Have You Ever Actually Eaten a Pickled Pepper? And Do They Just Grow on the Bush in a Pickled State?

Is that the peck of pickled peppers
that Peter Piper picked?

So, I've never been very good at sayings. I'm not saying that I don't actually SAY a lot, because I do, and frankly, most of the things I say are quite interesting and informative.

Note: I'm just saying.

Consequently, I am never really sure if a bird in the hand is worth beating around the bush.

I am speaking of a genetic anomaly, really. Mom used to say some really strange things, but that could have just been the seven kids taking a sad toll, yes. Nonetheless, the charming tendency to botch sayings seems to have been passed to a new generation. My offspring.

I am talking to The Daughter who is traveling in a foreign country, New Mexico, and reflecting upon the adventure.

We chat and she advises me that she just returned from dinner with a colleague who wished merely to pick her ear about work stuff.

I marvel.

Pick her ear? Pick her ear?

There are many body parts to pick, most of them unattractive yes. And some body parts are more entertaining than others, oh yes. I assume that colleagues are more likely to pick another's brain than another's ear, but I also suppose picking another's ear beats picking another's nose or ample behind, if you know what I mean and I think you do.


And feel free to pick a peck of pickled peppers, but please wash your hands first. Who knows where those hands have been.

Heck, yes!

How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Appliances ...

So, The Hub and I are riding on the BART train in full Oakland Athletics regalia with enough food and enough beverages and enough whatnot to last through nine innings, a post-game fireworks show and an Act of God, potentially.

The BART train is full of Oakland Athletics fans, commuters and a few fellows with no teeth. Riders are reading Kindles, listening to music, hushing their children and talking very, very loud.

Note: Certain BART riders also employ their airplane voices--the voices that permeate through the screeching of engines and brakes and the inflight movie, if there was one, and go on and on and on, yes.

The couple across the aisle from me captures my somewhat-limited attention. They are late-twenties, perhaps, wearing green A's shirts and I notice that her pant cuffs are rolled up, exposing her cankles, a trend that I have yet to embrace.

Note: I am referring to the rolled up pant cuff trend, not the cankle trend.

The couple is talking and gazing--at each other--and rubbing each other's hands and knees and whatnot.

Note: Not that kind of whatnot. Please try to focus.

So, the couple is talking and gazing and rubbing and whatnot. I nudge The Hub, who is feeling a little dozey.

Look at that couple, I am saying. They are 'in love'.

The Hub looks. He is not impressed.

But I persist. He can't take his eyes off of her, I say. Remember when we were 'in love'?.

The Hub looks thoughtful.

He speaks. I'm spending thousands and thousands of dollars renovating your house and I bought you bamboo floors and Thermador appliances...

Wait for it ... wait for it ...

If that's not love, I don't know what is.

Be still my heart.

Heck, yes!

The Eyes Have It.

So, the newscaster is saying something about how Mark Zuckerberg is turning twenty-something today and how he's a bajillionaire and that how one-fifth of California's tax revenue this year is expected to be generated from the forthcoming IPO or IMHO or HBO, whatever that heck that means.

Note: Oh, I know what the heck that means. That means why the heck didn't I invent Facebook? Or why the heck didn't I invent Orville Redenbacher's magical popping popcorn bowl? Or chicken nuggets! That one was just so obvious. Or why the heck didn't I invent Viagra, even?

Sometimes I feel I'm just past my prime.

Oh, sure. The future lies ahead in its limitless potential. Blah, blah, blah.

Note: I have lived for nearly one-half century. Believe me when I tell you that the future is somewhat limited, Pal.

But I still want to leave my mark on the world in a meaningful way. I want to find my purpose and live my authentic life, just like Oprah says. That Oprah is a freaking genius.

Note: Why the heck didn't I invent living an authentic life? Drat.

Sometimes I am just this close, folks. This close.

So, today I'm at pilates. I am stretching and crunching and elongating. In the parking lot, I am smacked in the head by yet another invention that I forgot to invent.

Seriously?
Imagine the stories that P.T. Cruiser could tell ...

Eyelashes for your car.  Metal eyelashes for your car. Sweet Holy Moses.

Okay, not all ideas are great ones, clearly.

You know, I'm suddenly feeling better about my place on this planet. Carry on, Trophy Wives!

Hotdogs and Franks and Wieners, Oh My!

I am confounded.

I am confounded in the cured meats section of my neighborhood supermarket. I am confounded because I have no idea whatsoever how to select a hotdog. Or a frankfurter.

Or a wiener, yes.

It's been a long while since I've purchased a wiener, of any variety. It's not that I haven't had the opportunity to purchase a wiener, because of course I have. I have just refrained. From doing so. And in the passing years, it has become entirely too complicated to do so anyhow.

Note: The internet advises that 'weenie' is the slang term for the more formal 'wiener'. A formal wiener?

Huh.

So, there are hot dogs. There are frankfurters, franks for short. There are wieners. And then there is the whole Jumbo business, which I prefer to avoid entirely, yes. No one really knows the difference between them all, although apparently a frankfurter is longer and thinner than a hot dog while a wiener is shorter and plumper than a hot dog so I imagine that a jumbo wiener provides extra length to go along with the girth.

Eew.

I like me some beef ...

Hmmn... Cheesy Dogs

If you can have a Jumbo Wiener, well, why the heck not?

The whole hotdog industry just had to be invented by a man.

Sweet Holy Moses!

There's a Big K in the Middle of my FreaKout!

Heck, yes.

I am freaking out. My head is reeling. My world is out of control.

I am in a clean, orderly, well-stocked store. The aisles are wide and free of debris. The prices are clearly marked, the lighting is bright, but not blindingly so, no. The stock person is pleasant and asks Can I help you find anything? but I shake my head, too stunned to speak, perhaps.

Note: And for those who are well-acquainted with The Trophy Wife and her propensity for unnecessary speech, this is shocking news indeed.

And the restrooms are fresh and smell, well, nice. There is no questionable, uh, floating matter in the toilet that needs flushing and the sink is not being used as a bidet by another patron, probably one of those crazy Europeans.

Note: I am not kidding about the sink/bidet episode. I saw it with my own eyes.

But now I am freaking out.

I am freaking out because I am in a K-Mart. A Big K, yes.

Heaven help me. I must be hallucinating.

I make my way to the front with my shiny cart with wheels that all roll the same direction, even. Suddenly, all is well. My accelerated heart rate returns to normal. I can relax.

I can relax because the check-out lines are twelve customers deep. And the checkers are all moving in apparent slow motion. I will be waiting for at least thirty minutes.

Note: Now this is the K-Mart I know and love.

Additional Note: Not really. Who actually loves K-Mart?

But, Sweet Holy Moses, I am relieved. All is well in the world, indeed.

Heck, yes!

The Madness. Of March. Ing in Place.

Now if I could just get that dog of mine
 to March AND
change the load of laundry ...

So, it's March. And you know what that means of course. Madness. And plenty of it.

Note: I am not talking about the silly basketball business, no! I have been waiting for years to finally fill out my brackets, if you know what I mean and I think you do, and the filling out just doesn't seem to be happening.

I digress.

I am referring to the real March Madness, dear Readers. I am referring to the Madness that occurs at some point during the month of March when I realize that May is 8 weeks away. And May is the beginning of summer, yes. And summer may require the wearing of a swimsuit.

Bah!

So, naturally, I decide to take three pilates classes per week, one with a ball and one with a flex band/roller and one with a magic circle.

Note: Do not mock the magic circle. It is a magical place, yes.

So, naturally, I decide to find every 'buff arms in a week' workout I can find on Pinterest and choose the one that seems the most brutal.

Note: Four minutes of pushups? Really? Who does that?

Additional Note: Me.

So, naturally, I decide to buy a pedometer, even though The Hub foolishly believes that I will become obsessed with the number of steps I take each day.

Note: Silly Man. When have I ever given him the idea that I am prone to obsessivity?

Additional Note: Oh, yeah.

So, now I practically have to drag poor Rubi down the street for yet another walk in the rain. I have also  learned that it is 55 steps to the laundry room and back and I can add another 100 steps if I march in place while I change the load. 

Note: I have a great idea! Let's stick a pedometer on some kid marching in the band with his tuba. Now that's a workout, my friends.

So, now my arms are so sore that I can barely reach the whipped cream and I it is possible that I am stuck in the magic circle, yes. 

Clearly, I have only one option.

Ruuuuuuuuuubi!

Is that dog hiding under the bed again?

Silly girl. Doesn't she realize that it's March?

Heck, yes! 

Keep Your Hands Off My Man! Boobs.

So The Hub and I are appliance shopping. On his birthday, a fact that I somehow have to mention to every appliance salesperson that we meet and who happens, quite oddly, to be a divorced woman somewhere in my general age bracket, give or take.
With the Divorcee SalesLadies we discuss The Hub's desire to meet my (rather) finicky needs.

Note: Simmer down, everyone. I am referring to my appliance needs, obviously.

Additional Note: Okay, fine. It may not be that obvious.

The SalesLadies ask How long have you have been married? and How have you made your relationship work for so long? and How did you grow together instead of apart? So, naturally I find myself explaining my Trophy Wife status and the whatnot.

Note: I try not to include the whatnot in the conversation but I am pretty sure that the term 'Sugar Daddy' comes up and I am not referring to candy, no.

The SalesLadies are wistful. The SalesLadies are jealous. The SalesLadies are eyeing The Hub and wondering Where have all the good men gone?

And, one of the SalesLadies adds, Look at him. He's over fifty and he's not even fat and ...

Wait for it ...wait for it ...

He doesn't even have man boobs.

Yup.

And he's all mine, Folks.

Heck, yes!


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Just Another Day. In Paradise, Sort Of.

Fabulous, Indeed!

I'm sitting poolside, with the view of an Eiffel tower. Not the Eiffel tower, mind you, but a somewhat reasonable facsimile in Las Vegas, yes. 

Pools are always interesting spots for people watching, yes, particularly on a warm day in Sin City.

The pool itself is not particularly sinful, no.  The sun is high in the sky, and a most unusual mix of music  is playing from the cabana house while hotel guests lounge about.

There's a mid fifties dude with a bit of a belly across the pool from me giving me the chin nod when I look up. So I try try try not to look up but I can’t help myself because I need to see if he’s looking. So I look. And his chin nods.

Note: Bah! I have no self control whatsoever.

The European couple next to me is fairly entertaining. 

Note: I know that the fellow is European by the fact that 1) he is grooving to George Michael singing about chameleons and 2) he is wearing a sky blue speedo and 3) he is speaking in a strange cadence that sounds like he has something caught in his airway.

Additional Note: George Michael is a man without conviction. He comes and goes. He comes and gooooooes.

A new posse has arrived poolside. Near the Eiffel tower. They are heavily tattooed twenty something fellows in swim trunks and cowboy boots. I kid you not. Cowboy boots. But not speedos, thankfully. Definitely not European Cowboys, no. 

The lifeguards, a couple of twenty somethings, are flirting with each other. The hot tub is filled with dudes with big bellies and ball caps, intermittently checking their phones and watches.

Note: Maybe they are timing the hot babes that want to meet them to see if they actually arrive in twenty minutes.

So, the Cowboys are cannonballing. The Europeans are grooving. The Big Bellies are checking. For Hot Babes.

As for me, I'm reading my book. I'm concentrating deeply, yes. I’m not looking at the Dude across the pool. I will not give him the satisfaction, no. 

I’m not looking. I’m not looking...

Sweet Holy Moses. I looked.

Ah, there it is.  The chin nod.

Note:  Bah! I have no self control whatsoever.

Heck, yes!

You Betcha!

I am sitting in an aircraft, bound for North Dakota.

Note: It is frigid in the cabin. I have graduated from wearing my big hoodie to wearing my big hoodie and my big designated-Fargo coat. In the cabin of the aircraft, yes. I believe that the frigidness is an attempt by the flight crew to acclimate the body to the air temperature at my destination, sadly.

Because flying through Las Vegas is clearly the most efficient route from Oakland to Fargo, obviously, I am sitting in a plane with a bunch of twenty something dudes with wacky accents, exceedingly large white teeth and bloodshot eyes headed home from a wild night in Vegas, oh yah.

Behind me is one of those ladies with the annoying aircraft voice. You know, the one that you can hear above the drone of the engines and the drone of the hung over dudes with the accents and big teeth and the screams of the kids in back, who seem to be enduring a torture of being torn limb from limb.

I look out the window. The ground 33,000 feet below is white. Snow, yes. I imagine we are flying over South Dakota. Or Wyoming. Or Germany, maybe.

The lady across the aisle is tapping my shoulder and asking for a favor. She is holding stacks of catalogs with ladies bundled in hats and sweaters and boots on the front covers. Catalog Lady is a buyer for a boutique in Minnesota, she explains.

She reaches across the aisle with a handful of catalogs.

Would you mind looking through the catalogs and selecting some items that you think a conservative Minnesotan might like? She is saying.

Huh?

Conservative? Minnesotan? Conservative Minnesotan?

Is she possibly talking to me I am thinking, a blonde Trophy Wife from the Golden State who just happens to be bundled in possibly the most atrocious air travel wear in the history of air travel who just happens to be on her way to (one) of the most remote locations in the northern plains?

I am from California, I am saying. But I can look if you'd like.

Her eyes narrow with suspicion. She pulls the catalogs back into her lap. No thanks, she says.

Access denied.

I only have one thing to say about that.

You betcha!

Is that a Flash or are you just Happy to See Me?

So, I botch sayings as much as anybody. I've never been really good at
remembering if a bird in the hand is better than a bird in the bush or if the rooster crows thrice, or is that the cock? or maybe it's not a cock, but it is the clock striking twelve, or something.

Yeah, I botch sayings. But, I do not botch the sayings while I am on live television.

Note: The lack of botching is simply due to the lack of televised opportunity. I'd botch, yes.

But I wouldn't botch sayings which implicate the private parts. Of a man.

Note: Well, I might do so. But at least I would have the good sense to giggle like a twelve year old.

So, the Sportscaster on our bay area television station is talking about sports and about basketball and about the great phenom Jeremy Lin, whose phenomenal greatness has spawned clever phrases like 'Lin-Sanity' and 'Will you be my Val-Lin-tine? and the whatnot.

Well, apparently in the sporting circles, there has been talk that his phenomenal greatness will be short-lived and that he is not as Lin-credible as he seems.

But after tonight's performance, Sportscaster is saying on LIVE television, Lin has proved that he is no flash in the pants.

Flash in the pants?

Now, flash in the pan--a saying originating with muskets and gunpowder and the 'flash' of light in the pan when the powder is gone, producing a useless flash--makes sense, especially to a Harvard-educated Mr. Lin. And me, yes.

But flash in the pants? Oh dear.

I do not know what to do with this shocking information. About what is in Mr. Lin's pants.
Flashy, or otherwise.

Holy Smokes!



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Fargo,United States

Oh no, He Din't.

This may or may not be an actual photo. Of me.

Disclaimer: If you are my sister, do not read this post.

Additional Disclaimer: If you are a daughter of one of my sisters, do not tattle on me.

So, an older brother came to visit me in my new/old, awesome/dilapidated house to hopefully appreciate the alleged before/after of the dwelling, which we are hoping actually happens. In this lifetime, yes.

Big Brother is standing at the street, viewing the view, of course. I throw open the front door, in an act of welcoming delight and head up the sidewalk to greet him. With delight, of course.

So, he gives me a bear hug and zealous vocal greeting and takes a good look at me.

You are looking more like a <insert maiden name here> everyday, he is saying.

Note: I do not know what that means. So I make the mistake. Of asking Big Brother what that means.

He is explaining about how he never thought I looked much like my three (older) sisters, who obviously, share my maiden name.

Note: Yes, older.

But now, he is saying exuberantly, that your face is starting to sag, I see the resemblance!

Oh, no he din't ...

Sweet Holy Moly.

It's My Party. And I'll Cry if I Want To.

Disclaimer: I do not usually favor political rants. But sometimes I have to. Rant. Please proceed with a sense of humor.


So, I am definitely not in the mood for a party. At least, not a party of a political nature, no. I have kinda had it up to here with all the noise ... noise ... noise.

Note: Is it possible to Bah! Humbug the whole political season? 

And I do not understand why it's called a party in the first place. Oh, sure there are plenty of games being played by the party, but they are not any fun, although occasionally the "Party Games" remind me vaguely of a creepy version of Pin the Tail on the Ass Donkey, in my opinion, I'm just saying.

So, I am thinking about which potential Republican Nominee's party that I might prefer to attend. Yes, I am speaking of an actual party, where I wear my favorite White House/Black Market skirt, hilarious   political pun intended, and shave my legs, even. Mitt cuts a dashing figure with his chiseled features and perfect hair and he's got the cash for a really nice shindig, unless you're into boozing or extra-martial relations. But I imagine the red punch would be delicious.

Newt, on the other hand, is not without his own charm.

Note: Wait a minute. Yes, he is. Without charm.

Additional Note: Is it just me, or does he resemble a garden gnome in an expensive suit?

Oh, come on. I know you can see the resemblance.

You cannot make me attend that Party.

Hey! I have an idea. Let's throw the politicos in a swimming pool and let them hash it out in a good, old-fashioned chicken fight. Now, that's a party game! Mitt can sit on the shoulders of his five, strapping boys and Newt can sit on the shoulders of his three, feuding sort-of-wives, but with Mitt's approval, maybe Newt can have an open-chicken-fight partnership. With other ladies.

Note: Oh, that isn't very nice of me. Whatever.

Additional Note: Oh, there's another rule about the Republican pool party. Newt may not, under any circumstance, remove his shirt in the pool.  And the 'No Speedo' rule goes without saying.

Sweet Holy Moses.

The 49ers' Final Rose. Sigh.

Gentlemen, this is your Final Rose
of the Season.

It is a sad day. Our 49er flag is flying at half-mast, yes.

Note: Actually, that is afigure of speech. Sadly, I do not own a 49er flag.

I am lamenting the painful loss to the New York Giants and one-of-the-Manning-brothers -but-who-really-cares-which-one in the NFC Championship game. I am lamenting the injustice of it all. I am lamenting the injustice and inhumanity of the loss.

I am exaggerating, but not much.

But I am lamenting the end of the season, the end of being a fan for the year.  I will miss football. I have never cared much for professional basketball, a game in my opinion, combining freaks of nature and outrageous egos. College sports are a little dull this year and baseball season is far off.

Note: And, sadly, if you are an Oakland Athletics fan, it's farther off than that.

So I am lamenting my deep feelings of loss and grief about the situation to The Hub. He understands my pain. He is my soulmate, yes.

But Honey, he is saying in earnest heartfelt fashion, we'll be okay. He takes me in his arms. At least we still have The Bachelor.

Be still my heart.

Heck, yes!

The 49ers' Last Rose. Sigh.

Not By the Hair of My Chinny Chin Chin. Please.

So, let's play a game. 


Let's say that I am lost. Or you are lost. Or your Dear Husband slash Significant Other slash Grandmother is lost. 


Note: Okay, let's eliminate the possibility of losing Grandma. Not cool. 
Let's just say that I am lost.

The other day I am walking The Dog and she is stopping to pee at a telephone poll, because every other dog in the neighborhood has done so, apparently. She's sniffing and peeing and I see that someone has posted a Lost Pet sign. On the telephone pole, yes.


Oh dear! A lost pet! 


The sign has a big photo of a missing cat with a short description of the animal. 

A Big, Swinging Belly? Really?

Note: Do her boobs hang low, do they wobble to and fro? 


A Big, Swinging Belly? Really? This creature's defining characteristic is her Big, Swinging Belly? 


So, it got me to thinking, which is always a little dangerous. Hence, the game. 


Let's say that you are out walking your dog and on the telephone pole is a picture of me. Because I am lost, apparently. How does the sign describe me? What is my defining trait to the eye of a Local Search and Rescue Team. 


Lost! The sign may read, Friendly, with Slightly Saggy Jowls. 


Or Lost! The sign may read, Pleasant, with Unfortunate Chin Hair.


Or Lost! The sign may read, Outgoing, but Needs a Boob Job. 


Sweet Holy Moses. 


This is a dumb game.

I Am Not in My Right Mind. Or My Left, Sadly.

I am tooling around Target with The Hub and The (Big) GrandBoy. Big Grand is sitting in the cart, sort of, because he's going through this  difficult endearing phase where sitting in the appointed seat is so last month. It takes a great deal of energy/bribery to keep Big Grand safely seated and appropriately entertained.

So, The Hub is driving the cart like a Drunk Race Car Driver and he is saying, vroom vroom and Big Grand is sipping a red icee through a straw and is dribbling red stuff on his shirt in vroom vroom delight while eating multi-colored goldfish crackers because these grandparents do not care about food colorings and additives in the diets of the Grands as long as the child is happy and thinks we are freaking awesome.

We are on an aisle with lots of balls because GrandPop and Big Grand are now playing catch, except not really, because BG is sipping a red icee and munching on multi-colored goldfish. So, GrandPop is playing catch, yes.

A Fellow Shopper, late twenties maybe, says May I ask you a personal question?

Note: The question itself makes me giddy. I love personal questions.

He picks up a stability exercise ball, one of the giant ones. I see his receding hairline over the ball. He is squeezing the ball a little because he seems a little nervous and says Did you use a birthing ball when you had your baby? and he is gesturing over the ball with his head toward Big Grand.

I feel a little smug smile creeping across my lips, like the Grinch. First of all, The Hub and I cannot possibly be this child's parents. Aside from the obvious age issues, we are cruising around Target like crazy fools with a shopping cart while feeding the child red icees and multi-colored goldfish! No parent in his right mind would behave so recklessly.

Note: Clearly we are Grandparents. We have no right mind.

For some reason, I am frozen, in my amusement.

The Hub rescues me in my unusual silence and pipes up to Fellow Shopper, Actually, he is our Grandson.

I am thinking, Does this mean he doesn't want to hear my birthing experiences? but I find myself saying unnecessary things like, People make that mistake all then time, which is not true, and things like, I hear that lots of women like a birthing ball, which may be true but I do not know this for a fact and even things like, If I were having a baby today, I might try one, which is definitely not true because if I were having a baby today I would be too drugged up to even know my own name.

Note: I may be exaggerating, slightly.

Fellow Shopper slinks away. Without the ball, sadly.

The Hub is grinning and eating multi-colored Goldfish crackers.

Big Grand offers me a sip of his red icee. I oblige, dribbling red stuff down my shirt.

Heck, yes!

Beware. Granny on a Broom.

You have been warned!

The witching hour is approaching quickly, yes.

Note: The witching hour is the time of night when witches and demons appear. It is usually associated with the darkest hours past midnight, or when a Cub Scout Planning Meeting has gone longer than 2-1/2 hours.

Sadly, I am discussing the latter scenario. And if my current state of mind is any indication, a witch of some sort may appear quite shortly indeed.

Note: I warned you ...

I am getting the jitters.

I am sitting at a kitchen table. My eyes are blurring and I am stifling a yawn. Hoping for distraction, I reach for a drink of water and whack the cup, spilling it on the milk chocolate bar with whole hazelnuts  that has been provided for the enjoyment of the cub scout leaders.

I am sorry, I am saying, dabbing with napkins and kleenex from my purse and I really am sorry because now I'll have to eat the wet, gross chocolate because I'm responsible for the carnage.

I am so tired. Why are the other leaders not sleepy? I am wondering. Are they buzzed on caffeine? Are they on a sugar-high from the wet chocolate bar with whole hazelnuts? Are they decades younger than me?

Note: Oh, that.

We are discussing scout activities and swim teams and mascara. We are discussing Wolf achievements and Wolf electives and wet chocolate.

Note: My bad.

One of the other leaders who is pushing thirty, probably, is discussing the other women in her church congregation. The other women are very young. Newly married, blushing brides, she is saying and adds, it makes me feel like a freaking granny!

Excuse me, Pal I am saying. I am the freaking granny.

Note: Okay, fine. I did not say that. Not exactly. I stuffed a piece of wet chocolate in my mouth. To gain a little time.

But I definitely feel that witch wriggling just a little bit inside of my head, yearning to be free!

Ah, yes. The Witching Hour Indeed.

Heck, yes!