My Apologies. To You. And the Duggars.

I am at Macy's. I am trying on shirts. Actually, I am trying on blouses, which are different than shirts because they are more expensive and blouses usually involve buttons or at the very least, ruffles.

Note: I like to try on blouses because it simplifies the whole hair issue. Just trying on one shirt and pushing the giant head through the neckhole signifies the end of the good hair day, yes.

I try on a flouncy pink blouse that is much too large through the bosom. Most blouses are too large through my bosom. I try on a zebra pattern blouse. I admire the way that the stripes stretch ever so slightly over the bosom, accentuating my curves. Sort of, yes. The blouse has ruffles and ties and buttons. Too much.

Oooh. I like this black and white blouse. I am imagining a bright yellow necklace at the, well, neckline. I step out of my dressing cubicle to check my view in the three-way mirror.

Note: What am I thinking?

I stop in my tracks. I am mortified. Are you kidding me?

Note: Are you kidding me?

I feel that I must apologize too anyone and everyone who has ever walked behind me in a mall, office building, dark alley. Anywhere, actually.

My bum! Oh my. My bum! It is flat, yes, I know. But my jeans don't stay up quite on my hips and the resulting image in the mirror is frightening, yes. Droopy.

Note: My bum!

I quickly hoist up my jeans. Too high, probably. I will likely end up with some sort of skid marks on my hips. Or bruises. Or calluses, even. From the constant upward tugging. Because I must stop the droop.

From now on, it's skirts for me. Skirts do not envelope the droop.

Note: Those Duggars had it figured out all along, after all.

Heck, yes!

Bring. It. On.

Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words. And if the picture contains words, then its value rises exponentially, probably.

So this picture is potentially worth, like, four thousand and thirty-seven words or even more.

And since more words is obviously better in spite of the whole 'picture-worth-a-thousand-words-thing', readers may want a better view of the words. Themselves.

Bring it On!

What a Difference a Vowel Makes.

It is raining!

But Rubi needs her walk. Yet this is excellent news. Excellent news, indeed. Because I have new rain boots.

My new rain boots are not Wellies, as in Wellington Boots, as in super hip and cool and as in oh, you got new Wellies? Fab!

No, my new rain boots are Wallies, as in Wal-Mart comes to the rescue for folks who don't want to spend quite that much on rain boots.

Note: I swear that I do not spend all that much time at Wal-Mart. Yes, I was there on New Year's Eve and yes, that cashier fellow did hit on me, but really. A Trophy Wife is encouraged to shop wherever she pleases. Including Wal-Mart, if she must.

Rubi sees me go to the kitchen drawer and grab a ziploc baggie to stick into the pocket of my Victoria's Secret PINK fleece pants.

Note: If you, dear reader, do not understand the necessity of the baggie, you are not a dog walker. Or you live on a farm. Or you are one of those people.

Rubi begins spinning. And racing around the house Looking for a toy to bring on her walk. Or a cookie. She must eat the cookie before she leaves. So no one else gets it.

I am putting on a big 49er jacket with a hood to protect my hair from the rain.

Note: The rain could not possibly make my hair look any worse.

We go outside. The wind is blowing. The rain is sheeting. The dog is peeing. The gutters are gushing.

And I am Singing. In the Rain. In my Wallies.

Heck, yes!

Grand. Just Grand.

I have news!

No. I am not finally a published writer and no, I am not the winner of HGTV's Dream Home and no, I am not the sole heir to the estate of an eccentric old lady who appreciated my stopping by to visit her. In the cold, dark winter. When she was forgotten by her own selfish children.

No.

My news is better!

Yesterday I put my hand on my favorite DIL's growing belly and felt my GrandBoy kick! My GrandBoy kicked!

Someday I will publish a book and my home is lovely enough and money is just money.

But family is what it's all about.

And I felt my GrandBoy kick!

Note: And if that GrandBoy is really lucky, he might look a little like his Dad.

Norwegians are from Norway. Not Norwegia. It's a Joke.

Is it just me or does the Norwegian ski team look like big candy canes skiing down the hill in Vancouver? Big, delicious candy canes.

Yummy.

I love Norwegia.

An Olympic Bum.

I am an Olympian.

I am watching the Olympics with the Hub. We are enjoying the broadcast. Very much. We provide interesting and clever commentary, we think. We discuss the "Gay" and "Not Gay" male figure skaters, not that there's anything wrong with that. I wish the Hub would try on Johnny Weir's black skating outfit with the pink lace-up corset. Hub wishes that I would try on Johnny Weir's black skating outfit with the pink lace-up corset.

Note: Gay

Now the ladies are skiing. Downhill.

Note: Can one actually ski uphill? Does such an event exist?

Oh! The ladies are falling. Crashing through gates. Skis are twisting and flying. Arms and legs are flailing. Oh, dear.

The crazy girls get up. And ski the next day. Even though they feel as if they have been hit by a freaking truck.

I am an Olympian.

It is Sunday morning. I awaken at 6:00 a.m. because I have an early-morning meeting. The house is dark. My head hurts. I grab Hub's big blue robe to go downstairs and get ibuprofen. I am not really awake. I place my foot on the steps but something is wrong. The step isn't there. I cry out for the Hub as my feet slip out from under me. Oh no! I am falling down the stairs. My back hits the steps. I can't stop falling. My arm is tangled in the rail. I'm still falling. I twist. I hit my ribs.

I can't get up. It hurts. Hub is scared. Rubi is scared. But they need not fear.

I am an Olympian.

I recover briefly on the couch. I feel throbbing in my back. My arm. My side. My finger is bleeding where my ring cut into the flesh.

I get dressed. I go to my early-morning meeting. I participate in the choir. I play my piano solo. I serve strawberries and bite-sized cakes following the event. I come home. I prepare a meal for 25 people. I serve it. I smile.

I am an Olympian.

With a very sore bum.

I Need a Statue. Of Me. Pronto.

I am reading the morning newspaper. Sort of. I am actually eating egg whites and hot cereal and whipped cream and drinking a diet cherry 7-up. And cooking beef stroganoff and chicken chili and orange chicken with steamed rice. And watching the ladies on The View arguing. About something. And squirting whipped cream on my finger. For Rubi, who is sitting at my feet, waiting to lick. I can feel her big eyes staring at me. Whipped cream, she is saying, I must have it. Now.

Back to the newspaper. I note that Rapper Kas is facing contempt charges. And today is Drew Barrymore's birthday. She is 35. No more mini skirts for her. I read that optimistic and happy people are less likely to suffer from heart disease. So, I smile and laugh. Out loud. For my health and longevity, of course.

Then I find an article about the controversial statue of President Obama in front of the school he attended during his childhood in Jakharta.

Note: Further investigation reveals that Jakharta is in Indonesia, for the benefit of the geographically impaired, and you know who you are.

I can not lie, the statue amuses me. I enjoy statues in general, i.e. the Liberty Mutual Statues. And Hub and I regularly discuss the huge monuments we must have on our graves someday.

Note: Simmer down. We're joking. I do not really want a life-sized statue of myself on my grave. With angel wings. And big boobs. Well, maybe the big boobs.

The statue in question depicts a 10-year old Obama, apparently, standing with a butterfly on his extended hand. He looks like a very happy . . . squashed adult Obama. I'm just saying. When I was ten years old, I looked ten years old. I had long, stringy hair and a puffy pre-teen face and too-long legs and too-long arms and well, that's all.

Please note the profile examinations below. Hmmmn.

Note: The statue reminds me very much of America's Funniest Home Videos with Tom Bergeron's

head dropped on unsuspecting bodies.

So, although I have no political motive whatsoever in my assessment of the statue, may I say:

Heck, yes!

Whipped Cream. And Meanderings About Whipped Cream. Deep, Deep Meanderings.

I am not a particularly large person. My legs are as long as the Hub, who is 6'4", but my legs are somewhat chicken-like, I admit. But I am definitely not large. I do not buy two seats for an aircraft, for example, although it's a dreamy thought to have the seat next to me available for my netbook and my sodas and my magazines and my blanket and my pillow and my moisturizer and my lip gloss and my hand sanitizer and my whatnot.

Note: I do not go anywhere. I do not know why my imagination about my aircraft escapades is so grand. When I do travel somewhere I am generally in my aging SUV with my dog and my air compressor and a 12-pack of Diet Pepsi Wild Cherry. And other stuff that rolls around in the back.

I imagine, then, that my lack of heft is why people roll their eyes at me when I talk about my obsession with whipped cream. People think I am joking.

Note: Do not joke about the whipped cream.

To settle the matter I present the following photographic evidence. I have more photographic evidence, but I look (even more) hideous in the other photographic evidence. This singular evidence will have to do.

Note: Heck, yes!

So, the Groomer. Priceless. Really.

So, the Groomer.

Rubi knows we are arriving at the Groomer. I have not told her. Yet. But she can smell the fear in the air, I suppose, or at least she can smell the shampoo. She jumps into the back of my aging SUV and hides under the air compressor.

Note: What? You don't have an air compressor in the back of your SUV? And what, exactly, do you do when your pilates ball needs inflating?

Rubi is slinking along the sidewalk, pressing her nine teeny tiny little nipples into the cement. I pick her up. Poor dear. She is trembling. I hand her to the Groomer. Her legs splay out, like she is playing airplane. And flying away to someplace with no groomers, I imagine.

Note: Actually, I believe that she believes that if she is in airplane position, she cannot be placed in the sink. For washing. Or on the table. For blow drying. Or in the noose. For trimming. And clipping. And squeezing.

Two hours later, she is done. She hears me walk in the door. Or smells me. Or whatever. I hear her calling Mom! Mom! I'm here. Back here!

Groomer brings Rubi out. Rubi is elated. Rubi is pulling on her leash to reach the front door. With all her 14.2 pound might. He neatly-clipped toenails are sliding against the tile.

I write the check. For $65.00.

Yes, I am saying that I pay Groomer $65.00 (which includes tip) every six weeks. Yes, my own haircut runs $55.00. Every 12 weeks. But I believe Rubi's fee is a bargain.

Think about it. A shampoo, cut, blowdry, manicure, pedicure, ear cleaning and anal gland squeezing for $65.00. Yes, I am saying the words anal gland squeezing.

Note: Even if the fee covered just the squeezing, it's worth it.

Shih Tzu Puppy: $500.00

Yearly Shots: $50.00

Pet Sitter: $20/day

Anal Gland Squeezing: Priceless

Heck, yes!

Pink. And Poo Poo. And Ears. Yes, Ears.

Pink is very serious business in my house.

No, not that Pink, although I have a pretty mean oblique ab routine I perform regularly to "So What."

Note: Heck, yes!

No, not so much pink for the general decor, either. Or even the wearing, particularly. But pink for the consuming, yes. On Valentine's Day, oh yes.

The Eighth Annual Pink Dinner. Prepared with copious amounts of red food dye and love.

The Hostess.

Pink, yes.

The Hostess

Biting the Ear of her Beloved.

An Expressionless Beloved.

Dude, I'm biting your ear. Pay attention!

Pink, yes.

The Centerpiece.

Pink Marshmallows, Pink Roses.

Pink! Pink! Yes! Yes!

The Food.

Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo. Pink, yes.

Cupid's Strawberry Arrows. Pink, yes.

Love Knot Rolls. Pink, yes.

Roasted Cauliflower and White Asparagus. Pink, yes.

Pink.

The food lasts but a moment.

The Pink Poo-Poo lasts a little longer ...

Eeew.

Young. Love. Happy Valentine's Day.

I am in third grade. I'm wearing a pink dress, maybe. And pigtails are popping out of the sides of my head, springing about as I move. I am eating a cupcake, also pink, with sprinkles. And there is punch. Red punch. And it tastes sticky and heavy and perfect.

I have a red mustache. But I do not care because I am in the third grade. Mrs. Nelson says You may open your valentines. I am very excited about my Valentines. They are in a pink lunch bag with strips of paper for legs and arms, folded accordion-style. It is a Valentine-Man.

I sort through the Valentines, but I do not open them. Yet. Some of them are fat, bulging with little pieces of candy. The bulgy Valentines are from the rich kids. I am not a rich kid. Right now I do not care about the bulgy ones.

I find the one I want.

I look up. Kevin is smiling at me as I hold his Valentine. Open it, he mouths from across the room.

My face feels hot. Is everybody watching me open my very special Valentine? From Kevin?

No. Everyone is hollering and laughing and eating crunchy conversation hearts that say "I Do" and "Be Mine". I do not care for the taste of conversation hearts. But Mom showed me how to lick the back of the heart and stick it on my forehead, right between my eyes.

My hands are a little shaky. I smile at Kevin and look away real quick. Then I carefully open the Valentine. It is the shape of a bear. The bear is holding a heart. I turn it over. Kevin has written on the back.

Your Sweet.

I blush. I look over at Kevin. He is smiling. I look down. At the Valentine.

I try not to think it. But I do, anyway.

You're Sweet, Kevin. You are sweet.

Sometimes being really good at grammar sucks.

Someone Needs to Recall MY Car.

My car thinks it's the boss of me. It has gadgets to tell me my door is ajar and my gas tank is low and my engine needs checking.

But now it has the nerve to tell me when I need a workout?

Heck, yes!

Are You Peking at My Duck?

I am watching Martha. Stewart, of course. I am excited to see cute Valentine's Day ideas with hearts and chocolate and cupids and paper crafting, perhaps.

Wait. Martha is talking about The Chinese New Year.

Oh.

Note: I have no problem with the Chinese New Year. But the Chinese New Year does not generally involve hearts and chocolate and cupids and paper crafting.

Martha is greeting her guests. Oh, this is interesting. One of her guests is a Dumpling Master. Yes, a Master. It takes twenty years to become a Dumpling Master. At Dumpling Master School, I guess.

Note: I am not making this up. In my mind. Although I must admit it sounds like something I might make up. In my mind.

The D.M. looks like he is the age of my son. Twenty-six. Maybe she misspoke and he is a Dumpling Apprentice or Sous Dumpling Master or something.

Note: He is excellent with the dumpling-making.

Martha is now greeting a Chinese Opera Star. I do not mean to sound uneducated, but I do not know that opera is popular in China. When he speaks, James Earl Jones' voice comes out of his mouth. It is mesmerizing.

Note: He sings in Italian. And he makes Peking Duck.

All in all I am learning a lot about the Chinese New Year. And it sounds fun. And delicious.

Gung Hay Fat Choy!

Barking. Biting. Crotches Hanging Low.

I am driving home from my pilates class. I am waving (too) energetically at the Liberty Mutual statues on the corner. The statues are raising their eyebrows at me. As if.

Note: I am not the one standing on a street corner in a Statue of Liberty costume, so simmer down, pal(s).

Clearly, I am bored. And thirsty. I am willing a good song to play on the radio. To get me out of my bored-thirsty-driving misery.

Sadly, a good song does not come on the radio. Instead, Family Man, a 1983 "classic" from Hall & Oates comes on the radio.

Note: The 80's were not exactly an era of "classic" anything. Take the stirrup pant, for example. On women like me, with long legs and after a wash and shrink, the crotch of the stupid thing hung halfway down to my knees. Nice. Now that's a classy look.

So, in this snappy little tune, the "Family Man" is confronted by a, well, lady of the evening who is pleased to offer herself and her sulky smile and her sultry eyes "for a price." To which the Family Man responds:

"Leave Me Alone, I'm A Family Man,

And My Bark Is Much Worse Than My Bite!"

He Said, "Leave Me Alone, I'm A Family Man.

If You Push Me Too Far, I Just Might...."

Might what? Bark? Bite? Break into song?

Apparently, the, um, hooker then fixes her makeup and gives him a toss of the head and whatnot. Hooker moves, yes.

And the Family Man responds:

"Leave Me Alone, I'm A Family Man,

And My Bark Is Much Worse Than My Bite!"

He Said, "Leave Me Alone, I'm A Family Man.

If You Push Me Too Far, I Just Might...."

Note: That dot-dot-dot-dot is a dead giveaway! Dude, grow some!

I think I have a headache. Would someone please pass me the diet Coke and get me out of my misery?

Family Men.

Oh yeah,

definitely.

Seniors are Hoppin'. At the IHOP.

So, wow.

Senior Night at IHOP has new hours, apparently. After 2:00 p.m. Yes, 2:00 p.m.

Huh. Senior Night? Isn't it more like Senior Afternoon? Or Senior Extremely-Early-Evening?

I do not know about all this stuff. I am hoping that my (far distant) Golden Years will be filled with more excitement than heading over to the IHOP at 2:00 p.m. for Senior Night.

On the other hand, a Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity stack of pancakes sounds pretty good about now ...

Heck, yes!

So, the Prius.

I am in the Salt Lake City Airport. I am rolling my pink suitcase behind me. Yes, pink. I am with the Hub and we are heading to the Hertz Rent-a-Car counter. I am imagining the good old days when Hertz aired commercials of O.J. Simpson running wildly through the terminal to get to the rental car counter. I think that's what he was doing. Maybe he was running from the law.

Note: I don't really know.

However, Hub and O.J. are both Premier cardholders (or in O.J.'s case, perhaps a CLUB member) and we are invited to proceed directly to the icy cold garage to retrieve our vehicle. Once in the icy cold garage, we are invited to proceed directly to the vehicle and simply drive away. At our will and pleasure.

It is always exciting to walk down the row of rental cars. Wondering. Ahead we see Hub's name flashing in lights. Is this what it would be like to be famous? I am thinking. Our name in lights? Hopping into sparkling clean cars that aren't even ours and driving blissfully away?

Hub is ahead of me. Hub has reached his name in flashing lights. Hub has stopped. Hub is staring.

Note: Hub needs lessons in chivalry, I suppose. He is regularly ahead of me.

Hub is laughing. At our car for the weekend. Honey, he is saying, look!

And I look. It is a Prius. A Toyota Prius. A very shiny burgundy Prius.

It is not one of the mid-size cars promised to us on the internet. We are giggling. We are imagining the Hertz people in Utah. The Hertz people are analyzing the rentals for the day. The Hertz people are assigning cars based on their analysis. The Hertz people notice that a baby-booming couple from California--Sonoma County, no less--is arriving for the weekend.

They are from California, the Hertz people say, nodding knowingly. Let's give them the Prius.

Note: At least it wasn't a White Bronco ...

More on the Prius later.

Heck, yes!

Putting My Finger. On. It.

Disclaimer: The following post may contain graphic language or images that will disgust many adults but delight most children. Especially boys between the ages of 3 and 10. Reader discretion is advised.

I am in Utah. Something is not right. My lips are dry, yes. My hair is still straight after three days, yes. But it's more than that. I cannot quite put my finger on it.

Oh, wait. Yes I can! It's a booger.

Note: I have not had one of those in ages!

I live in California. The sun shines a lot. The birds sing a lot. The cars drive a lot. I live in an almost-coastal region. The air is moist. And fragrant. And clean. As a daisy.

Booger-free.

Well, there you go.