Proud. American.

The band plays. The guns fire, loudly. I flinch. The flags ripple in the wind. Hundreds of them, rippling. The jets roar overhead in perfect pattern and one peels off, heavenward, disappearing into the clouds.

The World War II veteran is introduced. He stands slowly, planting his feet firmly underneath him. He walks to the podium.

He speaks clearly and resolutely, occasionally flashing his still-brilliant smile. He tells of Germany and concentration camps and of soldiers who remain forever young, never having a chance to live their own lives of freedom.

His address over, he walks to his seat. His eyes widen with surprise as he turns to see a crowd on its feet, applauding with appreciation, but not just for his words.

He nods in acknowledgment of the ovation and smiles again. A quiet smile, yes.

I wave my little flag high into the air. That's my Dad, I say.

That's my Dad.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad, Paddy. Or Paddington, if you prefer the more formal approach.

Location:Wildwing Dr,Woodland,United States

Dazzling!

The Trophy Wife and the Zebra have something in common, besides this meandering post discussing the concept of he ability of the zebra to pull off the no-no of horizontal stripes while flaunting the ampleness of the striped bum, no less.

That's right. There is more.

While on a recent Safari, the jeep-driver-slash-tour-guide explains the names of different groupings of animals. For example, he says look! a colony of ants or he says duck! a flock of seagulls or he says by golly! it's a rhumba of rattlesnakes!

Note: Yes, really. A rhumba!

Imagine the surprise and delight then, when the Trophy Wife learns that a grouping of Trophy Wives and a grouping of Zebra share the exact same name and I kid you not:

Note: Well, I may be kidding, but it should be true, in any case.

Aye! It's a dazzle of Trophy Wives. Oh! And a dazzle of Zebra.

Note: Sweet. And Dazzling!

Heck, yes!

The Good Old Days. A Retrospective. Sort Of.

When I was a kid, we had these things called maps. A map was a large sheet of paper dotted with cities and highways and rivers and points of interest and little roads and big roads to help a traveler determine routes from place to place, which was then folded into a neat stack that upon opening, could never be returned to its original form. These archaic devices had grids with numbers and letters like J-15 or E-6 but no battleships to sink, no.

Note: Battleship is a board game from my childhood, meaning it is not played on a computer in a virtual world nor does it employ the use of a joystick.

So, after using a map to get from place to place, everyone in the car (read: station wagon) attempted to return the map to its original position, as folded by the map origamist, but to no avail. Occasionally, a teeny pseudo-swear word was used during this process. The map finally ended up shoved into the glovebox, which contained no gloves whatsoever, likely because the maps from Phoenix and Boston and Germany, probably, were smashed into the box in sadly-folded shapes, indeed.

Note: Don't even ask what happened if you didn't have a map. Let's just suffice it to say that gas station attendants are generally dyslexic, yes.

Now, this week I find myself traveling hundreds of miles with the comfort and ease of Paddy's GPS system which is even easier to use than my phone's GPS, mostly because the screen is bigger and fancier. Plus, hearing the voice of Lois, my female GPS navigator, is a bit unsettling. Paddy not only provides the best routes, but he includes traffic updates, current weather, and the ability to buy Twins-A's tickets at the same time, if any are available.

Note: There is no folding, origami or otherwise, involved in the process.

So, now the mapmakers are employed at country clubs folding napkins or in hotels, folding towels at the swimming pool or at The Gap, folding and refolding the t-shirts all day, everyday.

I think those darn mapmakers got exactly what they deserved.

The Good Old Days weren't always that great. I'm just saying.

Stay. Out of my Porridge.

Someone's been sitting in my chair.

Something is amiss. My bum is plopped into the driver's seat of my aging SUV. The car is unusually messy.

Note: Perhaps a more appropriate description of the vehicle is that it is messier than usual. My car has a tendency to be somewhat messy, with the pilates balls and outdoor speakers and about 8000 empty soda cans and tupperware containers and water bottles and junk, yes.

On this day, the car is actually spiffier than usual, except for the messy part. The back is empty of its usual pilates gear. But I note that the seats and floor are littered with lots of odd objects, such as shredded kleenex, a used bandaid, empty easter eggs, receipts, car manuals and wires and adapters for the in-deck casssette player, yes.

Note: Yes, in-deck cassette player. I told you that the SUV is aging.

With a bit of a shiver, I admit, I then realize that the glove box is open; the ashtray is open; the center console is open. And the contents are thrown around inside my vehicle.

Someone's been sitting in my chair.

Ooh, there's that nasty shiver again.

Then I notice a couple of things that seem almost amusing. Thrown in the back if the SUV is a baggie of cell phones, ancient ones, that are going into the recycling box at church. The would-be-thieves weren't too impressed with those, apparently. And with greater amusement, I realize that all of the Easter eggs from the center console are open, with no remnants of the candy. Which has been inside the eggs and sitting in my center console since 2008.

Yum.

But wait. My sunglasses are still on the dashboard.

What the heck?

Goldilocks didn't think my sunglasses are worth stealing?

Goldilocks had been watch her thieving, trespassing, candy-eating, sunglass-rejecting back. I've got three Bears that hold a darn mean grudge.

Note: Yes, you heard me. Darn mean.

And some night, Goldilocks, when you're sleeping, you are going to so regret messing with me and my SUV.

Sleep tight.

Heck, yes!

A Knick. Knack. Paddy-Whack.

Son has advised me that I am now enjoying the Forefront of the Mobile Computing Revolution. Scratch that. Make that Riding the Forefront of the Mobile Computing Revolution. Yes. That's it. Riding.

Note: Yes. Me.

Hub, in a fit of frivolity, bought me an iPad.

Note: He is currently sitting on the couch, playing with the iPad, which, from this point, will simply be referred to as 'Paddy'. Yes, like Paddington the Bear. So what.

Anyway, he is sitting on the couch with Paddy, watching snippets of 'All My Children', I believe, which makes him even more endearing, if that's even possible, at this point.

And Paddy is everything the media and my Son have purported him to be. Paddy has placed me smack dab in the Forefront of the Mobile Computing Revolution. And yes, Paddy is very mobile, indeed.

Here is a picture of Paddy and me lounging poolside. Mobile, indeed.

And here is a picture of Paddy and me unloading the dishwashing in a mobile fashion, yes.

Please enjoy this photo of Paddy and me in the ladies room. Mobility, mobility, mobility.

Here is a picture of Paddy and me in the shower. Ah, mobile.

And finally, Paddy and I prepare for a good night's sleep.

Sleep tight, Paddy, for tomorrow a new dawn of Riding and Computing and Mobilizing begin all over again.

Heck, yes!

Ah, Garbage. And Romance.

So, my garbage bag is leaking. All over the floor. Pink juice, likely from the sliced-off tops of oh, about, eight thousand strawberries.

Note: I am not even exaggerating about the eight thousand strawberries. Well, maybe a little, yes.

As an experienced Trophy Wife, I am accustomed to minor setbacks in life and I embrace the little pratfalls and pitfalls and Humpty Dumpty's Big Falls of daily living. Such as leaky, sticky garbage bags, yes.

Note: Well, maybe not embrace, exactly, but to not say a bad word, at least.

So, my garbage bag is leaking.

I inspect more closely. Imagine my surprise and delight when I see that the garbage leakage has formed an image of The Hub.

Sweet Holy Moses! It's a Miracle!

Who knew garbage could be so romantic?

Heck, yes!

The. Voice.

I am pulling into my driveway. Down the street I see a tall, dark, handsome man walking a teeny little black and white dog.

This sight pleases me. I like the confidence exuded by a strong, tall, handsome man who owns a teeny tiny dog.

Note: Yes, it is the Hub. Please put your eyebrows back down.

You see, real men don't need big dogs or big noisy trucks with big expensive tires and big old holes where his brains should be. Real men just need to have big paychecks.

Note: I digress. What was I talking about?

Oh, yes. So, I walk to the sidewalk and call Hey Rube!

Rubi stops and looks around. She cannot see me, but she can hear my voice. She looks back at the Hub, who is encouraging the teeny dog. Go see your Mom.

He lets go of the leash and I call her again. She races toward my voice, the voice of her Master, yes, with her ears flying back and her eyes wide. She finally reaches me and licks and bounces and butt-ups as an expression of her great joy. Of seeing me.

Note: There is likely a deep message in this beautiful story about listening and responding to the Master's Voice and the whatnot. And not waiting, but running to that Voice.

So, I will file the little gem away for future use, in the back of my mind where there is plenty of room, and then I consider the Hub. He's strolling. To the Voice.

So, Rubi runs to my Voice. Hub meanders to my Voice.

Note: I have some training to do.

Heck, yes!

Happy Birthday, Mom.

Today is my mother's birthday.

It doesn't really matter how old she would have been today, because she has come to a standstill in my mind; she remains forever the same age, which I'm sure would ultimately please her.

Mom taught me a lot of things. She taught me how to plant flowers and that if I listened very carefully, I might hear them thanking me for the drink of cool water straight from the hose on a hot summer day. Mom taught me to make fresh jams and to crochet left-handed and to eat the heart from the watermelon before anyone else could get to it. She taught me that Saturday-is-the-day-we-get-ready-for Sunday and that there is always enough food to share with the hungry or lonely and that Easter requires a new dress. Mom taught me that picnics are better than restaurants and caramel popcorn balls are better than candy bars. She taught me how to love and how to be loved.

And she taught me to laugh.

I was surprised to find that some of my siblings did not recognize our mother's sass and sense of humor. She was the concocter of wild schemes and the maker-upper of words that really should exist in the English language.

I have a picture taken with her, just days before she was hospitalized and never returned home. It is a couple of days after Thanksgiving and I have the presence of mind for a three-generation photo with me, Daughter and Mom.

We are gathered around her as she sits in her favorite pink rocker. We are all smiling in the picture, real smiles that can't be 'cheesed'. Smiles that can only come for one of Mom's crazy comments.

I remember clearly why we are all smiling, why the twinkle in our eyes is so honest.

Moments before Hub snaps the shot, Mom looks down at her sweatshirt, her breasts making small lumps in the green fabric.

If I'd known I was getting my picture taken today, she says, I would have put on my good bra.

Snap.

That's the way I remember my Mother.

A real Trophy Wife.

Do Not. Forget.

Me to the DIL, in a bit of a frazzled state as we are packing for our gig:

Where did I put the list of stuff I'm not supposed to forget?

Heck, yes!

Dude Looks Like a Lady.

We've all done it.

You know how when you're shopping or walking the dog or ordering a grilled chicken salad-no-cheese-dressing-on-the-side and you see a lady and wonder is she pregnant?

Note: It is fine to wonder such things. However, one may never utter the thought out loud. To the person of your wonderings.

Note: It is fine to whisper the question to your shopping partner or dining partner or your dog. Even if the woman in question is in active labor, on the floor, asking for an ambulance. It doesn't change the fact that one does not ask.

I am in the grocery store parking lot when such a situation arises. The questionable-pregnancy individual has a large and protruding abdomen with dark curly hair pulled back in a ponytail. I ask my shopping partner if she thinks the woman is pregnant.

My shopping partner looks. She cocks her a head a little. Then she looks at me.

That's a man.

Oh.

So the answer is no, then?

Size 34 DDD. Double. Dog. Dare.

Through a series of events that are none of your business, I find myself looking for a nursing bra.

Note: I said It's none of your business.

A good nursing bra is hard to find. Actually, any nursing bra is hard to find, in a pinch. I am wandering through another intimate department in search of just one. I am surrounded by giant abalone-sized bra cups. Some are pink. Some have cheetah print. Some look like my Grandma would have worn them, had she been so endowed.

Note: Why are the gigantic bras always on the outside of the racks? Near the public walkways? Where adolescent boys could see them and be scarred for life?

The only store employee in sight is a young male. My shopping companion double-dog-dares me to ask him if they have nursing bras.

Note: Double-dog-dare? What are we? Third graders?

Note: Heck, yes!

I demurely and apologetically ask about the nursing bras, noting that he is obviously working in the children's department and I'm sorry there's no ladies around to ask such a question and whatnot.

He answers.

ACTUALLY, I KNOW A LOT ABOUT NURSING BRAS. I HAVE BEEN TRAINED IN THE INTIMATES DEPARTMENT.

Is he speaking through a megaphone? Is he speaking over the store's sound system?

I SPENT QUITE A BIT OF TIME IN THE INTIMATES DEPARTMENT. WE DO NOT CARRY NURSING BRAS. BUT YOU COULD BLAH BLAH JC PENNEY BLAH BLAH INTIMATES DEPARTMENT BLAH BLAH.

Have the other shoppers ceased their shopping? To gawk at the 32-Aer looking for a nursing bra?

I try to get away. I analyze my escape routes. I am backing away. Thank you. Thank you.

INTIMATES INTIMATES BRAS BRAS BRAS ....

My shopping companion grabs my arm and we race to the escalator.

And stand on the same step.

Heck, yes!

Drat. My Cat.

The Problem: My cat still needs a good shaving. But I am afraid of his claws and his teeth and the horrible yowling noises he makes when he is upset.

The Plot: In a 'I-did-not-imply-a-sudden-or-unusual-or shocking stroke' of brilliance, the DIL, who is visiting, suggests that she find a stray cat, i.e. Buzzy, who is not actually a stray, just apparently neglected. As an act of kindness and hope for the stray cat, which isn't stray, just neglected, she then takes the cat to the nearest vet place. For a shaving.

The Problem: What is the vet suggests a physical? And discovers the cat's gingivitis? And puts him on medication for his arthritis? What if this cat-shaving costs me more than my new set of All-Clad D5 cookware, which I have been dying to bring up, casually, in a post?

Drat. Darn Cat.

In Honor. Of Mothers. And Shoes, I Guess.

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe,
She had so many children, she didn't know what to do;
She gave them some broth without any bread,
She whipped them all soundly, and put them to bed.

Note: What the heck? What kind of example of motherhood is this?

Note: Maybe appropriate family planning would have been helpful to this woman. And what about the Old Man? Don't tell me he's at the office this whole time ...

Then that old Woman heard a knock at the door

"Put your hands up, and drop to the floor!

You're under arrest, we're from SVU

We've got a prison cell waiting for you!"

The End.

P.S. Happy Mother's Day!

Birds Do It. Bees Do It. Lizards Do It.

So, I am in the backyard, fussing a little with my flowers, admiring mostly. I'm hearing a rustling sound in the lavender bushes. I move closer and peer into the bushes where I see them.

Lizards. Doing what lizards do. In the springtime.

Note: I had never actually seen lizards doing it, although based on the hundreds of lizards living in my backyard, they must be doing it. A lot.

It seems like a most excellent idea to take a photo of the lizards in their natural habitat, so I whip out the cell phone and lean closer. The lizards, of course, panic, and the photo op passes as they scurry away, albeit quite awkwardly, based upon their current situation, yes.

So I do not get a photo of the lizards in the act.

Luckily, however, I am able to catch the male lizard immediately afterward.

Heck, yes!

The Threat. Of Mauve.

Fantastic!

Fresno. Is. Alarming!

So, I get a phone call. From my neighbor, whom I shall call 'Rob'. Actually, his name really is Rob, which is why I feel comfortable calling him by that name.

Are you home? he is asking.

No, I'm in Fresno. No, Rob, this is not a joke.

Note: There are magazines in my 'hotel' room with titles like Destination: Fresno and Fresno: The New California. Yes, really.

Rob is telling me that my car alarm is going off and am I home? or will I be soon? because my neighbors may get cranky before too long.

Note: The whole situation is befuddling because I do not have a car alarm.

I say, I'm in Fresno and he thinks that's funny. I say, I do not have a car alarm and he thinks that is also funny.

Meanwhile, my car alarm is going off. I explain to Rob how to break into my house and get my car keys and see if my remote will turn the alarm off. The alarm I do not have.

Rob says Don't worry about it, I'll take off a battery cable and you two have fun and whatnot.

Note: Oh, we are.

What the Heck?, yes!

Just Breathe Deeply. Wait, Don't Do It!

I am looking through a magazine. It is a magazine for women. It is providing valuable information on How to Live Well Everyday and it provides 10 Instant Destressors for today's busy woman.

Note: I may or may not have been using the toilet at the time.

I am reading through the suggestions for instant destressing, such as but not limited to chewing a piece of sugarless gum, loosening restrictive clothing, burning a scented candle, calling a friend to chat, laughing.

But then I find my favorite suggestion of all.

Note: Not really.

Give yourself a time-out. Set the alarm on your phone for 5 minutes, find a quiet place (even if it's a bathroom stall) and just sit and breathe deeply.

Really? Sit in a bathroom stall? And breathe deeply? Where other people are doing their business?

Wow.

Theoretically, however, I could kill a lot of birds with just one stone as I sit in the stall breathing deeply with my clothing unrestricted for obvious reasons while burning a scented to candle to cover the scent of well, you know, and enjoying my sugarless gum and calling a friend on my cellphone to chat because who doesn't think it's classy to talk on the phone in a public restroom of all places and laughing, oh yes. There will be laughing.

Note: Really?

Heck, no!