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

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

Merry Christmas, Y'all!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes,a very sad day, indeed.

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



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



Me and Roger, Getting Ready To Walk




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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gig 'Em!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you and THE BAR IS OPEN!