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.