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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you and THE BAR IS OPEN!

Here are the dogs waiting for their nightly popcorn snack. You should see them when the microwave beeps.

This is a Mexican twist on traditional lasagna.
**I don't use ricotta cheese, because Roger and the boys don't like it (the weirdos), so make sure you do my egg & cheese trick...it helps bind the lasagna together.

1 pound of ground turkey
1 large onion, chopped
Tomato sauce (1 15 oz can)
1 tablespoon minced garlic
1 can of Ranch Style Beans
1 can of Enchilada sauce (mild or hot, your choice)
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
2 tsps. chili powder
1 tsp. ground cumin
1 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp. ground allspice
1/2 tsp. ground cloves
9 lasagna noodles (cooked)
2 cups of shredded mexican cheese
2 eggs

Preheat the oven to 350. Cook lasagna noodles according to package directions, drain and let cool. In a large dutch oven, brown ground turkey and onion until turkey is cooked through. Add chopped garlic and cook 30 seconds. Add tomato sauce, ranch beans, Worcestershire sauce, chili powder, cumin, cinnamon, allspice, and cloves, stirring after each addition.

Reduce heat and simmer at least 10 minutes. Check for seasonings and add salt if necessary.

In a medium mixing bowl, beat two whole eggs. Add 1 cup of shredded cheese and mix together.

Ladle a small amount of sauce in bottom of 9x13 inch pan. Add 3 lasagna noodles and a layer of sauce. Add another layer of noodles, more sauce, and with your fingers (I know, it's gross), spread a layer of egg/cheese mixture on top of the sauce. Finish by layering the last of the lasagna noodles and sauce and top with the remainder of the cheese.

Cover with foil and bake for 40 minutes, remove the foil and bake an additional 20 minutes.

Let stand at least 15 minutes before serving.

The other day Layla and I found a stray Yellow Lab on our walk. Of course, we took him home and immediately fell in love with "Buddy" (even Roger fell for him, which tells you a LOT about what a charming dog Buddy is).

We did our job as good citizens and posted tons of Found Dog signs in the neighborhood and, unfortunately, Buddy's owner saw the signs and called to collect him. Believe me, I won't be making THAT mistake again. If sweet Buddy manages to escape and find his way over here, you WON'T be hearing about it from ME. Nope, Layla and I will just keep our lips sealed and enjoy life with our new"found" canine friend....uhhhhh, Duddy.

Anyway, before Buddy's owner called, we were discussing the idea of keeping Buddy for our own selves. Well, I was discussing it - Roger was fighting it. Poor guy actually thought he had a SAY in something like that, bless his heart.

One of Roger's main objections is that he really, really, really wants to retire - as soon as possible, like right now, and he firmly thinks the cost of an extra dog would delay that retirement.

Now, SOME people would say that if the expense of having just ONE MORE DOG is gonna keep you from retirement, then maybe you're not financially READY for that retirement. SOME people might say that, but it's not gonna be ME. I'm not about to tell a man who has to wrangle 20+ second graders each and every day, five days a week, that retirement MIGHT NOT be a great idea. Nope, not gonna go THERE.

What I WILL share with you is an observation I made the other day. I mentioned to Roger that, one day I might like to have some work on my chest area. Nothing MAJOR - nothing ENLARGING, just a little bit of a lift, a slight tucking UPWARD, maybe more of a HEAVE. Oh, who am I kidding here - we're talking major structural repair, complete with steel girders and support beams. Gravity has NOT been kind, okay?

I simply made a slight off-hand comment about this the other night while getting ready for bed. It's not an exaggeration to say that within the next 24 hours, Roger had asked me, not once, but TWICE, if I had done any research into and found out any info about my boob job.

Now, see, apparently, we can't afford to feed and care for an extra dog without going into the poor house and forcing Roger to continue to slave away at the educational equivalent of busting rocks on a chain gang, but a BOOB JOB FOR MOMMA??? Oh, that's totally DOABLE!

Remember in an earlier post I said we had an occasional "odor" in the house, and remember I said I was fairly certain (read: absoloutely terrified) that odor was related in some way to the squirrels and/or rats living in our attic? Man, it gets old being right all the time.

The good news is we are currently vermin-free and are armed and ready to stay that way. The bad news is, it cost us a small fortune to get that way....the even WORSE news is, it's become apparent that we could have accomplished this very same feat with a 12 pak of empty Diet Coke cans - or maybe a 12 pak of empty beer cans would have been a more festive approach to solving this particular problem.

Roger was finally convinced to call in the professionals when we overheard a particularly boisterous and noisy romp over the kitchen table. Apparently, it's MATING SEASON!! Oh Joy! The commotion was one you could only envy - or fear - depending on your point of view. While the FREQUENCY was impressive, the DURATION of the "encounters" wasn't anything to write home about, if you know what I mean.

Plus, there's something kinda sleazy about overhearing ANYTHING, even a rodent, "gettin' busy"....think of the song, Muskrat Love, with less cute gibbering and more obnoxious thumping - really loud and really rapid thumping.

Roger agreed, after much nagging and carrying on by yours truly, to finally allow trained professionals to come in and get the job done. Something, HE assured me he could do if it wasn't for the two dozen or more urgent things he already HAD on his To-Do List, and the fact that he's not real fond of heights, and we don't own a flashlight that works, and he has mild claustrophobia, and oh yeah, he's right in the middle of this Life or Death on-line computer hearts game.

Yeah, whatever. Anyway, the Vermin Man (my name for him - not his actual NAME - the man drives around in a bright yellow truck with tee-tiny paw prints on it for God's sake, let's give him SOME dignity), showed up and asked me what the problem was. I said, I thought it was rats and squirrels in the attic. In his best, "Don't worry your little head about it Little Lady" voice, he assured me he'd check it out, assess the threat and formulate a plan.

After a complete and thorough inspection he informed me we had "rats and squirrels in the attic". WOW, you know, he really should be paid for that kind of insight.....oh wait, HE IS!!
He recommended a two step approach of trapping the animals and sealing up the various entries and exits the little mooching germ bags had been using to gain access to their Critter Condos in my attic.

He quoted us a price that was DOUBLE the amount of money I paid for my first car. Roger started shaking his head "no" and I grabbed the pen from the guy and signed the contract before Roger could formulate his kind "thanks, but no thanks" speech.

See, let me jump in here in my defense and say that during his search and discovery mission, the Critter guy hollered down from the attic and asked Roger for a garbage bag. You know NOTHING good is going to come of a vermin guy in your attic asking for a trash bag....and, sure enough, it WASN'T good. Captain Critter had found the source of our mysterious odor: A HUGE, DEAD AND RAPIDLY DECOMPOSING RAT in my attic.

Yessiree, nothing makes you prouder as a homeowner, than to sit on your couch while somebody hauls the stinking, bloated body of a disease ridden rodent out of the attic, DIRECTLY over the spot where you and your family sit and watch television, literally within spitting distance of where you eat. Right at that moment, price was NO object, believe me. We signed on the dotted line and I thought I heard the distinct sound of a cash register ringing, but maybe I'm wrong here.

The Search and Destroy Team was deployed the next day - traps were set and baited (and ignored by the vermin), entries and exits were located and secured (so the rodents simply chewed NEW ones) and one squirrel was accidentally sealed in the attic.

We know this because of the frenzied, power gnawing we could hear over the kitchen table. This was no casual "gee, I'm bored, wonder what this wood tastes like" chewing. Nope, this was a"Holy Mother Of God, I'm trapped in this attic hell hole and I've gotta get OUT!" GNAW-FEST. Which resulted in a, I'm NOT kidding about this, SOFTBALL SIZED HOLE over my kitchen window.

Okay, Roger and I are NOT real wildlife enthusiasts, especially when it comes to rats, mice and other skittery, crawly things that are liable to JUMP ON MY FACE AND GET TANGLED IN MY HAIR!! And, since it was Easter weekend, it was a safe bet nobody from the critter place was gonna ride to the rescue. What should we DO?? The squirrel was apparently OUT, but, I was betting it was coming back. Just my luck, my kids and my dog are trying desperately to escape me, but apparently, rodents and squirrels just LOVE living here.

Well, I'm proud to say I solved the problem and it was a GENIUS solution, if I do say so myself. I emptied out a Diet Coke can and after Roger sawed off the ends (without ANY bloodshed, either), I cut the can open and we staplegunned that sucker right over that big, huge hole. TA DAAAAA!! Squirrel Access DENIED!!

I was one happy camper, let me tell you....that is until I realized that I could have rodent proofed this entire house with about $5.00 worth of aluminum cans and staples.

So, readers, please learn a lesson from all of this. If you detect the presence of unwanted animals in your attic, don't call in a costly professional. Just dig your husband's staple gun out of the garage and wave a 12 pak in front of his face. I guarantee you, you'll win the Rodent War and have yourself a very happy volunteer army!