Last Tuesday, after a particularly horrendous day, I made a decision. "I'm running away from home," I announced.

"In that outfit? I don't think so," my daughter responded.

"Yea, Mom, those geeky shoes you're wearing weren't built to run in," offered my son.

"You can't go yet," said my other son, approaching me with both hands out. "You haven't given me my allowance."

When the phone rang a few minutes later, I was planning my escape. "Mom, if you're still here, it's for you"! shouted Elisabeth.

I took the phone with a shaky hand. "Hello." I breathed a sigh of relief. It was my mother. She would give me advice. When I explained I was running away, she interrupted. "You cannot leave. According to your father, you are still grounded for that last time you backed the garage into the car." I hung up.

My husband was no help. He told me I'd have to postpone my trip because he'd loaned our luggage to the butcher. Then he added that it was time for me cook supper, anyway, so I should just settle down.

As I waited in along line at the meat counter in the grocery store, I asked the lady in front of me what was taking so long.

"Oh, haven't you heard? The Butcher borrowed some weird-looking luggage and ran off to Bermuda."

I wonder what he wore.