGS who live here? Wouldn't you think that at least ONCE when they were building their nest they might have said to themselves, "Hey, this just might not be the best place to try and teach our young, helpless fledglings to fly! Let's keep looking before we unpack."

But no...they built their nest in our backyard, AGAIN, and their baby bird found it wasn't ready to fly and got stranded on the ground AGAIN. Only this time it was a lot worse. This time it was Wit, the puppy, who discovered the violently flapping baby (I guess baby bird missed the class about staying still around predators..no surprise there, what with such slackers for parents). And worse still, Dudley decided to join in the hunt.

I saw what was happening and dove into the fray. What followed next looked a whole lot like one of those pay per view wrestling matches on cable, only this was real and I didn't have anyone on my team I could tag.

Since Dudley is 78 pounds of "Oh Yes I Will!", and Wit is already 25 pounds of "Me, Too!", I didn't think baby bird and I had a prayer. I grabbed each dog by the collar, and feared it was going to take more than two hands and a whole lot of bad words to keep the baby bird from becoming today's Happy Meal.

I'm still not sure how it happened, but somehow I managed to get all three dogs in the house (Layla, for whatever reason, decided not to participate and remained neutral, kinda like Sweden). I scooped Baby Bird up with my bare hands and moved him to the other side of the fence.

Did I mention that I don't LIKE birds? Can you believe I picked this one up with my BARE HANDS? I thought about scooping him up in the dog water bucket, but, really he'd suffered enough for one day, don't you think?

Baby Bird showed his appreciation to me by NOT pecking me and NOT pooping in my hand. Gotta love a bird with manners.

The parents? Oh, there still looking for their offspring in the backyard, even though I moved him over 5 hours ago.

Told ya birds are stupid.

No Pain - No Gain...This Stay At Home Mom's Guide To Fashion

2009-04-14T08:45:00.004-05:00

I've mentioned before that I'm no slave to fashion. (That is such an understatement, it was hard to even TYPE it with a straight face.) I am so out of the loop when it comes to fashion and style that you can actually tell which trend has just fallen out of favor by what I'm wearing at the time. If I'm sporting it, it's definitely a "fashion don't".

Basically, I follow two iron clad rules when it comes to clothing: Wal-Mart for Everyday Wear and Target for Dress Up. I know, I know..sad, but true. Trust me, I know those rules fly in the face of fashion conscious women everywhere. I live in fear that a mob of irate women will one day pound on my door, demand my Estrogen Club membership card and use it to start a protest bonfire with my favorite sweat suit. What can I say? My sister got my share of the fashion gene, and I'm usually more than okay with that. Except when it becomes obvious that my Wal-Mart/Target wear isn't going to cut it and I have to actually go shopping for new clothes.

That sad event happened the other day. Roger and I were invited to attend the A.W.A.R.E. Luncheon, which raises funds in support of Alzheimer's research. Since we never miss an opportunity to support this cause (believe me, they actually got me to walk around the Dallas Zoo, that's how dedicated we are to finding a cure), we were definitely going to attend.

The problem was, we'd already attended this event two years in a row, so they'd seen BOTH of my "nice outfits". (My "nice outfits" are clothes my sister buys me for my birthday...she's so fashion conscious she can't even stand to see ME out of style.) It was obvious a trip to the mall was necessary.

Right off the bat, it was bad...I knew it was going to be a problem when I had to dress nicer than I usually do to even LOOK for clothes. Believe me, the irony of that statement is NOT lost on me.

I sucked it up, dressed it up and went to Macy's at Town East. Now, I live close enough to Town East Mall that I could step out my back door, whistle and be heard by somebody in their parking lot, and I am only slightly exaggerating about that. But, I NEVER go to Town East. After my trip the other day, I can understand why.

The saleswoman in Macy's was helpful enough, but she was in obvious need of an eye exam. She kept showing me clothes in styles I haven't worn since elementary school..ruffled blouses that tie in the back? Skirts made out of handkerchief material? Is she kidding me?

P.S. I sneaked a look at the kleenex skirt and that little number cost over $100.00 JUST FOR THE SKIRT - a skirt that reminded me of what happens when all the kleenex bunch together and try to come out of the box all at once. Nope, not interested.

I continued the search at Dillard's but only encountered more of the same. Someone tell me, what do women my age wear to work? It's no wonder women in business are sometimes accused of dressing a bit too masculine. For crying out loud, THERE'S NOTHING SUITABLE IN THE WOMEN'S DEPARTMENT...we are FORCED to shop in the Men's.

I finally hit pay-dirt at Stein-Mart in Rockwall, where for the grand total of $120.00 I bought a pair of white, lined, linen pants, a darling cropped yellow and white patterned jacket and a silky yellow turtleneck shell.

Three items for less than Macy's wanted for the snot-rag skirt. SUCCESS!

I guess it's only fair to confess that I did have ONE very strict rule about whatever outfit I bought. It had to match the only pair of high heeled shoes I own. Nevermind that they only cost $3.00 at PayLess and I'm crippled for two days after I wear them, there's NO WAY I'm buying new shoes. Have you seen how much they want for those things??

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

2009-04-01T14:26:00.002-05:00

I was at Shepler's Western Store earlier today, trying to find Roger and myself Western shirts. He needs one for his school's Western Day and we both need one to wear to an upcoming Aggie Moms Club lunch.

Why do people assume everyone in Texas owns Western wear? I've lived here all my life and I can promise you this is only the second Western shirt I've ever owned - and if I knew where the FIRST one was, I wouldn't have bought THIS one.

Anyway, I was browsing the rack of sale shirts in front of the store when a mother and grandmother entered with a little girl who appeared to be around 4 years old.

I overheard the mother scolding the little girl and telling her to stay with her and, you guessed it, it wasn't too long before you could hear the mother AND the child calling for each other from different ends of the store.

Not my problem, right? My boys are grown and gone and if they lost me in a store they'd call me on their cell phones, if they needed me.

Apparently, this BECAME my problem when I looked up and saw the little girl opening the outside doors to make her way to the parking lot.

I told her not to go out those doors and asked her if she was lost. She looked at me with a trembling lip, stuffed both hands in her mouth and promptly burst into tears.

I held out my hand and told her not to worry, that we'd find her Momma. She put her little (and really WET) hand in mine and off we went to the nice cashier who announced a Lost Child over the store's loud speaker.

In a few minutes, here comes Momma, looking seriously ticked off. I walked the little girl over to her mother and told the mother that I'd stopped her just as she was going out the store's front door.

The mother didn't seem upset, worried, or scared...just really inconvenienced. I listened to the mother scold the little girl as they walked away and I made myself this promise: It wasn't my problem, no, it definitely wasn't. But, if Momma decided to drive home her point with a few smacks, Momma and me would be headed to Fist City on the Bullet Train.

Now, where are those anti-bacterial wipes?

Wit-Less

2009-03-31T14:05:00.005-05:00

My oldest son, Alex, recently adopted the puppy love of his life from the Dallas County ASPCA. HER name is J-Wit and SHE's named after the Dallas Cowboy player, Jason Witten. (Note to Alex's future wife - DO NOT LET THIS GUY NAME THE KIDS!!)

Since Alex's job involves some travel, he asked us if we'd keep Wit while he was out of town for two weeks.

Okay, no problem...we've already got two dogs, whose total combined weight equals THREE regular dogs, so we're already familiar with the territory, right? Uh, WRONG! It's been almost five years since we've had a puppy in the house, and I forgot just how very hectic and chaotic it can be. Something like a 24/7 version of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, with the added horror of your stuff either being shredded by little, sharp puppy teeth, or covered with little wet puppy puddles.

Our adventure started off with a bang - or make that a splash. Wit had been in our care for less than an hour when she fell/jumped into the deep end of our swimming pool.

It was COLD and had been raining non-stop for about three days so our 6 foot deep pool was more like 6 and a HALF feet deep. Very important difference to my husband Roger, who isn't a really strong swimmer and stands about 6 feet tall. As they say, the Devil is in the details - or in this case, she was dog paddling around the deep end of the pool.

That was the beginning of the Wit Rodeo and she took us through the barrels, let me tell you. I don't mean to sound like Jane Goodall, but it was very interesting to see the evolving dynamics of Canine Interaction in our house.

In no time, this little 18 pound drill sergeant had my two 80 pound Labs dancing to her tune. I learned that a Big Dog will do a whole lot of dancing to avoid those needle-sharp puppy teeth.

Walks were a different sort of challenge. I'm used to people staring at me as Layla and Dudley drag me from sniffing point A to sniffing point B. What I wasn't prepared for were the reactions of people seeing the four of us careening down the street, all three dogs on the same lead and Wit hanging off of Dudley's ear like a pirate's earring. More than one person stopped their car, rolled down their windows and asked me if I'd gotten a puppy. Only it was more like, "Tell me you DIDN'T get a PUPPY??"

Honestly? Having Wit here was WORK, and somebody should smack me if they ever hear me say the words, "I'm bored" again. But, even though it was a challenge to all four of us (me, Roger and the big dogs), it allowed me to see a side of Roger and the dogs I haven't seen.

Imagine a grown man, who isn't a swimmer, jumping into 50 degree water to save a puppy. Or two dogs, big enough to seriously injure a puppy, allowing that puppy to jump on them, wrap her paws around their heads and gnaw on their ears, while they patiently stand still and slowly wag their tails.

Wit wore us out, but I think having her here was good for us. At least that's what I keep telling Layla and Dudley. "That which doesn't kill you makes you stronger", right?

I hope they believe me...Wit comes back tomorrow.

Some Talents Are Just Not Appreciated

2009-03-30T12:21:00.004-05:00

I don't know if it's really a gender thing or not, but in my opinion, some traits are inherently male and some are female. I'm not talking about traditional family roles. I know not all domestic chores fall into rigid categories; some men do the cooking and some women do the yardwork. I'm talking about the different traits and talents each gender possesses.

For example, I think women pay attention to details. You know, the little things that most men miss. I know in our family, I'm the one who's more likely to catch something that's just not quite right; and that talent, my friends, isn't always appreciated. Since the subtle things I notice tend to herald an upcoming MAJOR HOME REPAIR, I can understand Roger's feelings of dread when he hears the latest of my observations.

The bad smell in the den? Turns out it was a dead rat in the attic. The wet floorboard in the new car? A leaky a/c valve. Hot floor tiles and less hot water? Means another hot water leak.

Like it or not, it's my job to notice these subtle little things that signal Trouble in Paradise for the Proza family. I like to think I'm not alone in this...surely I'm not the only woman in the world who breaks the bad news of possible repairmen expense to her husband with the phrase, "Now, I know this is gonna tick you off, but..."

Our latest foray into home repair was in the form of another slab leak. Sound familiar? It should, that's our third leak this year, but who's counting? The plumber and our insurance company, I'd guess.

You know it's bad when you call your plumber, give your name, a brief description of the problem, and the first words out of his mouth are, "AGAIN? Where is it THIS TIME?" No need to consult the files - we're a household name around there - I'll bet we even made the Christmas Card list, and I wouldn't be surprised to learn there was a pool going about where the NEXT leak will show up. After all, SOMEBODY should be enjoying this, shouldn't they?

Two plumbers showed up at the house and began their search for our latest pipe failure. They were having trouble narrowing it down, until I told them about hearing a noise that sounded like running water in our master bath the other morning. (I just want to go on record here and say that I told Roger about the noise. He didn't hear it, of course, and couldn't find any sign of a leak. But, how hard do we think he looked?)

The plumbers, who obviously have wives who make astute observations, too, immediately began looking in the rear part of the house, mainly the patio room, and asked me for my help. Ha! At last - men who APPRECIATE the fine art of paying attention to detail.

Before long, the plumbers and I were crawling around on the floor, feeling for the warmest spot and listening for the leak with some high-tech plumbing equipment. Mainly, a stethoscope with plastic tubing attached to two high powered microphones, which were placed on the suspected leak area.

After several minutes, I told the plumbers where I thought the leak originated, they marked the spot with a piece of duct tape and the next day a crew came and jack hammered up the slab and repaired the leak.

Now, I don't mean to brag or drive home the point unnecessarily, but the leaky pipe? After jack hammering up the slab, the plumber reported the leak was within 3 inches of the place I'd told them it was.

Like it or not, SOME talents should be appreciated.

We Are Who We Are, I Guess

2009-03-13T12:17:00.003-05:00

I think most people have a secret desire to be a different kind of person than the one they actually are. Me? I've always wanted to be a "Girly Girl". You know, the type everyone wants to shelter, protect and rescue? Someone who is always stylishly dressed with matching, tasteful accessories, gorgeous, trendy hairstyle, full make up and even lipstick; a delicate, dainty little thing who might get a case of the vapors if someone dealt with her a little too harshly.

If you actually know me, you're laughing hysterically right now. I am so NOT a Girly Girl and odds are I never will be, no matter how much I might think I want to. I've accepted the fact that I'm pretty much the opposite of the sterotypical Damsel in Distress, so I guess it shouldn't be a big surprise when my own flesh and blood occasionally thinks of me as a Stay At Home Rambo, or STAHMBO.

Alex called the other morning and asked me to run a special errand for him. Since I was already babysitting his three month old puppy, taking her out in the freezing cold rain for an UNLIMITED NUMBER of potty breaks, I kinda thought I was already in the plus column on his "Special Errands Needed" list. Apparently not, though, since he asked me to run to his house and check to make sure he had closed his garage door when he left for work.

Okay, no problem, I stuffed the Big Dogs, Layla and Dudley, in the car, grabbed Wit, the puppy, and away we went in the freezing cold rain. The Big Dogs assumed their usual positions for car rides: Dudley began snoring in the back and Layla surfed, standing right over my shoulder, occasionally wiping her nose in my hair. Wit got busy trying to chew anything she could get in her mouth, including the gear shift. Yeah, it was a fun ride.

I pulled up behind Alex's house and was relieved to see the garage door safely in the CLOSED position. I happily called him to give him the good news and he asked me if I was INSIDE the house? "Uh, no", I said, "the dogs and I are in the car, in the alley BEHIND your house, and the door's down...all safe and sound."

Then Alex informed me thieves routinely pull into an open, empty garage, close the garage door behind them, and proceed to loot and pillage to their heart's content with no threat of discovery. "I need you to go inside the house and make sure they're not inside, stealing my stuff."

Okay, now stop and think about this for just a minute. This 22 year old son of mine, the one who was born a FULL WEEK after his due date and caused me to be in labor for almost 20 hours. The one who, over the years, has put me through various trials and tribulations, such as: stitches in his upper lip after sword fighting with PVC pipe; falling in the Lagoon at Fair Park on a field trip; asthma and breathing treatments; scoliosis; and, six, count 'em SIX sets of ear tubes, just to name a few. THIS SON OF MINE wants his 48 year old MOTHER to go into his house and see if it is currently being raided by hardened, crazed, crack addicted thieves. No problem, I'll just yell "Yoo-Hoo" really loud before I enter so as to give them plenty of time to LOAD THEIR WEAPONS!

And, if you know me, you won't be surprised to learn that my response was a resigned, "Well, okay, I'll call you when I get inside". See? My family knows me well enough to know that not only am I NOT a Girly Girl...I don't even THINK about dealing with things in Girly Girl ways.

It never occurs to me NOT to climb the 6 ft. fence, or get in the elevator with the guy wearing the ski mask and carrying a rope. I don't think twice about standing in the way of the plumber's van when he tries to leave without first doing the job he was hired to do, or checking to see if the suspicious character in the alley is breaking into a neighbor's shed (he was).

No, I don't think at all...I just react, and such is NOT the way of the natural born Girly Girls of the world. That's okay, though. My family doesn't need a Girly Girl. They need me, their own personal STAHMBO. But, I better get flowers on Mother's Day, is all I'm saying.

The Love Bug Has Bitten A Chunk Out Of Alex

2009-02-26T15:28:00.005-06:00

Our oldest, Alex, has fallen in love recently, and he's fallen HARD. It's kind of bittersweet for a Mother to realize her son has found another female to love and care for. I know it's what happens when our children grow up, but that doesn't make it any easier for those of us who are put aside.

Alex was introduced to his new lady love by someone who was hoping they'd hit it off and become a life-long couple, and that is exactly what has happened.

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy about it, I really am, but it is going to take some getting used to. For starters, Alex's "true love" has a rather questionable background. She never knew her father and she and her siblings were taken away from their mother at a very early age. Not her fault, I know, and Roger and I have always taught the boys that you don't judge someone by the actions of their family.

Apparently he's learned that lesson well. He cherishes his new love in a way I never thought he would, showering her with presents, and making sure she keeps her doctors appointments. He even went so far as to ask us to please watch over her when he has to travel out of town, and he had the NERVE to instruct ME on what type of behavior he expected from me....all the do's and don'ts when dealing with this new woman in his life.

It's almost more than I can take, I'm telling you. But, if I'm being fair, I have to admit that this girl is worth it. She's young and cute, with a charming personality and she loves Alex with her whole heart. She's so grateful for every little thing he does for her, it almost breaks your heart to see it. But, don't go by me...judge for yourself.

I'm happy to introduce Wit Proza, the love of my son's life. (But, you'd better believe I'm taking her to Braum's for a frozen yogurt whether Alex likes it or not!)

Chivalry Might Not Be Dead, But It's Definitely On Life Support

2009-02-11T13:07:00.002-06:00

Roger and I were at a restaurant, eating dinner the other night, when I saw a sight that warmed my heart (and NO, it wasn't the dessert cart).

A young man was seated at another table, waiting for his girlfriend to meet him for dinner. When he saw her approaching, he stood, waited for her to get to the table, and pushed her chair in for her when she sat down. I swear I heard the voices of countless mothers raised in a victory cheer.

Being the mother of two sons, I have tried, almost since their births it seems, to teach them the good old fashioned Southern trait of chivalry. Believe me when I tell you this has NOT been an easy task. I can't tell you the number of times I've stood outside a door, waiting for my clueless sons to realize that Momma wasn't coming in until you opened the door for her, no matter HOW cold it is out there.

Not only did I have to fight the battle of "If Mom Says It, It Must Be Ignored", but, honestly, today's young women don't help with or encourage this kind behavior modification. My oldest son's girlfriend, Kim, told me the other day that women her age aren't used to being treated with old fashioned courtesy, so they often don't know how to respond.

This became painfully obvious to Roger the other day at PetsMart. We'd whipped in to buy another of the ginormous bags of dog food our dogs manage to consume at an alarming rate, and were waiting in line at the check out counter.

A young woman struggled up behind us with her own ton 'o food bag, and Roger, seeing her wrestling with the heavy load, offered to carry it for her. The young woman was startled at the offer, looked embarassed and vehemently refused Roger's help. I'm pretty sure the loud popping sound we heard was Roger's ego taking a major hit. He was crushed, thinking the young woman had refused his offer because she thought he was too OLD to be lifting something that heavy.

I tried to explain to him that ACCEPTING chivalrous gestures is just as much of a learned behavior as PERFORMING them, and, since chivalry appears to be on the decline, it's no wonder people are surprised and caught off guard when they witness it firsthand.

I had to learn myself to let a door be opened, a dropped item picked up, and a hand or arm be given in assistance. Take the first date Roger and I ever went on. When we got to the restaurant, Roger parked and quickly jumped out of the car. What I didn't know at the time was, that he was running around the car to open my door for me. Thinking this guy was in an awfully big hurry, I threw my car door open and managed to smash it into his outstretched hand and further right into his gut. Lesson Number One - just let them open the door for you and nobody gets hurt.

I guess I've appointed myself the unofficial Chivalry Fairy, and seriously, it's wearing me out. Between constantly getting onto Alex and Joseph for NOT holding up their end of this manners dance, I've taken to correcting their girlfriends when they make the, in my mind, almost fatal mistake of opening the door for themselves.

Bless their hearts, Audrey and Kim have both been much nicer to me than I deserve when I bark at them with a sharp "Don't you TOUCH that door! You let HIM open it!"

Sometimes the job has its' rewards, though. Like the other night, after we finished eating, I went over to the young couples' table and told the nice young man that I had witnessed his gallantry and that I, as a woman, would just like to say how very much I appreciated it.

See, Chivalry ISN'T dead...no matter how hard the young woman at PetsMart tried to kill it.

Somebody Should Really Follow Me Around With A Camera

2009-01-27T09:40:00.007-06:00

There's no reason I shouldn't be making money off of the ridiculous things the Karma Fairy does to me on a regular basis. I know strange and often hilarious things happen to other people, too, but, it just seems to happen to me more frequently than the rest of mankind, and I'm thinking I should be compensated for it. That's only fair, right?

My latest adventure involves one of my constant enemies - technology. Namely, the automatic garage door opener that has decided to join the other appliances in my life and work only IF and WHEN it wants to work.

Whether it's the fancy schmancy door opener on my car's rearview mirror or the wall mounted unit located outside the garage, the actual opening of the garage door has been hit or miss for some time now. (Note: Since I have next to NO patience for this kind of thing, Roger has been forewarned to expect the huge hole in the garage door when I finally lose my temper and just plow THROUGH it. That's the thing - I WILL win, even if it costs me a lot of money in home repairs.)

Today started off with the possibility of peril. Since a winter storm warning had been issued last night, I was determined to get the dogs walked before any ice and freezing temperatures decided to make an appearance.

Roger told me not to, my Dad told me not to and my common sense told me not to, but who listens to THEM, anyway? Off the dogs and I went and it was a really uneventful walk, with a lot of sniffing and marking (them) and a lot of griping and whining (me).

With our walk over, we sashay up to the garage door, I key our code into the wall mounted opener and....nothing. I enter it again...nothing. This goes on and on until I begin to resemble the not so bright lab rats that keep repeating the desired behavior but with NO REWARD to show for it.

With a little sob I realize that: 1) the door IS NOT going to open, no matter how hard I mash the buttons; 2) Kicking it doesn't help; 3) I am locked out of the house and the temperature is dropping; 4) I'm going to have to climb the fence; and 5) I AM 48 YEARS OLD and haven't climbed a fence in over 40 years and I wasn't particularly good at it THEN, either.

I turn around and face the mountain - our 6 foot privacy fence. Now, you're probably wondering why I didn't just open the gate and WALK into our backyard, like any normal person would. First of all, my life is anything BUT normal, which, if you read this blog regularly, you already know; and Second our gate is locked with a padlock to keep out any would be thieves, dog nappers and idiots whose garage door openers quit working.

The dogs are looking at me like, "It's cold out here and it's misting..why aren't we in the house, getting our after walk treats? Hurry up, would you? There's a warm couch with my name on it!"

I take a deep breath (possibly my last) and heave myself up the fence (Hey, that weightlifting is really paying off!) I throw first one, then the other leg, over the top of the fence and, before you know it, I'm sitting on the top, looking at the long, long way down to the ground on the other side.

Do you ever have those moments when it becomes clear to you that what you're doing is NOT a good idea? That maybe you've made a HUGE mistake..one that might actually take a horrible turn and end up being the main item in an accident report? Or a story that starts out, "And then it all went terribly wrong"?

I hope when and if your "moment" comes, you're not straddling a 6 foot fence that has begun to sway dangerously back and forth, all alone except for two big dogs with worried looks on their faces.

The worried dogs and the swaying fence convinced me I had to take action, like it or not, so I closed my eyes real tight and wished for a ladder to magically appear on the other side of the fence. When I opened my eyes, I realized two things - wishes don't work and my pants were caught on a nail in the fence.

I took a deep breath, knowing it WOULD probably be my last, and jumped. The ripping sound I heard let me know that my pants were not as committed to this endeavor as I was - they were staying with the fence. When I opened my eyes, I was lying on the other side of the fence, in the only muddy spot in the entire yard (OF COURSE!), with my head resting in the dead spider lily plant. (FYI: If you think there might be an occasion where you have to climb your fence, I highly recommend planting soft, comfy plants to cushion your fall. Howard Garrett might not tell you, but I will.)

You're probably thinking I've got it made, now. I'm over the fence with no broken bones (thank you calcium pills!) and only a pair of torn sweats to show for it. But, I've still got to get IN the house, remember?

After raising my fist and giving a heartfelt but definitely wimpy, "Whoo-Hoo" victory yell, I stand up and stagger to the back door. I'll have to crawl through the dog door on my belly, but, hey, dignity has left this building a long time ago, ya know what I'm saying?

The dogs have started to whine and, while I'd like to think it's out of concern for my well being, I'm pretty sure it's because they realize if I fatally injure myself, their daily Sonic trip may just be cancelled or at the very least a tad bit late.

I get through the dog door with no further mishap, except that the ripped pants are now also soaked due to me having to crouch down on the sopping wet door mat in front of the doggie door.

I squish my way through the house and into the garage where I spot it..the Beast I have beaten. I slap the door opener and, amazingly enough, the door opens! (ooo, don't even go there - too little, too late, my friend - you are DONE!) I stand there for what seems like just a minute to throw some choice words at the offending mechanical device and go out to retrieve my poor, worried, clueless dogs, who are now so scared and confused they don't know what to do.

I've already told Roger I wanted a new garage door opener AND I WANT IT RIGHT NOW! He agreed with me, and I'm not sure, but I think he was laughing when he said it.

I don't care. I met my enemy on the battlefield and I defeated it. Excuse me, I've got pants to sew and I think Dudley needs another Prozac.

Oh No They Didn't!

2009-01-23T09:38:00.006-06:00

Wherever my Mother is, I can tell you she's ticked off. Being a stay at home mom, my mother's life was sometimes not her own. Her days were filled with caring for her family and running a household. Her time was not hers, EXCEPT for two definite occasions, and smart people learned that valuable lesson very early. Her weekly beauty shop appointment and her daily soap operas were holy rituals that were never to be missed.

Somewhere, up in Heaven, my mother is sitting in a comfy chair, with her coffee in a beautiful china cup, and a fresh box of chocolates by her side. She is also fighting mad at what has become of her beloved "programmies".

I understand television is trying to attract younger viewers. They're trying to appeal to the college crowd, and that's understandable. Young viewers are the target audience because of their disposable income. It's not that they have MORE of it, it's just that they tend to DISPOSE of it more often than the older generation does. We realize the importance of putting that extra income aside to use for the really fun things in life...hip replacements, angioplasties, biopsies, and don't forget the extra meds you'll be needing. Yeah, we oldsters know how to plan a party, don't we?

While I don't really watch soap operas, I do keep the television tuned to the same channel my mother watched for years. (What? The dogs like the noise..really!) Since I have the soaps tuned in, I can't help but overhear some of the plot and let me tell you, Toto, we are NOT in Kansas, anymore.

Oh, there's still the always popular "amnesia" plot, the kidnapping plot, the evil witch who's breaking up everyone's marriage plot, and the cheating husband plot. But, today's soaps also include eye poppers like graphic sex scenes between both straight AND gay characters.

There's nothing wrong with these latest storylines. In a lot of ways they do reflect real life and for the most part, I'm okay with them, up to a POINT. A line was definitely crossed the other day on one of the oldest soap operas on television. I'm talking about that Grande Dame of Soap Operadom..The Guiding Light.

Reva Shayne, a character who became notorious in her youth as the Town Tramp of Springfield (you know there's ALWAYS one), has aged and her character has survived adventures too numerous to mention. I realize her character is vital to the soap opera, but is it too much to ask for her to age gracefully? In a believeable fashion, while she embraces her age and enjoys the wonderfulness that middle age has to offer?

Apparently it IS too much to ask, since it was announced recently that Reva is pregnant! Quite a trick for someone who, not too long ago, shared her adventures in menopause with her sympathetic viewers who were experiencing the same thing.

Seriously, this woman is older than ME and, some genius decided it would be a good idea to have her experience the joys of labor, delivery and motherhood all over again, at OUR age? I can honestly tell you, that when the doctor delivered the news, my own uterus sat straight up and said, "Oh No, She Didn't!"

That did it for me. I'll be turning the television off before Guiding Light comes on, although it would be fun to see if Reva manages to find a walker with a support strap for her pregnant belly.

A Love Letter

2009-01-20T13:20:00.005-06:00

Remember before we met? You were a 36 year old, divorced father, caring for a young daughter and I was an almost 22 year old young woman in the process of divorcing my first mistake (I mean husband), after what had to be one of the shortest marriages in history. I might make mistakes quickly, but I fix them even quicker.

Who knew we'd ever meet or have a first date? The fortune teller who told you that you would soon meet someone important to you and she'd be considerably younger with a name that began with an "S". (My married name at the time was Smith); She knew.

Remember when you came to the Chamber of Commerce where I worked? You were there to give a speech and spent a whole lot of time looking at me. I knew you were going to ask me out and, in a rare show of shyness, I hid in the Women's bathroom until you'd left.

Who knew we'd eventually go on that date and hit it off so well? You must have had a pretty good idea, since you persevered, overcame my shyness and asked me out; You knew.

Remember the night we were married? A typical Texas Blue Norther blew in and the wind almost tore the church steeple off while we were reciting our vows. Who knew you'd be the best husband and father that God ever made? My mother, before the ceremony, told me you were the best man she'd ever met in her life and that if I hurt you, she'd never forgive me; She knew.

Remember when I became pregnant with our first child? There were complications and the first doctor I saw told me not to even tell anyone I was pregnant, because I was going to lose the baby.

Who knew that baby would thrive, be born and grow up to be a strong, handsome, caring, loving and successful 22 year old college graduate? When I came home from that first doctor's appointment, you held me tight and told me not to worry, that everything would be alright; You knew.

Remember when my parents were the people I counted on to comfort me; to advise me; to counsel me and to guide me? Their opinions were the ones that mattered to me.

Who knew that one day you would take their place; that you would be my base, my guide, my counselor, my advisor, my confidant and the most important person in my life? When our youngest was severely ill, my mother and I were walking out of the hospital after having his chest x-rays taken. You walked in just then and when I saw you, all the stress and fear ran out of me. I could breathe again and I knew everything was going to be alright; I knew.

Remember when we started this life together, over 24 years ago? Who knew we'd stay together, building a wonderful life, becoming closer, better, and more in love every day, until we can't even imagine a life without each other? I think we BOTH knew.

I love you Roger.

Ooops, They Did It Again!

2009-01-12T12:25:00.004-06:00

Sunday afternoon, my son's car was broken into in our very own driveway...in the middle of the day, in broad daylight, with me, Roger and our two very big, but obviously very deaf, dogs watching the football playoffs.

Believe me when I tell you that this, combined with our stolen mail episode, has me seriously considering going Rambo and taking some matters into my own hands. Really, who among us hasn't wanted to go all "Sharon Osbourne" on someone every now and then? And, while maybe it's not the most civilized reaction we could have, it might just be the most effective and I'm willing to BET it would be the most SATISFYING.

Who knows why the thieves broke out Alex's car window, ripped out his CD player, and rifled through his trunk, looking for treasure? All during the hours of 1:00 - 2:00 p.m. on a sunny Sunday afternoon? Why did they choose Alex's car when there were at least 5 other cars within 50 feet of his? Cars that were much newer and nicer than Alex's car?

The answer is that Alex had an above average CD player in his car. One that apparently caught the eye of someone who was too lazy to work for it but wanted it, anyway. A little smash and grab - a little breaking and entering and voila, the CD player was theirs for the taking.

Why did they think they could get away with it during prime time on a busy weekend day? Because they could, and they DID.

Maybe it's because they knew that when the police received my 911 call at 2:00 p.m. it would take them until 5:00 p.m. to show up at our house. I have no idea how to break into a car and rip a CD player out of the dashboard, but I'll bet even I could do it if you gave me three hours to get it done.

This isn't our first experience with crime in our neighborhood. Several years ago our area was targeted for a series of petty thefts and vandalism. We responded by organizing a Crime Watch and holding several informative meetings, which were well attended by neighbors and even community leaders.

The police department gave us tips on crime prevention and assured us they were on the case. The Superintendent of our School District (who has since retired) reminded us this was to be expected, since we lived in the wealthiest neighborhood in the city. Keep in mind this is a city whose motto could be: "Mesquite...we put the Middle in middle-class".

Ironically enough, in that case, police arrested several youths responsible for the crime spree; Kids that live in a nearby small town. A much more affluent town, by the way. Kind of shoots down the whole "the have NOTS will steal from the HAVES" doesn't it?

I have no idea what the reason is behind the latest crimes plaguing our area, and honestly, I don't care WHAT the reason might be.

All I know is, if I catch someone vandalizing and/or stealing from us again, they'd better HOPE the police have improved their response time. The criminals don't want us to have to wait three hours for the police to arrive. It's three hours they WON'T enjoy...I WILL, but they WON'T.

Metro Dudley

2009-01-09T14:30:00.001-06:00

Our Dudley is a most unique individual. He's his own man, a Renaissance Man, if you will. One of the many things that make Dudley unique is his love of clothing. Nothing makes him happier than wearing something snazzy and fashionable in the world of apparel.

Here he is, sporting his brand new Hawaiian style bandana. Put him on a beach, slap a tropical drink in his paw and you've got yourself a killer vacation ad.

Christmas Comes Just Once A Year..And I, For One, Am Grateful

2009-01-05T13:10:00.006-06:00

We had a good holiday season here at the Proza household.

Joseph, was home from Texas A&M for a whole two days before he became sick as a dog with an evil stomach virus (truthfully, my dogs have NEVER been THAT sick, thank God).

He woke us up early on a Sunday morning, loudly calling for "Ralph", if you know what I mean. One funny thing about it (and believe me, I cleaned up the mess, so I KNOW there wasn't much in the way of funny), was Joseph's determination to make it to our regular Sunday brunch. After each stomach upheaval, he'd tell himself, "I'm okay, I'm okay - I'll just have the fruit plate, fruit will be okay." Bless his heart, the kid's a trooper, isn't he?

One thing Roger and I learned is that although Joseph is a brilliant kid, and has survived dorm room living for a whole semester, he still has some basic survival skills to learn. Primarily the art of throwing up.

Maybe it's because Joseph was lucky enough to be amazingly healthy all of his life, or maybe it's because he's just not overly burdened with a whole lot of common sense. Whatever the reason, it has never occurred to Joseph that, when you need to vomit, it's a good idea to get yourself as CLOSE to the target (read: toilet bowl) as you possibly can. Kneeling down is a requirement - grabbing the sides of the bowl and praying for death are optional.

No, throwing up, Joseph style, requires the merest movement of simply bowing your head a fraction of an inch, and letting 'er rip, all from a height of approximately 6'2". Accuracy is not necessary and isn't even encouraged. This procedure can be repeated, as needed, with even LESS accuracy from the doorway of the bathroom. Kind of a new take on the phrase "You don't even have to be PRESENT to win!"

Roger and I tried to educate Joseph on how to improve his form by telling him there was a reason being sick is often referred to as "driving the porcelain bus", and that he needed to get up close and personal with the toilet to avoid any mishaps someone (read: ME) would have to clean up.

Joseph was horrified, to say the least, and asked us WHY in the WORLD would anybody want to get that close to something that disgusting? Uh huh, spoken like someone who DOESN'T have to clean up the disgust.

The nausea was followed by a couple of days of high fever and some patient/caregiver battles. I'm the first to admit that I make a lousy nurse. If you are unlucky enough to become sick on my watch I seriously advise you to drag yourself to the nearest Discount Tire or Kwicky Lube...you'll get better care there, I promise.

I'm the type to open the door, throw in medicine, look at my watch and tell you that you have 15 minutes to get well or die, and I don't care which - just PICK ONE!

Joseph wouldn't eat anything (understandable), slept constantly (okay, he needs his rest to recover), repeatedly asked for a cold washcloth for his head (now he's pushing it), and wouldn't drink anything (what, does he WANT to dehydrate and spend his Christmas in the HOSPITAL?? He's doing this on purpose, isn't he?)

I'm happy to report that Joseph DID, in fact, recover, about 5 minutes before I tried to smother him with his pillow and went on to enjoy a very relaxed vacation of sleeping, watching television and laying around in his pajamas.

Pretty much what he did when he was sick with one big improvement. We're not quite as worried about his aim.

Christmas Lights 2008

2008-12-08T13:02:00.003-06:00

Here's our house all decorated for Christmas this year. Our neighborhood has been included on some Holiday Light Tours for several years, and it's very common to see traffic lined up down the street, each car driving slowly with their lights off to really get the full effect of all of the lights.

It's also common to see my husband, Roger, standing in our kitchen window yelling, "Jesus Christ, it's 11:00 p.m., don't you people have HOMES to go to?"

Merry Christmas, Y'all!!

Hello, My Name Is Melinda And I'm A Morning Person

2008-12-05T09:48:00.006-06:00

Alright, I admit it...I'm one of those people you thought couldn't possibly exist. Someone you've never actually met, but have heard of in whispered "Can you BELIEVE it?" type conversations among close friends.

I am a Morning Person. When my feet hit the floor in the morning I am a happy girl. I can't help it. I start each day off singing silly, ridiculous songs (remember the "Chip & Dale Rescue Rangers" theme song? - would you WANT to remember it at 7:00 a.m. in the morning?)

A lot of dancing around and booty shaking accompanies my impromptu performances and the only people who seem even remotely appreciative are the dogs. Apparently, manic dancing and singing are excellent possibilities for treat distribution and, like all dogs, they LIVE for treat opportunities.

I've been told by certain people, namely people I'm married to or have given birth to, that being that happy and chipper in the morning is NOT natural and, in fact, can be somewhat...oh, what's the word? Annoying, irritating, maddening - oh and my favorite: an excellent reason for justifiable homicide.

At first glance, it seems that I'm a member of a very small group of people. But, I suspect there are more of us Morning People out there than we realize. We're just afraid of admitting to the world that we actually LIKE getting up early; that we ENJOY buzzing around the house in the early a.m. with a song on our lips and a spring in our step.

To admit that is to open the door for all kinds of ugliness and abuse. Suggestions to use all that energy to empty the dishwasher, fix breakfast, and make up the beds are just a few. Is if FAIR to ask the Early Morning Cheery to do more than their fair share of the work, just because they're in a good mood?

No, I say it is NOT fair and it's time we Morning People do something about it. I suggest we organize ourselves and form a union. We'll need to schedule planning meetings and elect representatives.

Be sure and let me know when the first meeting is scheduled, just remember to call early. We let the machine answer the phone after 9:00 p.m. I hate those pesky Night Owls, don't you?

A Very Techno Kind of Thanksgiving

2008-12-03T12:40:00.004-06:00

My oldest son, Alex, invited Roger and me to his house this year for a pre-Thanksgiving dinner he was having for some of his friends who couldn't make it home for the holidays. How sweet is THAT? How many 22 year old men do you know who are that kind and thoughtful? Thank God my boys take after their Daddy.

Roger and I arrived early for dinner and we were prepared. Prepared in the way that we'd had the good sense to eat BEFORE we got there. We walked into a different kind of Thanksgiving, and lemme tell ya, Norman Rockwell had NOTHING to do with it.

I knew we were in for a new holiday experience when we walked into the kitchen and saw one of Alex's friends furiously typing away on his iphone. This friend just graduated with an Aeronautical Engineering degree and it was HIS job to configure the different frying temperatures of two separate cooking oils. An important job, too, since it was the holiday turkey they were trying to fry. Uh huh...Toto, we are NOT in Kansas, anymore.

I stuck Alex's favorite dessert in the fridge and assumed a place at the bar to watch the action. Lord, I wish I was a drinker.

Alex's friend, Milad, was busy assembling Alton Brown's macaroni and cheese, saving time by assembling the entire thing in one dish. Layers? We don't need no stinking LAYERS! I watched as he happily stirred the different cheeses together and didn't seem concerned at all with the amount of macaroni cascading down onto the floor.

Alex and Jay were inspecting the semi-frozen turkey for ice particles, since, apparently, that makes for a really exciting and possibly explosive turkey fry (and I don't mean explosive in a festive, exciting way, but an Oh My God, It's A Nuclear Bomb kind of way.)

A friend had already warned me to have Alex check the grease level BEFORE he lowered the turkey into the hot oil, and I'd like to think that if Alex had actually tried to FRY the turkey he would have followed my instructions. But I'm trying to live my life in reality now and I doubt very seriously if he even HEARD WHAT I SAID about the possible life ending nuclear holocaust that could occur if he didn't follow basic frying safety.

No Worries, though...Alex announced the frying was cancelled since the turkey was still semi-frozen. YAY! I put down the fire extinguisher, unclenched my jaw and tried to remember how to breathe.

We were down to the wire now and dinner was definitely in sight - and it was only an hour and a half later than we were SUPPOSED to eat, too. Way To Go, Team!

Suddenly, Head Chef Milad realizes he's forgotten that most basic of Thanksgiving beverages...GRAVY!! Immediately, three iphones are whipped out and internet surfing for gravy recipes begins.

Nevermind the fact that I'm sitting right there with DECADES of cooking experience and GENERATIONS of cherished recipes stored right in my head! Does anybody ask ME? Nope, I don't have buttons, and I'm not linked to the internet, therefore I am invisible. That was when I decided to sit back, shut up and watch the show.

You mean you can't heat an ENTIRE ice cold turkey in 15 minutes? Frozen green beans should be cooked BEFORE you add them to the green bean casserole? Cream gravy and hoagie rolls are NOT traditional Thanksgiving Day foods? WHO KNEW??

Ice cold turkey, lumpy gravy and HUGE ENORMOUS dinner rolls were beside the point. This dinner, so lovingly prepared, was a triumph for Alex and his friends. They were proud of the fact that they had managed to pull this together, all by themselves and their friends were so grateful they bragged on the food and did their very best to eat every single bite.

Looking around that table, it occurred to me...There was a lot to be thankful for, believe me.

It's Good To Know Where You Stand

2008-11-17T14:05:00.004-06:00

Cesar Milan, a/k/a The Dog Whisperer, thinks it's important when dealing with your dogs to be the pack leader. Every member of the pack has a rank, from the lowest to the highest, and knowing where they fit is vital to the pack's harmony.

That's probably important in our human world as well, and if I didn't know where I ranked before this weekend, I certainly do now.

Joseph was home for Roger's birthday and we had just gotten back from the birthday dinner, when I realized I hadn't seen Layla in a while. I asked Joseph to help me look for her. We both went outside to the backyard and Layla came happily bounding up to us with something in her mouth....something with a tail...a long, skinny tail and little claw feet.

Joseph and I realized at the same time that the treasure Layla was proudly presenting to us was a rat - and it was still alive and kicking!

Joseph turned to me and yelled, "SHE'S GOT A RAT!", but by the time the words were out of his mouth, I was already through the back door and making tracks into the house. Which is why I'm so surprised that Joseph ended up AHEAD of me in this race for our lives.

Joseph and I ran, screaming hysterically, into the den, through the kitchen, past the dining room and into the safety of the closest room with a door. Which we promptly slammed in Layla's poor confused face.

See, this puzzles me, too. I tend to believe the opposite of old Cesar. Most dogs I know do pretty much whatever they want to, I know mine do, anyway. Don't get me wrong, my dogs are trained and if they think they'll be rewarded with food, they are MINE, body and soul, just waiting to make my slightest wish come true...unless we have visitors. Layla's reaction when we have poor unsuspecting visitors makes the Mesquite Rodeo look like a children's pony ride. It's not pretty, believe me.

Yep, dogs definitely have their own interpretation of our rules and regulations. Take the game of fetch, for example. Layla's definition of "fetch" is to run after whatever is thrown and bring it back approximately half-way. She then drops it and gives you a look that says "I feel I've completed my part of this job. If you have a problem with my performance, call my Union Rep."

That's why it was so surprising that she was apparently DETERMINED to bring this squealing, germ infested, plague carrying RODENT right up to us and drop it at our feet (or fling it in our hair, which is what I think Joseph and I were both afraid of).

This is the part of the story where I realize that while I would give up anything for my children - my safety, my home, my life, even *gasp* my hair coloring appointments, Joseph didn't necessarily feel the same way about me.

Joseph made that clear when, while running through the kitchen, he yells back over his shoulder at me, "Mom, quit following ME, she's CHASING YOU!"

Believe me when I tell you that it is a sad day, when you realize that the very life you carried for nine long, morning sickness, swelling, no caffeine allowed, ugly clothes wearing months would throw you to the lions (or in this case, the vermin toting dog).

Yes,a very sad day, indeed.

A Step In The Right Direction

2008-11-17T13:20:00.004-06:00

Me, My Sister, Michel, Who's Pres., of DFW Alz. Assn. & Roger

My Friend, Gail Lynn, a Veteran Memory Walker, Me and Roger

Me and Roger, Getting Ready To Walk

This past Saturday, Roger and I joined over 4,300 other people at the Dallas Zoo to participate in the Alzheimer's Association Memory Walk 2008. The turnout was huge, even though the temperature was so cold most of the animals decided to sleep in.

Over $415,000.00 was raised for Alzheimer's research. Every single dollar raised gets us one step closer to finding a cure for this disease that continues to devastate families while showing no mercy.

Alzheimer's disease has waged war on us long enough. It's time to start fighting back, and fighting back HARD. I saw over 4,300 people on Saturday who were willing to throw the first punch.

Taking One For The Team

2008-10-30T14:20:00.005-05:00

Probably, one of the biggest challenges Roger faces being a First Grade Teacher isn't the students. It's being a member of a large group of co-workers who are almost 100% female (the gym teacher doesn't count here, because he gets to hide out in the gym and do manly sports stuff all day).

As an early elementary school educator, Roger is called upon to participate in a whole bunch of activities that most people (and I'm talking most MALES here) would categorize as strictly female activities. Some even slop over into the *gasp* "girly" variety.

Not a week goes by at school without some type of "social" event. This could be anything from a faculty theme meal (tomorrow's theme is Baked Potato Lunch) or a wedding or baby shower. I remember the time, early in his teaching career, when Roger was trying to figure out the whys and whatfors of all the celebrations. He looked me straight in the eye with a puzzled look on his face and asked me if all the parties and get togethers was a "female thing".

Bless His Heart...it must HURT to be so clueless. Of COURSE it's a female thing. It's what women do best, take something and make an EVENT out of it. We can even make an event out of NOTHING if we have to, and sometimes, apparently we DO!

As women, we are nurturers, and we understand how important it is to celebrate when life is good and even more important to celebrate when life isn't quite as good. It's a gift we give willingly to each other, our children, and any and all poor unsuspecting males who happen to be in our path - like Roger.

That's why I always encourage Roger to participate in all the activities and festivities, no matter how "girly" they might seem. I'm proud to say he listens to me, most of the time, as the above pictures will tell you.

These are pictures of Roger taking part in two of Floyd Elementary's Red Ribbon Week Festivities - Crazy Sunglasses Day and Wild Hair Day.

I'd like to go on record as saying that he WOULD have participated in PAJAMA DAY, but he "forgot" to tell me about it. Uh huh.....like we believe THAT one.

Maybe We Should Just Run A Tab

2008-10-17T13:33:00.006-05:00

For various reasons, we've been making more trips to the vet's office, lately.

Let's see, there's Dudley's neurotic licking, which results in big, raw wounds that have to be doctored with some type of super medicine which scares me to death. I have no idea what it's made of. All I know is, I have to wear gloves to apply it and it SAYS SO RIGHT ON THE LABEL, so I'm guessing they're not kidding. This was vet visit number one and two. Of course, we had to go back for a $30.00 re-check...you don't think they're gonna let us get by with just ONE visit, do you? Good news is, Dudley got PROZAC - bad news is - it DOESN'T WORK (maybe I'm supposed to be the one taking it? I offered, but the vet said no.)

A couple of weeks ago, Layla, the big, strong dog, who is bred to sit quietly, enduring sub-freezing weather until she receives the command to jump into ice cold waters and retrieve all manner of water fowl, stepped in a hole and sprained her foot. This would be vet visit number three.

Vet visit number four was scheduled as a well-visit for Layla with just a routine exam and shots...except she started REFUSING to jump up on anything. The couch, the bed, the car for our daily Sonic rides. You could tell she WANTED to, she'd approach the target, but she'd stall and whine and look at us with a really sad expression. She didn't even want us to help her and she'd run from us when we tried to hoist her ample self up.

Of course, most women would see that as a natural reaction. All women know that if anyone (and I'm talking males here) ever actually tries to LIFT us, the jig's up and we can no longer be coy about how much we weigh (which is always a lot more than they THINK we do).

Luckily (?) Layla's gimpiness happened the weekend before her Monday appointment, so Roger and I spent the weekend preparing ourselves for what might happen at the vet's office.

I explained to Roger that they might want to do x-rays and Layla would have to be sedated, which meant we might have to leave her overnight. One thing led to another and we found ourselves discussing the possibility that at the young age of 4 years old, Layla might be experiencing some early joint problems that would make it necessary for her to adjust her lifestyle and activities.

Daily walks might be a thing of the past and jumping up and down from the bed, even with her helpful step stool, might be too hard on her. We even talked about taking a huge financial hit, trading in our 2 year old SUV and buying something closer to the ground so she wouldn't have to jump, but could just step in and out.

Now, let me just stop here and say this should make perfectly clear to you, how very much Roger loves Layla. Usually, I'M the one who goes insane over things like this. I don't just go overboard, I HYSTERICALLY FLING MYSELF OVERBOARD, wholeheartedly. Roger, he's the calm, reasonable one. The one who keeps me grounded and reins me in when I start to run amok. Unfortunately, in this instance, he was just as amok as I was and we were in big trouble. We even went so far as to tell Alex that he had to give us HIS car and he could just drive ours. Uh huh...we were willing to drive a used (and I mean used HARD) six year old car and PAY for our 22 year old son to drive our almost brand new Santa Fe. I told you we were out of control.

Fortunately, none of that was necessary. We took Layla to her vet appointment and, when we walked in, a miracle happened. Layla, who, minutes before, had been laying around at death's door, walked into the vet and saw two of her very favorite things on Earth....a PUPPY and a FOUR YEAR OLD BOY! The retail stores are right!! Christmas DOES come before HALLOWEEN!

Roger wrestled Layla a safe distance away from both the boy and his puppy and I signed us in. What followed would have broken your heart - until you laughed out loud. Layla started whining and moaning something pitiful, trying her hardest to get to "her" boy and "her" puppy.

When she wasn't whining she was wiggling and wagging her tail, beating it on the wall behind her; and beating it hard enough and long enough, that a picture fell OFF the wall and crashed to the ground; slicing Roger's arm open and barely missing giving me a concussion before it hit the floor and shattered into a dozen pieces.

They got us in an exam room pretty quickly after that (big surprise). I DID offer to pay for the broken frame, but they refused. I think next time I'll just see if we can run a tab. Do you think they'd have a payment plan?

It's a Beautiful, But Not Profitable, Day In The Neighborhood

2008-10-07T13:32:00.008-05:00

I know the economy is bad and employment is down, but do you ever wonder how successful some people would be if they put as much effort into legitimately WORKING for a living instead of, oh, I don't know, STEALING mail out of your mailbox? Specifically, MY mailbox?

I got a surprise call one day last week from an extremely observant and conscientious teller at our bank's Duncanville location. She was calling to verify a check, written on our account in the amount of $600.00, payable to someone I'd never heard of, and signed, supposedly, by Roger.

After she described the check, giving me the number and who the check was payable to, I assured her the check being presented was NOT written by either Roger or myself. She replied she had thought the check was bogus from the beginning because it had a strange appearance and looked as if Roger's name had been traced over in two different colored inks.

She immediately contacted the police and I'm happy to say the thief was arrested and is now on his way to felonyland, where he might even learn an honest trade...or maybe just figure out how to do a better job of forgery and brush up on his acting skills.

How did this all happen? Roger made the mistake of thinking mailing our bills in our mailbox in front of our very own house was a safe thing to do. We really didn't seriously consider the fact that someone would come along, see the raised red flag (NOW you know where that flag gets it's name, don't you?), pull to the curb and actually STEAL OUR MAIL OUT OF THE MAILBOX.

This still amazes me whenever I think about it. On the rare occasions we've had a neighbor's mail accidentally delivered to our house, and I've taken the mail to the right address, I'm always afraid to put the mail in their mailbox, even though IT BELONGS THERE. I know I'm not doing anything wrong, but in the back of my mind I keep expecting an alarm to go off and a booming voice to instruct me to STEP AWAY FROM THE MAILBOX, PLACE YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD AND NO SUDDEN MOVES.

This whole episode has been a learning experience and I've picked up a few tips along the way. The first tip is from our mailman, who tells me NOT to use our mailbox to send payments. He, himself, mails anything of value from INSIDE the post office; and don't EVER raise the flag on the mailbox - it sends a signal to EVERYONE, not just the mailman.

The Mesquite Police officer I spoke with suggested we start writing our checks with gel pens. Apparently, the ink in gel pens makes it more difficult for a thief to "wash" and successfully forge a check. My sister, a Vice President for Comerica Bank, still finds it hard to believe someone managed to steal mail out of our mailbox in Mesquite in the morning and make it to Duncanville with a doctored check by 10:00 a.m. that same morning. I say that's what happens when people don't take the time to do quality work.

And, while I'm at it, I'd like to give a tip to the Failed Forger in this story: Pay attention to the details! The suspicious look of the sloppily "washed" check, and the different colored inks on the signature were bad enough, but what REALLY blew it for you was your note on the memo line that read"for painting services".

If that check had been 100% perfect in every other way, I would have known it was a fraud the moment the teller told me about that memo note. The day Roger pays ANYBODY $600.00 to paint our house is the day AFTER he's hit the billion dollar jackpot and, believe me, Publisher's Clearing House has NOT been ringing my doorbell.

A Walk To Remember

2008-09-24T19:08:00.004-05:00

She was beautiful, with thick, luxurious hair that she would never color and flashing black eyes that could show love or anger, but mostly love and always understanding.

She was loving and giving and so very kind-hearted; a true and loyal friend, but you got the feeling she could also be a formidable enemy if you made the mistake of hurting someone she loved.

She knew many people and the ones she loved, she loved in spite of, and sometimes because of, their shortcomings.

She always cared for others, yet never got around to caring for herself.

She was gentle and wise, creative and talented, although she never thought so.

She was mysterious and secretive, an open book and a plain everyday housewife and mother.

She loved parties – giving them AND attending them and her home felt like home to everyone who ever visited.

She shared her love and life with her husband of over 60 years, their children, grandchildren and even great-grandchildren.

She died not knowing any of this…who she was, who her family was or how very much she was loved by them.

She was my mother and she died a year ago after a 10 year battle with Alzheimer’s disease.

If you’ve ever known or loved someone with Alzheimer’s Disease, this story is familiar to you. If you’ve been lucky enough to escape the shadow of Alzheimer’s, it’s a journey you can’t imagine; a nightmare you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, much less your cherished friend or loved one.

Alzheimer’s Disease is waging a war, but it’s a war that doesn’t get much attention from the average citizen, not until that citizen gets an up-close and personal view of the everyday battles. Battles that are as ugly and destructive as any military operation could ever be.

Our only hope to win these battles and, ultimately this war is to find a cure for Alzheimer’s Disease. The American Alzheimer’s Association is committed to finding a cure and eliminating the threat of Alzheimer’s Disease. But dedication and good intentions don’t fund the necessary research to find a cure or the programs to help those already afflicted with this dreaded disease.

The Memory Walk is a fun and inspiring event, held annually, to help the Alzheimer’s Association fulfill their mission statement to eliminate Alzheimer’s disease. This year’s walk, Memory Walk 2008, will be held November 15 at The Dallas Zoo. Teams of different sizes will meet and walk to raise money for the cure.

Everyone is invited and urged to participate. Volunteer to walk, or sponsor a walker. For more information about Memory Walk 2008, call 214/540-2411 or visit the Dallas Alzheimer’s website at: www.AlzDallas.org.

Join me on Nov. 15^th at the Dallas Zoo. I’ll be walking and I’ll be remembering.

Calling All Aggie Moms!

2008-09-21T09:04:00.006-05:00

The Garland/Richardson Aggie Moms Club would like to invite you to our next meeting, Monday, October 13th at 7:15 p.m. at the Garland Women's Activity Building, 713 Austin Street in Garland. Our club was established to aid and support Texas A&M students from the Mesquite, Garland and Richardson ISD's, as well as their families.

Our Aggie Moms club is a great way to find support, information, and share problems and solutions concerning our Aggie students. Join us and meet other moms who will help you navigate through Aggieland.

Are you and your Aggie starting to worry about upcoming semester exams? Are you wondering what you can do to make your Ag feel special and help relieve some of the studying stress? Well, here's your answer....DEADWEEK CARE PACKAGES!

Our Aggie Moms Club is currently taking orders for Deadweek Packages to be hand delivered to our beloved Aggie students during the week before their final semester exams. The packages are $10.00 each and are guaranteed to put a smile on your Special Aggie's face. The deadline for ordering packages is October 15th, so get your order in NOW.

Let your Aggie know you're thinking about them with our special delivery. To order your Deadweek Package, visit our website at: www.garlandrichardsonaggiemoms.org, or contact me at melindaproza@yahoo.com. Better yet, come to our next meeting, you'll be glad you did, I guarantee!

Gig 'Em!

Moms Of A Feather Console Together

2008-09-10T09:53:00.005-05:00

I went to my first-ever Texas A&M Aggie Moms Club meeting the other day and I have to admit I was a little bit nervous at first. We've all experienced it - the uncertainty of going somewhere you don't know a soul, not knowing if you'll make friends or even fit in.

I shouldn't have worried. The Aggie Moms made me feel welcome immediately, even forgiving my obviously bad decision of carrying an orange purse (orange, as you know is the color of our arch enemy, The University of Texas in Austin, a/k/a "the OTHER university"). The Aggie Moms quickly forgave me my mistake and corrected it by giving me an official "Aggie Moms" tote to disguise and hide the offensive orange error.

While visiting before the meeting, several of us were discussing being brand new Empty Nesters. We traded stories of adjusting to a much quieter house, with only the family pets to keep you company. Sympathy and heartfelt encouragement were offered by the moms who have already experienced this trying, emotional time, and we first-timers consoled each other and traded news of when our fledglings would be returning home for their first visits, followed by lots of sad head shaking and deep sighs all around.

Finally, one mom, with a twinkle in her eye, admitted that maybe this empty nest thing wasn't all THAT bad. There's less cooking, cleaning and laundry and she and her husband had actually gone on a spur of the moment date night during the week, without having to worry about anybody's dinner but their own and the dog's.

Another mom chimed in that she and her husband had tried to go on a romantic get away weekend, but they couldn't get anyone to watch their pets, so they had to stay home.

We stood there, silently considering this new phase in our lives, both the positive and the negative. At last, one brave mom voiced the thought we were all thinking. "So, what's the life expectancy for the average family pet, anyway?"

I Quit!

2008-09-05T09:09:00.002-05:00

I'm sorry, but I've given this job my best shot and I've decided I'm not cut out for it. No hard feelings, I just feel that it's best for all of us if I move on. Please accept this as my two week notice, effective two weeks ago.

If I'm being fair about it, I have to say that the fault for this failed relationship rests mainly with you.....BOTH of you. I've tried, I really have. You've been walked EVERY SINGLE DAY, even though you know how much I hate to exercise. You've been taken for daily car rides, allowed to sleep on the furniture and given more treats than I think is legal. And, still, you fail to do your fair share, to meet me halfway. Life, as you BOTH know, is give AND take, and that doesn't mean I do all the giving and YOU do all the taking. Two of us need an attitude adjustment, if you ask me.

It was bad enough, dealing with your lick granuloma, Dudley, and the "troubled mind" the vet said is the cause of your behavior. It's not enough that I have to deal with huge scrapes on my wood paneling from the gigantic plastic cone on your head, not to mention the fact that you knocked me flat when you hit me behind the knees with it yesterday.

Nope, now I have to deal with the fact that maybe this is my fault...maybe somehow you've caught my OCD behavior. Maybe living here with us is just too stressful for you. Must be the fact that you're not TIED TO A BOAT ANCHOR IN THE BACKYARD, ANYMORE, and you receive regular exercise, love and affection in a safe, caring environment. Must be quite a cross for you to bear, I guess.

And, because Dudley was getting too much attention, you, Layla decide to wander where you SHOULDN'T have on this morning's walk, ignoring my commands to "place" and what happens? Yep, you wind up cutting your foot and limping home like you've dislocated your entire shoulder. I was so worried I was practically hyperventilating, only to discover, upon examination that it's just a tee tiny cut that didn't even bleed until I was poking at it.

Really, you two are just asking too much, without giving your fair share in return. I guess it would surprise you to learn that there are dogs in this world who DON'T go for daily walks? They DON'T go for daily car rides? They DON'T spend every waking (and sleeping) moment of the day underneath their owners' feet? LOOK AT ME WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU! Do you think it's NORMAL for dogs to have "Popcorn Time" every day? I can tell you both that it's NOT!

Nope, I'm sorry, but I'm through. Oh, I'll miss you both, I'm sure, but I feel that my services are being underappreciated and I could better use my skills in another position. I hear there's a couple of cats who are looking to hire.

Our Little Satellite Head

2008-08-26T12:54:00.003-05:00

I know what you're thinking...you're thinking this is our family's answer to the whole HDTV - Your Own Television Isn't Gonna Work Anymore Dilemma, and based on our family's usual manner of home repair and improvement, there could be a good chance you'd be right, except, in this case, you're NOT.

Nope, Dudley is sporting the very latest in No Lick Attire, worn by fashionable, spoiled, not real bright dogs everywhere. A recent vet visit resulted in a diagnosis of a lick granuloma, which in plain speak means a sore spot caused by excessive licking. In even PLAINER speak it means this adorable, thick as a brick dog sat and licked at the same spot on his leg until he irritated it enough that it became infected. Seriously. I'm not making this up.

A fun-filled trip to the vet was in order, complete with copius shedding and barking (Dudley) and massive anxiety and dread (me). Almost $200.00 later, our vet sent us home with two prescriptions, a huge cone headed dog and instructions to keep Dudley out of the flowerbeds. Right - gotta love a vet with a sense of humor.

It's been a challenge from the minute they slapped the plastic collar on his head. To say dogs live in the minute is an understatement, as in Dudley can't remember from one minute to the next that he has a disk on his head the size of a garbage can lid. He goes through the day repeatedly crashing into things and getting his head stuck in various tight places. I knew we were in for a fun ride when a vet tech, watching us bounce from one wall to the other commented if she only had her camera, America's Funniest Home Videos would be calling HER.

Our daily walk this morning was a treat, too, at least it was for our neighbors. I've come to accept the fact that the dogs and I present a pretty unusual picture. I walk them every morning with a double lead, the way my Dad says they used to train the mules on the farm. Sounds right to me. I realize it's not every day you see two almost 80 pound yellow dogs dragging a middle aged woman down the street. But Dudley, with his cone-headed self, must have put the icing on the cake. Today was the first time I've actually had people stop their cars to stare.

I'm sure trend-setting fashionistas everywhere can sympathize.

Back To School - It's Not Just A Kid Thing

2008-08-09T11:45:00.003-05:00

I'm probably in the minority when I say I hate this time of year...Back To School. Since both of my boys are grown, you're probably wondering why in the world I'd have such a strong dislike to the annual ringing of the school bell. Well, here's your answer, I'm married to a second grade teacher.

Roger came to his teaching career late in life. After having worked for over 33 years for Dallas Water Utilities, he retired as Assistant Director of Water Operations and returned to college to get his teaching certificate. Since then, he's been a teacher with Mesquite Independent School District, teaching elementary education for over 10 years, at Floyd Elementary in Balch Springs.

Once upon a time, we thought Roger was unique in his desire to enter the teaching field after retirement. But, we've learned there are a lot of members of the retired, and soon-to-be retired, community who ponder the idea of filling their retirement time with some quality teaching and learning experiences. While the rewards of a career in education are numerous, unfortunately, money still isn't one of them. We've been told, by more than one person, that while they always wanted to teach, the job just didn't pay enough to raise a family. Sad, but often times, true.

What this offers the educational system is a huge pool of potential educators. People who have completed one phase in their lives and are ready to embrace a different phase. One in which they can pursue ideas that, previously, were only "someday" dreams.

These "second-timers" offer unique experiences and qualifications their younger counterparts often can't offer. My sister, a vice president for Comerica Bank, says her older employees are among her best. They bring with them a knowledge of the working world, dedication, discipline and patience. Also, with older workers, managers don't have to worry about maternity leave or unexpected absences due to caring for sick young children.

Roger was a bit nervous his first year of teaching second grade. He was worried parents might have second thoughts about "their baby" having a male teacher. He shouldn't have worried. Floyd Elementary is a Title One school, which means at least 50% of it's students are from a low socio-economic background. Unfortunately, some of these students don't have a male parental figure in the household. More than once, Roger has had a caregiver (usually a grandmother), tell him they were so glad their student was in his class and would receive some much needed positive male mentoring. After all, teaching opportunities come in many forms, don't they?

Now, while I'm very proud of Roger for his dedication, patience and belief in providing the best education possible for our youth, I have to say, it sometimes just wears me flat OUT! Back To School to ME, means helping my husband get his classroom whipped back into shape, an exercise I often compare with helping Prissy pack to leave Atlanta in Gone With The Wind. There's a whole lot of stops and starts, a fair amount of dithering around, and more than once you can hear someone (usually me) exclaim "Oh Lawsy!"

Yep, it's THAT time of year again. The next couple of weeks will be filled with frantic activity, shopping for clothes, school supplies, hair cuts, and car pool schedules. Until the big day - the FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL!! Do me a favor, start off the school year right - compliment your child's teacher on their classroom. I worked really hard on it.

"Hold My Feet" - Our Family's Guide To Home Repair

2008-08-04T15:41:00.007-05:00

Some people are blessed with the ability to do-it-yourself, while others must rely on professional help. Our family definitely belongs in that last category.

Roger and I have lived in our house almost 24 years and we've developed a pattern when it comes to home repair. I'm the Pointer. I point out what needs to be fixed. Surprisingly enough, that quality is NOT really appreciated. You'd be surprised to know just how many people there are (read: husbands) who don't want to be informed of major repairs that need to be done.

Roger's the Fixer (or at least he TRIES to fix things). Unfortunately, his efforts don't always work out the way he's planned and that brings us to Lesson Number One of our Home Repair Guide: No Home Repair Is Complete Unless Daddy's Bleeding.

Our son, Alex's, foray into the world of home ownership has come with some repair needs of his own. Two of his newly purchased appliances, a water heater and a clothes dryer, were delivered without being installed. (Note: Roger is no longer allowed to be in charge of appliance delivery and installation, mainly because he suffers from occasional delusions where he thinks he can install anything himself.) This brings us to lesson number two: If it's not broke, I must not be trying hard enough.

Alex's water heater, washer and dryer are all jammed in this tee tiny closet in his garage. It fits, but just barely. There's not a whole lot of wiggle room. The installer failed to hook up the dryer hose when he delivered it, and now Alex has decided to do a load of laundry. He has two choices - he can either hook up the vent hose himself, or he can have dryer lint blowing all over the garage. He picks option one - Surprise!

Unfortunately, he can't get manage to get behind the dryer to attach the hose. He climbs on top of the dryer, hangs over the back and says, "Hold my feet". Obviously, this particular nut didn't fall too far from the tree.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I believe we have lesson number three in our Home Improvement Guide.

Mr. Alex Buys His Dream House - But It's A Nightmare For Roger & Me

2008-07-29T13:16:00.002-05:00

Our oldest son, Alex recently joined the ranks of the overburdened everyman, staggering under a crushing amount of debt. By that I mean, he bought his first ever house. Oh Joy! My oldest is now a homeowner, THAT doesn't make me feel old, nope, not at all. The only thing making this situation slightly more tolerable is actually being able to witness, firsthand, Alex having to experience all the stress and problems associated with being a money pit owning grown up. Ahhh, revenge is sweet, sayeth the Mom.

Now, what IS causing me stress and aging me considerably is the way Alex and his two friends are handling the situation. Or maybe that should be NOT handling the situation. As in, all their junk is still smack dab in the middle of the den floor - where they dumped it on moving day, four days ago.

Alex's house was a foreclosure, but it's a CHARMING foreclosure. Somebody, sometime, loved this house and loved it enough to take very good care of it and enhance it's potential with creative ideas and a sharp eye for details. Seriously, I'd live in this house, it has such personality.

That's not to say it doesn't need some work. Between the "loving owners" and Alex, I'm pretty sure the house was occupied by some fairly unsavory characters - especially judging from the type of people who have shown up at the front door "looking for the guy who used to live here".
The first order of business was to change all the locks, the second was to put 911 on everybody's speed dial, just in case.

This situation has brought home how very different Alex and his friends (maybe his whole generation?) are from Roger and me. I'm a list-making, organizational type person, who would have already had that house whipped into shape. Okay, maybe nobody would be speaking to me anymore and I'd probably be divorced, but at least that house wouldn't have a moldy toilet seat in one bathroom, ceiling fans so wobbly they give you motion sickness just looking at them, and a light switch in the kitchen that gets so hot, you have to use a potholder to turn it off.

The funny thing is, in THIS particular instance, ROGER is the one who's chomping at the bit to get over there and take care of things. NOT ME, for once, I'M not the one who's the most obsessed. How weird is THAT?

Just today Roger told me he wanted to "swing by" the house and check on a couple of things, maybe do some watering and just "piddle around". Alex is out of town on business and said neither one of his friends were living at the house yet. (See what I mean? who moves all their stuff in and then LIVES SOMEWHERE ELSE?) It's just not right, I'm telling you.

So, at 11:30 this morning, Roger and I arrived at Alex's house with water hoses, sprinklers, flashlights, tools and plans to go shopping to stock the refrigerator. Oh, and both dogs - did I mention we had BOTH DOGS with us? Um, well we did.

We fall out of the car and Roger opens the front door. Both dogs burst into the house and the sound of their nails on the laminate floor is a whole lot like machine gun fire, only louder. I wouldn't be surprised to learn the Police Dept. received reports of a possible drive by shooting.

As the dogs drag me through the house, I glance in the den and see one of Alex's friends, asleep on the floor...or at least he WAS asleep. I'm pretty sure he's awake now....awake and probably suffering from some coronary damage.

Sure enough he IS awake, and IN HIS UNDERWEAR. He stumbles out of bed, IN HIS UNDERWEAR, and groggily looks around to find his pants. Roger, the big chicken, bolts out the backdoor to "check on some things" and leaves me behind to stammer out our sincerest apologies to the friend who, moments before, WAS IN HIS UNDERWEAR.

After babbling incoherently for a few minutes, Roger and I loaded up the dogs and made a hasty retreat. In the car on the way home, we decided we'd let Alex and his friends proceed at their own pace to get the house set up. It may not be as fast as we'd like, but I'm not willing to risk that his friends are always gonna have clean underwear.

I Swear Officer, I've Never Seen That Man Before

2008-07-22T13:45:00.002-05:00

Due to a recent event, it's been made clear to me that Roger is trying to have me unjustly incarcerated. Okay, maybe that statement is a little extreme, but you tell me, what else am I supposed to think? Here's what happened:

We were at Barnes & Noble the other night so Roger could pick up my birthday gift. Now, I know what you're thinking...you're thinking "Big Surprise, huh?" But, let me just state right here that I do NOT believe in leaving my birthday, anniversary, Christmas, Mother's Day or any other POSSIBLE gift giving occasion to chance - at least not when I'm the one who's on the potential receiving end of the gifts.

Nope, I start the Present Campaign LOUD and EARLY, let me assure you. Roger and the boys know WHEN a gifting occasion is drawing near, WHAT I'd like as a gift (or, hopefully, GIFTS), and HOW and WHERE I'd like to celebrate.

Now, you might be thinking, "Well, how presumptious of her, actually giving INSTRUCTIONS for buying her gifts". What can I say, you're right, it IS presumptious - it's also incredibly SMART and considerate of me, if I do say so myself.

See, Roger and the boys don't EVER have to worry about forgetting an important occasion, where to take me or even what to get me for that particular occasion. All they have to do is follow simple instructions and everybody's happy. It's a win/win situation, I'm tellin' you.

I'll also say this, if you're one of those women who thinks if your family LOVED you they'd REMEMBER the important events and KNOW just what to get you, well, in the words of Dr. Phil, "How's that working out for ya?" I'll bet your family has celebrated at least one such botched occasion with a pretty frigid atmosphere. Nope, if your dumb enough to assume your husband and/or sons are gonna magically know how to handle these situations, then, in my opinion, you deserve what you get - which could be a whole lot of nothin'.

Anyway, back to my story. There I was, at Barnes & Noble, browsing the sales racks when Roger, having made my birthday purchase, sidles up next to me with a big grin on his face and the obvious outline of a package stuffed under his shirt! That's right, I said STUFFED UNDER HIS SHIRT, just like your average, not so bright, shoplifter would do.

I tell you, it upset me so much I almost fell into the clearance bin. "Take that out from under your shirt RIGHT THIS MINUTE!" I hissed at him. "What, it's your birthday present, I don't want you to see what it is." "Um...okay, I can see that it's book shaped and we're in a book store, so I'm guessing IT'S SOME KIND OF BOOK, NOW TAKE IT OUT BEFORE WE GET ARRESTED!"

Maybe I was overreacting, but you've got to understand I don't always have really good experiences with authority figures. Two particular events come to mind: the traffic ticket I got for "Not showing the proper respect" (I'm not making that up) and the time I made the fireman cry in Sam's (looking back on that one, I think it's safe to say I MIGHT have been just a tiny bit hormonal at the time).

Whatever, I just feel that, personally, it's best for everybody if I avoid any and all potential conflicts with all law enforcement or authority type figures. Roger KNOWS this and, yet, there he was, just BEGGING to be tackled, frisked and taken to the Big House.

Seeing as how that's ONE occasion I have NO interest in celebrating, I'm gonna do him another huge favor and act like I don't even KNOW him. Really, I'm a giver like that.

Howdy, Dammit!

2008-07-18T13:21:00.003-05:00

We just got back from Joseph's New Student Conference at Texas A&M and lemme just say, I'm feeling a tee tiny bit better about him moving away from home, breaking my heart and ruining my life. I'm still not real HAPPY about it, but I no longer have the overwhelming urge to just lay down and die. That's a good thing, right? See, I can change - I can go with the flow, if I just HAVE to, dammit.

I admit, I went to this Student Conference with a bit of a grudge against A&M. After all, it might be a perfectly good college, but it was 3 HOURS away from home! THREE WHOLE HOURS - and that's if you obey the speed limits (which, okay, I wouldn't DO, but STILL, three hours is three hours, ya know?)

Yep, I went to meet my enemy with my game face on.....You think you gonna take MY Baby Away?? No, Sir. Momma be Hatin' Big Time!

Unfortunately, Texas A&M managed to change my mind and my prejudice against them. Oh, it wasn't a fair fight. I should have KNOWN those Aggies would fight dirty. Every single one involved, from the Professors, to the volunteer students, conspired, that's right, I said CONSPIRED, to re-educate me as to just how great a place it would be for Joseph to attend college. Even the students attending summer classes were in on the job. I didn't have a chance.

That's not to say it wasn't without it's little glitches, though. First of all, Aggieland is just stuffed FULL of traditions, and some of those traditions are, shall we say, a little bit, uh, different (I was gonna say the traditions were slap out of an old Hee Haw episode, but I'm pretty sure I'm still on Aggie Mom probation, so I'm trying to watch my step here.)

The official campus greeting is...get ready.... "Howdy". I am NOT making this up. It's Howdy! I'm serious. Someone says Howdy to you and you're supposed to say Howdy back. This was a problem for me, seeing as how my first response was "You're kidding" and my second response was an enormous eye roll. Even after I managed to squelch those initial responses, I never COULD remember to respond with a Howdy. It's just not NATURAL, I'm telling you. At least it's not natural for anybody who's grown up with indoor plumbing. (okay, that was really snotty and pushing my probation, I'd better watch it).

Also, I'm pretty sure Roger and I came dangerously close to being shot by members of the Corps of Cadets for our unfortunate and repeated use of the phrase "Hook 'Em" whenever we had to leave to go someplace else. More than once, Joseph slapped his hands over his ears and dove for cover while instructing me that we do NOT use those hated words EVER here in Aggieland. Yeesh - somebody has some ISSUES, is all I'm sayin'.

Oh, and laughing at the various student "wildcatting" episodes is also considered in very bad taste. (For all you Non-Aggies (normal people) and Tea Sippers (UT students and alums) out there, "wildcatting" is an Aggie expression of approval. Each class has their own particular form of wildcatting and they range the gamut from the kinda strange to the "someone's missed their medication" full body spasms. Texas A&M has got to be the only place you can make psychotic hand and body gestures repeatedly and not get beaten up or caught in a net and hauled off. I'm sure that's a plus.

So, to atone for my previous sins of misjudgement, ugly comments and brilliant jokes and jabs, I spent as much money as I possibly could in the gift shop. We now own Aggie t-shirts, Aggie coffee mugs, Aggie car stickers and Layla and Dudley are, even as we SPEAK, snoring and drooling in their brand new fabulous Aggie dog collars. When I decide to embrace something, I give it my ALL, I'm telling you.

So, now you see us, a brand new Aggie family. Just FULL of that Fightin' Aggie Spirit!! Fightin' Aggie Class of 2012 - "AAAAAAA!!" Yes, Texas A&M you can "borrow" Joseph for a little while...just long enough to educate him. Roger and I have taught him, and gotten him this far, it's your turn now, to give him all the knowledge you have to offer.

BUT, know this A&M, if Joseph comes back home wearing Dickies and chewing on a piece of straw, you and I are gonna have some ISSUES of our own!

Oh, and GIG 'EM and HOWDY, DAMMIT!!

The Dog Days Of Summer

2008-07-02T12:30:00.000-05:00

This is a very special post, seeing as how it showcases the FIRST PICTURES I'VE EVER POSTED ON THIS BLOG!! Hopefully these pictures will be the first of many, assuming Joseph can teach me (or more likely teach ROGER how to post the pictures on here). I've got a feeling I'm gonna have to give up and get techno-savvy, though. Nobody's much buying the "helpless little woman" act anymore.

The above picture is one I like to call Dog Days Of Summer, and it's a pretty good example of what actually goes on here during the summer. Roger and I go around looking like the back end of hard times, while the dogs stay passed out on the floor. Occasionally, Roger will go to the kitchen for a snack FORCING the dogs to rouse themselves enough to stagger into the kitchen and beg for whatever it is he happens to be eating. Life is a continual struggle for survival, ya know?

Me? I spend a whole lot of time pointing out chores and things we just HAVE to do, which, come to think of it, could go a long way towards explaining Roger's selective hearing issues.

Slow Men At Work

2008-06-22T08:52:00.000-05:00

Have you ever seen one of those Slow Men At Work Signs and wondered what it meant? Is it a criticism of the speed of the workers, or maybe a judgement of their mental faculties?

Whichever, right now THIS blog is undergoing some improvements. (Yes, Joseph FINALLY succumbed to the enormous guilt I've been heaping on him and has started to shake things up a little - YAY!!)

At least I THINK it's YAY. I have to admit, I'm a little bit nervous. The first rough draft Joseph showed me had a picture of me that I wasn't real thrilled with. You know those pictures they show in the newspaper of recently arrested felons? The ones where the criminals look like they're crack addicts who have obviously been in hiding somewhere with no electricity, running water or mirrors? The picture he had of me looked like that, only not as flattering.

One of Joseph's suggestions to improve my blog included featuring a Daily Recipe Section, where I'd post what I was fixing for dinner that night. Seriously, how dumb does this poor boy think I am?? Does he not think I KNOW what he's trying to pull here? Joseph knows good and well that if he puts something like that on my blog, it's gonna FORCE me to come up with really great dinner ideas. Admittedly, I've been slacking off in the cooking department lately, but I don't think anything this drastic is necessary, do you?

I feel like I've unknowingly entered into a game of chess with a Master Chess player. Each one of us trying to outmaneuver the other to win the board. Joseph is a bright kid, no doubt, but he's underestimating the almost 48 years of battle scars his old mom bears proudly.

We shall see what we shall see, won't we?

I Vote For Nametags

2008-06-20T13:44:00.001-05:00

The other day I had an appointment with my dermotologist. Just my yearly, "What have your grown lately that I can remove and charge you an exhorbitant amount of money for?" exam. The woman's got a vacation to pay for, after all.

As the nurse was escorting me to the back, she said she and her husband had seen Roger and me at the local Farmer's Market one recent Saturday. They had been having lunch on the patio of the nearby Mexican Restaurant, when they spotted us, lurching through the Market with Layla. I told her she should have hollered at us and she confessed she WANTED to - that she'd wanted to introduce us to her husband, but she'd been too embarassed.

I asked her why and she confessed she had forgotten my name. She had opened her mouth to shout out and realized she had no idea what my name was...she had just totally blanked.

Now, what's so ironic about this is the entire time she's telling me about it, I'm trying DESPERATELY to remember HER name. I knew it started with an "R" - at least I THOUGHT it did. (Let's see....Rhonda, Renee, Rachel) She's going on and on about how MORTIFIED she was (Racine, Raquel) how I was one of her FAVORITE patients and she could have just DIED that she couldn't for the life of her think of my NAME (Roxy, Ruby, Roberta).

Of course, I'm telling her it's no big deal, and avoided admitting that I can't remember HER name by falling back on my good Southern upbringing. Which means I'm LIBERALLY sprinkling my conversations with a whole bunch of Honeys, Sweeties and Darlin's, instead of her ACTUAL name (Raynesha, Rolanda, Rae Rae).

See, I'm used to people not remembering names, and I don't think it always has anything to do with the Forgettor's age or the Forgettee's importance. Roger and I are always running into people he KNOWS, but has no CLUE what their names are. I've learned to stick out my hand, almost immediately, and introduce myself. Usually, the person answers with their name, as a reflex, and VOILA, another awkward social bullet dodged.

I think it's probably common to forget names, especially with men. Men seem to forget the names of almost ANYBODY with one exception. They tend to remember the names of people they want to have sex with - whether or not there's a snowball's chance they'll actually HAVE sex with this person doesn't seem to matter. Hope springs eternal, just as their possible partner's NAME springs eternally into their minds, and potentially out of their MOUTHS. (I'm thinking possibly at some inopportune times, but that's between them, their Significant Other and the Marriage Counselor, isn't it?)

I assured the nurse (Ramona, Regina) that Roger and I are at the Farmer's Market all the time and she'd definitely have another chance to introduce us to her husband. She said she certainly hoped so and ...."ROBIN!!" I shouted out, as I finally remembered her name. "WHAT??" she yelled back, startled enough to almost flip over backwards on her nurse stool.

I'm telling you right now, I can't take much more of this stress. We either all start wearing nametags or I'm gonna have to take a cheat sheet with me wherever I go.

Oh Say, Can You See? Because I Sure Can't!

2008-06-13T13:11:00.000-05:00

Number eleventy hundred on my long list titled "Somebody's Got Some Explaining To Do", has got to be the fact that my eyesight is slowly and steadily getting worse. In my younger days, I had perfect vision...we're talking eagle-eye, laser beam, almost x-ray type vision. Which, like everything else you're blessed with in your youth, I took completely for granted.

Now, if I want to see something other than a blurry, vague outline, I must resort to donning the *gasp* CHEATER GLASSES. (I know, I know, I'll give you a moment here to collect yourself.) Hello, my name is Melinda and I actually look through the Wal-green's ad, hoping the magnification glasses are on sale.

A friend sent me two emails the other day. The first one was a mistake and the second one was an apology for the first one. Her comment was, "Sorry, I need to put on my damn glasses so I can SEE who I'm emailing." I assured her I don't judge, not because I'm so tolerant, but because the butt-ugly watch I'm currently wearing is the only one I could find with a magnification dial, so I can actually SEE what time it is without the aid of glasses or lasik surgery.

I was watching TV the other day and a character was bemoaning the fact that she was starting to age. She said she was thisclose to becoming one of those sad little old ladies, wandering around with her glasses on a chain around her neck. I got a real chuckle out of that, until I realized that I was standing in front of the TV, enjoying this humorous repartee with my GLASSES HANGING ON A CHAIN AROUND MY NECK. Not so funny, NOW, is it, Scooter?

I remember when my mother told me she knew she needed to make an appointment with the eye doctor. She was shopping for a new dress for my sister and mother thought she'd found a really nice one for a reasonable price. When she got to the cash register, she was FLOORED to learn the $30.00 dress was actually an $80.00 dress. (Remember, this was back in the dark ages, when NOBODY paid $80.00 for a dress.)

Mother was too embarassed to tell the sales lady the dress was too expensive. So, she bought the dress and hoped she could make it to the car before passing out from the shock. She also wondered if she could sell a kidney to help cover the cost.

I can so relate to this story, since the other day I found myself in a similar situation. I ran into Kroger to grab some pico and, of course, didn't bring my glasses. No problem. I could see where the pico was on the shelf..I could even make out the TYPE I wanted - HA! Who needs those stinkin' glasses?? Apparently, I do, since I couldn't make out the "sell by" date, and was forced to accost an innocent stock boy and ask him to read the date for me. (I use the word "accost" because honest-to-God, the poor kid looked like I was trying to set him up in some kind of elaborate "incorrect sell by date" sting operation. I was surprised he agreed to read the date without demanding I recite his Miranda rights.)

Joseph, who was just now reading this entry AND STILL DOESN'T LOVE HIS MOTHER ENOUGH TO FIX UP HER BLOG, constantly tells me I should make an appointment with an eye doctor; that I'm just doing more harm to my eyesight by wearing these cheapie drugstore glasses instead of getting real corrective lenses.

I explained to Joseph that while he's probably right, I don't WANT to go to the eye doctor. Why? Well, because he'll give me a prescription for glasses and, then, I'll have to wear them, and then I'll be one of those little old ladies walking around with their glasses on a chain around their....OH MY GOD!!

A Hunting We Will Go

2008-06-10T11:02:00.000-05:00

Roger and I had a pretty interesting afternoon last Sunday. We spent the day house-hunting with our oldest son, Alex and three of his friends. Alex is 22 years old, and owing to a set of unique circumstances, is in the market to purchase his first ever house; those circumstances being incredible good luck in falling into a fabulous job where they pay him an enormous amount of money for just showing up and the fact that he's pretty much held onto every dollar he's ever made, combined with the financial savy of someone in his 50's. Add those things together and it equals us, spending an entire afternoon house hunting.

We saw houses and then we saw HOUSES! The entire experience was really educational and certainly reinforced my opinion that I'll move out of my own house right after they call in the Swat Team with the tranquilizer guns and cargo nets...really BIG cargo nets.

The houses, a couple of which were foreclosures, ran the gamut from "you could almost move right in" all the way to "Oh My God, where are the antibacterial wipes??" One house in particular really upset me. The former tenants must have had seconds to vacate the premises. We're talking food left on the counters and, most troubling to me, toys left in the kids' bedrooms. Seriously, how bad can it be that you can't take a few seconds to grab a trash bag and stuff your kids' toys into it? I kept repeating that thought out loud and I think that's when Alex's real estate agent suggested I might want to wait in the car.

We finally saw a house that all six of us (me, Roger, Alex & his three friends) agreed was a keeper and Alex made an offer to purchase. He won't hear back for about a week, so he's in buyer's limbo right now. Roger and I are helping him through this troubling time with helpful tips - such as, "Are you SURE you get an inspection BEFORE you agree to purchase..it's a cute house, but we don't know SQUAT about the important stuff and your a/c unit could fall through the ceiling right after you close"; and "Don't put too much money down - who knows HOW much your closing costs are gonna be" and this one from his aunt, "I'm not telling you your business, but you might wanna get a couple of room mates...you WILL incur some unexpected expenses and those can add up really fast. The extra rent income will help out a LOT". Yeah, we're a supportive bunch, allright.

It was a really neat experience, seeing it all through my son's eyes and I'm honored he wanted his father and me to be a part of it. But, lemme tell ya, as nice as it was, it wasn't NEAR as much fun as the time we spent in the car with Alex's friends, Chris and Milad. THAT time was really special. We learned that Alex's friends are really nice people, who really care about Alex - and they care enough about him to never pass up an opportunity to play really dirty tricks on him.

Alex, after viewing some of the more disgusting bathrooms, vowed one of his very FIRST home improvement purchases would involve new toilets. Later, in the car, the four of us made a pact. We vowed to do our best to convince Alex to unknowingly purchase BIDETS, instead of toilets, and then sit back and enjoy his frustration and angst when the brand new toilets flushed UP and OUT, instead of DOWN and AWAY.

Ahhhh, good friends and parents who love you. What more do you need? Well, that and maybe a really good sense of when to duck.

Proof of Darwin's Theory of Evolution

2008-06-06T10:53:00.000-05:00

Okay, we've semi-settled down enough around here that I can finally log on and try to update y'all on what's been happening in my own personal Life Rodeo. Y'all know I don't know how to be brief, so go to the bathroom, get a drink and a snack and settle in - a pillow might be nice, too.

Remember the sweet, gentle, wonderful dog who kept running away from his "home" and making it across a busy four lane road to my house? Yep, I'm talking about Buddy, and you can read his original story on this blog. I'd link you to the entry like they do on other fancy blogs, but MY YOUNGEST SON DOESN'T LOVE HIS MOTHER ENOUGH TO WORK ON HER BLOG FOR HER. Sad, but true...*sigh*.

Anyway, Buddy, now and forevermore, shall be known as DUDLEY (okay, not a great name, but I think when you change a dog's name you're supposed to name them something that sounds like their old name...and really, naming him Studley was just asking for it, and I was afraid he'd run away from HERE if I named him Cuddley, so Dudley was the lesser of two evils....work with me, here).

Knowing Dudley would repeatedly escape from his former "home" I routinely checked our City's Animal Shelter, to see if he'd been picked up, and VOILA, our boy showed up there last Thursday. He became available for adoption on the following Monday, and needless to say, I was first in line. Mr. Dudley is now a cherished, LEGAL member of our family.

A very expensive vet visit followed and I'm happy to report Dudley is up to date on his shots, is heartworm negative and has been microchipped. He also experienced what must be every male's fantasy when, trying to check for a neuter scar (a requirement from the Animal Shelter), at one time he had THREE females in extremely close proximity to his "bidness". I'm pretty sure that's when he KNEW life here was going to be a lot like Paradise. To say I'm elated and relieved that this wonderful dog is finally safe and sound with me is a huge understatement. I've lost weight and aged considerably over this entire debacle. Yeesh, Mamma needs a life, ya think?

Now, I'm not going to say a whole lot about his former "owners" for several reasons - I'm trying to learn to be a nicer, more adult person and I don't wanna tick off whatever Powers That Be who worked to accomplish this miracle...spitting in Karma's face CAN'T be a good thing.

I'm not an extremely religious person, but I've always believed there are forces guiding our lives. So, I'm not really surprised at the obvious evidence of a guiding hand in all of this. Joseph on the other hand is pretty much freaked out by the way things just "seemed to happen" and is possibly contemplating embracing a celibate life of religious reflection in the nearest Monastery. (okay, maybe not so much the celibate part, but it DID really throw him for a loop.)

As I said, I'm not going to totally trash the "people" who used to own Dudley, but I will say I've learned many things from this experience. Primarily the proof that examples of Darwin's Theory of Evolution are alive and well and living among us. Not so much the apes...you can definitely see our relationship to the apes of the world, and if you disagree with that one, just take a minute to picture an orangutan in his underwear, sitting on the couch with a beer in one hand and the other hand shoved in the front of his boxers. Can't argue that one, can you?

Nope, my encounter with Those Who Shall Not Be Named, makes me a believer in the theory that mankind began when brainless, single celled organisms crawled out of the primordial swamps. The slimy, slug trail they left behind them was my first clue.

Please Be Patient With Me

2008-06-04T15:26:00.000-05:00

I just wanted to pop in here and beg for your patience. I know it's been a few days since I've posted a new blog entry, but I have some good excuses.

Graduation Purgatory Treadmill for one and DOGGIE ADOPTION DRAMA for another. Yep, we went to war and finally won that sweet little stray, Buddy, who kept escaping his chain-gang existence and making his way across a busy four lane road to our house (and we're talking about 6 times in four weeks, here, folks...this dog was DETERMINED!!)

Anyway, Buddy is now DUDLEY and has been legally adopted by us. We're thrilled beyond belief, even Layla, who can't get enough of licking her new baby brother.

So, y'all please be patient with me and I promise I'll post the whole drama production just as soon as I get my nerve medicine prescription filled.

Dipping My Toe In The Technology Pool, Again

2008-05-30T09:10:00.000-05:00

Our latest foray into the world of technology is a Tom Tom Navigational Device. I'm pretty excited about this latest purchase, because I think I have a really good chance of actually KEEPING this one. Unlike my bluetooth and my MP3 player - JOSEPH ALREADY HAS A TOM TOM, and until he figures out how to use TWO of them, at the same time, I think I'm safe.

We decided we needed some cyber help in the navigation department when we became hopelessly lost trying to find my niece's house, a place we've only been to five or six times before!! We spent a good 15 minutes driving aimlessly around, frantically trying to find her street - or something that LOOKED like it might lead to her street, before I gave up and called my niece for help. She then proceeded to try and give us directions by going the whole "North and South" route. WHAT?? If I KNEW which way was North, I don't imagine I'd have any problems with NAVIGATION, ya know??

I've read the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem, so the next day when we spied the Circuit City ad, we headed that way (it helped that the store is so big, has a really large red sign on it and was located right behind the restaurant where we were eating.)

We bought the unit, Joseph set it up for us and we were good to go. Except for the slightly queasy feeling I always get around all things technological. Let's just say I view technology like the caveman when he first discovers fire. I'm fascinated by it, drawn to it, can sense it's possibilities, but at the same time am filled with a sense of impending doom and want to run back to my cave and sit, huddled in the dark.

We've already used the Tom Tom a few times, and I'm slowly getting over the trust issues I suffered with at first. I'm sorry, you might want to revoke my estrogen card over this, but the voice on our Tom Tom is female and I get really uncomfortable when she tells us to go a certain way AND WE DON'T!! Listen, all I know is, if I'M giving you directions, and you IGNORE them, then I'm gonna let you drive off a cliff before I say anything else. TELL me every single woman reading this isn't nodding her head in agreement right now.

Oh, it has it's drawbacks. If you don't get it seated just right, it rolls off the dash and onto the floorboard when you turn a corner (makes it REAL hard to navigate when you're hanging upside down over the front passenger seat, trying to see the screen); and I can't use it as a hand-held navigation device, because it starts trying to track the veins on the backs of my hands. (See, I told you it was female - and she's a CATTY female, too.)

But, all in all, I'm really pleased with this new adventure I've embarked upon and proud I've moved another baby step into the cyber world. Now, somebody clue me in...is there a National Appreciation Week for Tom Tom's? Do they celebrate birthdays or Tom Tom Days? Because I really don't wanna take a chance on ticking her off, ya know?

The Graduation Experience, or The Equivalent of Parental Waterboarding

2008-05-24T09:46:00.000-05:00

My youngest, Joseph, is graduating from high school sometime in the near future...at least I'm pretty SURE there's a graduation somewhere in there, among all the graduation ceremonies, award ceremonies, band ceremonies, honor ceremonies and ceremonies to celebrate the fact that these kids do, indeed, have a pulse and are legally human beings.

Okay, maybe I exaggerate, but not by much. Roger and I have been to so many events during the past two weeks, we don't even know which ones we're going to anymore. All we know is to show up, smile, and clap politely. Oh, and Roger's not allowed to wear his South Park t-shirt, because it's stained and his sweats are inappropriate, too. Picky, picky, picky.

Now, if anybody deserves to be feted, it's Joseph. **Warning - the following is definitely a proud parent brag - do not read if you're easily nauseated, or have a sensitive gag reflex.**

Joseph, my Challenge Child, is graduating fourth out of his class of almost 400 students, and will attend Texas A&M in the fall, majoring in pre-med. I'm told by those in the know that graduating fourth is an amazing feat for someone who has taken four years of Honors Band. Apparently, students don't get any honors credit for band, until their Senior year - so Joseph missed out on three years of honors credits, placing him at a disadvantage in the credits earned department. Now his Grade Point Average? It's higher than the students who will graduate in front of him.

Just another way our wonderful school system penalizes students for being talented AND smart. Don't even ask me what's wrong with our schools today - neither one of us has that kind of time.

But, back to the festivities. We went to an awards ceremony the other night that was a real eye opener (or, actually an eye CLOSER, since I kept having a tendency to nod off). The top 10% of the graduates were seated on the stage (with Joseph in the front row, of course - you might want to get a paper bag or a big bowl, in case the heaves get too bad).

What followed was the awarding of so many different awards, we crossed the line into "Oh that's nice" to "Now they're just making this stuff up". Seriously, it reminded me of when Roger has to come up with special awards for his second graders to ensure that EACH AND EVERY STUDENT GETS AN AWARD. We're talking "The Clean Desk Award", "The Good Citizen Award", "Most Creative Use Of Mucus Award"...okay, I'm making that last one up, but it really was just about that bad.

Don't get me wrong, some of the students are amazing and definitely deserve to be recognized for their achievements...but the kid who hasn't missed a day of school since 7th grade??? All that tells me is little Johnny's the one responsible for spreading God Knows What Kind of Disease throughout the student body on a regular basis. And the kid who had over 500 hours of Community Service? I don't mean to criticize, but I'm thinking that kid might need to work on his social skills, since he probably has NO social life, whatsoever.

We're almost at the end of the gauntlet - I mean festivities, now, with just the Baccalaureate and the actual graduation left. I have to wear HOSE to the Baccalaureate, which just really ticks me off, and I'm planning on packing a survival package for graduation.

I just hope I can get the No-Doze through the purse search.

The Future of Medicine Might Not Be Real Bright

2008-05-14T15:16:00.001-05:00

The other day a friend of mine gave me a collar she'd bought for Layla (Thanks, Diana!) This is not just any old collar...it's a special collar, designed with a built in, retractable handle. You know, to assist you in keeping your canine earthbound on those unfortunate occasions they decide to go airborne. Or, give you a sturdy handle to hang onto when they go airborne and take you WITH them.

Whichever, it's a great tool, and I'm hoping it will help us in teaching Layla her Greeting Manners. Right now those manners consist of going absoloutely insane whenever anyone even remotely LOOKS in her direction. It's sad, really, because so many people would LOVE to pet her and give her the attention she so obviously doesn't get at home (insert eye rolling icon here). They want to pay attention to her, they just don't want it to result in injury and/or loss of "peformance" (Layla is a notorious Crotch Rocket and will routinely hurl herself toward a sensitive part of the male anatomy with unbelievable accuracy.)

When Joseph saw the new collar, he had his concerns. He was afraid the collar would choke and possibly hurt Layla - because she IS a delicate little flower, you know. (I GOTTA find one of those eye rolling icon thingys.)

Joseph decided he wanted to test this new collar out before his precious dog was subjected to potential insult and injury, and asked me to test it out by putting it on his OWN neck. Of course, I refused, but lemme tell ya, with his recent Senior Attitude, the whole neck thing was mighty tempting, I gotta say.

Instead, I strapped it on his thigh and commenced to yanking on the handle. The good news is, he reported there was NO choking feeling, only a slight pressure, which was certainly less than our usual method of restraint, which is to grab her collar and hang on for dear life.

Hopefully, this new tool will help Layla understand how important it is not to terrorize people who are dumb enough to get close to her. I'll be happy if it'll stop the UPS & FedEx guys from marking our front door with the Evil Eye.

You're probably asking yourself "What does this have to do with the future of medicine in our country?" I hate to tell you this, but Joseph - the one who ASKED me to choke him with the dog collar? He starts college this Fall as a pre-med major.
Be afraid, be very afraid.

It Is What It Is

2008-05-13T12:17:00.001-05:00

I've heard this phrase alot lately. I guess it's the new buzz phrase and I think it's a simple, yet profound way of looking at things - things like your life, or in this case, MY life.

I was thinking about my life the other day. Remember, I told you, since my boys are grown, I was having some difficulties with all this free time on my hands? I mean, you can only read so much, and I'm not allowed to craft because when I DO craft, innocent people often get hurt.

Anyway, back to my life, which is hard to describe in one word - let's just say it's different. I forget HOW different it is sometimes, until I notice the reactions of people around me.

A large part of my life now centers around Layla. Yeah, I know, I know - don't bother pointing out the obvious "transference" going on here. I know I'm substituting Layla for my grown and gone (or almost gone in Joseph's case) boys.

Yep, that's it - she's the daughter I never had (and she's probably really close to the type of actual HUMAN daughter I would have had, if I'd ever had one, since she's blonde, doesn't mind real well, is spoiled rotten and a tad slutty). Believe me, Karma is alive and well, thank you very much.

I forget what an unusual sight we often are, me driving around town with Layla hanging out the back windows of my car; Roger and I sitting at Braum's, with me eating an ice cream cone with one hand and holding Layla's frozen yogurt cup with the other; or walking around Home Depot, trying to find the latest MUST HAVE do it yourself project while Layla drags us around, trying really hard to make sure she greets every person in the store PERSONALLY, Layla-style, which involves lots of sniffing, pawing and entire-butt wagging.

Some sights and situations are obvious, and some require a little explanation on our part. I've learned to talk really fast, believe me. Like the other day, when Roger and I were sitting on the patio of a local coffeehouse, celebrating the day with CAFFEINE.

Layla was beside us, leashed up, but always ready for action. When we take Layla with us to these outside patios, we always try to choose a table far, far away from other people, to cut down on the chances of an impromptu Layla Rodeo. On this particular occasion, what we didn't realize was we were located between the other customers and the only outside trash can.

A woman approached us and asked if it was allright if she passed by us to discard her trash. Of course, we said yes. What happened next is a little hard to explain, but serves as a pretty good example of my unusual life.

The woman approached us, and the trash can, with her trash in her hand. Layla, who had been laying calmly at my feet, perked up IMMEDIATELY. Her ears shot forward and she scrambled up on her feet, assuming a "guarding" stance I recognized immediately.

Now, let me explain. By "guarding" I don't mean fearlessly guarding the trashcan or even Roger and myself, from prospective evildoers. Nope, I mean guarding in the NBA, Jason Kid, Jason Terry sense.

See, Joseph routinely plays a game with Layla I call the "Nowitski". Here's how it works: Joseph opens the lid to the kitchen trash can, backs up all the way across the room, assumes the 3 point position stance and booms out in a big voice "OH NO, OH NO, OOOOOHHHHH, IT'S DIRK NOWITSKIIIIII". Which is Layla's cue to play NBA Guard and prevent him from making the shot by jumping around frantically in front of him, or, if he misses, grabbing the "rebound" and running for her life, with Joseph in hot pursuit.

Unfortunately, I didn't realize until it was too late, that Layla thought the woman was wanting to play an impromptu game of Nowitski. She sees Layla coming towards her, and she reacts by raising the trash over her head (remember, the 3 point position), Layla reacts with more NBA guarding moves and, folks, we have ourselves a MATCH UP.

I'm grabbing Layla's leash and frantically trying to explain what's going on and the woman looks at me like I'm certifiable and shouldn't be allowed out of the mental hospital for these little day trips.

I'd like to think maybe the whole thing wasn't that noticeable, except not to long after that, the woman's husband got to the trash can by climbing through the bushes in the flower bed - so I'm thinking it was pretty obvious.

Really, the whole thing was just a case of misunderstanding. But, I DID feel better when the leather-clad motorcycle guy at the next table stopped by and gave Layla a bunch of lovin' and told me he knew EXACTLY what I was talking about.

My life - It Is What It Is, and most of the time, it's pretty unique.

Help Me Understand This

2008-04-29T14:05:00.000-05:00

I just finished spending over an hour pulling nutgrass weeds out of our flowerbed. The grass in the YARD is dead from last year's water restrictions, but in the flowerbeds? It's flourishing.

I was sitting there, in my old lady gardening outfit of long-sleeved shirt, big hat and ginormous sunglasses, industriously pulling up the weeds and talking to Layla. She was under great stress due to the fact I'd given her a rawhide bone and I was messing with the only dirt area she had access to.

What should she DO?? She had a wonderful new bone, a situation which DEMANDS she bury and/or hide said bone immediately and stand guard over it for the rest of eternity (or until one of us gets sick of her nutso behavior and takes it away from her). One of Joseph's fondest memories is of Roger, taking a bone away from Layla, holding it in front of her face and saying, "See THIS?" and then chunking it in the trash. You gotta get your laughs where you can, I guess.

Now, why Layla doesn't just settle down and EAT the bone, I have no idea. Probably for the same reason I optimistically plant flowers every year (okay, I have ROGER plant the flowers, but I have the important job of pointing out where they should go).

I think I want a gorgeous back yard, I just don't want to do the work required to GET that yard, and it makes me crazy to see weeds and grass, growing and thriving, in my carefully planned bed. Layla thinks she wants a bone, then, when she GETS a bone, she stresses over the responsibility for hiding that bone, instead of just relaxing and enjoying the bone.

There's a lesson in here somewhere for us OCD types, but I'm too tired to figure it out.

Help Me - I'm being held prisoner at this computer

2008-04-25T14:00:00.000-05:00

There is a storm brewing in our area right now, with lots of thunder and lightning and rain coming down. Layla is TERRIFIED of storms and has taken refuge in one of her caves, which happens to be the area right below our computer desk.

The problem is, if I move away from the computer she thinks she has to follow me, and she does, moaning and shaking the entire time. It's pitiful, really, so to make it easier for her, I'll just sit here until the storm passes.

It could be worse. If Roger were at home, she'd be trying to sit on his chest.

On Her Knees Giving Thanks

2008-04-25T09:29:00.001-05:00

During our walk today, Layla learned the meaning of "Manna from Heaven". We were tripping down the alley on our regular "Thank God It's Friday and I don't have to do this torture again until Monday" walk, when we stumbled upon THE MOTHERLODE.

Somebody had dumped the entire contents of their cat's litter box right there beside the alley. There it was, in all it's glory...about a weeks worth of digested kitty gifts. Thank God I saw it first and managed to jerk Layla away before she could grab a plate and partake of this particular buffet.

I would like to say that my quick thinking and lightning fast reflexes saved us from a totally gross and disgusting "feast", but, honestly? I think it was the time it took Layla to fall on her knees and give thanks to such a generous and loving God.

How To Move A Piano, Or Why Men Should NOT Be Allowed To Gather Unsupervised

2008-04-21T12:16:00.000-05:00

The following story is one I wrote a couple of years ago, when we were in the turmoil of Remodeling Purgatory. Looking back, I can see where this is actually a funny situation. It's amazing what a change of perspective can do, isn't it? That, and a doctor's prescription for mood elevators.

Here's the story: We are remodeling and need to get rid of an old piano we don't have
room for anymore....yeah, I know, but NOBODY wants this piano -I mean it - I've called and
asked everyone I can think of and NOBODY wants it - Seriously. So our only options were
to take it apart or pay somebody to come haul it to the curb for junk pick-up, and I wasn't
about to pay somebody to move it, looking back that's exactly what I should have done.
Instead, I give my husband, Roger the go ahead to take it apart and haul it to the curb ....If you're faint of heart, now is the time to click on another blog and pass this one by.

I head out Saturday for a baby shower leaving The Testosterone Trio (Roger, and my two sons, Alex & Joseph) in charge of piano disposal. Apparently, the piano does not go down without a fight - they've tried every way they can think of to take the old boy down, including hammers, screwdrivers, pry-bars, hand-held and electric saws. I come home to sawdust everywhere, a gash in the wall and a rip in the carpet from where "the electric saw kinda got away from us there for a minute"....the piano stands, bruised, but not beaten in my entry hall, where the Testosterone Trio have managed to manhandle it. Their efforts to dismantle it have failed with the following observations: "This thing is built hell for stout", "You can roll a piano over dad's glasses and they won't break!!" and my personal favorite: "Mom, did you know if you hit those piano wires with a hammer, sparks will fly out and catch your shirt on fire?"

The plan now is to shove the piano out the front door and down to the curb. There are a couple of problems with this plan... 1) The piano is too heavy for them to move and 2) Our front yard has two terraced levels with stone retaining walls and a long and steep front sidewalk. Problem #1 is easily solved by calling our across the street neighbor, who's in charge of the unofficial neighborhood men's organization I like to call "The Goof Troop"... this group's job is to wander around and give advice and encouragement to other
neighborhood men on the most "manly" way to do whatever project is currently underway.... This would be the reason many wives in the neighborhood have 911 on speed dial.

Probably now would have been a good time to call it a day and phone a piano mover, but, upon returning home and seeing the chaos, I have retired to the kitchen and begun the search for migraine medication. The men, of course, are whipped up in some kind of "No dad-gum pie-an-oooo is gonna beat me! No siree, Bob!" spitting contest and have no intention of stopping now. After all, where's the fun in that??? No one's been hurt and nothing has been destroyed....YET!

So they shove and shove and groan and strain and amid shouts of "Watch your fingers!... Don't let it land on your feet! "Hey - Look Out - there's a drop off there!" They manage to get their noble opponent out the front door and onto the porch.

I stand there, with a bottle of Tylenol in one hand and the phone in the other (with finger poised on 911 speed dial #). All of a sudden there is a mighty heave - the piano gives up the ghost and flies down the rest of the steps, knocks The Youngest Member of the Trio into the nandina bushes, crashes into the wall on one side, knocking a chunk out of it, bounces down the sidewalk and takes out the entire lower level retaining wall!

Are any of the male upset at this destruction??? Oh nooooo!! What follows is plenty of high fiving and shouts of "Whoooo-Hooooo" with me yelling "Oh, My Lord, the wall!!"!!

Our yard now looks like a car bomb went off in front of the house, I have called the city to come pick up the junked piano, and now I'm trying to find SOMEBODY to come fix my retaining walls.

I'd like to end my tale by reciting The Testosterone Trio's club motto and personal
philosophy. All rise.... "IF I CAN'T BREAK IT – I MUST NOT BE TRYING HARD ENOUGH!”.

Thank you and THE BAR IS OPEN!

After a hard day of playing

2008-04-21T07:24:00.000-05:00

Waiting For Popcorn

2008-04-19T18:52:00.001-05:00

Here are the dogs waiting for their nightly popcorn snack. You should see them when the microwave beeps.

Mexican Lasagna

2008-04-15T14:10:00.000-05:00

This is a Mexican twist on traditional lasagna.
**I don't use ricotta cheese, because Roger and the boys don't like it (the weirdos), so make sure you do my egg & cheese trick...it helps bind the lasagna together.

1 pound of ground turkey
1 large onion, chopped
Tomato sauce (1 15 oz can)
1 tablespoon minced garlic
1 can of Ranch Style Beans
1 can of Enchilada sauce (mild or hot, your choice)
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
2 tsps. chili powder
1 tsp. ground cumin
1 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp. ground allspice
1/2 tsp. ground cloves
9 lasagna noodles (cooked)
2 cups of shredded mexican cheese
2 eggs

Preheat the oven to 350. Cook lasagna noodles according to package directions, drain and let cool. In a large dutch oven, brown ground turkey and onion until turkey is cooked through. Add chopped garlic and cook 30 seconds. Add tomato sauce, ranch beans, Worcestershire sauce, chili powder, cumin, cinnamon, allspice, and cloves, stirring after each addition.

Reduce heat and simmer at least 10 minutes. Check for seasonings and add salt if necessary.

In a medium mixing bowl, beat two whole eggs. Add 1 cup of shredded cheese and mix together.

Ladle a small amount of sauce in bottom of 9x13 inch pan. Add 3 lasagna noodles and a layer of sauce. Add another layer of noodles, more sauce, and with your fingers (I know, it's gross), spread a layer of egg/cheese mixture on top of the sauce. Finish by layering the last of the lasagna noodles and sauce and top with the remainder of the cheese.

Cover with foil and bake for 40 minutes, remove the foil and bake an additional 20 minutes.

Let stand at least 15 minutes before serving.

It Must Be A Matter Of Priorities

2008-04-09T12:01:00.001-05:00

The other day Layla and I found a stray Yellow Lab on our walk. Of course, we took him home and immediately fell in love with "Buddy" (even Roger fell for him, which tells you a LOT about what a charming dog Buddy is).

We did our job as good citizens and posted tons of Found Dog signs in the neighborhood and, unfortunately, Buddy's owner saw the signs and called to collect him. Believe me, I won't be making THAT mistake again. If sweet Buddy manages to escape and find his way over here, you WON'T be hearing about it from ME. Nope, Layla and I will just keep our lips sealed and enjoy life with our new"found" canine friend....uhhhhh, Duddy.

Anyway, before Buddy's owner called, we were discussing the idea of keeping Buddy for our own selves. Well, I was discussing it - Roger was fighting it. Poor guy actually thought he had a SAY in something like that, bless his heart.

One of Roger's main objections is that he really, really, really wants to retire - as soon as possible, like right now, and he firmly thinks the cost of an extra dog would delay that retirement.

Now, SOME people would say that if the expense of having just ONE MORE DOG is gonna keep you from retirement, then maybe you're not financially READY for that retirement. SOME people might say that, but it's not gonna be ME. I'm not about to tell a man who has to wrangle 20+ second graders each and every day, five days a week, that retirement MIGHT NOT be a great idea. Nope, not gonna go THERE.

What I WILL share with you is an observation I made the other day. I mentioned to Roger that, one day I might like to have some work on my chest area. Nothing MAJOR - nothing ENLARGING, just a little bit of a lift, a slight tucking UPWARD, maybe more of a HEAVE. Oh, who am I kidding here - we're talking major structural repair, complete with steel girders and support beams. Gravity has NOT been kind, okay?

I simply made a slight off-hand comment about this the other night while getting ready for bed. It's not an exaggeration to say that within the next 24 hours, Roger had asked me, not once, but TWICE, if I had done any research into and found out any info about my boob job.

Now, see, apparently, we can't afford to feed and care for an extra dog without going into the poor house and forcing Roger to continue to slave away at the educational equivalent of busting rocks on a chain gang, but a BOOB JOB FOR MOMMA??? Oh, that's totally DOABLE!

Playtime - Tug of War

2008-04-03T16:01:00.000-05:00

Vermin Update - or how to spend a whole lot of $$ on having your house rodent proofed, when a few empty coke cans will do.

2008-03-28T14:35:00.000-05:00

Remember in an earlier post I said we had an occasional "odor" in the house, and remember I said I was fairly certain (read: absoloutely terrified) that odor was related in some way to the squirrels and/or rats living in our attic? Man, it gets old being right all the time.

The good news is we are currently vermin-free and are armed and ready to stay that way. The bad news is, it cost us a small fortune to get that way....the even WORSE news is, it's become apparent that we could have accomplished this very same feat with a 12 pak of empty Diet Coke cans - or maybe a 12 pak of empty beer cans would have been a more festive approach to solving this particular problem.

Roger was finally convinced to call in the professionals when we overheard a particularly boisterous and noisy romp over the kitchen table. Apparently, it's MATING SEASON!! Oh Joy! The commotion was one you could only envy - or fear - depending on your point of view. While the FREQUENCY was impressive, the DURATION of the "encounters" wasn't anything to write home about, if you know what I mean.

Plus, there's something kinda sleazy about overhearing ANYTHING, even a rodent, "gettin' busy"....think of the song, Muskrat Love, with less cute gibbering and more obnoxious thumping - really loud and really rapid thumping.

Roger agreed, after much nagging and carrying on by yours truly, to finally allow trained professionals to come in and get the job done. Something, HE assured me he could do if it wasn't for the two dozen or more urgent things he already HAD on his To-Do List, and the fact that he's not real fond of heights, and we don't own a flashlight that works, and he has mild claustrophobia, and oh yeah, he's right in the middle of this Life or Death on-line computer hearts game.

Yeah, whatever. Anyway, the Vermin Man (my name for him - not his actual NAME - the man drives around in a bright yellow truck with tee-tiny paw prints on it for God's sake, let's give him SOME dignity), showed up and asked me what the problem was. I said, I thought it was rats and squirrels in the attic. In his best, "Don't worry your little head about it Little Lady" voice, he assured me he'd check it out, assess the threat and formulate a plan.

After a complete and thorough inspection he informed me we had "rats and squirrels in the attic". WOW, you know, he really should be paid for that kind of insight.....oh wait, HE IS!!
He recommended a two step approach of trapping the animals and sealing up the various entries and exits the little mooching germ bags had been using to gain access to their Critter Condos in my attic.

He quoted us a price that was DOUBLE the amount of money I paid for my first car. Roger started shaking his head "no" and I grabbed the pen from the guy and signed the contract before Roger could formulate his kind "thanks, but no thanks" speech.

See, let me jump in here in my defense and say that during his search and discovery mission, the Critter guy hollered down from the attic and asked Roger for a garbage bag. You know NOTHING good is going to come of a vermin guy in your attic asking for a trash bag....and, sure enough, it WASN'T good. Captain Critter had found the source of our mysterious odor: A HUGE, DEAD AND RAPIDLY DECOMPOSING RAT in my attic.

Yessiree, nothing makes you prouder as a homeowner, than to sit on your couch while somebody hauls the stinking, bloated body of a disease ridden rodent out of the attic, DIRECTLY over the spot where you and your family sit and watch television, literally within spitting distance of where you eat. Right at that moment, price was NO object, believe me. We signed on the dotted line and I thought I heard the distinct sound of a cash register ringing, but maybe I'm wrong here.

The Search and Destroy Team was deployed the next day - traps were set and baited (and ignored by the vermin), entries and exits were located and secured (so the rodents simply chewed NEW ones) and one squirrel was accidentally sealed in the attic.

We know this because of the frenzied, power gnawing we could hear over the kitchen table. This was no casual "gee, I'm bored, wonder what this wood tastes like" chewing. Nope, this was a"Holy Mother Of God, I'm trapped in this attic hell hole and I've gotta get OUT!" GNAW-FEST. Which resulted in a, I'm NOT kidding about this, SOFTBALL SIZED HOLE over my kitchen window.

Okay, Roger and I are NOT real wildlife enthusiasts, especially when it comes to rats, mice and other skittery, crawly things that are liable to JUMP ON MY FACE AND GET TANGLED IN MY HAIR!! And, since it was Easter weekend, it was a safe bet nobody from the critter place was gonna ride to the rescue. What should we DO?? The squirrel was apparently OUT, but, I was betting it was coming back. Just my luck, my kids and my dog are trying desperately to escape me, but apparently, rodents and squirrels just LOVE living here.

Well, I'm proud to say I solved the problem and it was a GENIUS solution, if I do say so myself. I emptied out a Diet Coke can and after Roger sawed off the ends (without ANY bloodshed, either), I cut the can open and we staplegunned that sucker right over that big, huge hole. TA DAAAAA!! Squirrel Access DENIED!!

I was one happy camper, let me tell you....that is until I realized that I could have rodent proofed this entire house with about $5.00 worth of aluminum cans and staples.

So, readers, please learn a lesson from all of this. If you detect the presence of unwanted animals in your attic, don't call in a costly professional. Just dig your husband's staple gun out of the garage and wave a 12 pak in front of his face. I guarantee you, you'll win the Rodent War and have yourself a very happy volunteer army!

THE EXHAUSTINATOR'S VICTIMS

2008-03-13T14:20:00.000-05:00

The Exhaustinator

2008-03-13T14:18:00.000-05:00

2008-02-09T12:41:00.000-06:00

Relaxing - Dudley Style

2008-02-01T17:27:00.000-06:00

I know you're not going to believe this, but he sleeps like this all the time and we DON'T arrange the pillow for him. He manages to knock it down and get it all arranged under his head by himself.

If only he'd put that talent to achieving World Peace.

2008-01-28T11:50:00.000-06:00

Pictures from our recent ice storm.

Our 24th Anniversary

2008-01-20T10:18:00.000-06:00

Now THAT'S some Aggie Pride!

2008-01-12T12:16:00.000-06:00

These are pictures I took at Tupinamba's Restaurant the other night. The owner is, obviously, a RABID Aggie Fan.

Roger and I felt a little conspicuous at first, being decked out head to toe in our new Christmas Aggie gear, but we got over it after we saw the bathroom doors. "Aggies" for the mens room and "Maggies" for the ladies.

My Favorite Picture of My Guys

2008-01-06T17:02:00.001-06:00

This is our favorite picture of Roger and the boys, all dressed up for my niece's wedding. Alex & Joseph were ring bearers and Joseph made it almost all the way through the entire ceremony before he hit the Best Man with the pillow.

OOPA!!

2007-12-29T12:34:00.000-06:00

Family Night At Our Favorite Greek Restaurant.

Dudley relaxing after a tough day of eating & sleeping

2007-12-23T18:08:00.000-06:00

Temporary Truce

2007-12-18T15:55:00.000-06:00

I'm Making A List - But Santa Doesn't Want Any Part Of This One

2007-12-18T13:01:00.000-06:00

I'm having a bad day, and I decided to make a list of all the things that are currently ticking me off and/or upsetting me. Get yourself a snack, it's a long list.

1. My house smells. I don't know what it is, or WHY it smells. All I can tell you is there's definitely an odor. I have a really highly defined sense of smell, and that coupled with my OCD is driving me straight up the wall. I think the odor is centered around Roger's closet and the patio room. It might even be some kind of squirrel mummy stuck in the attic, which leads me to....

2. We have squirrels in our attic. Not just regular squirrels - these are very athletic, very noisy, very social squirrels who apparently like to entertain between 6 - 7:00 a.m. every morning. Squirrels do brunch - who knew? I went on a wildlife removal company's website and discovered that squirrels and "other vermin" (yes, squirrels are actually VERMIN - which DID NOT make me feel better), once they are in your attic, they burrow through your insulation, making nests and "soiling" everything. Yep, those vermin are using our attic as their 2,000 square foot litter box. Those cute little buggers are getting uglier by the minute, I can tell you.

3. My dog is an evil demon from Hell and is out to destroy my life. Okay, maybe that's a little harsh, but I'm very disgusted with She Who Is Thisclose To Getting Shipped Off To Doggie Obedience Camp. I'm tired of being dragged every morning from one smell to another, tired of trying to walk around and avoid her "kitty deposit" snacking opportunities, and tired of being afraid to answer the doorbell - not because of who might be on the other side, but because of being tackled from behind by this 90 pound, blonde, visitor seeking missile.

The mailman just delivered a package for Joseph (believe me, I'll make sure he knows he's to blame when he gets home). I try to open the door just a tee tiny bit, so my sweet and understanding mailman can slip the mail through to me, when Little Miss Nuclear Bomb shoves her way through and takes off like a pmsing woman chasing the Russell Stover's delivery van.

I drop the mail, grab the leash and high tail it after her. Is anything more embarassing than screaming and chasing after your dog, while the dog continues running around doing whatever the Hell it wants, with a slap happy grin on its' face? Yeah, everybody, look at ME - I am obviously in charge of this situation. Who needs Cesar Milan? Not me, nope, I am SOOO much the pack leader.

The neighbor across the street helps me grab Layla and I get her leashed up and she STILL continues to PULL ME DOWN THE STREET!!! Now, this is just adding insult to injury, isn't it? She got her free romp - why can't she be a little giving and at least ACT like she's taken a training class (which she HAS, by the way)? Oh no, she's gotta push and push and push (or in this case, pull and pull and pull) - hey, there might be a nice cat poop snack out there she's missed.

By this time, I'm seriously rethinking my decision NOT to use my father's approach to dog training. Which is to beat the ever lovin' snot out of a dog when it misbehaves. Sure, you get a dog that dives for cover and pees on itself every time you lift your hand to scratch your nose, but you DON'T have to worry about them misbehaving.

4. My yard looks like war torn Iraq. Seriously, string some barbed wire and slap up some sniper towers and you don't even have to go remote to do convincing war coverage stories. I'd like to have one of those "livable back yards". The kind that just BEGS you to come sit and enjoy a book or the wildlife (except the vermin). The only problem is, I'm too lazy to do it myself and we can't afford to hire it done. A couple of things are ahead of that in the financial line....college educations for two.

5. I'm lonely and I'm just gonna get lonlier. I know, I know, break out the violins....but, I can't help it. Being a Stay At Home Mom is a wonderful job. Except, you don't realize how great it is until you're DONE doing it. At least I didn't.

Alex has been moved out a while and has recently moved EVEN FURTHER away from us. Joseph is going away to college in the Fall, further breaking my heart and ruining my life, and apparently the DOG is even trying desperately to get away from me.

6. I can't even enjoy my pity party in peace. I got a Christmas Card from a used-to-be neighbor today. She has two kids that are our kids' ages, and in her yearly Christmas Letter (yes, she's one of THOSE people), she told about her son being in a horrible car accident last February. A very severe accident, which, among other things, resulted in him losing two fingers on his left hand.

She didn't go into other details, but the fact that he's moved back home at the age of 22 and is working for the "family company" tells a story of it's own. It also tells me that I should shut up and stop feeling sorry for myself. If a smelly house, live-in squirrels, a manic dog and a touch of lonliness are my only problems - then I don't have any problems at all.

He's Most Unique...But We Already Knew That

2007-12-12T13:36:00.000-06:00

Joseph told us the other day that he had been voted Most Unique by the senior class. I really don't think he knew how to take it, maybe didn't know if it was a compliment or a joke, depending on the definition of "unique".

Roger and I tried to reassure him that it was, indeed a compliment. But, how do you tell someone, someone like Joseph, how very special they really are.

Joseph started out special, he was born on his due date, which, in case you didn't know, is extremely rare. Only a very small percentage of babies are actually born on their predicted due dates. Others arrive sometime during the two weeks prior or the two weeks after. It's NOT an exact science, except for special people - people like Joseph.

As a baby, Joseph was incredibly easy. He came here loving to sleep and eat, and after the nightmare baby that Alex (his older brother) was, this made him very special.

Toddler years were a different matter, altogether. When Joseph reached the age of question, and he reached it VERY early, in my opinion, the words "just because" didn't mean a lot to him. We had some rough and rocky times until I learned that this child, this very special child, wasn't being difficult on purpose. He was merely questioning the WHYS and REASONS behind the rules and behaviors the world was imposing on him.

Once it was explained to Joseph why a rule was needed, he'd think about it, and if it made sense to him, he'd obey without further question. Silly and nonsensical rules were up for discussion and debate, and IF Joseph decided to follow the arbitrary rules, it was because of his love and/or respect for the person making the request, NOT because it was what was expected.

Joseph, just by his very existence, has taught so many people so many things. His pre-school teacher learned a child can be older and wiser than his years, but, yet still be a child with childlike actions. He taught his art teacher that artistic talent can be detected and guided in someone as young as 7 years old. He taught his second grade teacher that standing up for what's right is more important than going to recess on time.

His band buddies on their trip to Disney a couple of years ago, learned much more about Disney than they would have if Joseph hadn't taken over their group and organized their activities, including bathroom breaks. Such is the burden of a born leader, a leader like Joseph.

Throughout his life, Joseph has helped and tutored friends in academics, art and band. He's always been going places and he's going to take the people he loves with him, no matter how much work it might be.

He's funny and talented and smart and stubborn and loving and dedicated and determined; and he holds himself to almost impossibly high standards. Standards that are so high, most people would be happy with much, much less.

Even so, his standards are only for himself. He isn't boastful or condescending to those who haven't achieved his level of success. He believes every person is an individual, with special gifts and talents to share, and to appreciate.

How do you tell someone that, because of them, you're a better person? That you've learned to look past the surface, and not always take the easy way out. To question the rules and stand against them if they're wrong, no matter the possible penalty. That the rocky, winding road may not be the easiest, but the sights you'll see and the feelings you'll have will be worth so much more; and to give anything less than my best effort is a greater insult to myself than if I try and fail.

God gives us gifts and blessings in life. Joseph is both a gift and a blessing to me, but, I believe he's more than that. I truly believe Joseph is a gift to mankind. The kind of human being who, just by his very existence, makes the world, and it's people, a better place to be. THAT, is the definition of UNIQUE.

Christmas Cactus

2007-12-09T13:54:00.000-06:00

Holiday Decorating - or An Accident Waiting To Happen...You Decide

2007-12-04T15:19:00.000-06:00

Let me tell ya, it was a close call!!

Picture this - Roger, who is so afraid of heights the man has to psyche himself up to climb a 6 ft. ladder, was precariously propping the ladder across the hedges in front of the house (now, anyone who knows me, knows that my house is on a terraced front yard - so the top of my yard is about the heighth of the top of the trees across the STREET - yep, the air is rare up there.

Joseph was on TOP of the house, LEANING way the hell over to staple gun the string of lights across the eaves. Everytime he'd go to squeeze the staple gun, the force of it would literally LIFT him off the roof about 2-3 inches, then plop his clueless azz back down again.

Alex is on the ground (thank God one of them is Earthbound at least) and is in charge of "holding the ladder". Note to self, holding the ladder apparantly is man-code for casually resting a foot on the lowest rung, while shouting instructions to the idiot on the ladder above you.

Alex is ALSO in charge of transporting needed supplies to the idiot on the roof - which involves a lot of hand waving and heaving of various heavy, sharp and possibly lethal objects, including staple guns, boxes of extra staples and wire cutters - the sharp ones. All of these items Joseph delights and takes great pride in catching one-handed.

Please keep in mind Roger, the breadwinner of the family is directly UNDERNEATH all of this Sharp Object Heaving and One Handed Catching, busily untangling lights while hanging on by one elbow crooked in the ladder.

Oh, and don't forget the ingenious way he figured out how to MOVE the ladder over without all that unnecessary climbing up and down. That's right folks, you just grab the ladder in both hands and jerk it back and over a couple of inches (did I say JERK??). The problem with this is that if you don't do it right, you'll smash straight through the big dining room windows, but HEY, what's Holiday Decorating without a little risk?

I swear, it's a miracle I don't have a drinking problem.

Pictures of Layla

2007-12-01T17:28:00.000-06:00

The Following Entry Is For Women Of A Certain Age

2007-11-26T13:50:00.000-06:00

A friend of mine recently came up with a fabulous idea...one which could make millions of dollars for someone who's not as bone lazy as we are.

Here's the idea: Feminine Hygiene Products designed SPECIFICALLY for women "of a certain age". Which means the ARMIES of us currently going through the torture of perimenopause.

This brilliant idea was born out of pain and suffering....the pain and suffering of hearing me gripe and complain about the injustices of this really fun phase of my life. Particularly the following two observations: 1) If you can't see how to open the mini pad box without your cheater glasses on, you shouldn't HAVE to need the pads anymore; and 2) If you can't open the tampon wrapper because of the arthritis in your hands, you shouldn't need those anymore either. Seriously, enough is enough, okay?

All we need is a product name and some catchy advertising tag lines and VOILA, we're in business. Another friend suggested the name, Meni-Pads, which beat MY suggestions of:

1) Well, CRAP!
2) Dammit, Not Again!
3) How Long Will This Bullshit Go On?
and
4) Somebody's Going To Hear About This!!

Obviously, I'm currently too close to the situation to think of a good (and not obscene) product name. However, I DO have some possible tag lines we can use:

1) Use "Meni-Pads" and nobody gets hurt.
2) Use "Meni-Pads" and have a homicide-free period.
3) "Meni-Pads" because sometimes life sucks.
4) "Meni-Pads" because God's obviously a man and He's not gonna help you with this one.
5) "Meni-Pads" because NOBODY looks good in Jailhouse Orange.
6) "Meni-Pads" because your family is starting to fear you.

Our products will also be customized for our target audience. Instead of sanitary wipes, our products will contain various alibis, and the telephone numbers of criminal attorneys and bail bondsmen, in case of any unfortunate homicides and/or killing sprees.

Also, SOME specially marked packages will contain sweat rags and battery operated fans for those unplanned and inconvenient hot flashes; our Econo-Jumbo-Last Until You're Out Of This Hell-Package will include free samples of prescription anti-depressants and mood elevators.

Seriously, what more could you want? Except for not having to go through this lunacy in the first place?

Oh, and if you don't understand this entry or you think I'm being just a little too over the top about this whole issue? Well, then you obviously haven't been through menopause, aren't currently IN perimenopause or don't know anyone who's been there and done that and, frankly, you're ticking me off and I want you dead.

Now, where's that free Prozac sample?