AN EMPTY HOUSE

Many empty-nesters moan and groan about how lonely & empty their homes seem when the last child moves out.

When my youngest moved out (finally), I cheered and celebrated (TWO extra bottles of Diet Coke and a sandwich from Quizno's).

It left only one male creature to pick up after... let me clarify that, one HUMAN male to pick up after.

I still have the dog, horse and cat, but they take care of their books, usually don't leave laundry half-done, and rarely leave any dishes unlicked.

The dogs are always more than willing to warn me of dangers such as the UPS man (somehow the FedEx guy is perfectly okay), the garbage truck, and rabbits grazing in the back yard.

But today, both of the dogs are at the vet's getting their teeth cleaning.

It's oddly quiet.

And I'm not at all certain that I like it.


I guess I am now slightly sympathetic to those people who do moan about their kids leaving.

I miss 'em.

THE SHOE ON THE OTHER FOOT

As a parent, there are times that your heart simply jumps into your throat.

When your child does not get off the school bus you have been waiting for.

The first time they drive off in your car without you.

Their first date, or dance, or year at college.

Having a child is having your heart live outside of your body.

Last night, my son got to experience that sensation.

I had told him I was going to be at a church meeting Thursday evening, and I even had put it on the family calendar.

However, my husband decided at the last moment to also attend this same meeting.

So our son came home to an empty house - no note from us about where we were - and only one car gone (which somehow threw the world every more off balance).

And the dogs refused to tell him where we had gone to.

He called our cell phones (which were both off since we were at the church) - called his sisters - the state highway patrol - he even called the emergency room at the hospital just to make certain we hadn't been in some horrible massacre or terrorist attach (which would have been masochist bliss for his dad, that's for sure).

Poetic justice... at last.

THE NEIGHBORHOOD BULLIES

I think almost everyone has known a bully.

Even bullies have known a bully - they just don't think that they were a bully.

I got picked on in elementary school because I was taller than your average college graduate student at the time. I was 5'9" at age 12, which meant I was taller than my teachers, taller than my school's principal, and, most important of all, I was taller than every single boy on the playground.

Somehow this brought out the demons of male pride (sorry, men, but the girls were never the ones picking on me), and pushing, prodding and poking me were the only solution their limited brain could find.

I maintained my normal pacifist attitude for several years and simply walked away. And then one day I simply broke down and punched the kid back.

Hard.

The bullying stopped that day. I also gained a bit of a rep.

Now my dog is getting bullied.

My next-door neighbors, who are wonderful, caring and beautiful people you could possible ask for, unfortunately have one of the stupidest dogs even born on the planet.

Geronimo looks like a slightly obese yellow Labrador following a frontal lobotomy. He's huge and dopey and extremely enthusiast about any attention he can get.

Blanca is smaller, and quite a bit brighter (of course - she is a female, so...), but also more than a bit standoffish.

And when they get loose (which only happens a couple of times a year), they will happily follow you back to their home and go back into their fenced yard.

Unless they see MY dog - my smallish German Shepherd/Border Collie mix.

And then they attack him. Both of them. Simultaneously.

The same protection mother instinct that causes bears to kill any creature that comes between them and their cubs kicks right in, and I have beaten Geronimo and Blanca off my dog with yucca stalks, mesquite tree limbs and my bare hands.

Fortunately, Murray has an extremely thick coat, and at most has had to lick a few leg wounds.

But does anyone know of a canine self-defense class I can enroll him in?

GLASS GLASS GLASS

A couple of minutes ago, my grandson issued the ultimate threat to his dad; "I won't be your friend anymore!" He also warned me one afternoon this week that "I'm going to tell mommy about you!" when I insisted he take care of the toys splayed all over the front room.

It's cute to hear things like this from a six-year old, but it also makes me think of reasons people do suddenly not return your phone calls - shy away from conversations - somehow don't see you when you pass by.

Some are just as juvenile as the ones coming from a six-year old:

1) Politics. The two 'dangerous' areas of discussion seem to be this and religion, but I would happily, cheerful and THANKFULLY talk hours and hours on my spiritual beliefs rather than 30 seconds of "wait a minute, you voted for who?!"

2) Other friends. Somehow being able to hold an adult conversation with someone that they cannot is grounds for immediate dislike. Much like if you play with them, you can't play with me.

3) Personal and private life. There are certain subjects that just don't and probably shouldn't come up normally - which way your toilet paper roll hangs (I used to be completely an 'under' roller, and now I am unashamedly an 'over') - whether you are a Pepsi or a Coke drinker - what type of underwear you may put on in the privacy of your own bedroom.

Unless you and I are going to be sharing a whole lot of TP, it doesn't really matter. If your interest is in adorable fluffy white poodles, and mine is Black Labs, it just ain't a big deal.

And if you drink beer on Sunday, watch "Dueling Grizzlies" and hang out with the county's Lesbian Homeschooling Support Group, I may be tempted to throw a large stone or two in your direction ("But that's just wrong, I can't been see supporting that") - but hopefully stop as soon as I realize all of us live in extremely large glass huts of our own creating.