Wednesday, March 31, 2010

In Defense. Of Orange Fleece. And Hair Colorant.

I am in the bathroom at the Parks and Rec Center fussing around before my pilates class. A classmate emerges from the stall. I cringe a little. She's kind of scary. Oh, no worries. I could definitely take her in a dark alley, but she's a little not-my-type. She is probably fifty-plus and eats granola everyday from her organic cereal box and she lets her long hair get wiry with those crazy gray hair on account of the fact that hair colorants cause global warming, probably.

She is dressed in the same thing she wears to each class. Skin-tight eighties work-out leggings and a shirt that should be longer. She's a little bow-legged, well a lot bow-legged, and the combination of the tight leggings on bowed legs and not-long-enough-shirt and the wiry hair don't really do it. For me, anyhow.

Note: Okay, now I'm just being a little snarky on account of the subsequent conversation, of sorts.

She greets me, hello. I reply GOOD MORNING too energetically. I hate when I do that but like I said, she gives me the jitters.

Those are quite the orange pants you're wearing, she says, and I say YES, I HAVE LIME GREEN ONES TOO AND BLUE ONES AND OLD NAVY HAD FLEECE LONG ENOUGH FOR ME AND I BOUGHT EVERY COLOR and yes, I am still being far too energetic but yes, the jitters.

I have orange sweatpants, she says.
Note: See what I'm saying? Sweatpants? Eeew. These pants are fleece.

But I would never wear mine out of the house, she says and walks out.

So now there is only one option. A Plank-Off. To the Death.

Bring it on!

Heck, yes!

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

The Drama. Of the Dance.

Last night's Dancing with the Stars had more drama than a, well, Daytime Drama and I should know because I've been watching All My Children since I was fourteen and that's more than thirty years now and what the heck? Am I seriously that old?

Note: Apparently, yes.

So, last night it seems that the Pros had their panties in a bunch on account of the Stars, which is a very generous use of the word in the cases of most of these folks were either a) not cooperating or b) not very talented, unfortunately.

During Aiden Turner's tenure on All My Children I watched him search for his fiance who had fallen into an underground cave with her best friend's husband and then Aiden had grief sex with the husband's wife, which as you recall was his fiance's best friend and I watched him go undercover in a mental institution to get the goods on an evil doctor while falling in love with a patient who turned out not to be crazy anymore but then she got crazy again later and I guess the mental institution proved too much for him because he kind of lost his mind and kidnapped the grief sex partner to keep her as his own, kind of like a pet. But last night's drama with Pro Edyta stomping around half-dressed and pouty because poor Aiden can't dance a lick, really, was over the top.

Edyta was not alone in her poor behavior and drama.

Kate Gosselin is possibly the world's worst dancer, except for Buzz Aldrin who doesn't count because he's ancient, sorry to say, but she may have a future on daytime television. She flailed and moaned and drove Pro Tony absolutely nuts until he says I quit and marches away and Kate sits there dejectedly moaning Why do men always leave me?

Note: I am not sure if she really said that or if I dreamed it.

Chad Ochocinco, the football wide receiver who changed his last name to the spanish numerical equivalent of the numbers on his jersey, spent most of the week lusting after Pro Cheryl Burke's whatnot and she was clearly flustered and delighted by the hunk's attention and their dance was pretty bad but I still consider them the couple most likely to do the ding-dang-dilly at some point in the future.

A couple will be eliminated tonight, hopefully Buzz because, and I mean no disrespect, if I have
to look at his wife Lois' plastic-surgeried face which unfortunately looks a little alien-esque which cannot be coincidental to Buzz' space travels for even one more week, I may succumb to a really a bad case of the jitters.

So there you have it. The Drama. And the Dance.

Heck, yes!

Monday, March 29, 2010

When I Am Troubled. I Have You. My Phone.

It's good to know that when the world is spinning out of control and life is troubled, I will always have my phone.

My phone totally gets me. Sometimes I have difficulty expressing my thoughts.

Note: You may have noticed that my thoughts can be quite deep, yes.

Yes, sometimes I have difficulty expressing my thoughts. And needs. In a text message. But regardless of how many times my thumbs hit random buttons and the sentence gets all messed up, my phone gently suggests the correct word. With the correct spelling. Without any judgment. It's like my phone knows what I'm trying to say before I even say it.

Now that's a meaningful relationship. But there is more.

Yes. More.

My phone knows just what music to play when I am feeling down. With my help, yes. But still. And when I'm lost, my phone miraculously finds the way and when I need to locate the nearest McDonald's, which granted, never happens, but in theory, my phone is there for me. My phone helps me to find the best deal on garage floor epoxy paint in a 50-mile radius but doesn't mock me when six months later I haven't expoxy-ed the garage floor yet and then gladly tells me about the weather in Helsinki.

Note: For the geographically impaired and you know who you are, Helsinki is located in Finland, wherever that is.

By it's ringtone, my phone warns me when you-know-who is calling and repeats over and over I-Love-You-Baby-Mwahhh-Mwahhh-Mwahhh when the Hub, the other love of my life, is calling and yodels when the Son is calling, which always makes me happy. About the yodeling. Sure, it's happy when the Son calls, but yodeling is even happier. Really.

Thus, I have found my perfect match. And I will remain true.

Until I find a cooler one, maybe. That has service at my house.

Love can be finicky.

Heck, yes!

Thursday, March 25, 2010

The Left Chin's Connected. To the Right Chinney-Chin-Chin.

I am in my pilates class. It is ending.

Note: Thank goodness.

My hamstrings are stretched, my abs are tight, my spine is supple. I have planked and crunched and bridged and circled and pushed-up and rotated and lifted and balanced and squatted. And jigged, even.

Note: Jiggled, perhaps.

My instructor is advising to gently rotate the right ear to the right shoulder and then she advises to bring the chin to the chest and then to rotate the left ear to the left shoulder and then bring the left chin to the chest ...

Hold it.

Left chin?

No, she did not just say that.

High. Self-esteem. And Cured Meats.

I hear Paula Deen's voice. She is calling me.

Note: No, I do not often hear voices. At least, so far as I know.

Paula is on the television, phew. She is urging y'all to buy a Smithfield Ham. It's tasty and succulent. She is holding up the ham as if the ham were a gameshow prize. It's in a bright blue package and her picture is on the ham.

Oh my.

How much money does it take to be the face of a hamshank?

Paula is not the only celebrity with high self-esteem.

The face of dog food is several steps higher than the face of ham, yes. But really. A home chef's face does not belong on my dog's food.

Note: The relationship between Rachael and the dog, as captured on film, is slightly unsettling.

But the face of Viagra? Really?

Bob Dole is a fellow with a high self-esteem, pun intended.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Miley. My Wise Mentor. Yes, Indeedy.

So. I'm chatting on the phone with the Daughter and playing Wixel Lite, which sounds like a diet drink but it isn't and replying to some e-mails and looking up wacky google keywords that have led unsuspecting googlers to my blog.

Note: Poo dishcloth? David Archuletta's butt? I'm in love with my contractor?

Note: Yes, I am a multi-tasker.

I am also flipping through the channels on television while I chat and Wixel and reply and google. What's this? Miley Cyrus is on American Idol? Mentoring other singers? Mentoring? Really?

Note: I am not dissing Miley Cyrus particularly. But. Isn't she like, a child, and isn't she like, Billy Cyrus' child and isn't she like, super-hecka-lucky?

So I google the definition of Mentor, in case I forgot: a wise and trusted guide and advisor

Note: Wise. Hmmmn.

So while I chat and Wixel and reply and google, I check out previous American Idol mentors, to prove my point of wisdom, yes.

Andrew Lloyd Webber, check.
Diana Ross, check.
Barry Manilow, check.
Barry Gibb ...


You go, Miley!

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

So, Dancing with the Stars.

They laughed. They cried. They goosed Tom Bergeron.

Note: What is the goosing all about, anyhow?

Dancing with the Stars is back!

Because there are bloggers all over the globe, perhaps even qualified bloggers who will review the spectacle that is Dancing With the Stars, I have taken upon myself the responsibility and perhaps even the duty of reporting the spectacle, yes, through the eyes of The Trophy Wife.

Let us begin.

Chelsie, The Bachelor's pro, while meeting Bachelor Jake for the first time and supposedly discussing her own small stature says: Sometimes the best things come in small packages.

Note: I'm thinking it's a little rude to discuss Jake's package on national television ...

The judges to Kate Gosselin who is barely recognizable these days:
You made a lot of little people proud tonight.

Note: I realize that TLC has about a million shows profiling little people such as The Little Couple and Little People, Big World and the Little Chocolatiers. But still. Oh, her little people.

Note: Gotcha.

Note: I'll bet the Duggars' little people are also proud.

Chad Ochocinco. Chad, are you kidding me? You swap a nice, normal last name like Johnson for Ochocinco, a reference to your football jersey number? Chad, don't you realize that poor little Bachelor Jake would love a big, manly, descriptive last name like Johnson? And Dude, as long as you're being egotistical, how about being interesting? Spanish is easy. How about German? Chad Acht-Funf. That's way more intimidating on the football field, Dude. Or Mandarin? Chad Ba-Wu.

Note: Okay, maybe stay away from Mandarin.

Note: He looked pretty yummy on the dance floor. I have to admit.

Judge Len who turned to Cantankerous Len midway through the program to Aiden Turner (if
you don't click here you're crazy), soap star and one of the more gorgeous men on the planet: Your dance was filled with things I don't like. You were standing there just shaking your wobbly bits.

Note: Wobbly Bits? Isn't that a breakfast cereal? Wobbly Bits with raisins?

And speaking of wobbling, Niecy Nash talked a lot about her jiggly parts. And how she embraces her jiggly parts. And how she is proud of her jiggly parts.

As for me, I prefer Aiden's Wobbly Bits to Niecy's Jiggly Parts anyday.

Dancing with the Stars is back!

Heck, yes!

Monday, March 22, 2010

Men. So Precious.

Hub decides to cut back a little on the sweets. And a few portion sizes. His belly is growing, just a little, he says. And it's not a diet, really, just cutting back.

So Hub skips a smoothie after his workout. He eats three per-sinnamon cookies instead of four. He makes himself a smaller cup of frozen yogurt at the fro-yo. He orders a full pizza and saves three slices for lunch the next day.

Hub is feeling sheepish this morning.

He works up the audacity to tell me that he has lost almost 6 pounds this week.

Six pounds.

Frozen yogurt, pizza, cookies.

Men. So precious.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Wet. Dry. Awesome. Ness.

The wet-look is clearly not for everyone.

Who gives his cat a bath anyhow?

Note: Shaving a cat, well, that's another story. Entirely.

And some things are just ugly whether they're wet or dry or someplace in between. You'd need to throw an entire ocean at this dude to make him palatable.

And speaking of throwing an entire ocean at it ...

It would take more than that to pretty up these knees.

Note: Yes, these are my knees in the down-dog position. Upside down. With gravity. I realize I'm making excuses here. But.

However, there is nothing more fantastic than a sopping wet shih tzu.

That's what I'm talking about.

Friday, March 19, 2010

The Difference between Men and Lizards.

Not much.

I am working in the backyard. The temperature is approaching 80 degrees. Amazing things happen when the temperature rises and not just in my backyard.

Case in point: Picture the gym. When the temperature rises, women wear even less clothing, if this is possible. The men are standing near the weights, preening and admiring each other. In a weird way, yes. The group sees the beautiful woman with large whatnots wearing less than usual on those same whatnots. The men assume their positions. They flex. They grunt. They cast glances at the lady. Perhaps they achieve eye contact and the eyebrows rise, in a gesture of hey baby, lookin' good.

Case in point: Picture my backyard. The sun is shining, the bees are buzzing, the birds are pecking and flitting and singing and nest-making.

Note: Birds are far better multi-taskers than some of God's other creations.

I note that the heat has lured the lizards from their hiding places and I am wondering where do they go all winter, anyhow? when it begins.

The male lizards are congregated on the sunny stones along the rock walls, preening and admiring each other. In a weird way, yes. The group sees a beautiful lady lizard with whatever-lizards-go-for and she is really strutting whatever-it-is-lizards-go-for. The men assume their positions. They assume the lizard push-up position, oh yes they do. They flex. They grunt. They cast glances at the lady. Perhaps they achieve eye contact.

That's it.

The Difference between Men and Lizards?

Eyebrows, apparently.

Heck, yes!

Thursday, March 18, 2010

To Infinity. And Beyond.

I need to shave my cat.

Buzz is old now. He's a sweet old man. But he has gingivitis and arthritis and probably more-itis' that are not evident to the naked eye. I think he's close to sixteen which in cat years, according to a reliable source, i.e. the Internet, is the equivalent of 78 human years. Give or take.

But it's pretty random to compare a human the age of my father-in-law (FIL) to my cat because although the FIL probably has gingivitis and arthritis and maybe some other itis', I have no intention of engaging in the process of shaving him. Ever.

Note: I need a new visual. Quick!

Because Buzzy is old and has gingivitis and arthritis and other -itis', he doesn't groom himself so well anymore. In the Winter, Buzz bulks up his Himalayan coat as if he actually lives in the Himalayas, which he does not.

Note: For the geographically impaired and you know who you are, the Himalayas are NOT in Germany.

So when the Springtime comes and he sheds, Buzzy turns into a mess.

Hence, the shave.

So, I need information. About shaving a cat. So, of course I turn to the Internet. I am a little concerned about what I am learning. About cat-shaving and the inherent dangers involved.

First, to the cat:
*Do not taunt or provoke the cat in any way.
Note: I am shaving him. Is that not provocation enough?
*Avoid your cat's face and neck. You could kill your cat if you accidentally cut your cat's neck.
Note: What? Cut his neck? Is a tourniquet appropriate in this situation?

Or to the Shaver:

*Have someone help you secure your pet. It is a dangerous process if the animal is flailing as you try to shave its fur.

*Use an electric razor and begin to shear the cat. Shear only the pieces that must be sheared, and shear them only near the edges. If you are lucky the fur that is tangled will peel off your pet like carpet once you start to trim at it.

Note: If you are lucky? Carpet peeling? Really?

*Put on protective gloves. Without this, you will be unarmed against the furry, unshaved creature (who probably will not be looking forward to the shaving process).

I am looking forward to this process less than Buzzy.

Run, Buzz, run! To infinity and beyond!

Tuesday, March 16, 2010


There is a bonafide psychic at The K-mart.

Yes, I know.

I am wiping the handle of my cart with the complimentary sani-wipe, for my shopping convenience, when I meet The Psychic.

He is short. And balding. And I believe that he is missing some teeth.

Note: I digress.

With a grand, sweeping motion he gestures toward the sepia-toned photos on assorted easels beside him. They are mostly pictures of kids in spurs and cowboy hats and boas and flapper dresses, maybe, and holsters. Yes, holsters. Apparently he is saying that a real Hollywood photographer is coming right here, to this very spot, to take photos for just ten dollars and did he mention that it is a real Hollywood photographer?

As I smile one of those weak, no-teeth smiles while I shake my head, he transforms into The Psychic. Right there in The K-mart.

He dares to make eye contact with me and says, Wouldn't your grandkids look great in a photo like this, taken by a real Hollywood photographer?

I freeze.


I stare at The Psychic. For he truly has to be a psychic.

There is no other way that he could possibly know that I am almost-a-Grandma because please-oh-my-heck-tell-me that no one else would possibly ever realize, simply by looking at me at The K-mart, that I am ...


Oh yeah. He's a psychic, for sure.

Preparing for the Wearing. Of the Green.

I love to celebrate holidays. Although any holiday will do, I prefer brightly-colored holidays which involve gifting, mystical beings or cured meats.

So, Fah who for-aze! Dah who dor-aze! Welcome, welcome St. Patrick's Day! It's got green, it's got leprechauns and it's got corned beef. We've hit the trifecta.

Actually, I do not know much about St. Patrick's Day, as I am not Irish and I do not drink and I cannot jig, although I do jiggle. A little.

Note: My DIL is a master jigger. She even majored in it. In college. She rocks.

So I do what any fact-seeking American does. I google.

It turns out St. Patrick converted lots of folks to Christianity but he didn't really drive all the snakes from Ireland as there are no snakes on that island nation anyhow.

Note: For the geographically impaired and you know who you are, yes, Ireland is an island and may or may not be conveniently located near Germany.

And sadly, leprechauns are very minor creatures in irish folklore who fix the shoes of the fairies. And they are cranky about it. And who wouldn't be?

Note: Walt Disney invented our version of leprechauns in 1959. Well, of course he did.

Even worse, the Irish don't eat corned beef . They eat Irish bacon. But the immigrants couldn't afford Irish bacon in America so their Jewish deli-owning-friends suggested corned beef.

Note: Bad call.

And St. Patrick's day typically falls in the middle of Lent so it's a "day off" from one's "whatever-one-is-lenting" which is typically cured meats, apparently.

Note: And since one is taking the day off, sort of, the drinking begins, apparently.

So, there you go.

I'm still not Irish and I still cannot jig and I still do not drink. But I will put on my green tomorrow and celebrate with the best of them, minus the drinking and the cured meats.

Note: Because I rock the green wig.

Heck, yes!

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Oh, Martha. Dear, Dear Martha. Lame!

I am watching Martha Stewart as I usually do. She is recorded on my DVR and I am cleaning and/or cooking and/or doing whatever-else-I-do-and-it's-plenty-you'd-better-believe-it so sometimes I pay poor attention and sometimes I pay little attention and sometimes I pay no attention at all especially if Martha is talking about ancient Peruvian stemware artisans or how to make your own kayak in 12,649 easy steps. But sometimes I am very interested in what she's doing but then I forget to listen and I have to keep rewinding it. Over and over. My record is 12 times rewinding because I could not remember to listen long enough to actually listen.

Note: I do not have ADD.

So, she is talking to actor Andy Garcia who is, possibly, even more boring than Martha. They are making savory waffles with fluffy egg whites and bacon and cheddar cheese to eat alongside the pork belly prepared earlier in the episode.

Note: I can think of nothing less appetizing than the belly of the pig. Nothing, that is, that can be discussed on a family blog.

Andy, do you make waffles at home? Martha is asking, ladling the batter into two rockin' awesome waffle-makers.

Note: She has four of the wafflers at her house in Maine! Four! That is more waffle-makers than the number provided at the complimentary breakfast bar at the Days Inn in Provo.

No, he is saying, but I eat the frozen ones.

Martha is aghast.

Well, he says, I need the gluten-free variety.

Note: My ears perk up on account of so do I.

Oh, Martha says. How long have you been a vegan?

Oh, Martha. Dear, Dear Martha.

Note: Hang your head in shame.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Life's Little Instruction Book. Revisited.

I am at Disneyland, which is sponsored by those hunks at Brawny. So, the restrooms have instructions. For handwashing.

Please note:

So, maybe it's just me. But I am a Master-Handwasher, and the recent H1N1-handwashing-hand-sanitizing-excitement has definitely given us slightly obsessive-compulsive-types new life.

Note: I told you so.

But instructions. Really? It reminds me of the lather-rinse-repeat on my shampoo bottle. Does some dude really say, Hey, Honey! Did you know you're supposed to rinse this stuff?

Note: As I have grown slightly older, it has become nearly impossible to read the teeny tiny writing on shampoo bottles anyhow and wearing cheaters in the shower seems inappropriate in so many ways. But after forty years of hairwashing, I think I have it all figured out anyhow.

Note: If the shampoo instructions change in a substantial way at any point in the future, please advise me as there is no freaking way I'll ever know.

But maybe inane instructions are not a totally bad idea.

For example, it might be nice to have a sign posted on the freeway onramp: Your attention please. Your vehicle is now merging. Please press your gas pedal NOW. Thank you.

Or: Thank you for using our public restroom. Please do not sigh with relief when you release your urine stream. Have a nice day!

Or at the Gym: Please be informed that you are not as hot as you think you are so please focus on something besides your reflection in the mirror. But I'm sure your Mama loves you anyhow. Enjoy your workout!

Just thinking.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Hot. Diggity. Dog

I am sitting in the middle seat of an aircraft. I always have to sit in the middle because Hub likes to sit on the outside aisle in order to stretch his legs and trip the flight attendants or anyone else walking around the aircraft when the pilot has advised that it is now safe to move about the cabin.

Note: When I fly alone, I do not sit in the middle. But I only fly alone when I am going on a girls' weekend, which has been exactly once or when I have a book signing or other publicity commitment for my novel. Which has been exactly never.

Today I am sitting in the middle and I am shoving my small, personal carry-on under the seat in front of me. I am shoving with my feet. It does not fit. The large stuffed horse, won by the Hub at Disneyland's California Adventure and zippered into the top of my small, personal carry-on, is causing the problem, but if I keep kicking, it will fit. Under the seat.

A gentleman is standing in the aisle saying May I step in? meaning he wants to sit beside me in the window seat.

Can't you see I'm busy right now, trying to put my small personal carry-on completely under the seat in front of me? I say, but only in my mind, of course.

The young gentleman and I chat. About my horse. And my 50 year-old Hub. And the Gentleman's girlfriend. And his house on the beach. And his parents who fly around in corporate jets on account of Grandpa just gave Dad the family business. And about how the Gentleman is not in the family business and is flying to San Jose to get bawled out for something dumb he did at work. Selling water heaters. And how lame it is to have to be bawled out in person instead of over the phone.

That is terrible, I say, and I hope that your job will be okay because in today's economy a good job is important.

Note: I like to use phrases like 'in today's economy' and the whatnot.

He is shrugging. I'll be okay, he says. My Grandfather just handed his company to my Dad and I'll be next.

Next to what? I ask.

Note: Be prepared. His response is awesome.

Hot dogs.

I am sitting next to the heir of the (Brand Name Deleted) Hot Dog Fortune.

Note: I cannot reveal the name of the Hot Dog Company but I will say that they answer to a higher authority.

We part ways. He gives me his card and says he can get me a good deal on a water heater, if I'm ever in the market for one.

Thank you, I say. And the next time I eat a hot dog, I'll think of you.

Note: Oops. That just doesn't sound right.

But think about it. The heir of a weiner fortune. No, the heir of a freaking weiner empire. Right next to me on Southwest.

Heck, yes!

It's Official. And Potentially Unbelievable. But True, Nonetheless.

It's official.

I am attracted to a fifty year-old man.

But seriously. What's not desirable about a fellow who can manipulate his eyebrows to look just like Flik?

Note: I am tingling just thinking about it.

Heck, yes.

Happy Birthday Hub! And many, many more. With me.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Ten Bucks Worth. Better Read It. Twice. At least

I am in Anaheim, across the street from Disneyland in my hotel room, conveniently located near the Denny's, and the IHOP and the Captain Kidd's All-You-Can-Eat place. I am sitting on my fluffy white bed after paying ten bucks to access the internet for 24 measly hours and that's like $2.40 an hour or twenty-four cents an hour or something ridiculous so someone really needs to read this post. Repeatedly.

Obsessively, even.

Disneyland is great. I have seen Banjo-playing dudes and a barbershop quartet in fantastically crazy pinstripe outfits and Mary Poppins and the Chippendale's dancers.

Note: The dancers turned out to be Chip and Dale. Very disappointing. However, they performed a tap number that seemed quite intricate for big fluffy feet.

And I got to design my own dream home at Innoventions after answering just five simple questions which only partially accounts for the fact that my image is in a spacesuit. Like an astronaut.

Note: Does my spacesuit make me look fat?

And although I did not specifically request that my lunar dream house be surrounded by odd phallic symbols, I am pleased.

Disneyland is great.

Heck, yes!

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

The. Happiest. Place. On. Earth.

I am packing for Disneyland, the Happiest Place on Earth, because Hub is turning fifty and doggone it, he may as well be happy about it. So we are headed to the Happiest Place on Earth. And these are the Top Ten reasons that make it so:

1. There are Pirates. Real pirates with real eye-patches and real swash-buckles. And the pirates flirt with the ladies. And I am a lady, yes.

2. Music plays everywhere you go! But it's happy music about beauties and beasts and real boys and nobody stares at me too funny when I find myself turning my motor on and swiveling my hips, except Hub who is now walking two steps ahead of me. Hey, wait up!

3. A parade can break out at any moment and if I time if right, I can tag myself on to the end of the line and be part of the parade, an integral part even, until the security people wave flashlights at me and say Get out the street lady and whatnot.

4. There are well-dressed attractive young people walking around with brooms and those fancy little handled-things that scoop up the garbage immediately so there is no litter anywhere because if there was litter, it couldn't be Disneyland.

5. There are flowers and shrubbery grown in remarkable shapes like mouse ears and flying elephants that actually come to life at night when no one is looking, maybe.

6. There is a brave Dad who, because he can't say no to his adorable four year-old ends up in one of those awful spinning teacups and he's clenching the bar and his face is green and the kid is having the time of her life.

7. Making out with Hub during the "It's a Small World" boat ride in front of those creepy animatronic people singing over and over and over and over about the size of our planet while watching us kiss with those big, wide, creepy, staring eyes. Ooh, shivers.

8. Getting a driver's license at Autopia and "accidentally" showing it to the cashier at JCPenney instead of my real Driver's License, oops.

9. Trying to imitate the yodeling while waiting for the Bobsled ride to begin and telling the next people in line that I'm 50% Swiss, can you tell by my fine yodeling?

10. Did I mention the Pirates?


Tuesday, March 2, 2010

So, Are Pink Cowboys More Polite?

It's happening. It's the time of year that if you squeeze your eyes a bit and gaze at the trees real hard, there is an aura of green hanging around the branches. The leaves aren't really uncurling yet. Just the promise. And the green tint that fills the space around the craggly limbs.

Note: If you do not live in the Garden of Eden, this phenomenon may not occur until later in the year. Much later.

Note: If you are one of those readers still living in WINTER, my head is hanging in pity for you. But I am grinning while my head is lowered Neener-neener-neener!

I am remembering a favorite spring day long, long ago. I am sitting at the table with five year-old Son and two-year old Daughter. We are coloring a picture. For Daddy. Who is at work. Son is swirling the colored markers in lazy circles, admiring each hue. Admiring and chattering. See all the colors, Mom? See? Mom, are you looking at me when I'm talking?

I look and nod and smile. Daughter is holding a marker in her fist. She is 'drawling a cowboy'. Daughter always 'drawls' cowboys. And she wears white cowboy boots. Everyday. She falls asleep in the boots and I sneak in to remove them. I am afraid that one day, the boots won't come off and she'll end up wearing those doggone things to her Senior Prom.

Mom! What's your favorite color, Mom? Son is looking up at me through his long dark lashes. Why do boys always get the eyelashes? I wonder. Probably something to do with that wacky Y chromosome.

Pink, I say.

Daughter is crying. She gets a little crease above her lip when she cries. Pink is my favorite, she moans. In utter devastation.

We can share, I suggest.

She stares at me. Hard. It's mine.

Son interrupts. See this marker? It's my favorite.

He is swirling a green marker.

But see, it's not a dark green. It's a po-lite green.

This kid is a genius, I think. I realize that he means 'light' green, but 'polite green' is a much better description of the green that hovers around a tree on a warm spring day or waves in the new grasses on the hillside.

Daughter's little lip is creasing again. I want polite green too! It's mine!

I smile. At the thought of a pink and polite green cowboy.

Happy Spring!