I have always admitted, loud and clear, that Roger and I are not especially smart when it comes to the various technology that's available today. I have no idea how to use about 90% of the features on my cell phone and, without my cheater glasses on, I can't even see well enough to use that remaining 10%. I routinely surprise perfect strangers by shoving my cell phone in their faces and asking "Who's calling me?" Yes, I'm an IBM Selectric II girl, living in an I-Pad, Kindle, SmartPhone World. It's lonely and cold out here in the Land of the Obsolete.

Still, just when I thought I'd reached the depth of my personal technological ignorance, I find that I can still humiliate myself even further with my complete and total absence of knowledge. Really, it's a gift.

Our oldest son, Alex, bought himself a new hi-def, flat screen, plasma tv the other day, at least I think that's what it's called..all I know is it's about as wide as our old mini-van and it took three people to move it.

Feeling generous, Alex volunteered to give us his "old" hi-def, flat screen, plasma tv, which, being only the size of our dining room table, was inferior and out of date..obviously.

This was great news for us, especially since the television we were currently using was several decades old, wasn't hi-def and came no where near being flat, in spite of the several attempts by the dogs to knock it off of the table.

In fact, our old television was so out of date, our across the street neighbor would routinely comment on how badly we needed a new one. The neighors would come over for a visit and Dave would sit there, staring at our gigantic dinosaur of a tv, just shaking his head and sighing. When Alex made us the offer of his leftovers, we thanked him with the heartfelt sentiment of "Yes, thank you..you've made Dave a very happy guy."

Roger and Joseph got the new baby in the house and hooked up and Alex instructed us we'd have to call the cable company and upgrade to the hi-def service. No problem, the televisions, computer and cell phone may be a challenge, but calling the cable company? That we can handle.

One quick call and we are the proud new viewers of all things Hi-Definition. Roger and I are marvelling at the wonderful, detailed picture, vibrant colors and sharp images. Oh yes, we should have done this YEARS ago...who knew this type of viewing paradise was available?

A day or two later, Alex called to see if we'd had any problems getting the extra service from the cable company. We assured him it was no problem at all, the company merely flipped a switch at their headquarters. "No one came out to give you a new cable box or install a new hi-def cable?", he asked. "Um, no", we replied, "But the picture is amazing."

I should stop this story right here and save myself the further humiliation of telling you what you, being the technologically smart person you are, probably already know. We needed a special cable to receive the hi-definition signal from the cable box. Oh yes we did.

Roger and I had been sitting there, oooohhing and ahhhhing over the very same television signal we'd had all along, it was just bigger and kinda stretched out on this larger screen. At first, I didn't believe it could be true. Surely the cable company would have TOLD us if we needed a special cable, right? Apparently not. According to Alex, the cable company probably thinks if you're smart enough to get a hi-def tv, you'll be smart enough to know how to use it.

Hah! That's what THEY think! Look who's being ignorant, NOW!

Around here there's no such thing as saving your place on the couch.

For Christmas this year, I gave my sister, Michel, a gift certificate to a local fondue restaurant. I wanted to do something special for her and my niece suggested a meal at this specialty restaurant would be a fun, different kind of treat. Something she would enjoy and remember...something like that.

Now, my sister is wonderfully generous. So generous in fact, that she insisted she and her husband, Chuck, use this gift certificate to take Roger and me out to celebrate our 25th anniversary. Yes, Michel is generous - she's also very smart. Smart enough to make sure she's not the only fondue rookie seated at the table.

Looking back, the entire evening reminded me of the joke about the two guys who attended a fight and a hockey game broke out. We went out for fondue dinner and a hockey game broke out, or something really close.

I'd already gotten some tips from my oldest, Alex, the Dining Adventurer. He warned me about the different cooking times for each type of food and that it takes a fairly long time for each piece of food to cook. He suggested we cook more than one thing at a time.

See? That's the problem..fondue is DINING, as in the European style of leisurely enjoying a meal. The focus is on the people and conversation instead of stuffing your face with the food in front of you, at warp speed, while wondering WHERE is the dessert cart?

My family definitely believes eating is more of a sport, and we all play to win. So, I guess it's no surprise that if you give us each a couple of long forks, a pot of hot oil and many small pieces of food, you've got a food version of a hockey game on your hands.

Oh sure, we started off slow and easy, but impatience (and hunger) reared it's ugly head and before long we were stuffing all of our food-laden forks into the pot at the same time. In fact, Roger and Chuck, in an extreme show of unsportsmanlike conduct, started throwing pieces of food straight into the pot - without even using their forks. I kept expecting to see a flag thrown or hear a whistle, but no such luck. Where's the call Ref?

By this time, the fondue pot is fairly disgusting with globs of breading floating on the top and God Only Knows What hiding on the bottom. When my sister's steak fell off of her fork, she grabbed all of the other forks and hoisted them up while she searched in vain for her missing bite of food. In my family we don't play fair..the Fair is in October.

Oh sure, it was embarassing when the restaurant manager, seeing the horrible condition of our fondue pot, immediately sent the waiter over to clean out all of the debris. But, it didn't stop us from high-fiving over the table when we found Michel's missing steak AND a forgotten piece of potato. SCORE!

I guess you could say the fondue restaurant was definitely an experience. An experience that we might not want to repeat, one that left a bad taste in our mouths so to speak.

Yeah, you could say that, except the only taste I really remember is the big ol pot of warm chocolate they slapped in the middle of the table at the end. After that, everything is a blur.

This is the fountain at The Harbor in Rockwall.

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!