Thursday, December 31, 2009

A Trophy Wife New Year!

Resolutions. Oooh. Resolving makes me tingly all over. I am in my own personal sort of zen when it comes to resolutions and goals and stickers and charts. I feel giddy just thinking about it. Imagine, then, my delight to learn that the verb resolve has like, seriously, a zillion different meanings of subtle differences.

Note: Ooh! Tingle!

So, as a challenge to the great guru of all things resolving (not revolving; revolving makes me feel queasy just thinking about it) I will make a resolution that matches each meaning of the specific verb action.

Note: Ooh! Grammar and resolving! Tingle!

re·solve (r-zlv)

1. To make a firm decision about.
•I resolve to finish editing my book so that I can share it with others. Whether they want to read it or not.

2. To cause (a person) to reach a decision.
•During 2010, Rubi and I will resolve our bitter dispute regarding her daily brushing and combing. She will probably reign victorious. And she will probably reign with sticky things and burrs in her hair.

3. To decide or express by formal vote.
During 2010, Hub and I will resolve our current concerns regarding our living conditions.

Note: Simmer down. Hub and I will both still live; we will both still reside together. Happily. It is merely the conditions of our living that need resolution.

4. To find a solution to; solve.
•During 2010 I will resolve my issues with Comcast. Hopefully, no one gets hurt in the process.

Note: Warning to Comcast: You are done messing with me.

5. To bring to a usually successful conclusion:
•During 2010, I will resolve my relationship with my tatas, with or without surgical intervention.

Note: Okay, fine. Without.

6. Medicine To cause reduction of (an inflammation, for example).
•My dry elephant skin will resolve in the New Year through the use of copious amounts of Victoria's Secret body creams.

7. To melt or dissolve (something).
•I will enjoy the resolution of butter in a warm saucepan in its progress to a rich, buttery caramel sauce or a thick roux, perfect for a pot of chowder.

Happy New Year, one and both my readers! Have a Trophy Wife New Year!

Heck, yes!

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Act Fast!

So, a famous national retailer, who shall remain unnamed due to the legal ramifications of divulgence of the name (please do not be concerned if my terms are confusing; big words are required when discussing implications of defamation of character and the whatnot), has a real numbers-cruncher working on their accounting books.

Note: Okay, fine. I will tell you the name of the famous national retailer. The famous national retailer starts with an 'Old' and ends with a 'Navy".

But, really. Is this idea going to catch on? T-shirts previously priced at $5 are, for a limited time only, available to the consumer for $10?

The best part?

Act Fast. Pretty soon the shirts will revert to the previous price of $5 and you'll miss out on your chance to get ripped off.

Good thinking. Good thinking, indeed.

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Tick. Tock.

It occurs to me that I am running. Out. Of. Time.

To make my mark. To provide the world with a glimpse of my greatness. Well, not greatness. A glimpse of my, well, yes. Greatness.

Note: I am not afflicted with an illness of any sort which has caused this line of thinking. Please do not worry. The new year is dawning and I am just getting old. er.

Now, there are several ways to achieve this notoriety. One method is to be truly talented, gifted even. And to share that remarkable gift to the world.

Note: This option appears to be out for me unless the ability to swallow dozens of pills at once becomes chic.

There is also an option that involves performing ridiculous stunts, i.e. the Balloon Boy debacle or sailing around the world in a bathtub.

Note: This option also appears to be out as I have an aversion to both heights and bathing.

Note: Of course that's just a little joke. Heights do not bother me.

Yet another option is to be stupid and get lost in a frigid or sweltering or rat-infested place and to get stuck, somehow, in such place and to get either frostbite or heatstroke or bubonic plague in such place, ultimately forcing one to gnaw off his or her own arm or potentially, the arm of a loved one. To free oneself, somehow, from such place, of course. Otherwise the gnawing is a bit over the top.

Note: I have briefly considered this option.

It just seems like everyone else comes up with all the good ideas. Like vampires. Who thought that writing poor prose about vapid teenagers and blood-suckers would unlock millions of bucks? And tweeting? Seriously, tweeting? When I was a kid, we tweeted and got in trouble for not excusing ourselves after emitting the tweet.

All the good ideas seem to be taken. I can't cook Julia Child's recipes one day at a time and blog about it. Already done. I can't invent the internet. Already done. I can't come up with the idea of stuffing cheese into the crust of a pizza. Already done.

So here I sit. In front of my brand new 27-inch Quad Core iMac computer. Clock ticking. Hub practicing his Wii tennis stroke. Clock ticking. Dog curled up on the couch on top of a pile of cushions.

If I can't leave a mark, I guess this life isn't so bad.

Heck, yes.

Sunday, December 27, 2009

Because. I Had To.

Kraft Marshmallows.
Dangerous. Very Dangerous.

Note: Do not try this at home. Because it is dangerous. Very dangerous.

However, it is delicious.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

The Meister

So, Daughter and Favorite Son-in-Law have new cell phones, on account of moving to North Dakota and AT&T not providing service there and the whatnot. Her new cell phone carrier, which shall remain unnamed is pretty lame, so far as I can see.

Note: Okay, fine. I'll tell you. The carrier is Sprint.

The phones are working now and have finally been given actual Fargo phone numbers based on the new wacky area code. Now, when Daughter and SIL call, we can identify them by the caller ID in a brand new way.

Daughter is now identified as 'Jason Pena'.

Note: Good job, Sprint.

But there is even better news regarding SIL. When he calls, our caller ID identifies him as (and I kid not you) Burkmeister.

Wow. Burkmeister.

Heck, yes.

Merry Christmas to all!

Friday, December 18, 2009

A Crowning Achievement.

I am having breakfast. With the girls. At a homey little cafe nestled on a creek by a liquor store. It is my birthday breakfast. My girls are ordering pancakes and hash browns and eggs of all types; scrambled, over-easy and even poached.

Note: I made poached eggs. Once. I did not eat them. The process reminded me too much of a water birth I saw once on TLC.

I am ordering a bowl of oatmeal. With raisins and cinnamon. The oatmeal comes with a little teeny pot of milk and a couple of pats of butter. I do not understand the pats of butter. On oatmeal? Really? Butter?

Note: My older brother ate a cube of butter once. Just to be that way. Well, actually it was imperial margarine. The kind that had commercials back in the day where you ate the butter and a crown magically appeared on your head. I don't know why.

Note: A crown did not magically appear on my brother's head, although his prank caused another of my brothers to gag and hang his head over the kitchen sink. Which is just as good as a crown anyway.

At the precise moment of my ordering the oatmeal, hot cocoa is delivered to one of my girls. It is crowned--yes, crowned-- with the most delightful tower of whipped cream.

I must have some for my oatmeal, I am thinking. I love whipped cream on almost anything. Especially oatmeal. I will order some whipped cream on the side. For my oatmeal.

Heck, yes!

May I have some whipped cream in a little bowl? I ask the waitress, a smiling girl in her mid-twenties with her hair pulled back in a headband the way I wish I could wear mine and look to be in my mid-twenties. Or mid-thirties. Or ...

Yes, she says. And then comes the crowning moment of the morning.

Would you like that with your meal or would you like me to bring it out now?

Whipped cream? In a bowl? Right now? Are you kidding me?

Happy birthday to me!

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

A Picture is Worth Ten Words. Maybe More.

Seriously. Do I need to say anything more?

Heck, yes.

Note: Okay, fine. I admit it. I need to say more. And what I need to say is: Trophy Wives have come a long way, baby, when the initial criteria for the Trophy Wife label was the ability to stand upright.


Sunday, December 13, 2009

I'll Be Seeing You.

Dear Mom,

I hope that you are having a great "Birthday to Heaven" today. I'm not sure what you do there to celebrate the anniversary of your return. From my earthly perspective, I hope that your day is full of flowers. Pink camellias, towers of impatiens, fragrant bunches of lilacs and poinsettias. Lots and lots of poinsettias. Do you remember that at your memorial, the room was full of poinsettias? And Mom, they have so many new colors of poinsettias now! Oh, but you probably already know that, being in heaven and all.

I also hope that you are surrounded by people you love. Well, other people that you love. Like your Mom and Dad and your brothers and sisters. And I hope that you are spending time with people I haven't met yet, like my future grandbaby. And I'll bet you have so many family pets running around there that every once in awhile you want to give them a little shoo, Sissy! Or shoo, Peppy! I always thought it was hilarious that dog was named Peppy. I don't think I ever saw her do more than saunter. And on an occasional basis at that.

And I hope that you are celebrating Christmas just like we used to in our cozy old house, except it's not foggy. And you get to decorate the tree with icicle strands and make divinity and snowballs. And I hope that you finally learned the harmony to 'Silent Night' because I have learned it and I look forward to singing it together sometime.

There have been some changes around here in the last seven years. Did you know that I am now known for having fantastic shoes? I know. I thought that would make you laugh. And get this--my last hair appointment cost me two hundred bucks! Two hundred! Isn't that something? Oh, and my hands are looking more and more like yours. The arthritis in my thumbs is progressing pretty fast. But I manage.

Oh! I finally wrote my book! Dad likes it. He's not exactly a tough critic. I imagine that you would like it too. I hope you don't mind that I talked about the time we went skinny-dipping. Yeah, I know. Good times!

I've thought a lot about your last moments on earth. A little part of myself was ripped away that night. Well, a big part, really. But that big part has been filled, mostly, with friends, family, joyful memories and happy thoughts of the future.

And that future includes you, Mom.

I'll be seeing you. One day.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Twelve Twelve

A little song.

Please sing it in your head. Or if you wish, sing it out loud, unless you are sitting in a cubicle somewhere.

Note: If you are sitting in a cubicle somewhere, please consider quiet humming. It is very enjoyable.

Happy Birthday to Me!
I look forty-three
I guess that's much better
Than looking fifty!

Note: I am not forty-three. And I am certainly not fifty.

Certainly, not.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

Full Moon.ed and New Moon.ed

So, yesterday I was mooned twice. Well, three times if I am really counting, but since my children read this blog, I will stick with the original story.

So, yesterday I was mooned twice.

First, I was full-mooned. By my dinner, of all things. Kind of gives new meaning to a sweet potato.

Note: Sweet!

Then, I was new-mooned.

In case the reader thinks I just stole this photo from the internet, I will post a photo of my pal with the New Mooner. Pal is in her own bedroom with him. But she is supervised. By me. The New Moonee.

Note: Mr. Lautner may appear to be in an identical pose in both photos. This phenomenon is simply a figment of the reader's imagination.

I am sure that my little pal feels honored to be in my blog post and will, in no way, require compensation or retribution for this photo, which will now be floating around the internet for all to enjoy.

So, yesterday I was mooned twice.

I was not full-mooned and new-mooned simultaneously.

Simmer down, everyone.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Snap! Crackle! Pop!

We are experiencing a cold snap. I find it most interesting and descriptive that frigid weather is described as a cold snap. Snapping is the sound of ice crackling on the windshield when water is poured on it to melt it because there is no room for the car in the garage with all the Christmas boxes all over the place and it is the sound of tight muscles popping when a bum is landing on the driveway after slipping on an icy patch outside the front steps over on the side of the house where the gutter leaks.

Note: The previous examples are completely rhetorical.

The word 'snap' could also used to express one's utter disgust at slipping on the icy patch outside the front steps and landing on one's bum. Rhetorically, of course. Oh, snap! I fell on my bum!

Note: Snap is not the first word I would think to use. Rhetorically or otherwise.

Hot weather is referred to as a 'hot streak'. Yes, there are many descriptive possibilities with streaking and heat, but today I am discussing the current cold snap.

My Pilates Pal Pam (a charming illiteration, yes) and I are leaving the rec center. We are chatting together. We are chatting about her scarf, which she knitted. It is a beautiful scarf. I feel a bit covetous about the scarf. We are talking about knitting now. And that knitting is expensive. Because fine yarn is costly.

Triple P and I are talking about fine yarn. Her finest yarn costs $90 a skein. Snap, that's a lot of money, I say.

Note: Okay, fine. I did not say snap.

Triple P says it comes from the underbelly of the musk ox. It is relatively rare.

Note: Under belly of the musk ox? And it's relatively rare?

Now, that's a lousy job. Living in the arctic, sliding under an unsuspecting two-ton animal, giving him a little belly rub and snipping his fine underbelly fur. So Triple P can make a scarf.


Oxy. Morons. Among us. Again.

So, I am at Wal-Mart. (Yeah, I know). Wal-Mart is not always considered a Trophy Wife destination, but heck, it's got lots of awesome cool stuff and it's cheap. I find orchids for two bucks each because the hideous, shiny holiday pots in which they sit are broken. I grab an armful. I briefly consider smashing a few more of the pots.

Note: Briefly. I would never do such a thing. Not even for two-buck orchids.

I find bendable, poseable snowmen and santas for a buck each. They are like Gumbys, except taller. I buy two. I place them around the house in pilates positions, such as but not limited to a full plank and a bridge position.

Note: Santa's boots get in the way because a bridge is best executed in bare feet. Safety first.

I am looking for table coverings. Sixty people will descend upon my house to eat waffles and scrambled eggs and make foam Christmas tree hats. A breakfast gathering calls for plastic table coverings, not linen. Linen is far too stuffy for waffles and whipped cream and errant blueberries.

Note: And thirty children.

And then on the party aisle, the oxy.moron rears its head.

Yes, the Best Occasions Plastic Tablecover.

Honey, the boss is coming over for dinner. Where the heck is our fancy Best Occasions Plastic Tablecover?

Heck, yes.

Sunday, December 6, 2009

Under-Wear Under-Where?

So, Daughter's recent post about her move to Fargo and her preparations has me thinking. About freezing. To. Death.

I read somewhere that freezing to death is a pleasant way to die.

Note: Pleasant?

I read somewhere that freezing to death is a relatively pleasant way to die. That is, it's relatively pleasant after one gets over the aching and numbness in the arms and legs, the violent shaking as the muscles try to warm the body, the thickening of the blood. The palpitations. The hallucinations. Before being found naked (a final humiliation) by strangers after ripping off one's clothes as the capillaries burst.

Note: Relatively pleasant? I don't think so.


So Daughter is buying things she needs for the sub-zero Fargo winter. The items on her list are a foreign language to me. For example:

In California, when we discuss face masks we are referring to the types that awaken and tighten our pores or allow us to hold-up nearby 7-Elevens without being recognized. We are not talking about face masks that protect our faces from the frostbite that can, apparently, occur instantaneously to appendages exposed to the air.

Yes, instantaneously.

Note: It may not be instantaneous. Maybe I am making that up.

In California, underwear is underwear. Oh, we may have Days of the Week underwear or Sexy underwear or even Grandma-panty underwear. But it's all basically the same kind of thing. We wear it. We change it everyday. Usually. And then we wash it and wear it. Again. Whenever.

Daughter is purchasing winter underwear. Which is layered. Under your other underwear, I guess.

Note: I do not know about this whole underwear-layering thing. I live in California. Did I mention that?

But I am excited for Daughter's adventure in North Dakota. Really. And I can't wait to visit her. I've never been to a foreign country, so it should be swell.

Heck, yes.

Thursday, December 3, 2009

(Mostly) True Confessions

I have a confession: I peek at Christmas presents. Or presents in general, I guess.

Note: I do not peek at my own presents. I do not wish to spoil my own holiday. Well not usually, anyway. I prefer to spoil the holidays of others. So, I peek at other people's presents. No, not random people. That's just ridiculous. I don't wander into the homes of unsuspecting strangers and open the presents, although now that I think about it ...

It's not about lack of control, either, if that's what you're thinking because believe me: I have control. Oh yes. Cross that one off your list.

I peek at other people's presents because I must.

Note: I do not know why I must. It's either genetic or frenetic or potentially pathetic.

Gift bags have made peeking so much easier. But gifts bags are for amateurs. Yes. I far prefer the challenge of a gift-wrapped package with double-stick tape (the real test for peekers) and that curly ribbon that has to be carefully slipped off the package, like a beautiful woman slips out of her ... socks.

Son is going to love his gift from his Grandmother.

Heck, yes. I love December.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

A Tiger Patch?

So, Mr. Contractor (yes, the lucky dude who has seen my bum) hires a sub to come out and perform drywall repair in the kitchen nook. Mr. Contractor introduces me to Martin (pronounced Mar-teen) who is wearing little blue elastic slippers like the kind worn by a surgeon before he tells you that you're not going to feel a thing.

Note: Except in your wallet. You'll feel it there, for sure.

The best part of all of this useless information is that Mar-teen's van bears the company's logo.

Hmmn. Patches in a Day.


This idea pleases me. I imagine that his shop is frequented by pirates. Ahoy, Matey! I need me a patch. And I need it in a day!

Note: Where the heck is this pirate's eye patch? Clearly, the need for Patches in a Day is, indeed, real.

However, there may be other applications for Patches in a Day that may be more lucrative than either the drywall or pirate patch business.

It occurs to me that the idea of Patches in a Day may also please, say, Tiger Woods. Can you patch up my reputation, Mar-teen? And can you do it in a day?

Note: Sorry, Tiger. Mar-teen's skills just aren't going to help you, Dude. You're on your own.