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.