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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanksgiving, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, Suzanne.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smart girl, that Wit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Told ya birds are stupid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, where are those anti-bacterial wipes?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like it or not, SOME talents should be appreciated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you Roger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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