Wednesday, September 30, 2009

I See!

I went to see Dr. Cataract today and guess what ... I can see! He worked his magic with the laser and now

The sky is brilliant blue!!!!!

The trees have leaves!!!!
The street signs have words!!!
Faces have noses!!
The television has HD!
The Hub has flecks of gold in his eyes.

The windows are dirty.
The corners have cobwebs..
My hair color needs retouching...
My skin color is splotchy....
My face has more than a couple of lines .....


I see.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Prepare for Impact

Well, that was fun.

Rubi was impacted. No, she was not suffering from impacted wisdom teeth nor was she particularly impacted by the current economic downturn.

No, it was an impaction that required a gloved finger, a good grip and a strong stomach.

She is feeling much better now, thank you.

As for me, I think I may be impacted from this event. Permanently.

Monday, September 28, 2009

So, wow.

So, wow. The women's locker room at the gym.

Disclaimer Number One: I rarely frequent the women's locker room. I have a pee-before at home and pee-afterwards at home policy.

Disclaimer Number Two: This blog post may contain material upsetting to anyone-with-common-sense or good taste. Reader discretion is advised. But now you've got to know.

Disclaimer Number Three: For the last time, I do not make this stuff up. How could I?

So, wow. The women's locker room at the gym.

The locker room is full of activity today, meaning there are lots of ladies in various stages of naked. And in various stages of fitness. Mostly not-so-fit. Seinfeld once had an episode which discussed "good naked" and "bad naked". And although I'm sorry to burst the bubble of my male reader, the women's locker room is an example of "bad naked".

Very bad. Really very bad.

I keep my eyes straight ahead. Well, mostly. It's very hard when naked people are walking around or stooping or toweling. It's a little like a train wreck, I guess, except worse.

So, wow.

I finish my business and go to wash my hands--eyes straight ahead. Things are going okay (relatively) until the time comes to dry my hands.

In the past, I have seen women use the hand dryers to blow-dry their hair. Naked, of course. They turn the nozzles up and flip their hair around. Yeah, other body parts are sort of jibbling and jinkering about. It's unsavory.

Today, however, a woman is standing there, naked, of course. But no hair drying. She is hefting her, um, bosom in the air and drying underneath. Underneath the bosom, yes.

To make matters worse, she sees me standing there, trying not to gape, hands dripping. She kindly turns the nozzle toward me. Standing there with one hand on her, er, bosom and the other on the streaming nozzle of air she says, "Would you like to dry your hands?'

So, wow.

Friday, September 25, 2009

LOL is a Crock

I am seriously over 'LOL'. I actually never really believed a word of it. I mean, really. How often does something make one 'laugh out loud'? Sure, something might make one smile a bit (SAB) or something might make one 'emit a giggle' (EAG) or even engage in a 'cock of the head eyebrow raised amused nod' (COTH-ERAN).

But laughing? Out loud? It's pretty rare, at least for highly evolved senses of humor like mine. And it usually involves video of old people falling down (why is that funny?) or models careening off the catwalk. Good stuff indeed.

Perhaps it's just the element of surprise that I enjoy. Maybe I'm a genius or something (maybe?), but I usually see where jokes are going before hearing a punch line and so I end up nodding and weakly smiling.

Which reminds me of the time a nephew of mine was telling lame 8 year-old jokes. I raised my eyebrows and weakly smiled and said things like, "hey, that's funny" or "you tell good jokes" or "is there something pointed nearby so I can poke my eyeballs out?" He finally wrinkled his nose at me because I didn't laugh uproariously--like his mother.

Warning: Do not laugh uproaroiously at your children's jokes. Such a practice is bound to lead to disappointed children and irritated adults.

Note: It would have been way funnier to watch him fall down.

So, I find myself pleasantly surprised this morning to LOL at a comic strip. Granted, I did not engage in a sustained episode of LOLing, but nonetheless, I LOLed. So, I wish to share the object of my Laughing. Out. Loud.

Now I need to know. Did you LOL? SAB? COTH-ERAN? Or something else altogether, like 'you have a sick sense of humor, missy' (YHASSOHM)? My inquiring mind wants to know. So let your comments rip!

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Do You Hear What I Hear?

I fear that my cataract is growing. Rapidly. No, it didn't spread to the other eye. I believe that my cataract outgrew the relative confines of my eye and has spread to my ear. Yes, my ear. How else to explain the most strange things that I am hearing lately?

It must be the cataract.

For example, I heard on the Rachael Ray show that, in a nod to the 80's, shoulder pads are back. Shoulder pads. I obligingly wore those wretched things 25 years ago and I am done looking like a linebacker. I even think I heard the fashion guru say that shoulder pads will add curves to my straight figure. Well, maybe, if I stuff them with kleenex and stick them on my chest, if you know what I mean.

It must be the cataract.

I was in stall number two in Target on Friday night when I overheard a strange conversation. First of all, bathroom stall-to-stall chatting is kind of freaky, unless it's Daughter and I, in which case it's usually hilarious. But this is the conversation I SWEAR I heard unless, of course, it was the cataract.

Girl: You know how when you drink like, a lot, and like, you hold your pee and like, as long as you hold it you don't get drunk?

Other Girl: Uh, yeah.

Girl: And you know, like, how weird it is when you like, can't hold it anymore and as soon as you pee, it's like you're totally drunk and like, acting all crazy?

Other Girl: Uh, yeah.

Girl: Don't you hate that?

Other Girl: We gotta hold it longer next time.

Seriously, it must be the cataract.

Either that, or the world has really gone to pot. The pot.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Do You See What I See?

I finally have an appointment with my ophthalmologist to take a look at my cataract. It's a pretty simple fix at this point, he says. The Doctor will gaze into my eye(s) and zap it with a laser, because I already have a replacement lens and apparently, my said lens is impervious to a laser.

Hey! Does that make me a SuperHero? Hmmmn. Picture a Lady with big old glasses fighting policemen with those over-active radar guns trying to catch the speeders. Oops. My bad. Radars. Not lasers. There goes my SuperHero potential.

I think it may be interesting and informative to allow my reader(s) to understand more about a cataract. A cataract is a cloudy area in the eye, which basically means that things look wacky or blurry or crazy. Essentially, this, except worse:

I am getting bored thinking about my cataract. I want to be thinking about other things. Relating to vision, of course. I'm sticking with a theme here.

So I wonder. What do dogs see? I've heard all the stuff about red-green confusion and better night vision and whatever. Probably not true anyhow, but how do the dog scientists REALLY know what dogs see?

I will ask Rubi what she sees. "Rubi, what do you see?"

Hmmmn. She ran to the front door and barked.

The internets says that dogs see this:

What dog sees this? A dog at a doggy amusement park? And I don't think the doggy on the left is even real.

Sadly, Daughter's dog sees this:

If this needs more explanation, click here.

I've been contemplating other visual abstractions as well, but I'm getting bored again. I need a jello.

I'm out.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Twenty-Seven is a Drop in the Bucket

Twenty-seven years ago The Trophy Wife was born. Now, don't get your panties all in a bunch. I'm not claiming to be 27 years old. Those days have long since passed. But twenty-seven years ago, I became just that--a Wife! I didn't come to fully appreciate the 'Trophy' part until later, but that doesn't mean that The Trophy Wife hasn't always been a part of me.

Twenty-seven years ago today Hub and I promised to love each other forever, through thick and thin and everything in between. In some ways, we were really lucky. We were young, poor and naive which is ultimately way better than being old, poor and knowledgeable. We just didn't realize that our life was hard. Hub worked full-time and went to school full-time (for nine years!) while I worked and produced two gorgeous kids and tried to make our meager little life into something grand, something delightful.

We saved our leftover change until we had a buck and then walked downtown, kids in strollers, to share an ice cream cone. We went for nature walks every night after dinner and caught pollywogs and captured caterpillars so we could watch them turn into butterflies. We played ball and danced on the lawn until the sun set and the crickets sang.

And somewhere in the middle of changing diapers and teaching piano lessons and reading bedtime stories, a Trophy Wife began to emerge. Little inklings of my inner trophy became apparent--laughing became easier, friends became more meaningful, family meant even more.

Which brings me back to September 18. The day it all began. The day it all continues. And gratefully, a day that never need end.

Happy Anniversary to me!

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

I've Still Got it Goin' On

Yup. That's right. I got hit on today.

So, I'm in the checkout line at Walmart (I know, I know) chatting it up with the checkout dude because that's pretty much just how I roll. He's around my age (46, NOT 64) and not bad looking, all things considered.

I mention I am starving (mostly because I am always starving) and he says something about skipping lunch today. And then he says something about usually going to McDonald's, which is conveniently located in the lobby about 12 steps away and maybe we can grab a bite. Or something.

Well, the mention of the word 'McDonald's' causes a reflex of some type in my face, best described as a nose-wrinkle-shudder, probably. Then the dude says (I think his name is Ken; he has a name tag with those dangly beads hanging on it), "Oh no. I'd like to take you to lunch. I didn't mean we should go to McDonald's. I only go to McDonald's in an emergency."

Huh? I looked up.

"I would take a lady like you to someplace real nice."

Real nice?



Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Success, eh?

High School has changed in the last twenty-some-odd years. Some things remain the same, I guess. The rites of passage are similar--driver's licenses and proms and way too much drama with friends. Probably there are still the popular kids and the not-so-much kids and the athletes ('jocks' in our vernacular, which is gross) and the smart kids and the stoners.

Sadly, I'm sure most students feel the burden of some sort of lame label in high school.

My high school even had "Stud Wall," a place where the decidedly cool guys leaned against a particular wall in the main hallway and harrassed the girls as they passed. It was a nightmare. If you weren't harrassed, well, obviously you were one of the above 'not-so-muchers' and if you were harrassed, it was kind of intimidating because physical contact was usually involved. I handled that situation by avoiding the main hall altogether.

I was late for my science class a lot.

While perusing the Dollar Store, then, you can imagine my delight to see that today's high school student body still selects "Senior Favorites," as evidenced by a picture of Sharpay, apparently a character of East High (i.e. High School Musical). I notice that Sharpay (which I will now spell Sharpei (please click this link! It is fantastic!)--like the wrinkly dog-- because that's way funnier) and I share something in common:

We were both selected 'Most Likely to Succeed' in our graduating classes!

After comparing our photos, however, I am confused. What type of success are we talking about?

Here I am, circa 1981. I am seated--appropriately, for a very successful student, I might add--in the library, a place associated with books and great learning. Sharpei, circa now, is not. I am dressed in study-appropriate attire, clearly not meant to distract my co-winner Steve from his own success. Sharpei is not. I had a 3.96 unweighted gpa (darn that B+ in chemistry). From what I can gather about Sharpei, she is the bad girl and attempts to undermine the success of the East High musical by scheduling the callback auditions during the scholastic decathlon, in which her chief rival is competing. Not her, mind you. She was busily succeeding at something else.


Crazy kids nowadays.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

I am the Elephant, goo goo g'joob

Disclaimer: This post contains graphic images that may be disturbing to younger reader(s), especially the offspring of The Trophy Wife. Reader discretion is advised.

Pilates can be brutal; I know this fact because I practice pilates regularly. (Please note that pilates is a "practice," not an exercise. I do not understand the distinction, but apparently it has something to do with the fact that I will never get it right). Pilates brutality is not confined to the difficulty of the workout (yeah, I've got abs), but also includes the things that one sees during class.

Middle-aged bodies twisted into unnatural positions can be frightening. I've seen blurbs and bloops and blunderous body parts that are typically unassuming backs, bums and boobs. I've seen unimaginable varieties of underwear in unimaginable places (don't ask). But by far, the most frightening thing I've seen during my pilates workout is the elephant in the room.

I'm not referring to the metaphorical "elephant" in the room; unfortunately, I am referring to the actual elephant in the room.

Pilates incorporates strength building and stretching, which is pretty standard exercise fare. One of our frequent stretching positions is the "down dog". For those who are not familiar with the term (shame!) the body is an upside-down V, with the behind sticking straight up in the air with the feet and the hands planted on the mat.

Somehow this position is intended to stretch the calves and shoulders.

However, this is what I see when I come face-to-knees with my own body in this outrageous, gravity-defying position. Prepare yourselves, reader(s). This isn't pretty.

The elephant. Look away; I'm hideous.

You may be thinking, "Ah, it's not so bad." Oh, it is. Go ahead, compare it to the real thing.I am the elephant, goo goo g'joob.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Malamute Guy Speaks

If you are not acquainted with Malamute Guy, (after hanging head in shame), please refer to my recent blog post "I Think I"ll Go for a Walk Outside". (I cannot waste my precious time rehashing old news.) I am clearly enjoying the use of the parentheses today.

So Rubi and I are on a "go" and Malamute Guy approaches on the other side of the street. As usual, Malamute is peeing on the bushes and whatnot when suddenly he catches a glimpse of my dog. At about the same time, Malamute Guy prepares to lift his chin for our conventional nod.

But something happens! Rubi, pleased to have the attention of both Malamute Guy and The Great Malamute himself, uses the leverage of the leash to stand on her little hind legs like a little teeny person (with lots of facial hair and nine nipples) and wag herself silly.

Then Malamute Guy speaks. Yes, he speaks! After five long years, Malamute Guy speaks!

"Look, Boy. Dinner!"

Malamute Guy has made a critical mistake. Malamute Guy would have been wiser to remain MUTE.

You don't mess with the shih tzu. And you particularly don't mess with the shih tzu's mama.

To be continued.

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Hanging On

It's Labor Day Weekend, which means we are laboring. Hub is still installing ceiling fans (sleek ones that actually work!) and in a moment of weakness, I find myself sifting through the clothes hanging wildly in my closet and stuffed haphazardly in drawers. Before I know it, the closet literally explodes, with a tangle of clothes and hangers and shoes and gym socks strewn all over the bedroom. Some of the explosion has even seeped down the stairs and is encroaching on the family room.

Since there is no turning back, I'm in The Home Depot (for the third time today) and this time I'm on the hunt for hangers. Nothing fancy; just those plastic ones that are all the same size and don't poke you in the eye when you are angrily flinging clothes that are ugly/don't fit/look stupid or why did I ever buy this anyway?

In the closet organizing section I find only wooden hangers, like those big ones that my dad hangs his dress pants on. Hub has no such luxury; we are a plastic hanger type of family. I find none and since it's college-dorm season I just know the hangers are somewhere in a giant bin, just out of view.

So I approach the young man up front with his orange Home Depot apron pulled too tight around his belly. I explained that I had been in the closet organization section and found only wooden hangers. "Do you have plastic hangers?" I ask.

He considers the question a bit too long before asking, "What do you plan to hang on them, Ma'am?"

What do I plan to hang on them? Are you kidding me?

Many times I have considered applying for a job at The Home Depot (okay, not really) but felt I was not qualified to do so. I figured that one would have to know something. About stuff. Tools. Electrical wiring. Petunias. Hangers.

Apparently not. At least I know that my future is secure. There will always be a place for me at The Home Depot.

Friday, September 4, 2009

I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob

Something strange happens to Daughter when she speaks. Not all the time. Mostly just when she's talking to a clerk or some sort of receptionist, possibly a clergyman, and likely, her dogs. It happened again today as we were chatting on the phone while she ran errands and I was doing the obligatory, "hang on a second" and listening to her interaction with the above clerk, receptionist, clergyman or dog.

And it happens. My otherwise brilliant, attractive, capable Daughter turns into a ... chipmunk.

It's not really a physical metamorphosis. At least, I do not believe so, although she does have razor-sharp teeth. It's not really a mental or emotional metamorphosis either, as I don't think she believes she is a chipmunk. Yet she becomes a human version of Simon, Alvin or Theodore, take your choice. Suddenly her voice becomes high-pitched, overly demure and speeds up. Like a chipmunk.

Sort of, "Hi, I'm here from the broadcasting department to pickup my package of dvds for work and I would be happy toshowyoumywork IDcardifyouneedit heeheeheeheehee."

Then she follows up with a high-pitched sort of giggle and I'm sure, a cock of her cute little head and a smile flashing those lovely teeth.

So, to my two devoted readers: Are you aware of such a phenomenon? And, if so, does it involve other animals? Say, a walrus?

"Hi, I'm here from the broadcasting department to pickup my package of dvds for work and I would be happy to show you my work ID card ...if .... need ... it .... hee..... hee ..... hee ..... hee ...... hee."

This is an official survey sponsored by taxpayer money, so let me know.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

I Think I'll Go for a Walk Outside . . .

Now, the summer sun's calling my name ...

Rubi and I were out strolling in the morning sun today and we saw the "regulars." There was the guy that I have named "Dan" who looks at the ladies just a bit too long as he passes by. I'll bet "Dan" loves it when "Irritating Blonde Girl" goes by with her perfect body and perfect hair and perfect everything. Sometimes I just want to punch her.

I saw the "Visor Gals" who wear beaded visors and talk really, really loud. You can hear them coming way before you can see them. "SO I SCREAMED AND JUMPED AND THE GOLF BALL BARELY MISSED ME. CAN YOU IMAGINE SUCH A TERRIBLE SHOT?" (Note to Visor Gals: Yes, I can. I have collected hundreds of those $5 golf balls in my backyard as documentation).

Obsessive dog-rescue lady passed by with her increasingly large "flock" of greyhounds and one big ol' lab. Speaking of large, I saw Malamute Guy with his huge and intimidating dog. Malamute Guy does not speak; he gives the chin nod.

Note to Malamute guy: Everyone knows that you are just compensating with that big dog.

Oh yeah, Princess Leah guy jogged by very slowly. He wears giant 1970's headphones and he looks like he is wearing cinnamon buns on his head. From a distance. With cataract eyes. Get an iPod, dude.

And the crows were cawing. And the lizards were scuttling. The summer sun was callin' my name.

When things couldn't get any better, they did. Coming toward me, and I kid you not, was a vintage mustardy-color station wagon with wood on the sides. Wood, I tell you! The driver's side window was down and golden hair streamed out.

As Rubi is my witness, Marcia Brady was driving down my street. She turned the corner and was gone. Probably to never return. But we had our moment.

It's a sunshine day!