My Dad called the other day and said the words guaranteed to make me hyperventilate...he needed me to watch Momma for a couple of hours.

Of course, I agreed, I don't do near enough helping out, in my opinion, but that could be the Accept And Embrace Any And All Possible Guilt method of child rearing my parents employed, and man, they were Masters at it, too. I can't go out in public without random guilt virtually attaching itself to me and comfortably settling in for the long haul. I am a Guilt Magnet...nice to meet ya.

Daddy said he'd drop Momma off at 8:00 a.m., so of course, he was banging on our door at 7:30. There's the standard time that the rest of the world uses and then there's "My Daddy Time", which is ALWAYS significantly earlier than the rest of the modern world.

We got Momma settled in a chair at the table - and I only had to throw my body in front of her to shield her from the 102 pound dog projectile, only once...things are starting off GREAT!

We sit at the table, and Roger reads the paper, while I work on my grocery list and Momma asks her questions. The same questions, over and over and over, with about a 2 minute interval between them.

What's interesting is, that between the questions, she starts telling these stories that, apparently, she's making up in her head, about things that have never happened. It's kind of entertaining if you can get past the horror of the fact that your beloved Mother is pretty much waaay out there, living in a world known only to herself.

That's one of the things I've learned about Alzheimer's...in order to cope with the horror of what it does to your loved one, it's best to suspend your belief in a normal world and just enter their world and ride THEIR ride with them.

Roger is a pro at this. He can sit, calmly and patiently, and listen to Mother, who's making no sense whatsoever and join her in her Fantasy Land. Me and my Dad? Not so much. My Dad is a total control freak and, unfortunately his youngest apple (me) didn't fall far from the tree. I don't argue with Momma when she says something that's not right, but my father has yet to learn that's a battle you won't ever win, so why bother fighting? I swear, I think the phrase "Don't Sweat The Small Stuff" was coined for people who deal with those suffering from dementia. You have to let the small stuff go, or you'll be sticking your head in the oven in no time.

It's hard, so hard, to hear your own mother ask who you are, and think her son-in-law is her husband, and that her husband is her father. It's hard, but it's not completely unbearable, as long as you realize that the world SHE lives in is a fairly happy place. It has it's moments of uncertainty, but, for the most part, it's a child-like existence she lives and she lives it with the innocence and trust of a child, believing that someone will always be there to care for her and to love her. Undoubtedly, this is the only positive part of having Alzheimer's....but, it's STILL not enough.

Who was it who said not to EVER leave your house without looking your best, or you'll run into somebody who you DON'T want to see looking your worst? Well, whoever it was, they're either a prophet or a genius.

Yes, my friends, this unfortunate thing happened to me just the other day. Monday, in fact. See, in my SAHM (Stay-At-Home-Mom) life, I frequently look like the back end of hard times. Now, that's not BECAUSE I'm a SAHM. On the countrary, there's a woman in my neighborhood who, during her SAHM days actually dressed in the latest casual fashions, wore make up and fixed her hair EACH AND EVERY DAY..even if she WASN'T going to leave the house.

Doesn't surprise me that her SAHM days are over and she's gone back to work. She obviously didn't have what it takes to be a successful SAHM. Successful SAHM's have few fashion and grooming rules, but the ones we have are etched in stone.

#1 Clothes worn for every day must be purchased at Wal-Mart or Target - preferably on sale, and must be made of a fabric either dark in color or of a loud enough print it makes your eyes water. This is so the inevitable stains don't show. Oh, it ALSO must be wrinkle free, or at least able to be MADE wrinkle free with just a few turns in a dryer with a damp washcloth. SAHM's firmly believe a hot iron is just a trip to the burn ward, waiting to happen.

#2 Hair must either be short enough to just wet it, slick it and go (my own personal coif) or long enough to pull it back into a ponytail or clip. Brushing is optional, but encouraged...after all, we DO have standards.

#3 Make up should be applied on an "as needed" basis. As in "Am I going to see anybody I care enough about impressing to make the effort?" If you think carefully about this decision, you'll find that almost NO situation requires you making the "wake-up to make-up" effort.

Think about it....your husband and kids? You've already LANDED the husband, and, if he's like most men, he's not going to make the effort it takes to get a divorce and a new wife. It's the old "The Evil you KNOW is better than the evil you DON'T" scenario. Besides, he and the kids will NOT notice if you've smeared on the war-paint or not, trust me. No, they'll notice you put mushrooms in the spaghetti sauce, but you, all dolled up and looking gorgeous? Not so much.

The grocery store? Please, you KNOW each and every one of those clerks would be bare-faced in a New York Minute, if they didn't have to go to work and look "presentable", and there are even some customers with lower dress codes than SAHM's. I'm thinking as long as you're not strolling down the soup aisle in your pajama bottoms and houseshoes, you're ahead of the game.

The gynocologist? Listen, what he's concerned with is at the other end....if you've got a gyno who spends his time looking at your FACE, it's time to change doctors.

The dermotologist? They actually ASK that you not wear make-up to your appointment...my kind of place, right there. They DON'T say you should wear your daily slob clothes..but nobody expects you to dress up when you're make-up less. That's just against the natural law of things.

Nope, about the only time a SAHM should look like she just stepped out of a band box is when there's a chance she'll see someone who's opinion she truly cares about. Of course, I'm talking about a sworn arch enemy.

I had the unfortunate experience of coming face to face with my own personal nemesis the other day in the office of my youngest son's high school. No, he wasn't in trouble...at least he wasn't BEFORE he made me stop in the middle of laundry day and bring him his forgotten art portfolio.

Youngest son calls me and asks if I could please bring him his portfolio, it's in his room, oh and by the way - he has to have it within the next 15 minutes.

No problem...I grab my purse, car keys, the portfolio, stuff Layla in the DogHair Mobile, and we're OFF! No, I didn't take the time to change clothes and I'm dressed in my usual Monday "climbing Mount Laundry" day attire: baggy old jeans, stained sock money queen t-shirt and no-make up - I'm proud to say I DID think to change my houseshoes to Dollar store flip-flops.

The wind is blowing something fierce and by the time I man-handle the portfolio out of the car and into the school building, my hair looks like Harpo Marx on a bad day. I blow into the office and there "she" sits, sitting behind the desk, obviously filling in as a temp for the day.

Now hindsight is 20/20...at least mine COULD be if my rear-view mirror didn't have dog snot on it. I know this woman works as a temp for our school district, it just never crossed my mind that she'd be working at THAT particular school at THAT particular time. I mean, what are the odds? If you know me, you know the odds are pretty good..almost a sure thing, in fact.

Before I could stop myself, I piped out a cherry "Hello" - I don't do well under stress - practically THREW the portfolio at some unfortunate student volunteer and high tailed it out of that building as fast as my .99 cent flip flops could carry me. I got to my car and immediately flipped down the visor mirror, hoping to see that I'd somehow turned into a natural beauty overnight and didn't look as bad as I thought I looked. No such luck.

I'm not sure what lesson I can learn from this. I guess I COULD start spiffing up every day like my neighbor, or, I COULD contact my arch enemy and extend the olive branch of peace, so I didn't live in fear of running into her again.

I think I'll do the mature, responsible thing. If Youngest Son forgets anything else, I'm just gonna leave him swinging in the breeze. Yep, that's sounds right, to me.

So far, I'm pretty sure Layla has tried to give me Bird Flu twice in the past two days.

The first time was when I found her happily gnawing on a bird's head. Thankfully, the bird was dead at the time. I was lucky enough to find the rest of the body stuffed under our gas grill. Don't think I'll be cooking any CHICKEN on that thing anytime soon.

The second time was much more terrifying, and, honestly, I'm not ashamed to admit, I got a little hysterical about it....big surprise. Roger and I noticed a baby dove on our pool deck last night. The Momma Dove was keeping vigil close by (I'm assuming it was the Momma Dove, there was only one of them and I feel fairly certain Daddy Dove was in a bar, watching the hockey playoffs and flirting with the waitress. Male traits run rampant through all species, you know.)

Anyway, thinking the baby dove was most certainly deceased, we were delighted to discover it was merely taking a break from the stress of trying to learn how to fly - it MUST be hard, afterall, I mean, can YOU do it? I didn't think so.

So, Roger grabbed his gloves and moved baby bird to a fenced in side of our yard where he'd be protected from Layla as well as any neighborhood feline assasins. We hoped for the best, but we've been here before and were expecting the worst.

The next morning, Youngest Son ran outside to check on baby bird and couldn't find him, so we assumed he'd made his way back to the safety of the nest, and, believe it or not we were RIGHT, in a way...baby bird, proving that doves are not the brighest of our feathered friends, made his way to one of our fenced in flowerbeds, this one filled with ferns.

How do I know this you might ask? First I noticed Momma dove, who, this time was accompanied by I'm SURE a very hung over and hen-pecked (ha!) Daddy dove, were hanging around said fern bed. Then, I noticed Layla was paying particular attention to this flower bed and, ANOTHER CLUE was, she kept lunging through the fencing at something. But, the biggest clue of ALL was when I saw baby bird pick the ABSOLOUTE WORST time to try an escape attempt.

He started flapping around in the bed. Layla lost her mind and charged into the bed, going THROUGH the fencing AND a pretty thorny rosebush (please see aforementioned posts about Layla referencing her beauty and obvious LACK of brainpower). She grabbed baby bird in her mouth and high-tailed it for the other side of the yard.

I ran outside, screaming commands like "DROP IT" (which, amazingly she DID) and "LEAVE IT" (which, even more amazing, she did) and "COME HERE" (I almost had to sit down when she obeyed THAT one). I got Layla locked in the house, had a brief moment of hysterics, pulled myself together and did the right thing...I called Roger. Nevermind that he's trying to wind up the school year and has 21 students, hyped to the gills with the prospect of summer vacation, he needed to be made aware of the crisis at home.

Now, before you start telling me how ridiculous that was, let me just tell YOU, you don't KNOW from ridiculous. Once, when our beloved Golden Retriever, Dammit It Maggie, brought a baby bird INTO THE HOUSE, I called Roger and made him come home....he was working in Downtown Dallas at City Hall at the time. See, I'm almost 46 years old, and I've never dealt with ANYTHING like this myself. Nope, my Daddy and Roger have always been there to handle these little unpleasantries, and I truly believe that's the way God intended it.

Well, Roger couldn't come home from work (SOMEBODY needs to rearrange their priorities, I'm just saying), so I sucked it up, got his gloves and proceeded to move baby bird to safety under a MONSTROUS Lady Banksia Rose which rules our side yard. It's probably a very safe place, seeing as how I'm fairly certain Jimmy Hoffa's been hiding out there for YEARS.

All in all, it worked out allright...but I'm thinking of reporting Momma & Daddy Dove for child endangerment...anybody have the number for BBPS (baby bird protective services?)

I've posted before about my Mother's battle with the Demon Alzheimer's - God and I are gonna have a little face-to-face talk about this particular disease if I ever get to Heaven, which, is probably a good indication that I won't get to Heaven..and if I DO manage to slip in, I'm sure I won't be staying long.

When I made my Daily Daddy Call this morning he waited until the end of the conversation for the ambush. "What are you doing this afternoon?" Lord, right then I knew I was trapped. I've told y'all before what a total reprehensible, ungrateful, loser of a daughter I am, right? That I don't do NEAR enough for my parents and should be taken out somewhere and beaten to a pulp, or at the very least be FORCED to attend lengthy band performances, complete with unending descriptive narrative from really enthusiastic band leaders. And really, THAT'S not even a harsh enough punishment for me.

Now, my father doesn't feel this way about me, but he doesn't have to...I've practiced Guilt Assumption my entire life and I am proud to say I have reached the level of Guilt Assumption Master. I draw guilt to me the way some mythical super-heroes draw super-powers. We're talking a veritable Human Guilt Sponge...if there's Guilt anywhere in the area, I will suck it up and incorporate it as my OWN. I am truly awesome in this regard and probably in need of serious counseling, and possibly medication, which would actually be NICE. But, on to my upcoming afternoon with Momma.

Daddy has a doctor appointment this afternoon with the dermotologist who literally, saved his nose. Daddy had a rampant basal cell cancer that, I kid you not, had eaten a majority of his nose and didn't look like it was gonna get tired of the nasal buffet. Two doctors performed separate operations and now my father has a nose that, truthfully looks a whole heck of a lot better than the one he was BORN with.

Of course, in true Daddy fashion, he stated loud and clear, that both doctors are incompetent know-nothings and didn't have a CLUE how to proceed until he TOLD them what to do. Uh huh, my father was a BANKER; one of these doctors is a respected dermatologist, and the other is a noted plastic surgeon. Thank GOD Daddy was able to instruct them in the intricate and delicate procedures needed to diagnose and treat his condition. In my opinion, BOTH doctors should receive Humanitarian Medals for not tossing my Dad out on his half-eaten face and the fact that they are STILL willing to have him as a patient speaks to their committment to their professions...or maybe they're really just not real bright - whatever.

Anyway, Daddy has an appointment with "DumbAss Dermotologist" this afternoon for a spot on his ear that he "can't clear up on his own". Huh...imagine that...skin cancers aren't cured by hydrogen peroxide and a band-aid....who knew?

He's dropping Momma off at my house so I can watch her and he can go to his appointment relatively stress free. I COULD just meet him at the Doctor's office, but Daddy always makes ME go in with him and, there we sit, all three of us, (four counting the doctor), with Momma asking her never-ending questions, Daddy being an obnoxious pain and me, with no chair to sit in to stave off my inevitable loss of consciousness that's bound to happen when the doctor removes whatever it is that's growing on Daddy's ear. If I insist on staying in the waiting room, Momma will proceed to talk, LOUDLY, about other people in the room...as in "WHOO-EEE, do you see how FAT that woman is?"; and "What is WRONG with that man's FACE - he sure is UG-LY!!" Now, I'm not saying that can't be AMUSING, but, you really need to be about half-tanked before it's funny....otherwise, it's just MORTIFYING.

So, Daddy will deliver Momma to my house this afternoon, sometime...knowing Daddy, a 4:15 appt. to HIM means he has to be at the doctor's office at 3:00, so he'll probably have Momma here by 2:00 just in case there's a MAJOR traffic jam in the mile long, neighborhood drive to the doctor's office.

The challenges this afternoon will be many:

First, I have to keep Layla off of Momma - for Momma's protection AND Layla's. See, Momma has NO problem smacking the snot out of Layla if she thinks Layla's bothering her too much. It's not that I'm afraid Layla would react to that and try to hurt Momma, but, more that I don't want Layla hurt.

Second, I have to make sure Momma stays in the house and doesn't wander outside and, God Forbid, fall in the pool or down the front steps. I can lock those doors in a way she can't unlock, so we're pretty safe there; and

FINALLY, I have to make sure Momma only eats things that are EDIBLE. In true childlike fashion, Momma has regressed to the point where she tries to eat EVERYTHING, including mustard and ketchup out of the ice box and even cleaning products if she can get her hands on them. I think I'm covered on THAT one, too...I'm gonna sit her down at the kitchen table and just load her up with all manner of junk foods....cookies, fried cherry pies, honey buns and, my secret weapon - the Chocolate Of The Gods, my youngest brought me from Disney's BelgiumLand. I mean it - I'm bringing out the Big Guns.

After the pig-fest, Momma might not be interested in her dinner - but that's too bad. I never said I fight fair - I fight to win and, after all, War Is Hell.

As I've said before, God, in His wisdom has chosen to bless me with two sons. Which, is a good thing, because, I am NOT cut out to be the mother of girls. The whole girly thing just leaves me
mystified, and honestly, I think whining should be grounds for lethal injection.

I once, honest to God, got into a Whine-Off with a bratty 4 year old girl I was teaching in Vacation Bible School. Here I was supposed to be teaching her about God's love for her and I spent the majority of the class-time one day trying to out-whine her. It's not something I'm proud of, but, there you go. I know ALL girls aren't whiny, bratty, little fashion obsessed shop-o-ramas, but who wants to risk it?

Anyway, my boys are not only good people, they're incredibly thoughtful and considerate. They've inherited those traits from their father, not me, and I wish, just ONCE, somebody would argue that point with me, but, I'm not holding my breath.

Recently, my youngest went on a band trip to Disney Whatever (I can never remember which one is World and which one is Land....this was the one in Florida - whichever). He had a wonderful time, not surprising, and he brought back souvenirs for me, his daddy and his brother, VERY SURPRISING.

Not only did he take the time to BUY us souvenirs, he bought us souvenirs we'd actually LIKE...I mean, this kid put some thought into this. He bought his dad a Mickey Mouse T-shirt, and his brother a sword with an eye patch and me...well, my gifts were the most wonderful of all. That's right, I said GIFTS, plural....is this kid racking up the inheritance points or WHAT?

My baby boy brought me the BEST gifts..the first one was a pink MINNIE Mouse coffee mug (I've got a real thing for coffee cups/mugs) and the second was *gasp* Belgian chocolate...real high quality chocolate from BelgiumLand or someplace like that. *sigh* Let me just say that I had a sample of that Gift from the Cocoa Gods and it is the BEST chocolate I've ever put in my MOUTH, and there is where my problem begins.

If you've gone waaay back to the first entries on this blog, you know that, around 3 years ago I lost my mind, joined Weight Watchers, and proceeded to lose over 100 pounds. Why? I have NO idea..I was fat and happy and I LOVED eating whatever I wanted, WHENEVER I wanted, HOW EVER DAMN MUCH I wanted. But, lose the weight I did and, as you might imagine, ever since, I've been in mortal fear of "finding" it again.

Now, you don't get 100 pounds overweight without having some, shall we say "food issues", and giving ANY chocolate, not to mention, high quality, "this is what God intended when he invented chocolate" chocolate to someone like me is sort of like giving an alcoholic the keys to the liquor store and offering to hold their purse. I'm saying it's a binge just waiting to happen.

So far, I've done pretty good with only having a small bit of the nectar every day...there was that one day when I had TWO bits, but a piece fell off when I moved the candy bar and I figured it was God's way of telling me my first piece wasn't big enough.

Some of you are probably thinking I should have just refused the candy...told my sweet, precious, incredibly thoughtful, should-be-nominated-for-sainthood son, "No thank you." Uh huh...and I can tell you that YOU obviously suffer from delusions and should seek medical help immediately. No WAY was I turning down that chocolate. I mean, he was so THOUGHTFUL and all and he dragged it home all the way from FLORIDA for crying out loud...so what if it was a little melted...I put it in the icebox and it firmed right up. Like Homer Simpson said, "It's still good, it's still good."

But, the fact remains that the existence of the chocolate is causing me a certain amount of stress and I think, being the kind of mother I am, that youngest son should be repaid in full.

I'm thinking I'm gonna take him and his sweetie to lunch at our local Hooter's restaurant. Yep, that oughta do it - him sitting there with his MOTHER and his GIRLFRIEND, while amply "blessed" women in tee-tiny tube tops serve him his lunch, and he tries to just look them in the EYE.

Oh yeah - Vengence is MINE, sayeth the MOM.

Let me start this off by saying that I'm NOT a traveller. Nope, I'm a regular old stick in the mud stay at home kinda person. I'm even ashamed to admit that when I DO travel, I'm the kind of person who looks at her watch and calculates how long it is until I get to go back HOME. I know, I know...pathetic, isn't it?

So, it's no wonder I was absoloutely stunned at how much airports have changed since September 11th. Used to be, when you picked someone up at the airport, and you were married to one of those freakish people who HAD to arrive at the airport at LEAST an hour early - no matter if they were actually catching a flight or just WAITING around to pick someone up, you had several entertainment options.

You could sit in the bar and drink (which will cost you a fortune), you could people watch (okay, I've HEARD there are people who actually enjoy this, but, frankly, I've never gotten the hang of it, watching other people usually just creeps me out), or you could browse in the many, many wonderful gift shops.

I don't know why I love gift shops, but I do. I don't like shopping, and I'm not "into" fashion or decorating my house. In fact, I live in fear an unruly gang of well-dressed, well-coiffed, shopping zealots will one day ring my doorbell and demand I hand over my membership card in The Estrogen Club. Don't laugh..it could happen.

But gift shops are another story. I don't actually BUY anything, but I'm drawn to them like a moth to a flame, convinced that I MUST know SOMEONE who'd just LOVE a postcard from Dallas featuring a herd of longhorn cattle wearing Stetson cowboy hats, or maybe a "Don't Mess With Texas" coffee mug. These are TREASURES people!!

Imagine my angst when, upon arriving at DFW Airport recently, I was brought up short by the evidence of what 9/11 has done to airline travel. GONE are the cute little eateries and bars, GONE are the shoe-shine stations and, God Help Us All, GONE are the Gift Shops!! All of that is gone, at least it is for the people who are there to pick up passengers. That Wonderland might still exist beyond the You Must Have A Boarding Pass To Go Beyond Here Gate, which is located approximately 10 feet from the airport entrance, but it is a barren wasteland for those of us who are waiting to collect weary passengers and deliver them back home.

Seriously, I spent time in two separate terminals (WHY I had to be in two separate terminals is another story, but, like I told a friend, it IS possible to make it from Terminal D to Terminal A in less than 10 minutes, if you don't have a problem with breaking a few traffic laws. FYI - those shuttle drivers are very cranky and get downright pissy if you try to back up the entire length of an entrance ramp. Oh, and those buses are equipped with HORNS, too...who knew?)

Anyway, the FIRST terminal we visited wasn't too bad, but it was decidedly barren and without any frills. I mean, there were restrooms and a candy and drink machine, but the seating area was all the way across the terminal from the Arrival Info screen. So, if you were a compulsive person, like me, you had to keep getting up and schlepping all the way across the terminal to see if, by chance, the flight you were waiting for MIGHT just have moved it's arrival time up a minute or two. In my mind it was terrible and I griped about the morons who obviously designed the place - then I got to go to Terminal #2! Did you know you can actually HEAR Karma laugh out loud?

What can I say about Terminal #2, except that it made Terminal #1 look like some kind of Waiting Room Resort. We're talking DESOLATION here people...bare minimum ammenities...maybe ONE drink machine and 6, count 'em 6, chairs.

As Roger and I went SPRINTING by the boarding gate personnel, I got a whif of coffee from SOMEWHERE and did a pretty good imitation of Layla when she smells a tantalizing bit of cat poop - stopping short and whipping my head around to scan the area for the tasty morsel, hoping against hope I'd see a coffee bar or maybe, God help me, a coffee vending machine - but no such luck.

I know since 9/11 airports have had to take drastic measures to try and ensure the safety of their passengers and the general public. I applaud their actions, I truly do, and, I think they're succeeding in their quest to keep us safer...but would it KILL them to have one teeny tiny little cafe? Oh, and don't forget the gift shop!

The advice started when I got pregnant with my oldest son. I was happily initiated into the world of parenthood by several well-meaning, and some NOT so well-meaning parents, and, over the years, I've been glad of the tips they passed on to me. What REALLY hits home, though, are the things I WASN'T told...and believe me, there are several.

At the top of my list right now is the question "Why do my kids keep leaving?" I mean, really, just when I've gotten them to the point where they're not QUITE as much trouble as they used to be, (okay, they're AS MUCH trouble, just in a different way - less annoying but more expensive), they keep GOING AWAY from me.

They're either spending the weekend with friends at the local college or going on a overnighter field trip, an all-day jaunt somewhere, or staying out until the very last second of curfew (otherwise known as "if his butt's not in the house in the next minute, he's grounded and I take the car keys.")

I mean, after enduring 18 months of pregnancy, the first with mandatory bed rest, and 26 hours of labor, the second with NO, and I MEAN NO anesthesia until the last 20 minutes - I'm STILL waiting on my Purple Heart for that one, by the way; four trips to the emergency room for stitches; 14, YES 14 surgeries for ear tubes, pneumonia, a vicious bout with septecimia, a fall into the lagoon at Fair Park, a chipped front tooth, and surviving the scariest words in the English language - "Oh...so you're HIS mom?" you'd THINK these boys would realize that THEY OWE ME, BIG TIME!

But, NO, what do they do? They take any and all opportunities to get the Hell Outta Dodge, or in this case, HOME, as it were. There's nothing left for me to do, except face the fact that I've raised ungrateful little twerps and being left alone (okay with Roger and Layla, but STILL kidless) is my cross to bear.

Roger, who shares my fervent wish the boys would remain under our roof, but would rather DIE than admit it out loud, says MOST parents are happy their children are on the verge of flying out of the nest. As he tells me CONSTANTLY, "They're growing up, Pooker"...uh huh, I've got your "Pooker" right here. If you're not going to help me in my campaign to keep the boys in their rooms, then keep your cheerful "Circle of Life" comments to yourself, okay?

It's not like I want them GLUED to me or anything...I just want them in their rooms....with their doors shut....and their music on low......not bugging me or anything, for the rest of their lives. Is that too much to ask? I didn't think so.

My two boys got to know Manual Labor this weekend. They learned the hard way that he's NOT the new starting pitcher for the Ranger's Baseball Team.

The boys were hired out to help dig a new pond for my sister and her husband. My sister, a/k/a The Most Extreme Aunt, is the kind of aunt you hit your knees and PRAY for. She's generous and kind and, best of all (according to unemployed teenagers everywhere) she PAYS REALLY, REALLY WELL.

So, the boys left the house all excited about the double fun of getting to dig a big ol' hole and actually getting PAID to do it. At least the YOUNGEST one was excited about the digging, the OLDEST wasn't that keen on the digging, but the PAYING part sure did put a spring in his step.

They returned home about 9 hours later, filthy, sunburned and tired, but ROLLING in the money. I'm not going to say exactly how MUCH Auntie Extreme paid them, because you'd just track her down and start offering to do all types of chores for MUCH less money, and really, my boys need all the income they can get....we DO hope to retire someday and getting these kids off the Gravy Train is definitely at the top of our To Do List.

Let's just say, the boys EACH came home, carrying in their pockets, a little less than we spend on groceries for the entire week. Remember, we have TWO boys, ages 16 and 20, who are, shall we say, Good Eaters? Uh huh...you're getting the idea, aren't you?

Apparently they learned a couple of lessons from their physical labor, one of them being that if you hit a water pipe not once, but TWICE with a shovel, it's liable to break. But, I think they also came home with a new appreciation of what some people have to do to earn a living.

When Roger started out in the working world, his first summer job involved digging ditches. He would work all day long, in the hot Texas summer sun, with minimal breaks, travelling from job to job in a truck with no air conditioning. He did all this, and happily, too, for the current minimum wage.

Now, while I KNOW the boys worked hard, they did so in a fairly shaded area, with Auntie Extreme doling out the cold bottled water and sunscreen, and they took a leisurely 45 minute lunch to enjoy all the pizza they could eat, ALSO provided by Auntie Extreme. (Auntie Extreme even called several times that night and the next day to check on how the boys were feeling, something I'm fairly certain MOST employers DON'T do.)

Still, the boys DO know how fortunate they are and how relatively easy they have it, as evidenced by the youngest telling his father how very much he appreciated how hard his daddy had to work during those ditch-digging summers.

You should have seen the expression on his face when his Daddy informed him that he used to work a 9 hour day and come home with a grand total of approximately $10.00 BEFORE TAXES.

I swear to you, at that very minute, that boy began building a mental shrine to his Daddy, and there ain't nothing wrong with that, is there?

with my dog, which, in retrospect, might not have been my best idea. Apparently, dogs, and as far as I know, other animals, don't have the same kind of appreciation for nature that most of mankind does.

All I know is I wanted to sweep the patio and when I reached for my trusty broom, a little lizard scurried out of it's hiding place. Wanting to share the moment, and not having any grandchildren (NOTE TO GOD: I AM NOT COMPLAINING ABOUT NOT HAVING ANY GRANDCHILDREN...PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE DO NOT READ THAT STATEMENT AS A FERVENT WISH FOR GRANDCHILDREN. I am perfectly happy in my grandchildless state. In fact, seeing as how my oldest son just turned 20 and my youngest is only 16, I'm downright BLISSFUL).

But, moving on....I wanted to share that special nature moment and for some insane reason, I decided to share it with Layla.

Now, something I should mention right here is that Layla LOVES bugs - any bug and every bug, the dog has NEVER met a bug she didn't like, from beautiful butterflies to reeking stinkbugs - Layla loves them ALL. She never hurts them, just noses them and snuffles them and dances happily around as if to say, "Hey, y'all - look at this little crawly/flying thing - ain't it the BEST?", and if and when Karma is smiling on said bug and it actually makes it's getaway, Layla will look at me with her forehead wrinkled and a look on her face that seems to say, "Why did it have to run away - we were just getting to be friends?"

That's one of the best things about Layla - everybody and everything is a potential friend. Ummmm, except, apparently, lizards.....who knew?

I pointed Layla in the right direction and gave the lizard a little nudge with my broom and, in true lizard fashion, off it scurried. I pictured a happy little romp between Layla and the lizard, with the lizard dashing around and Layla dancing, prancing and snuffling. What happened was, Layla took one snif, scooped that poor lizard up whole, and ran off to enjoy her newfound little green Happy Meal.

I immediately took charge of the situation and proceeded to chase Layla around the backyard yelling in-charge-type commands like NO! and DROP IT! and DON'T EAT IT, IT'S JUST A POOR LITTLE LIZARD, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE.

Layla's not familiar with that last command, so I can understand why she didn't obey it, but there's NO excuse for her to ignore the first two. Believe me, this dog KNOWS the words NO and DROP IT! I'm fully convinced that one day, when she's entering the Pearly Gates and St. Peter asks her for her name, she'll respond with "My name is No! Drop It! Layla"...which is okay, because she'll then be able to join our other dogs, who have passed on to the Dog Park In the Sky: "Dammit It Maggie" and "Jesus Christ Big 'Un".

But, getting back to the poor potential lunch lizard, at this point Roger ran in to the backyard and, sensing Layla and I were having a bit of a communication problem, told Layla to drop it, which she did immediately - the little Daddy's Girl Suck Up - and Roger managed to toss the lizard to safety in the flower bed.

Now, I have told you this story to impart this important message. I have long believed housework was bad for your health, both mental and physical. I know whenever I do housework, it tires me out PHYSICALLY so much that I feel the need to make my family suffer an equal amount, MENTALLY. Therefore, a long time ago, I made the supreme sacrifice of vowing never to do housework again, and promptly hired a cleaning woman. It works out WONDERFULLY for our family and, I also feel I'm doing my own little bit for the economy.

Now, it has become apparent to me that God feels the SAME exact way about me doing yardwork...it's better for the universe if I leave such things to the professionals. No, no, don't argue - it's a hardship giving up yardwork, but I'll just have to suck it up and carry on. The fate of our natural world depends on it.

Remember to make youngest son break up with his girlfriend ASAP.

For Easter, my youngest son's girlfriend sent me some deviled eggs her mother had made - really cute deviled eggs. These eggs were done up so they looked like little teeny, tiny, baby chicks peeping out of the shell...precious, I'm telling you, just PRECIOUS!

That's when I made the decision that this relationship must DIE. I'm not overreacting..really, I'm not. It's just that I've seen these mixed relationships before, and they never work out. There are things in life that, fundamentally, just do not, and SHOULD NOT mix. Like fire and water, Those Who Craft should never mingle with Those Who Are Craft Klutzy, and I am a card carrying member of THWACK. In fact, Roger, who once made the near-fatal mistake of trying to TALK to me in the middle of a craft effort, has actually offered me CASH MONEY to NOT craft. That's right...I can get paid for NOT DOING something. Sounds like a win/win situation to me.

I remember once, consoling a friend of mine, who is another proud member of THWACK. Now, God has given this woman two girls, but like she says, "Thank God, they're NOT GIRLY GIRLS", so she had lived her life up to this point fairly craft-free, and pleased to death about it. This may come as a shock to some of you, but there are people out there who DO NOT LIKE TO DO CRAFTS!! I know, I know - blows your creative little minds, doesn't it? I'll give you a second to compose yourselves....

Anyway, one of this woman's daughters was currently dating the son of a Supreme Crafter Extraordinaire, and, the Supreme Crafter was routinely gifting my friend with all manner of cutesy, precious, darling little gems she'd made with her own two hands. My friend was in THWACK Hell. There was no WAY she could ever reciprocate and repay all the crafty bounty that was being bestowed on her. FYI - you cannot BUY reciprocal gifts for Crafters. To do so is a blasphemy to them and is akin to forcing the wrong size glue stick into their treasured glue guns.

I did the only thing I could do, I let my friend cry it out, sympathized with her and proceeded to help her hatch a diabolical scheme to nip this tragic little romance in the butt.

Now, I find myself in the same boat, faced with the daunting prospect of countless holidays and special occasions just teeming with all manner of craftified little treasures. I'm telling you, this is a path straight to rack and ruin, and, for the sake of my family and our future happiness, I've got to blow this happy little twosome right out of the water.

I've already begun my strategic little attack, and my plan is brilliant, if I do say so myself. This morning I sent the youngest son over to his girlfriend's house bearing two things...the plate the eggs were on and a giant, huge slab of the home-made German Chocolate Coconut Pecan cake I made for Easter.

Maybe the woman and I can come to some kind of understanding...if she won't bury me with adorable, handmade little gifties, I won't tempt her with fattening, heavenly, home-made goodness. It's either that or sneaking over there and mixing up her beads.

Now, I have no idea who is bored enough to actually read my blog, but, apparently SOMEBODY is, judging by the increasing numbers on the visitors counter.

Y'all please take a minute to post a comment or two...otherwise it's like I'm talking to myself. Which, isn't necessarily a BAD thing, seeing as how I find myself fascinating and I always agree with whatever I have to say. But, it'd be nice to hear from some of you, too. (especially, if you find me FASCINATING and ALWAYS agree with whatever I have to say!)

That was the name of the television show I was watching yesterday afternoon. I was bored out of my mind and thisclose to running into the kitchen and stuffing my face with anything I could get my hands on - food type stuff and non-food type stuff - it didn't matter...I was bored and HUNGRY!!

So, I flipped to one of the music video channels...I have no idea why, probably to just depress myself even further, so that I'd get in my car and drive to the nearest store and purchase copious amounts of chocolate type Easter goodies. I had a Russell Stover's chocolate truffle bunny the other day that made my eyes roll back in my head (the good way). Mmmmmmm!

But I digress..anyway, on this particular channel they were showing a reality show (ugh) about rich kids (ugh ugh) and the spectacular, outlandish and dare I say it - heinously self-absorbed ways they celebrate their Sweet 16 birthdays (ugh to the nth degree).

Y'all I was AMAZED...this one girl (and I'm trying to be a better person, so I'll forgo a physical description of her, which would include the words "hugely fat" and "dressed like a stuffed sausage in a too-small casing" and "A Full Length Mirror - THE PERFECT GIFT".) Anyway, this one young lady? was such a brat that, if I had been unfortunate enough to be her mother, I would have INSISTED they obscure my face, and conceal my identity.

Beginning with the language, (and really, I'm liable to cut almost ANYBODY a break on using cuss words, because of my own fondness and liberal use of them - but, hearing them come out of the mouth of a "Sweet 16" uh uh...not pretty), on to the DEMAND for Dunkin Donuts (see above comment about hugely fat - and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD MOM - JUST SAY NO!!), straight up to the time she looked her mother in the eye and said, and I quote "Don't EVEN think this day ISN'T ALL ABOUT ME, because IT IS!" Oh yeah, right about then I could have answered the age old question "Does a fat, spoiled, almost 16 year old brat BOUNCE when shoved out of a moving vehicle?" Enquiring minds wanna know, you know!

Oh, and I almost forgot one of the best parts - when the little darling pitched a fit because her grandmother ALMOST made the HUGE mistake of buying her a "used" LEXUS! Oh, the HORROR!! My God - aren't there Child Neglect LAWS where those people live!! (I sooo need one of those eye-rolly icons here).

Miss All About Me had herself a doozy of a party, allright, and mom admitted she'd spent over $180,000.00, but it was SO worth it! No, that was NOT a typo...mom said she spent OVER $180,000.00 on that little pisspot's birthday party.

There are so many things wrong with that, I can't even BEGIN to list them all. Let's just say that particular young woman would have been much better served if her mother had put that money in a trust fund for her. Judging by that girl's actions, she's NOT going to be much of a success at anything other than being a complete and total miserable excuse for a human being, and, unless I've missed something, they ain't paying you too well for that these days.

Oh, and P.S. I remember what I got for my 16th birthday...a pair of headphones for my 8 track stereo - and I thought it was just great, too.

I just wanted to post here real quick about Layla almost getting her butt kicked AGAIN! I know, it's SAD really, and I gotta say, I would NOT be the happy loving life individual that she is if everybody and their uncle tried to take a shot at ME, the way they do HER.

We were on our walk and I saw a dog, running loose. I'd been warned by a neighbor that this particular dog was fairly vicious and prone to attack other dogs.

Great....Layla gets attacked by ANY AND ALL dogs, from the vicious ones to the tee-tiny, scared of their own shadow dogs, so I knew right away this was not good, I'm smart like that, ya know. PLUS, the fact that the dog immediately charged us, with hackles raised was a fairly good clue in and of itself.

Anyway, my Momma instincts must have taken over because I got myself in between Layla and the Charging Hound From Hell (did I mention that Momma instincts, while a wonderful, powerful, God-Given instinct, are not particularly SMART?)

I raised my fist, looked the dog square in the eye and shouted, probably THE MOST authoratative "NO", I've EVER shouted, and I've raised TWO BOYS..I know how to yell like I mean it. The Demon Dog skidded to a halt and just stared at us. We, knowing a break when we see it, took the opportunity and got the Hell Outta Dodge.

We proceeded on our walk and Layla would, from time to time, look back at me with what was, I swear, a worshipful "Oh You Saved My Life" kind of look. I admit, I was pretty proud of myself and was stepping pretty high, I had faced what, to ME, is one of my all time fears and I had handled myself with bravery and courage.....but I do think I might have peed my pants a little, though.

except I'm not Catholic and I'm not male. Or maybe I should have been a psychiatrist, except remember, I don't do the medical stuff real well. Like I've said before, nobody has a whole lot of confidence in a doctor who has to lay down in order to remain conscious enough to treat you.

The reason I'm saying this is, people tell me things. No, I don't mean psychicly, which would be weird and kind of cool, and I don't mean friends tell me stuff - they do and that's perfectly normal. No, I mean complete and total strangers are constantly telling me things I don't want to know and, really they SHOULDN'T be telling me in the first place.

Take for example the checker at a local grocery store who, for whatever reason, felt compelled to tell me in graphic detail all about her "female surgery". I'm telling you, this poor woman got so descriptive and detailed I wouldn't have been at all surprised if she'd whipped out some visual aids, and a couple of lab reports. Me? I was busy trying to figure out if I could climb up on the conveyor belt thingy to lie down.

Or, the car-hop at the local drive-in who excitedly told me how she JUST THIS MINUTE got finished cleaning up the kitchen after one of the cooks had sliced a MAJOR ARTERY and had sprayed blood all OVER the walls and EVERYWHERE.

The manager of this particular drive-in is this waitress' son and his parting words to her as he careened out of the parking lot, taking the cook to the ER, were, "Make sure you wear gloves...he doesn't THINK he's got anything (meaning AIDS or Hepatitis, or God Only Knows), but he's not SURE". This is her SON telling her to clean up possibly toxic and life threatening bodily fluids?? Uh huh..well, I believe I'd be making an appointment to have my Will changed, if I were her, but I tend to be a bad sport like that.

An older woman, once sat at my desk (this was during my working lifetime) and told me step-by-gruesome step all about her recent face lift, complete with descriptions of the doctor peeling back the area under her eyes and scraping the "chicken fat" out. I never heard the rest of the story, since right about then I bolted for the ladies room and stayed there, fully clothed, sitting on the toilet with my head between my knees for a good 15 minutes.

I can say I come by this "gift" honestly. I remember my Mother was always being waylaid by people who wanted to confide their latest drama/trauma/tragedy to her. In fact, I have a friend who used to call me up, tell me her latest problem and ask me to tell my mother about it and ask for her advice. Now THAT'S some powerful JUJU right there...having somebody ask for your advice through a messenger. Almost like your powers are too awesome to be witnessed in person and should only be accessed through an intermediary.

I'm not usually asked for advice..I'm more of a sounding board or a confessional, and that's a good thing, since my advice tends to be of the "Nobody gets out alive" variety. My mother gave WONDERFUL, actually helpful advice and if people took her advice, their problems usually worked out. I live in fear that if anyone ever takes MY advice, I'll be called to testify in a trial in the near future.

Anyway, it's not easy living with someone who inspires spontaneous confessions and heart-to-hearts. Now, Roger will freely admit one of the main reasons he married me was because he's a shy person and figured, rightly so, if he was with ME, he'd pretty much never have to say another word in his entire life.

The only fly in THIS ointment is, apparently, this particular "gift" tends to rub off on people near and dear to the "Gifted One". We were sitting in a Pizza Inn the other night and a man, sitting in a booth, eating by himself (that right there just breaks my HEART - it always does, they may WANT to be alone, but I can't help but feel they're horribly lonely, lost souls without a friend in the world), but I digress...anyway, this man looks over at Roger, who's wearing a Band Booster shirt (band sucks, but that's another rant for another time) and this man, this complete stranger, proceeds to ask Roger if he's a teacher, and goes on to tell him of his high regard for teaching and teachers and the state of education in general.

At first I was a little worried for Roger. He IS shy, and talking to strangers is alot like Hell on Earth to him. Now, to ME, Hell is a roomful of people and nobody's saying ANYTHING. Again, probably another reason our marriage has been so successful. No fighting over who gets to talk.

But, I guess after years of seeing people spontaneously tell me things they wouldn't even tell their best friends, Roger's picked up the Art of Conversation, or at least the Art of LOOKING Like You're Interested, While Scoping Out The Nearest Method Of Escape. He nicely chatted with the man for a few minutes, and, the man, seeming happier and satisfied with their little chat, continued to eat his pizza in happy silence.

I truly have no idea why people feel compelled to confide in me. My mother, who, it's becoming clear, should have been granted Sainthood eons ago...at least it's clear to ME, anyway - Mother always used to say that everyone needed someone to talk to and, as pitiful as it is, to SOME people, we might be all they have. A friend once told me I was just so APPROACHABLE and easy to talk to.

Huh...so this is sort of like a Mission, I guess. Well, you know what? I can do that. I can listen politely and make encouraging nods and sypathetic comments, and even refrain from giving advice that's liable to lead to an unfortunate incarceration. I can do all that fairly easily...I just need to get better at figuring out ways to lie down if the talk is of the medical/gory variety.

Passing out cold DOES tend to put an end to those little chatty exchanges, though.

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, and my across the street neighbor is spending it walking around his front yard, talking on the phone and holding onto his weiner. Yes, Lawd, things just keep getting better and better in the ol' 'Hood.

The Weiner Holder is a relatively new neighbor, having rented the house from the owners, who in a fit of mid-life Yuppie-dom, decided they HAD to up and move to Swiss Avenue. Swiss Avenue is a street located in East Dallas, lined with huge, old, glorious homes, which you can buy for pretty much pennies on the dollar because the streets on EITHER SIDE of Swiss Avenue are straight out of a third world country. I'm talking gangs, poverty, vandalism and random gunfire, just to hit the high spots. I can't imagine anyone wanting to live in a neighborhood where you have to dodge the bullets to get your morning paper, but, hey, that's just me.

Anyway, the NEW across the street neighbor promises to be a never-ending source of community pride and entertainment. Not only does the poor man live in fear of his "little buddy" running away, he has a MOST eclectic and unique sense of style and fashion. From his dred-locks, complete with a little "Pebbles Flintstone" coif on the top, to his three times too small wife beater t-shirt and HUGE "gangsta" shorts, on down to his white ankle socks and black sandals..this man just SCREAMS fashion plate.

And scream I did, standing in front of the kitchen window, watching Wanker Yanker stroll around his yard with one hand holding his phone and the other holding his valuables.

I probably should have done the poor man a favor and gone over and told him that it wasn't necessary to hang on too tight...seeing as how those things ARE attached.

Layla, The Wonder Wuss, got her butt kicked again yesterday by another dog. But THIS time it was in her very own backyard...well, ALMOST, it was actually in our alley.

A stray momma dog with puppies has been hanging around and one of the neighbors has been feeding her. Which, by the way, is against the law, according to the Animal Control Officer. FYI - you can pretty much be a total fiend to your OWN dog, but don't you DARE try to feed a stray...not here in Beautiful Mesquite, Texas, Rodeo Capital of The World!!

Anyway, Roger and Layla were happily tripping down the alley (and if you knew Roger and Layla you'd realize that "tripping" is pretty accurate here), when, all of a sudden Momma Dog rushes out and jumps on Layla.

Now, let me pause right here to say that Momma Dog is definitely a mutt of indescriminate lineage, and she weighs approximately 35 pounds. Layla is a fine specimen of a purebred Labrador Retriever and weighs in at a, shall I say "voluptuous", 102 pounds.

Do the math and you'll see that my beloved blonde was taken out by a dog approximately one-third of her size, AND, who is a single parent taking care of a BROOD of children. Now, some people will say that was the reason the momma dog attacked, she was protecting her young, and while, that was probably PART of it, I'm here to tell you that when MY own boys were little I doubt if I'd have had the ENERGY to tackle someone three times my size. Oh, I'd have had the DESIRE allright, but, a pre-ass-whipping nap would probably have been necessary.

Roger sprang into action, grabbed the dog deterrant spray we ALWAYS carry with us (side note here - when your dog gets her butt kicked as often as Layla does, you learn to ALWAYS pack heat) and managed to chase the momma dog off.

We called Animal Control and they responded quickly, capturing Momma Dog and hauling her to the shelter. Now, you're probably wondering about the puppies...I know I was. The Animal Control Officer assured me the puppies were old enough to "fend for themselves" - uh huh - and he was going to be out bright and early in the morning to set traps to catch them.

Okay...All Aboard The Guilt Express - thank God I'm ALWAYS packed and ready to jump on the Guilt Train!! Of course, I didn't sleep last night for worrying about those feral little bundles of trouble and, of course, the FIRST thing Layla and I did this morning was crawl down the alley looking for them...poor Layla didn't realize I was using her for puppy bait. There's not a dog on this EARTH that doesn't wanna have a shot at Layla, probably because she's a natural blonde, is all I can think of, and I was counting on that fact. I figured we'd walk down the alley very slowly, pausing at critical "possible puppy hiding locations" and in a matter of minutes Layla would be besieged with a horde of Puppy Huns, bent on her destruction.

Didn't happen. Which is a good thing, seeing as how I'd sworn a blood oath to Roger that, "No, I'm NOT going to look for those puppies" and "No, those puppies WILL NOT be in our house when you get home tonight". Isn't it cute that, after almost 21 years of marriage he STILL BELIEVES me when I promise things like that? Gotta love a man who gleefully embraces the Ignorance Is Bliss mantra and takes it to heart. That right there probably EXPLAINS our almost 21 year marriage.

I can Ignorance Is Bliss with the best of them when it suits me, and right now, I'm stationed in a nice little place I like to call "Melindaville", where the theme for the day is: "Animal Control was out here EARLY this morning and those puppies are now lounging at the shelter, bathed, fed and loved on, currently awaiting to screen the MILE LONG line of people just FIGHTING over them".

Melindaville is truly a beautiful place and, unfortunately, the Guilt Train Express doesn't stop here often enough.

I was thinking today about how my life has changed since the demon that is Alzheimer's has stolen my sweet mother.

Ever since I grew up and moved out, I've called my mother every morning of my life...yeah, I know, talk about your apron strings. But, it's just always the way I started my day and, while sometimes I resented taking the time to call, I was always glad I did.

The conversation always started the same way, I'd call and Daddy would answer the phone. I'd chat with him for MAYBE 30 seconds and then ask to speak to Mother. That's where the REAL conversation would begin. We'd talk about the issues most important to her and me, and we'd offer each other advice. Mine was usually the "take no prisoners and burn down the village" type and hers was always the much wiser, actually helpful "maybe you should try this" type. I always took her advice and everything always worked out. Fortunately for her, she NEVER took mine.

I can't remember when that conversation shifted to me speaking only to my father. I truly can't remember the day when I called and DIDN'T ask to talk to Mother, because, basically, mother isn't able to carry on a phone conversation now. At least not one that goes beneath the surface level. Mother's phone conversations now follow a predictable pattern. They begin with her saying "Who is this? Oh, well how are you? I'm just cleaning the house." My precious mother hasn't cleaned her house or cooked a meal in several years..those tasks are beyond her now.

Now, my morning phone calls are to my father, and they're just as predictable. Daddy wakes up at the crack of dawn, fixes his coffee, makes breakfast, and reads the paper. He knows I'll be calling around 7:00, so he waits to dress Mother until after he's talked to me.

I call and ask what he's doing and get the same daily rundown. I know his routine now, like I USED to know my Mother's. I know he has a cup of coffee first thing in the morning, then fixes breakfast and reads the paper, saving the Sports Section for last. After that it's time to tackle the task of getting Mother bathed and dressed for the day. I give him a brief rundown of my plans for the day and he always asks if the boys are up yet and what the dog is doing.

The conversation always ends the same way, with me saying "I'd better run and get my chores done." Daddy will reply, "Why don't you walk, instead, you might hurt yourself if you run." Then we sign off with "I love you's" and he always says the line that just breaks my heart and makes me hate myself a little more each day. The last thing my Daddy says to me each day is "Come to see us." Which, I won't do, if I can avoid it at all. My parents live in a special kind of Hell, where each day is, AT BEST, as bad as the day before and, AT WORST, even more horrible than yesterday.

I've questioned my father's refusal to put my mother in an Assisted Living Facility, and I truly don't know the REAL reasons why he refuses. Basically, I think it's rooted in finances and I also feel that he would be lost without having her to care for every day. It gives his life purpose and, I can imagine it's so hard to start a new life at the ripe old age of 85.

One thing is for sure, though. Even IF his motives are selfish, he is doing a job which most people wouldn't do. He's not doing it perfectly, but he's doing the best he can. I've always respected my father for many things, his intelligence, his ability to provide for his family, his willingness to undertake the raising of a niece and nephew, just to name a few. This last phase in his and mother's lives has given me a new level of respect for my father. We may not agree on the way he's going about it, but he's caring for Mother in a way that, truthfully, I never thought he was capable of. He's risen to the occasion and I truly admire him for that.

I still miss my daily Mommy time, though, and I know now, that I always will.

I awoke this morning to the sound of birds singing. One bird in particular, one happy, happy, loud and annoying bird. We slept with the windows open last night and, at the bright hour of 6:00 a.m. a little feathered "friend" decided it was time to trill his version of "Oh What A Beautiful Morning!" Pissed me right off and if I'd have had a gun, he'd be singing in that great bird choir in the sky.

Okay, in my quest to lead a more relaxed, less stressful, more grateful life, I decided to embrace this pain in the ass and try to appreciate the beauty of nature. Those who know me, know where this is going.

So, I listened to the birdsong and tried to figure out what type of birds this particular Mockingbird was imitating. There were all types of different sounds, but none sounded like any bird I'd ever heard. There were beeps, whistles, sirens...sirens? SIRENS? I listened closer and sure enough an identifiable pattern began to emerge. This particular emmisary from Hell was doing a bang up job of imitating a CAR ALARM!!

Yep, that's right, folks, a car alarm, complete with the beep, beep, beep, click, click, click, woo woo, woo woo, woo woo. I'm telling you, this bird had the whole thing DOWN. If I could have trained him I'd have had a working car alarm on my 8 year old piece of junk car.

Yep, I think it's so important for all of us to take a minute and enjoy the beauty of the nature that surrounds us, and the day I hear a squirrel tap out my garage door code with an acorn is the day I am OUT OF HERE!

complete strangers come up to you at the grocery store and make comments like "I wish I was going home with YOU!"

Now, some of you (mostly the people who don't KNOW me) will think, "Wow, she must be really HOT!" The rest of you (the ones who DO know me) are thinking "They must be talking about the amount of groceries she has in her cart!" If you're thinking groceries, you're right.

I fix dinner five nights a week, and with a husband and two, COUNT 'EM TWO, teenage boys, it's no surprise my grocery bill ranges between $150.00 and $200.00 a week. Wait a minute, I just experienced a sharp pain in my head...okay, better now.

What gets me is, apparently, I'm in the minority of people who actually PURCHASE and COOK food. I mean, I see people wandering around the store with, like cranberry juice and lunchmeat in their little baskets and I think "That's IT...that's what you're gonna EAT?" Meanwhile, I'm wrestling with the defective cart from Hell, you know, the one that has the backwheels locked in place so in order to turn into the next aisle you have to DRAG the entire back end around? Uh huh, try THAT with a cart-load and see if you don't get a workout..."Curves" can kiss my ass!

And what about the women who have those mammoth coupon organizers in the baby-seat part of the basket. Now look, y'all, not too many people are more organized than I am, but PLEASE, how in the world does somebody utilize one of those monsters? I don't really think they do, if you'll notice, they RARELY have any actual FOOD in their carts. Nope, I think they just slap that coupon behemoth thing in the seat and then proceed to wander around the store, trying to look oh-so-efficient and thrifty.

Meanwhile, their husbands are trying to come home with ME!

When we moved into our house, over 21 years ago, we had no idea we were joining the neighborhood equivalent of Ripley's Believe It Or Not.

A brief description of our neighbors includes:

The man across the street who suffers from an acute case of Adult ADHD, we call him Captain Hyper. Seriously, this guy canNOT just sit still and enjoy life...no, he must fill every waking moment with home improvement projects, including adding on a second story game room, building a backyard gazebo, complete with electricity and natural gas hook ups, installing a wrought iron fence, building a side patio, with the flagstones placed in a decorative "cloud pattern", AND remodeling the doorways and archways of his home with the latest in home decor...the quarried stone. Oh, and did I mention that this guy does all this HIS OWN DAMN SELF!! Yep, no contractors for Captain Hyper...he does all this work on his own...which is MOST annoying, because it just points out the slackassedness of his across the street neighbors (us), who have the Home Improvement Work Ethic of "It's time for roof repair when the shingles start showing up in the yard" and "Why mow the grass? If we don't water it, it won't grow and "voila" problem solved". Oh, and let's don't forget, in Captain Hyper's "off time" he also designs and makes Christmas Yard Art to sell during the Holidays....uh huh...a real pain in the butt, this guy.

Now, our next door neighbors on our right side, are a horse of a different color. These people we've affectionally nicknamed The Vampire People, due to the fact that we NEVER see them leave their house, unless it's to have a knock down drag out fistfight in the backyard, which ended when I climbed our adjoining fence, hanging over the top, and waving my broom yelling "Hey, Hey, cut that out right now!" Surprised the shit outta me when they actually DID stop and took it inside. Apparently I have powers I have yet to discover, and I must remember to use these powers for Good and not Evil.

Anyway, The Vampire People lived in their house for, about 15 years before they even planted a single shrub in front of their house. Don't even ask about their backyard...I believe there's a good chance an ancient civilization may be living and flourishing in all the crap they have stored back there. But, they are a welcome balance from Captain Hyper and his "If You Hold Still, I'll Remodel You" philosophy.

The neighbors on the LEFT side are a study in human psychology (or psychiatry - you decide).
The family consisted of two parents and two sons. Unfortunately, the Patriarch recently passed away and, I'd be less than honest if I said he was anything more than a cantankerous, mean, cheap, SOB, with a STRONG sense of "Whatever I want to do is fine, but if you do it, there'll be hell to pay."

In, what I consider to be one of Life's Hysterical Ironies, after "Big John" died, his wife began to run amok. That poor man wasn't even settled in his casket good and she DOVE right into home improvement BIG TIME...I'm talking foundation work, gutter replacement, painting the house, new fences AND, the woman actually chopped down and/or ripped out EACH AND EVERY SINGLE TREE OR SHRUB THEY OWNED!! Now, the particular irony in this is that Big John flat LOVED his yard and, even up to the end of his fight with cancer, he could be found out trimming his trees and tending to his flowers. The Merry (or maybe I should say Euphoric) Widow wasted NO time before she thoroughly demolished every single thing her Dearly Departed loved. Hmmmmm, can you say ISSUES?

Her two sons are a story unto themselves. The oldest makes Budda look like he's dropped a few pounds and I swear to you, the cartoon character Baby Huey was the mold for this poor guy. Imagine my pleasure and pride, when I rounded the corner one day and saw him sitting cross-legged on his front steps, in a sleveless t-shirt and shorts (shudder), smoking a ciggie and crying because he was currently having some major car trouble. Oh yeah, a sight ANY homeowner would be proud to behold. I could just HEAR our home values rising! P.S. Let me just say right here, that, while I won't say I'd NEVER smoke...if I ever did smoke and I was STILL FAT, I'd surely be pissed as Hell and somebody would have some explaining to do.

Now we to come to our most famous and infamous neighbor, the youngest son of Big John and The Merry Widow, whom we've fondly named Demon Child. Demon Child was 4 years old when we moved into our house, and he immediately started on a journey of vandalism, stalking, wanton destruction of property, public urination, peeping in windows and just generally psychotic behavior. I am CERTAIN that one day, some reporter will be shoving a microphone in my face and asking me questions about him...and let me tell ya, I'm gonna sing like a bird. This kid is a serial killer waiting to happen!

He began his crime spree at the age of 4 by regularly ripping all the flowers out of our flower beds. This led to him unscrewing our Christmas lights and throwing them, one by one, into the street to hear the "pop". After that he took to wearing Halloween masks and looking into our windows, while growling maniacally at the dog.

Public urination was also high on this kid's list of favorites...beginning with him standing on his front sidewalk and seeing how far he could pee into the street, he was about 9 years old at the time. Now you might be thinking, "Oh, ALL boys play their little piss games." Let me point out here the last time I was lucky enough to see Demon Child whip it out and let it fly he was around 20 years old and was right outside the big bay window in my kitchen.

Life next to Demon Child hasn't been without it's lighter moments, though. Once we were across the street at Captain Hyper's house for a BBQ. We're all sitting around and a guest, who DOESN'T live in this neighborhood notices Demon Child is running around outside his house with a paper bag over his head, growling, and running into trees, mailboxes, retaining walls, etc. Demon child was about 12 years old at this time. Now, what's funny is that those of us who lived in the neighborhood thought nothing about it...it was just another day in the life of Demon Child.

I notice "the guest" keeps looking at the bag headed boy and back at us and finally couldn't take it anymore and says "So, what's with the kid with the bag on his head?" To which every single one of us answered..."Oh, that's just Jason". "Um, is he challenged?", asked the guest, sympathetically..."Nope, he's just psychotic" we answered.

It's funny the way things work out. During his entire rampage, Demon Child's parents never did admit he did anything wrong...I mean Denial was a regular religion with these people. Then Big John passed away and The Euphoric Widow started running amok. Now BOTH boys have moved back home with her and the neighborhood is once again treated to Baby Huey Budda's public crying jags when his life gets too tough, and Demon Child's car alarm ROUTINELY goes off each and every night at around 1:00 a.m.

While these episodes are petty and annoying, I can't help but think if Momma and Daddy had cracked the whip a little bit more, maybe the Prodigal Sons wouldn't have been quite so quick to beat a path back home.

Which reminds me...I need to go smack my kids for no apparent reason.

We got the results back from Layla's biopsy awhile back and I've put off posting about it here, because, really, I show my stupidity on a regular basis, I see no need to actually PUT IT OUT THERE for the whole world to see on purpose. (I know that's a really long sentence and is probably full of run-ons and grammatical errors...don't tell me about it. I'm NOT an English Major and if I WAS, I doubt if I'd be sitting here in front of this computer at 10:40 a.m. on a Thursday morning in my sweats and fuzzy tundra slippers.)

Back to the biopsy results...the GOOD news is it's a fungal infection. The BAD news is I PAID ALMOST $500.00 TO DIAGNOSE A CASE OF RINGWORM!! Oh My God! That phrase STILL makes me ill.

Honestly, it didn't LOOK like Ringworm, and with two boys, I KNOW from Ringworm. Even the vet said he didn't know what the Hell it was (well, he didn't say THAT, but you get the gist). Yep, it could have been any number of things, from cancer to a sore she gave herself by licking herself too much...now THAT right there would have pissed me off, big time, and had it been the case, Miss Layla would be standing on a corner with a sign saying "Will Shed For Food" or something.

What KILLS me is that, in typical fashion, when it first showed up, instead of slapping some ointment on it and just calling it a day. We run pell-mell to the vet like we just have some extra money burning a hole in our pockets and we don't wanna spend it on anything fun like trips or furniture or OURSELVES..nope, we want to give it ALL to our friendly vet because, really, we're morons.

So, let's review. I've got myself a pedigreed hunting dog. A dog who is born and bred to bound into icy water to retrieve all manner of fowl upon command. Stoicly braving the elements to sit by her Master's side awaiting his bidding. Uh huh.... only THIS particular dog doesn't like water, is afraid of ducks and to date has gotten pink-eye from the dog park and a fungal infection from God knows where. The only things she "retrieves" are things she's not supposed to have in the first place and then you have to chase her down and tackle her to get it back. Unless it's cat poop...cat poop goes down the hatch ASAP.

I think one of us needs to work on her attitude.

We got Miss Layla home all safe and sound yesterday and she was nice and mellow...I need some of whatever it is they gave her - that stuff is fantastic!! In case you haven't been paying attention, Layla is my 18 month old, 102 pound yellow Lab. Now concentrate..there may be a test later!

This latest adventure starts out with Roger and I getting to the vet's office around 5:00. They were packed and it was HOT in there. They call us back so the doctor can show us Layla's x-rays..let me just stop here and ask WHY?? Why do doctors always feel compelled to SHOW you stuff? If I could handle all that medical stuff, they'd be paying ME the big bucks!

Anyway, we're ushered into this teeny, tiny little surgical room (swear to GOD, there was ACTUAL FREAKING SURGICAL STUFF JUST LAYING AROUND!!)
and the doctor proceeds to show us Layla's x-rays and explain what we're looking at (which was pictures of perfectly healthy legs)...he keeps talking, and talking, and talking (let me also pause right here to say that, in case I haven't made it ABUNDUNTLY clear to you, I DON'T DO MEDICAL STUFF REAL WELL!! There's a reason my oldest son passed out in the bathroom at the doctor's office, after a blood test..he's his Momma's Child!!)

Sooo, this vet just keeps droning on and on and pretty soon..you guessed it, I'm thinking, I'm gonna hit the floor if I don't get the Hell Outta Here!! I pretty much cut the doctor off in mid-sentence, grabbed Layla's meds and RAN out the door.

I thought I'd be okay once I got out of that Hell-Hole, but Noooo, once you're on the path of passing out..there IS no relief in sight, so I mumbled something to Roger along the lines of "Give me the car keys so I can die in peace", and I ran to the car, leaving him to wrangle Layla and her big old cone-headed self.

I got to the car, kicked back and thought "I'll just lay here until I feel better or I die" and to tell you the truth, I didn't really care which one it was. I hear a thump and then the car door opens and Layla hops in. They've given her something to help keep her quiet, and she has no idea where she is, and, basically, doesn't care.

Roger gets in and asks how I'm doing. At this point, I can either #1 talk or #2 continue to live...I can't do both at the same time, so I just tell him to get me home.

We're flying down the highway and I'm feeling worse by the minute...which NEVER happens. I mean, once I get myself prone I usually snap out of it, but now I'm feeling NASEOUS!! I think I'm gonna throw up!! What the Hell? I don't DO throw up!! Honest to God, I've puked maybe three times in my entire life...I was pregnant twice and had the flu the other time...I DO NOT URP!!

Roger asks if I want him to pull over and, of course, I say no, because, remember I DON'T THROW UP...next thing I know, I've blown chunks in my very own lap!
Let me tell you a little known fact...you haven't LIVED until you've driven 20 minutes sitting in a puddle of your own puke. Uh huh...it's an experience, allright.

To tell you how looped Layla was, that big old girl, just sat in the backseat and looked at me like "Dude, you just hurled all over yourself." She could have cared less that my lap was full of undigested lunch and she hadn't eaten all damn day.

Anyway, we got home, I stripped in the utility room and Roger, God Bless His Heart, hosed the car seat off for me.

Why can't I just lead a normal life?

my dog was sent here by a higher power to punish me. It's the only explanation that makes sense.

Life with Layla is like life with a 100 pound toddler. Layla is a yellow Lab "puppy" who weighs over 100 pounds, is 18 months old, and like I always tell people...she's not real bright, but she's good looking.

The word "exuberant" is used REPEATEDLY when describing Layla's behavior. For those of you who don't know, exuberant is a euphemism for "wildly out of control and liable to hurl herself into you, full body contact style, at any given moment". She has no concept of her enormous size and believes herself to be a dainty, delicate lap dog (see "she's not real bright" comment above).

I'm a member of a Lab board, comprised of nuts like myself, who feel their lives aren't complete unless they have a manic, four legged toddler in a fur coat, running their lives. I've gotten a lot of good information from that Lab site - enough to have the sense to know this Purgatory is going to last at LEAST until Layla's 3 years old.

Anyway, here's some insights I've gained in my year and a half of Life with Layla:

YOU MIGHT OWN A LAB IF:

You routinely "shave" your clothes before you leave the house.

"Fur" is always a part of your wardrobe.

The blonde (or black or brown) hair stuck in your lipgloss IS NOT yours.

You're not bothered by finding a blonde (or black or brown) hair on your spouse's clothes. (in fact, finding just ONE is a miracle!)

You laught out loud when you hear the words "indestructible dog toy".

You have a basket full of bull penises (bullies) on top of your ice box.

Your butcher knows your dog's name.

Exercise, which you used to refer to as "the E word" is now a daily part of your routine.

The words "It's just a dog" are incomprehensible to you, and might as well be a foreign language.

Your husband, a life-long dog hater, now refers to your dog as "MY dog".

This same husband tells you that if the two of you ever split up, all he wants is the grandfather clock and the dog.

You can remember life BEFORE your dog...but frankly can't understand why you'd WANT to.

P.S. All prayers are appreciated!

About 3 1/2 years ago, my hubby and I lost our minds and went on Weight Watchers Online. We each lost over 100 pounds and, so far, we've both kept it off. Isn't that just WONDERFUL and Oh-So-HEALTHY? and don't we BOTH look FABULOUS? and doesn't it JUST SUCK OUT LOUD THAT I CAN'T EAT WHATEVER I WANT ANYMORE AND I'M ALWAYS STARVING AND CONSTANTLY THINKING ABOUT FOOD?

Seriously, if I had to do it all over again, I'm not sure I'd do it. Losing the weight WAS hard, but, nothing impossible. It's like we just got in a zone and before you know it, the weight was gone. What's hard is keeping it off. I LOVE food, I love everything about food and I can't get past the fact that I can't eat WHAT I want, WHEN I want, AS MUCH as I want, forever.

It IS a big benefit, health-wise, at least it is for Roger. Heart disease runs in his family and his dad died from a massive heart attack at a very young age. So, for Roger, it really IS the smart thing to do. Now Me? That's another story. People in my family live FOREVER. You practically have to KILL us to get rid of us. Witness my mean-as-hell grandmother, who died about 5 minutes before the family killed her.

So, while I'm really glad that Roger's health is going to be much improved, I'm pretty pissed off that one of the great joys of my life, namely eating, is going to be severely curtailed for the rest of my life. I HAVE to keep the weight off in support of and comraderie with my beloved hubby. So, it's all his fault and I'm pretty sure I'm gonna have to make him pay for it.