I am the Elephant, goo goo g'joob

Disclaimer: This post contains graphic images that may be disturbing to younger reader(s), especially the offspring of The Trophy Wife. Reader discretion is advised.

Pilates can be brutal; I know this fact because I practice pilates regularly. (Please note that pilates is a "practice," not an exercise. I do not understand the distinction, but apparently it has something to do with the fact that I will never get it right). Pilates brutality is not confined to the difficulty of the workout (yeah, I've got abs), but also includes the things that one sees during class.

Middle-aged bodies twisted into unnatural positions can be frightening. I've seen blurbs and bloops and blunderous body parts that are typically unassuming backs, bums and boobs. I've seen unimaginable varieties of underwear in unimaginable places (don't ask). But by far, the most frightening thing I've seen during my pilates workout is the elephant in the room.

I'm not referring to the metaphorical "elephant" in the room; unfortunately, I am referring to the actual elephant in the room.

Pilates incorporates strength building and stretching, which is pretty standard exercise fare. One of our frequent stretching positions is the "down dog". For those who are not familiar with the term (shame!) the body is an upside-down V, with the behind sticking straight up in the air with the feet and the hands planted on the mat.

Somehow this position is intended to stretch the calves and shoulders.

However, this is what I see when I come face-to-knees with my own body in this outrageous, gravity-defying position. Prepare yourselves, reader(s). This isn't pretty.



The elephant. Look away; I'm hideous.

You may be thinking, "Ah, it's not so bad." Oh, it is. Go ahead, compare it to the real thing.I am the elephant, goo goo g'joob.

Malamute Guy Speaks

If you are not acquainted with Malamute Guy, (after hanging head in shame), please refer to my recent blog post "I Think I"ll Go for a Walk Outside". (I cannot waste my precious time rehashing old news.) I am clearly enjoying the use of the parentheses today.

So Rubi and I are on a "go" and Malamute Guy approaches on the other side of the street. As usual, Malamute is peeing on the bushes and whatnot when suddenly he catches a glimpse of my dog. At about the same time, Malamute Guy prepares to lift his chin for our conventional nod.

But something happens! Rubi, pleased to have the attention of both Malamute Guy and The Great Malamute himself, uses the leverage of the leash to stand on her little hind legs like a little teeny person (with lots of facial hair and nine nipples) and wag herself silly.

Then Malamute Guy speaks. Yes, he speaks! After five long years, Malamute Guy speaks!

"Look, Boy. Dinner!"

Malamute Guy has made a critical mistake. Malamute Guy would have been wiser to remain MUTE.

You don't mess with the shih tzu. And you particularly don't mess with the shih tzu's mama.

To be continued.

Hanging On

It's Labor Day Weekend, which means we are laboring. Hub is still installing ceiling fans (sleek ones that actually work!) and in a moment of weakness, I find myself sifting through the clothes hanging wildly in my closet and stuffed haphazardly in drawers. Before I know it, the closet literally explodes, with a tangle of clothes and hangers and shoes and gym socks strewn all over the bedroom. Some of the explosion has even seeped down the stairs and is encroaching on the family room.

Since there is no turning back, I'm in The Home Depot (for the third time today) and this time I'm on the hunt for hangers. Nothing fancy; just those plastic ones that are all the same size and don't poke you in the eye when you are angrily flinging clothes that are ugly/don't fit/look stupid or why did I ever buy this anyway?

In the closet organizing section I find only wooden hangers, like those big ones that my dad hangs his dress pants on. Hub has no such luxury; we are a plastic hanger type of family. I find none and since it's college-dorm season I just know the hangers are somewhere in a giant bin, just out of view.

So I approach the young man up front with his orange Home Depot apron pulled too tight around his belly. I explained that I had been in the closet organization section and found only wooden hangers. "Do you have plastic hangers?" I ask.

He considers the question a bit too long before asking, "What do you plan to hang on them, Ma'am?"

What do I plan to hang on them? Are you kidding me?

Many times I have considered applying for a job at The Home Depot (okay, not really) but felt I was not qualified to do so. I figured that one would have to know something. About stuff. Tools. Electrical wiring. Petunias. Hangers.

Apparently not. At least I know that my future is secure. There will always be a place for me at The Home Depot.

I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob

Something strange happens to Daughter when she speaks. Not all the time. Mostly just when she's talking to a clerk or some sort of receptionist, possibly a clergyman, and likely, her dogs. It happened again today as we were chatting on the phone while she ran errands and I was doing the obligatory, "hang on a second" and listening to her interaction with the above clerk, receptionist, clergyman or dog.

And it happens. My otherwise brilliant, attractive, capable Daughter turns into a ... chipmunk.

It's not really a physical metamorphosis. At least, I do not believe so, although she does have razor-sharp teeth. It's not really a mental or emotional metamorphosis either, as I don't think she believes she is a chipmunk. Yet she becomes a human version of Simon, Alvin or Theodore, take your choice. Suddenly her voice becomes high-pitched, overly demure and speeds up. Like a chipmunk.

Sort of, "Hi, I'm here from the broadcasting department to pickup my package of dvds for work and I would be happy toshowyoumywork IDcardifyouneedit heeheeheeheehee."

Then she follows up with a high-pitched sort of giggle and I'm sure, a cock of her cute little head and a smile flashing those lovely teeth.

So, to my two devoted readers: Are you aware of such a phenomenon? And, if so, does it involve other animals? Say, a walrus?

"Hi, I'm here from the broadcasting department to pickup my package of dvds for work and I would be happy to show you my work ID card ...if ...you .... need ... it .... hee..... hee ..... hee ..... hee ...... hee."

This is an official survey sponsored by taxpayer money, so let me know.

I Think I'll Go for a Walk Outside . . .

Now, the summer sun's calling my name ...

Rubi and I were out strolling in the morning sun today and we saw the "regulars." There was the guy that I have named "Dan" who looks at the ladies just a bit too long as he passes by. I'll bet "Dan" loves it when "Irritating Blonde Girl" goes by with her perfect body and perfect hair and perfect everything. Sometimes I just want to punch her.

I saw the "Visor Gals" who wear beaded visors and talk really, really loud. You can hear them coming way before you can see them. "SO I SCREAMED AND JUMPED AND THE GOLF BALL BARELY MISSED ME. CAN YOU IMAGINE SUCH A TERRIBLE SHOT?" (Note to Visor Gals: Yes, I can. I have collected hundreds of those $5 golf balls in my backyard as documentation).

Obsessive dog-rescue lady passed by with her increasingly large "flock" of greyhounds and one big ol' lab. Speaking of large, I saw Malamute Guy with his huge and intimidating dog. Malamute Guy does not speak; he gives the chin nod.

Note to Malamute guy: Everyone knows that you are just compensating with that big dog.

Oh yeah, Princess Leah guy jogged by very slowly. He wears giant 1970's headphones and he looks like he is wearing cinnamon buns on his head. From a distance. With cataract eyes. Get an iPod, dude.

And the crows were cawing. And the lizards were scuttling. The summer sun was callin' my name.

When things couldn't get any better, they did. Coming toward me, and I kid you not, was a vintage mustardy-color station wagon with wood on the sides. Wood, I tell you! The driver's side window was down and golden hair streamed out.

As Rubi is my witness, Marcia Brady was driving down my street. She turned the corner and was gone. Probably to never return. But we had our moment.



It's a sunshine day!

The Numbers Game

I am sitting by an adorable golden-haired child who is excitedly telling me all about the new theater room in her house. "We're getting a big t.v.," she tells me, her eyes wide, "a 47-inch one." She seems a bit befuddled and adds, "Right now we only have a 50-inch one so this is gonna be huge." She spreads her arms wide for emphasis.

I hope it's as huge as those blue eyes of hers.

But she got me to thinking. Numbers, numbers. That's what our world is about. How much money do you make? How much do you weigh? What did you get on your SAT? How fast is your computer? Your car? How expensive was your house?

Maybe numbers don't really matter as much as we allow.

Then the golden-haired child turns and asks, "I can never remember how old you are. Are you 46 or 64?"

Shut up, kid.

Meet the Ubers

I am going to be a grandmother. Oh, don't get too excited. Not anytime sooner than the next say, ten months. I'm just saying that it's going to happen. Sometime. In the future. But it's never too early to prepare for such a major event and I find myself concerned about a grandmother issue or two. For example, at that point, I will find myself married to a grandfather. Are you kidding me? How sexy is that?

But that is for another post, because I wish to discuss an issue that Daughter recently discussed in her blog. And that is: What should the grandbabies call me?

Oh, I know you're thinking, "Grandma, duh" but WAIT! Stop yourself. Close your eyes. Picture me. Is there anything about that picture that speaks Grandma? I need a more vital, outgoing persona. I'm not ready for aprons and rockers just yet.

I know a few Nanas (what is that? Short for Banana?) and Grammys (which sounds like an award) and even a Moma, which is the Museum of Modern Art, so far as I know. Considering the importance of a grandmother, I also thought it should be easy to say, perhaps even the first word a child says, but "Dada" is already taken and "No" doesn't really have the right ring to it. Other first utterances include "Baba" but that feels a little too Baa Baa Black Sheep for me. Or I would use my initials and be called "DeeDee" but that reminds me too much of Husband's previous girlfriend who had a Porsche 911.

The concept of being "Grand" means "extensive in size or scope" and "expansive" neither of which really describe me, either. But that's where Daughter and SIL come into play. While canoeing down the river they informed me that I wouldn't just be grand, or super, or awesome as a grandmother. I'd be UBER. Thus the UBERMA and UBERPA were born. The urban dictionary describes UBER as the ultimate, the best, nothing can top it.

Wow. Now that's a high standard to attain.

Ah, that little brown-eyed bundle of joy could call me 'Doggy' for all I care!