Oh, Martha. Dear, Dear Martha. Lame!

I am watching Martha Stewart as I usually do. She is recorded on my DVR and I am cleaning and/or cooking and/or doing whatever-else-I-do-and-it's-plenty-you'd-better-believe-it so sometimes I pay poor attention and sometimes I pay little attention and sometimes I pay no attention at all especially if Martha is talking about ancient Peruvian stemware artisans or how to make your own kayak in 12,649 easy steps. But sometimes I am very interested in what she's doing but then I forget to listen and I have to keep rewinding it. Over and over. My record is 12 times rewinding because I could not remember to listen long enough to actually listen.

Note: I do not have ADD.

So, she is talking to actor Andy Garcia who is, possibly, even more boring than Martha. They are making savory waffles with fluffy egg whites and bacon and cheddar cheese to eat alongside the pork belly prepared earlier in the episode.

Note: I can think of nothing less appetizing than the belly of the pig. Nothing, that is, that can be discussed on a family blog.

Andy, do you make waffles at home? Martha is asking, ladling the batter into two rockin' awesome waffle-makers.

Note: She has four of the wafflers at her house in Maine! Four! That is more waffle-makers than the number provided at the complimentary breakfast bar at the Days Inn in Provo.

No, he is saying, but I eat the frozen ones.

Martha is aghast.

Well, he says, I need the gluten-free variety.

Note: My ears perk up on account of so do I.

Oh, Martha says. How long have you been a vegan?

Oh, Martha. Dear, Dear Martha.

Note: Hang your head in shame.

Life's Little Instruction Book. Revisited.

I am at Disneyland, which is sponsored by those hunks at Brawny. So, the restrooms have instructions. For handwashing.

Please note:

So, maybe it's just me. But I am a Master-Handwasher, and the recent H1N1-handwashing-hand-sanitizing-excitement has definitely given us slightly obsessive-compulsive-types new life.

Note: I told you so.

But instructions. Really? It reminds me of the lather-rinse-repeat on my shampoo bottle. Does some dude really say, Hey, Honey! Did you know you're supposed to rinse this stuff?

Note: As I have grown slightly older, it has become nearly impossible to read the teeny tiny writing on shampoo bottles anyhow and wearing cheaters in the shower seems inappropriate in so many ways. But after forty years of hairwashing, I think I have it all figured out anyhow.

Note: If the shampoo instructions change in a substantial way at any point in the future, please advise me as there is no freaking way I'll ever know.

But maybe inane instructions are not a totally bad idea.

For example, it might be nice to have a sign posted on the freeway onramp: Your attention please. Your vehicle is now merging. Please press your gas pedal NOW. Thank you.

Or: Thank you for using our public restroom. Please do not sigh with relief when you release your urine stream. Have a nice day!

Or at the Gym: Please be informed that you are not as hot as you think you are so please focus on something besides your reflection in the mirror. But I'm sure your Mama loves you anyhow. Enjoy your workout!

Just thinking.

Hot. Diggity. Dog

I am sitting in the middle seat of an aircraft. I always have to sit in the middle because Hub likes to sit on the outside aisle in order to stretch his legs and trip the flight attendants or anyone else walking around the aircraft when the pilot has advised that it is now safe to move about the cabin.

Note: When I fly alone, I do not sit in the middle. But I only fly alone when I am going on a girls' weekend, which has been exactly once or when I have a book signing or other publicity commitment for my novel. Which has been exactly never.

Today I am sitting in the middle and I am shoving my small, personal carry-on under the seat in front of me. I am shoving with my feet. It does not fit. The large stuffed horse, won by the Hub at Disneyland's California Adventure and zippered into the top of my small, personal carry-on, is causing the problem, but if I keep kicking, it will fit. Under the seat.

A gentleman is standing in the aisle saying May I step in? meaning he wants to sit beside me in the window seat.

Can't you see I'm busy right now, trying to put my small personal carry-on completely under the seat in front of me? I say, but only in my mind, of course.

The young gentleman and I chat. About my horse. And my 50 year-old Hub. And the Gentleman's girlfriend. And his house on the beach. And his parents who fly around in corporate jets on account of Grandpa just gave Dad the family business. And about how the Gentleman is not in the family business and is flying to San Jose to get bawled out for something dumb he did at work. Selling water heaters. And how lame it is to have to be bawled out in person instead of over the phone.

That is terrible, I say, and I hope that your job will be okay because in today's economy a good job is important.

Note: I like to use phrases like 'in today's economy' and the whatnot.

He is shrugging. I'll be okay, he says. My Grandfather just handed his company to my Dad and I'll be next.

Next to what? I ask.

Note: Be prepared. His response is awesome.

Hot dogs.

I am sitting next to the heir of the (Brand Name Deleted) Hot Dog Fortune.

Note: I cannot reveal the name of the Hot Dog Company but I will say that they answer to a higher authority.

We part ways. He gives me his card and says he can get me a good deal on a water heater, if I'm ever in the market for one.

Thank you, I say. And the next time I eat a hot dog, I'll think of you.

Note: Oops. That just doesn't sound right.

But think about it. The heir of a weiner fortune. No, the heir of a freaking weiner empire. Right next to me on Southwest.

Heck, yes!

It's Official. And Potentially Unbelievable. But True, Nonetheless.

It's official.

I am attracted to a fifty year-old man.

But seriously. What's not desirable about a fellow who can manipulate his eyebrows to look just like Flik?

Note: I am tingling just thinking about it.

Heck, yes.

Happy Birthday Hub! And many, many more. With me.

Ten Bucks Worth. Better Read It. Twice. At least

I am in Anaheim, across the street from Disneyland in my hotel room, conveniently located near the Denny's, and the IHOP and the Captain Kidd's All-You-Can-Eat place. I am sitting on my fluffy white bed after paying ten bucks to access the internet for 24 measly hours and that's like $2.40 an hour or twenty-four cents an hour or something ridiculous so someone really needs to read this post. Repeatedly.

Note: Obsessively, even.

Disneyland is great. I have seen Banjo-playing dudes and a barbershop quartet in fantastically crazy pinstripe outfits and Mary Poppins and the Chippendale's dancers.

Note: The dancers turned out to be Chip and Dale. Very disappointing. However, they performed a tap number that seemed quite intricate for big fluffy feet.

And I got to design my own dream home at Innoventions after answering just five simple questions which only partially accounts for the fact that my image is in a spacesuit. Like an astronaut.

Note: Does my spacesuit make me look fat?

And although I did not specifically request that my lunar dream house be surrounded by odd phallic symbols, I am pleased.

Note: Disneyland is great.

Heck, yes!

The. Happiest. Place. On. Earth.

I am packing for Disneyland, the Happiest Place on Earth, because Hub is turning fifty and doggone it, he may as well be happy about it. So we are headed to the Happiest Place on Earth. And these are the Top Ten reasons that make it so:

1. There are Pirates. Real pirates with real eye-patches and real swash-buckles. And the pirates flirt with the ladies. And I am a lady, yes.

2. Music plays everywhere you go! But it's happy music about beauties and beasts and real boys and nobody stares at me too funny when I find myself turning my motor on and swiveling my hips, except Hub who is now walking two steps ahead of me. Hey, wait up!

3. A parade can break out at any moment and if I time if right, I can tag myself on to the end of the line and be part of the parade, an integral part even, until the security people wave flashlights at me and say Get out the street lady and whatnot.

4. There are well-dressed attractive young people walking around with brooms and those fancy little handled-things that scoop up the garbage immediately so there is no litter anywhere because if there was litter, it couldn't be Disneyland.

5. There are flowers and shrubbery grown in remarkable shapes like mouse ears and flying elephants that actually come to life at night when no one is looking, maybe.

6. There is a brave Dad who, because he can't say no to his adorable four year-old ends up in one of those awful spinning teacups and he's clenching the bar and his face is green and the kid is having the time of her life.

7. Making out with Hub during the "It's a Small World" boat ride in front of those creepy animatronic people singing over and over and over and over about the size of our planet while watching us kiss with those big, wide, creepy, staring eyes. Ooh, shivers.

8. Getting a driver's license at Autopia and "accidentally" showing it to the cashier at JCPenney instead of my real Driver's License, oops.

9. Trying to imitate the yodeling while waiting for the Bobsled ride to begin and telling the next people in line that I'm 50% Swiss, can you tell by my fine yodeling?

10. Did I mention the Pirates?

Heigh-Ho!

So, Are Pink Cowboys More Polite?

It's happening. It's the time of year that if you squeeze your eyes a bit and gaze at the trees real hard, there is an aura of green hanging around the branches. The leaves aren't really uncurling yet. Just the promise. And the green tint that fills the space around the craggly limbs.

Note: If you do not live in the Garden of Eden, this phenomenon may not occur until later in the year. Much later.

Note: If you are one of those readers still living in WINTER, my head is hanging in pity for you. But I am grinning while my head is lowered Neener-neener-neener!

I am remembering a favorite spring day long, long ago. I am sitting at the table with five year-old Son and two-year old Daughter. We are coloring a picture. For Daddy. Who is at work. Son is swirling the colored markers in lazy circles, admiring each hue. Admiring and chattering. See all the colors, Mom? See? Mom, are you looking at me when I'm talking?

I look and nod and smile. Daughter is holding a marker in her fist. She is 'drawling a cowboy'. Daughter always 'drawls' cowboys. And she wears white cowboy boots. Everyday. She falls asleep in the boots and I sneak in to remove them. I am afraid that one day, the boots won't come off and she'll end up wearing those doggone things to her Senior Prom.

Mom! What's your favorite color, Mom? Son is looking up at me through his long dark lashes. Why do boys always get the eyelashes? I wonder. Probably something to do with that wacky Y chromosome.

Pink, I say.

Daughter is crying. She gets a little crease above her lip when she cries. Pink is my favorite, she moans. In utter devastation.

We can share, I suggest.

She stares at me. Hard. It's mine.

Son interrupts. See this marker? It's my favorite.

He is swirling a green marker.

But see, it's not a dark green. It's a po-lite green.

This kid is a genius, I think. I realize that he means 'light' green, but 'polite green' is a much better description of the green that hovers around a tree on a warm spring day or waves in the new grasses on the hillside.

Daughter's little lip is creasing again. I want polite green too! It's mine!

I smile. At the thought of a pink and polite green cowboy.

Happy Spring!