Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Have You Ever Actually Eaten a Pickled Pepper? And Do They Just Grow on the Bush in a Pickled State?

Is that the peck of pickled peppers
that Peter Piper picked?
So, I've never been very good at sayings. I'm not saying that I don't actually SAY a lot, because I do, and frankly, most of the things I say are quite interesting and informative.

Note: I'm just saying.

Consequently, I am never really sure if a bird in the hand is worth beating around the bush.

I am speaking of a genetic anomaly, really. Mom used to say some really strange things, but that could have just been the seven kids taking a sad toll, yes. Nonetheless, the charming tendency to botch sayings seems to have been passed to a new generation. My offspring.

I am talking to The Daughter who is traveling in a foreign country, New Mexico, and reflecting upon the adventure.

We chat and she advises me that she just returned from dinner with a colleague who wished merely to pick her ear about work stuff.

I marvel.

Pick her ear? Pick her ear?

There are many body parts to pick, most of them unattractive yes. And some body parts are more entertaining than others, oh yes. I assume that colleagues are more likely to pick another's brain than another's ear, but I also suppose picking another's ear beats picking another's nose or ample behind, if you know what I mean and I think you do.

And feel free to pick a peck of pickled peppers, but please wash your hands first. Who knows where those hands have been.

Heck, yes!

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Appliances ...

So, The Hub and I are riding on the BART train in full Oakland Athletics regalia with enough food and enough beverages and enough whatnot to last through nine innings, a post-game fireworks show and an Act of God, potentially.

The BART train is full of Oakland Athletics fans, commuters and a few fellows with no teeth. Riders are reading Kindles, listening to music, hushing their children and talking very, very loud.

Note: Certain BART riders also employ their airplane voices--the voices that permeate through the screeching of engines and brakes and the inflight movie, if there was one, and go on and on and on, yes.

The couple across the aisle from me captures my somewhat-limited attention. They are late-twenties, perhaps, wearing green A's shirts and I notice that her pant cuffs are rolled up, exposing her cankles, a trend that I have yet to embrace.

Note: I am referring to the rolled up pant cuff trend, not the cankle trend.

The couple is talking and gazing--at each other--and rubbing each other's hands and knees and whatnot.

Note: Not that kind of whatnot. Please try to focus.

So, the couple is talking and gazing and rubbing and whatnot. I nudge The Hub, who is feeling a little dozey.

Look at that couple, I am saying. They are 'in love'.

The Hub looks. He is not impressed.

But I persist. He can't take his eyes off of her, I say. Remember when we were 'in love'?.

The Hub looks thoughtful.

He speaks. I'm spending thousands and thousands of dollars renovating your house and I bought you bamboo floors and Thermador appliances...

Wait for it ... wait for it ...

If that's not love, I don't know what is.

Be still my heart.

Heck, yes!

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

The Eyes Have It.

So, the newscaster is saying something about how Mark Zuckerberg is turning twenty-something today and how he's a bajillionaire and that how one-fifth of California's tax revenue this year is expected to be generated from the forthcoming IPO or IMHO or HBO, whatever that heck that means.

Note: Oh, I know what the heck that means. That means why the heck didn't I invent Facebook? Or why the heck didn't I invent Orville Redenbacher's magical popping popcorn bowl? Or chicken nuggets! That one was just so obvious. Or why the heck didn't I invent Viagra, even?

Sometimes I feel I'm just past my prime.

Oh, sure. The future lies ahead in its limitless potential. Blah, blah, blah.

Note: I have lived for nearly one-half century. Believe me when I tell you that the future is somewhat limited, Pal.

But I still want to leave my mark on the world in a meaningful way. I want to find my purpose and live my authentic life, just like Oprah says. That Oprah is a freaking genius.

Note: Why the heck didn't I invent living an authentic life? Drat.

Sometimes I am just this close, folks. This close.

So, today I'm at pilates. I am stretching and crunching and elongating. In the parking lot, I am smacked in the head by yet another invention that I forgot to invent.

Imagine the stories that P.T. Cruiser could tell ...

Eyelashes for your car.  Metal eyelashes for your car. Sweet Holy Moses.

Okay, not all ideas are great ones, clearly.

You know, I'm suddenly feeling better about my place on this planet. Carry on, Trophy Wives!

Monday, May 7, 2012

Hotdogs and Franks and Wieners, Oh My!

I am confounded.

I am confounded in the cured meats section of my neighborhood supermarket. I am confounded because I have no idea whatsoever how to select a hotdog. Or a frankfurter.

Or a wiener, yes.

It's been a long while since I've purchased a wiener, of any variety. It's not that I haven't had the opportunity to purchase a wiener, because of course I have. I have just refrained. From doing so. And in the passing years, it has become entirely too complicated to do so anyhow.

Note: The internet advises that 'weenie' is the slang term for the more formal 'wiener'. A formal wiener?


So, there are hot dogs. There are frankfurters, franks for short. There are wieners. And then there is the whole Jumbo business, which I prefer to avoid entirely, yes. No one really knows the difference between them all, although apparently a frankfurter is longer and thinner than a hot dog while a wiener is shorter and plumper than a hot dog so I imagine that a jumbo wiener provides extra length to go along with the girth.


I like me some beef ...

Hmmn... Cheesy Dogs

If you can have a Jumbo Wiener, well, why the heck not?
The whole hotdog industry just had to be invented by a man.

Sweet Holy Moses!

Monday, April 16, 2012

There's a Big K in the Middle of my FreaKout!

Heck, yes.
I am freaking out. My head is reeling. My world is out of control.

I am in a clean, orderly, well-stocked store. The aisles are wide and free of debris. The prices are clearly marked, the lighting is bright, but not blindingly so, no. The stock person is pleasant and asks Can I help you find anything? but I shake my head, too stunned to speak, perhaps.

Note: And for those who are well-acquainted with The Trophy Wife and her propensity for unnecessary speech, this is shocking news indeed.

And the restrooms are fresh and smell, well, nice. There is no questionable, uh, floating matter in the toilet that needs flushing and the sink is not being used as a bidet by another patron, probably one of those crazy Europeans.

Note: I am not kidding about the sink/bidet episode. I saw it with my own eyes.

But now I am freaking out.

I am freaking out because I am in a K-Mart. A Big K, yes.

Heaven help me. I must be hallucinating.

I make my way to the front with my shiny cart with wheels that all roll the same direction, even. Suddenly, all is well. My accelerated heart rate returns to normal. I can relax.

I can relax because the check-out lines are twelve customers deep. And the checkers are all moving in apparent slow motion. I will be waiting for at least thirty minutes.

Note: Now this is the K-Mart I know and love.

Additional Note:
Not really. Who actually loves K-Mart?

But, Sweet Holy Moses, I am relieved. All is well in the world, indeed.

Heck, yes!

Friday, March 16, 2012

The Madness. Of March. Ing in Place.

Now if I could just get that dog of mine
 to March AND
change the load of laundry ...
So, it's March. And you know what that means of course. Madness. And plenty of it.

Note: I am not talking about the silly basketball business, no! I have been waiting for years to finally fill out my brackets, if you know what I mean and I think you do, and the filling out just doesn't seem to be happening.

I digress.

I am referring to the real March Madness, dear Readers. I am referring to the Madness that occurs at some point during the month of March when I realize that May is 8 weeks away. And May is the beginning of summer, yes. And summer may require the wearing of a swimsuit.


So, naturally, I decide to take three pilates classes per week, one with a ball and one with a flex band/roller and one with a magic circle.

Note: Do not mock the magic circle. It is a magical place, yes.

So, naturally, I decide to find every 'buff arms in a week' workout I can find on Pinterest and choose the one that seems the most brutal.

Note: Four minutes of pushups? Really? Who does that?

Additional Note: Me.

So, naturally, I decide to buy a pedometer, even though The Hub foolishly believes that I will become obsessed with the number of steps I take each day.

Note: Silly Man. When have I ever given him the idea that I am prone to obsessivity?

Additional Note: Oh, yeah.

So, now I practically have to drag poor Rubi down the street for yet another walk in the rain. I have also  learned that it is 55 steps to the laundry room and back and I can add another 100 steps if I march in place while I change the load. 

Note: I have a great idea! Let's stick a pedometer on some kid marching in the band with his tuba. Now that's a workout, my friends.

So, now my arms are so sore that I can barely reach the whipped cream and I it is possible that I am stuck in the magic circle, yes. 

Clearly, I have only one option.


Is that dog hiding under the bed again?

Silly girl. Doesn't she realize that it's March?

Heck, yes! 

Monday, March 12, 2012

Keep Your Hands Off My Man! Boobs.

So The Hub and I are appliance shopping. On his birthday, a fact that I somehow have to mention to every appliance salesperson that we meet and who happens, quite oddly, to be a divorced woman somewhere in my general age bracket, give or take.
With the Divorcee SalesLadies we discuss The Hub's desire to meet my (rather) finicky needs.

Note: Simmer down, everyone. I am referring to my appliance needs, obviously.

Additional Note: Okay, fine. It may not be that obvious.

The SalesLadies ask How long have you have been married? and How have you made your relationship work for so long? and How did you grow together instead of apart? So, naturally I find myself explaining my Trophy Wife status and the whatnot.

Note: I try not to include the whatnot in the conversation but I am pretty sure that the term 'Sugar Daddy' comes up and I am not referring to candy, no.

The SalesLadies are wistful. The SalesLadies are jealous. The SalesLadies are eyeing The Hub and wondering Where have all the good men gone?

And, one of the SalesLadies adds, Look at him. He's over fifty and he's not even fat and ...

Wait for it ...wait for it ...

He doesn't even have man boobs.


And he's all mine, Folks.

Heck, yes!

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