Friday, June 10, 2011

Do Not Name Your Son Earl.

I am watching one of those morning shows, sort of. It's the one with the pert, chipper and Hilarious Blonde and the aging, self-important Old Dude.

They are bantering with some fellow I do not recognize. He is lean with dark hair and those kind of glasses that the hipsters are wearing nowadays.

Note: Yes, that is correct. Hipsters.

Imagine my surprise when the fellow turns out to be Jason Lee, who is the star of 'My Name is Earl,' which I have never watched, no, but being socially relevant, as I am, is someone with whom I am familiar, yes.

Note: I associate My Name is Earl with the Earl that has to die, according to the Dixie Chicks. In short: Do not name your son Earl. That's all I am saying.

No, I am saying more.

So Hilarious Blonde turns to Earl and says I did not even recognize you! You look amazing!

Earl nods in appreciation, I think. Or maybe those hipster glasses are so darn heavy that his head is bobbing.

Hilarious Blonde continues to gush. The transformation is amazing! she says. You look like a male model!

Male model? Really? Is that kind of redundancy necessary?

I am thinking that the transformation would be infinitely more amazing if he looks like a female model.

Heck, yes!

May I Borrow Your Tool Belt?

The Pool Repair Guy is standing at the door.

I am baffled. By the Pool Repair Guy.

He is asking What is wrong with the pool?

I am explaining that the spa keeps emptying into the pool and it freaks me out to see the empty spa and the remote readout for the pool is claiming that the water temperature is 114 degrees farenheit, yes, and if that's true, then the PG&E police are going to be all over me.

Note: Am I alone in thinking that when someone sneezes it would be fun to say Farenheit and see if the sneezing person will just nod and say thank you?

The Pool Repair Guy is still looking at me. And asking the same question again. What is wrong with the pool? Have you checked the valves?

Have I checked the valves? I am thinking. Do I look like a Pool Repair Guy? No, I do not. I am dainty, in a larger sort of way and although I have been tempted to wear a tool belt, from time to time, valve-checking and gadget-prodding is not my forte.

Note: Righty-Tighty. Lefty-Loosey!

But he is asking.

And suddenly it comes to me. Like a blessed bolt of lightning from the blessed Pool Repair Gurus Above.

My best guess, I am saying, is that I need a new Flux Capacitor.

I wish Doc Brown was my Pool Repair Guy.

Nothing like 1.21 gigawatts of power, baby!

Heck, yes!

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

The Northern California Girls Were Warm, Yes. And Good Kissers.

Do not believe all the hype.

Oh, sure. It is true that California knows how to party. And everybody wishes she was a California girl.

Duh. That's just obvious.

And although California is the world leader in fruit production, smog emissions and silicone implants, it is unfair to assume that all residents are cruising around in polluting convertibles while eating peaches and flashing generously-sized tatas at passing truck drivers.

And now the California mystique has gone too far, again.

I am thumbing through a lifestyle magazine. It is loaded with fashion, home decor and entertaining tips. And then, I see this:


Tuna is great on the go? Well, okay. I guess that I can accept that. Tuna the wonderfish? Well, okay. I guess that I can accept that, too. But closer examination reveals the devastating, unacceptable blow:

Tuna California Pizza? Can't somebody give my fine state a break already? Haven't we suffered enough with the revelation of our ex-Governor's love child with his maid? And never mind that we are the only state in the union to prohibit a woman from driving a motor vehicle in a housecoat. Whatever that means.

And now we are taking the rap for putting tuna on an innocent pizza.

Californians do not aspire to fishy pizzas, folks. So, blame Charlie the Tuna. Or the Gorton's Fisherman. But leave California out of it!

Please. Can't someone just stop the madness?

Heck, yes!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad


Tuesday, June 7, 2011

If Bigger is Better, Then Giant Must Be Awesome. Fail.

As my more astute readers may recall, I recently discovered my husband's unfortunate indiscretion.

He has been tempted by the fruit of another, yes.

A BMW 6 series.

Oh, I realize that I am not entirely blameless in the matter. And I can own my responsibility, yes. I've let the Aging SUV go, I'm afraid. She's dusty and smells like a mixture of strawberry vinaigrette and Pilates mats.

But to be honest, the BMW started it, with her lurid offerings of pleasure. And power. And special financing.

Well readers, I have to say The Hub is not the only person in this household receiving tantalizing automotive correspondence. No he is not.

Check out the following note with it's sensual warm hues and curvaceous lettering addressed to me. Yup.

Note: Oh, yes. They want me. Bad.

I open the card, with trembling hands, somewhat.

Note: I should totally be writing cheesy romance novels.

But wait! What is this? How can this be?

I am being courted ...

By a Used car?

And a giant one at that.

Sweet Holy Moses.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:The Kitchen Island

Thursday, June 2, 2011

Further Proof That Men Pretend to Listen. Especially When Hair Care Comes Up.

So, mathematics.

And hair care, yes.

Not a fan, really. Of the mathematics, that is. Numbers are just so finite. There's no wiggle room. No romance. Just doggone reality.

Words are a lot more fun. I can be happy or delighted or exhilarated or even exonerated, hopefully.

Note: What was I talking about? Oh yes. Numbers. And hair care.

So, I am telling The Hub about my upcoming High School Reunion. I am planning my hair highlighting schedule to coincide with the date, of course, and I must be speaking out loud about such plans because The Hub is nodding, somewhat numbly, I believe.

But Wait! The Hub speaks!

Note: He is listening after all!

What reunion is it? he is asking.

The question is puzzling. It's the reunion of my High School graduating class I say and although I am thinking duh I do not say it.

No, no, he is saying, I mean how many years? Like 10? Or 15?

Are you kidding me? This is the man that deals with million dollar budgets on a daily basis. He can whip out a spreadsheet faster than I can recite the pledge of allegiance in Spanish, which I can still do, yes, thanks to my High School Spanish teacher who taught me to do so, but not just ten or fifteen years ago, no.

Really? I say. We have been married 28 years. We have a 27 year-old son. Fifteen years? Really?

Oh, it must be your twentieth, he says.

Further proof, yes, that although his head may be bobbing and his lips may be hmmning, he is so not paying attention.

Well, then. Happy Twentieth High School Reunion to me!

Heck, yes!