Wild Gesticulations

Note: Is it just me, or is the word 'gesticulate' a tiny bit uncomfortable to use in general conversation? It seems to be an uncomfortable combination of 'genitals' and 'testicles' and you-know. I will not use it again.

Anyway, Rubi and I were driving down to the craft store (I know, weird huh, because I'm not real good at crafts. I can't see a doggone thing and my thumbs can't pick up much) to buy stuff for the Young Women value dinner at my house next week. In the car ahead of us, a lady was wildly "flinging her hands around" (I promised!) while chatting or berating or whatevering the person in the passenger seat. The surprising part about the whole thing is that there WAS a person in the passenger seat.

Nowadays (yes, nowadays) when people are "flailing about" as they drive, they are most often on a cell phone. Back in the day (like less than a decade!), when folks "gestured uproariously" they were threatening their kid (yup, under 12 in the front seat!) within an inch of their lives or trying to get the dog to get his head back in the window or letting the dude in front of them know that his driving was rather poor.

Not so anymore. People fling and flail and gesture at absolutely nothing in ways that 'back in the day' would probably get you an appointment at the loony bin.

Me and Rube think it's crazy.

However, let me share one last thought question on the subject: The benefit of the cell phone glued to everyone's ears 24/7? When's the last time you sat at a stoplight bouncing to the bass of the speakers of some dude behind you playing his stereo at its full and distorted blast? The driver couldn't possibly hear a darn thing on the phone with his music shaking the earth.

There's always a silver lining. ">)

Word Up!

I really like words. And I like to use them, to the chagrin of the poor souls who are required, through no fault of their own, to spend time with me. It's not so much that I talk a lot, but I have lots of important things to say. Seriously. Ask my dog.

As someone who really likes words, I probably should have said something like, "I possess a great affinity for words". But I believe that there is a fine line between sounding intelligent and well-educated (and sadly, I'm not known for either) and sounding annoying. And arrogant. And ultimately kind of stupid, in a high-brow you-don't-have-many-friends-do-you? sort of way.

When I teach pilates, I find that the art of distraction is helpful while we hold our plank position, so we discuss stuff (while breathing and contracting our core muscles, of course). Today we were talking about vocabulary and the fact that some words just make you sound smarter. As a general rule, words of more than three syllables can be very impressive, but in spite of the three-syllable rule, we compiled these favorites (Actually I compiled--everyone else was tightening their core and trembling with effort and whatnot.):

perhaps, perchance, however, thereof, certainly, uncanny, obscure, observation, nonetheless, peruse, inevitable

Thanks for reading. And perhaps, given the opportunity to peruse the dictionary, you may wish to add a word, however obscure to our somewhat-abbreviated list.

Heck, the plank only lasts sixty seconds. How many words were you expecting?

The Zebra: A True American Hero

Okay, I know that zebras are not originally from the United States. But if you want to get technical about it, few of us are originals. Theoretically, I'm a Swiss/French blend myself (sounds like a yummy recipe for fondue--make a note of that) which means I don't qualify as a true American hero either, except that I was born here and so are most of the zebras I see in these parts. Of the zoo variety, of course. I'm not sure about the wild zebras running freely along the golf course in my backyard. (And the eye doctor seems to think my current 'spectacle' prescription is fine. Seriously, that's what they called it--my spectacles! More on that later).

We went to the Oakland Zoo and had a chance to see lots of interesting animals including apes that ate their own poop (and they say our genetics are 99.8% the same? That .02% is pretty major, I'd say) and supermodel turtles that posed for pictures. But it's the zebras that captured my attention--and my heart.

And thus inspired this little lesson for all trophy wives or trophy-wives-in-training that may be reading this blog: (Or both of them. My readership is not terribly impressive.)

I have been told my whole life, by people I trust no less, that horizontal stripes are a NO for every woman. Period. End of story. And horizontal stripes on the behind? Are you kidding me? Then, imagine my delight when the zebras at the zoo not only wore horizontal stripes on their behinds, but flaunted it! No sooner had I arrived at the zebra pen (habitat?) when those zany little ladies turned their voluptuous, curvaceous behinds to me and showed me their stuff. They weren't ashamed of their round bums, knobby knees or horizontal stripes and they were workin' it.

Lesson learned, ladies (and men, too--for both of the men that may read this note): You are fantastic the way you are. This concept is not an excuse to become complacent in our self-improvement efforts, but for goodness sake: Love yourself today! Flaunt your stuff!

In the immortal words of Fat Boy Slim: Shake What Ya Mama Gave Ya!

Tyra Banks: A Great American Hero

First, a disclaimer: I'm kidding. Tyra is really not my idea of a great American hero. But I'm not dissing on her either. Not particularly. This piece of writing is considered satire, by those in the know. Which now includes you if you were having any serious questions about my sanity.

Second, Tyra is NOT a trophy wife, which probably explains a lot of things. Wikipedia, when discussing her personal life says only that "She devoted an entire show to the subject of 'Professional Athletes and the Women Who Love Them' on her talk show in November 2006." I am at a loss. I do not comprehend that explanation, but it appears she is not a wife. Hence, since she is NOT a trophy wife, perhaps she could learn a little from one. Like me.

So here goes, Tyra:

On a nationally televised talk show with a host (not to be named) who is famous for producing 30-minute meals and eating an awful lot of pasta (just an observation), Tyra was billed as having the "the best portion control diet tip ever." Or something like that. (Sure, I put it in quotes, but let's call them paraphrased quotes). She advises going to the yogurt place (which is hip again, according to Tyra, although those of us who loved it in the 80's never un-hipped the idea!) and asking for a sample on that little teeny tiny spoon. Then eat it. And leave.

Huh? Tyra may be surprised how much yogurt could be piled on that little teeny tiny spoon. Or how many times you could dip that little teeny tiny spoon into a big ole' jug of the stuff. My advice to all of you: Have a small serving. Enjoy it. (I said small. Let's not go crazy here.)

Tyra also told us the mortifying story of her high school prom when she was not (gasp!) selected as prom queen. As her name-was-not-being-called, she actually stepped forward and THANK GOODNESS her date had the good sense to stop her. (Whew! That would have been humiliating). But the good news is that she feels she really grew from that horrible experience, and without it, she probably would have ended up a big-headed b*$%# (her word, not mine) instead of the down to earth gal she is today.

Huh?

My prom was at the fairgrounds and I went in a borrowed dress from a lady at church who liked to eat the knuckles off the chicken bones.

I win.

But it's why I'm the down to earth gal I am today. Waaaay down to earth!

Music and Manicures and Manilow?

I am not sure that I could really qualify as a trophy wife without acrylic nails. I am not implying that YOU, dear reader, require acrylic nails to reach your trophy wife potential. I'm just saying: Acrylic nails: Awesome.

I spent most of my life as a nervous wreck, chewing my nails and hiding them from the world. No more, my friends. My nails are short, yet lovely. And have you ever tried to chew on an acrylic nail? It's right up there on your dentist's lists of cringe-worthy events with opening bottles with one's teeth. (By the way, that conjures up a very unattractive image. Back away.)

And I have found the very best acrylic-nailist EVER! Her name is Yvonne, which I find interesting, because when she came to the U.S., she selected that name herself. She is Vietnamese and her real name is a bit challenging to pronounce, so she changed it for her clients. I'm just wondering if I showed up in California and could select a new name for myself, would I choose. . . Yvonne? No offense to the Yvonnes out there, of course, but I think I'd go more . . . say, hip. Maybe. Paris? Beyonce? Sasha Fierce? Okay, maybe not, but I think my point is still valid.

The shop I go to is located conveniently by 24-hr Fitness and K-mart. It's clean, well-managed and Yvonne is AWESOME. As I'm sitting there getting my nails done, my local somewhat-lame-but-finds-itself-to-be-important radio station plays in the background. It's one of those easy listening catch-alls that plays everything from Sting to Barry Manilow. Well, currently it's 24/7 Christmas music which is AWESOME. Really. I love Christmas music. Except for that stupid "Grown up Christmas List" song which is just dumb. Seriously, "No more lives torn apart? That wars would never start?" What about, "Plenty of cash in my account? Thermador at a discount?" I also find myself annoyed by the "Do they know it's Christmastime at all?" It's that one about the kids in Africa. Seriously, do they celebrate Christmas in Africa? If not, they probably don't KNOW it's Christmastime and I'm guessing they probably don't really care, either.

Anyway, Yvonne is working feverishly on my nails, chatting occasionally behind that mask. It's kinda hard to understand her even without the mask, so mostly I nod and smile. She is VERY cute and did I mention, AWESOME? So, all this music has been going on and all the sudden another of my lesser-favorite Christmas songs comes on. Feliz Navidad. I'm not a real expert on Jose Feliciano, but I'm hoping this wasn't his finest work.

But to my surprise, Yvonne lights up like, well, a Christmas tree! From behind her mask, she sings EVERY word--well, just the Spanish ones, which was odd--clearly and with great delight. "I just love this song," she explains, singing along until, blissfully, it ends.

"Nice color," she says, with a nod toward the nail polish I had purchased at K-mart.

And that was that.

A Sad, Sad Commentary

Okay, you've seen my picture. How could you miss the enormous shot of my head right above this post? Recently, as I have embraced my inner-trophy-wifeness, I have come to realize that I am, indeed, a beautiful woman. Maybe not in the Scarlet Johansson big-pouty-lip and full-breast and youthful sort of way, but I'm pretty enough, funny, happy and full of love. Sounds beautiful to me.

So, which brings me to my sad commentary. I take a mid-morning pilates class at the rec center with about twenty other ladies, who are mostly, well, older than me. Watching my little 75 year-old pal Margaret workin' her abs gives me great joy. She's spry and kind and has this wacky little accent which I think is german, but it could be austrailian, for all I know. Accents are not my forte.

But I digress. The sad commentary. I had been talking about my handsome son's wedding to his gorgeous wife and at my pals' urging, I brought photos. (Admittedly, they did not have to urge too hard. When love is in the air, it's fun to share!) So, on cue, my little friends are "oohing" over the bride and "ahhing" that I had produced such a fine-looking groom. Then the sad commentary portion of my post: "Who is that lovely woman standing beside him in this photo?"

The gasp from my pilates pals was audible when I said it was me. They glanced back and forth from the picture to me, forgetting about sucking in their bellies and using their cores. The best response came from dear, dear Margaret. "That's YOU?"

Needless to say, I curled my hair and wore makeup to the next pilates class.

I Believe

We all wander through our days, gathering experience and absorbing ideas until ultimately, we decide what we believe. Let me reiterate--what WE believe--what is true to us, for that is, after all truth. I'm nearing 46 years on this planet (can't wait for the next 46 as a Trophy Wife!) and I've been thinking about what I BELIEVE. Maybe not the deep, deep belief stuff. But the belief stuff that makes my heart sing on a rainy day. (If you like rainy days, you may as well quit reading now!)

I Believe . . .

that gray hair is for other people.
that flat bellies are sexier than big boobs.
that pink will always be the new pink.
that butterflies are symbolic.
that Rubi's eyes are perfect.
that whipped cream is the food of the gods.
that nice things are nice.
that heaven consists of eternal summer.
that hot fudge is best eaten straight from the jar with a spoon.
that flowers are our Creator's gift to us.
that acrylic nails are one of the top 10 inventions EVER.
that a diet soda and a breath mint is a healthy snack.
that iPods are meant to be danced to.
that people need to let loose a little. Or a lot.
that K-Love is a blessing in my life.
that everyone should drive a convertible.
that dogs should be allowed everywhere except animal shelters where none should exist.
that home is where Doug & Rubi are, as long as my kids are in my heart.
that my mom, my dear beautiful mom, would be proud of me.

Til tomorrow.