Proud. American.

The band plays. The guns fire, loudly. I flinch. The flags ripple in the wind. Hundreds of them, rippling. The jets roar overhead in perfect pattern and one peels off, heavenward, disappearing into the clouds.

The World War II veteran is introduced. He stands slowly, planting his feet firmly underneath him. He walks to the podium.

He speaks clearly and resolutely, occasionally flashing his still-brilliant smile. He tells of Germany and concentration camps and of soldiers who remain forever young, never having a chance to live their own lives of freedom.

His address over, he walks to his seat. His eyes widen with surprise as he turns to see a crowd on its feet, applauding with appreciation, but not just for his words.

He nods in acknowledgment of the ovation and smiles again. A quiet smile, yes.

I wave my little flag high into the air. That's my Dad, I say.

That's my Dad.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad, Paddy. Or Paddington, if you prefer the more formal approach.

Location:Wildwing Dr,Woodland,United States

Dazzling!

The Trophy Wife and the Zebra have something in common, besides this meandering post discussing the concept of he ability of the zebra to pull off the no-no of horizontal stripes while flaunting the ampleness of the striped bum, no less.

That's right. There is more.

While on a recent Safari, the jeep-driver-slash-tour-guide explains the names of different groupings of animals. For example, he says look! a colony of ants or he says duck! a flock of seagulls or he says by golly! it's a rhumba of rattlesnakes!

Note: Yes, really. A rhumba!

Imagine the surprise and delight then, when the Trophy Wife learns that a grouping of Trophy Wives and a grouping of Zebra share the exact same name and I kid you not:

Note: Well, I may be kidding, but it should be true, in any case.

Aye! It's a dazzle of Trophy Wives. Oh! And a dazzle of Zebra.

Note: Sweet. And Dazzling!

Heck, yes!

The Good Old Days. A Retrospective. Sort Of.

When I was a kid, we had these things called maps. A map was a large sheet of paper dotted with cities and highways and rivers and points of interest and little roads and big roads to help a traveler determine routes from place to place, which was then folded into a neat stack that upon opening, could never be returned to its original form. These archaic devices had grids with numbers and letters like J-15 or E-6 but no battleships to sink, no.

Note: Battleship is a board game from my childhood, meaning it is not played on a computer in a virtual world nor does it employ the use of a joystick.

So, after using a map to get from place to place, everyone in the car (read: station wagon) attempted to return the map to its original position, as folded by the map origamist, but to no avail. Occasionally, a teeny pseudo-swear word was used during this process. The map finally ended up shoved into the glovebox, which contained no gloves whatsoever, likely because the maps from Phoenix and Boston and Germany, probably, were smashed into the box in sadly-folded shapes, indeed.

Note: Don't even ask what happened if you didn't have a map. Let's just suffice it to say that gas station attendants are generally dyslexic, yes.

Now, this week I find myself traveling hundreds of miles with the comfort and ease of Paddy's GPS system which is even easier to use than my phone's GPS, mostly because the screen is bigger and fancier. Plus, hearing the voice of Lois, my female GPS navigator, is a bit unsettling. Paddy not only provides the best routes, but he includes traffic updates, current weather, and the ability to buy Twins-A's tickets at the same time, if any are available.

Note: There is no folding, origami or otherwise, involved in the process.

So, now the mapmakers are employed at country clubs folding napkins or in hotels, folding towels at the swimming pool or at The Gap, folding and refolding the t-shirts all day, everyday.

I think those darn mapmakers got exactly what they deserved.

The Good Old Days weren't always that great. I'm just saying.

Stay. Out of my Porridge.

Someone's been sitting in my chair.

Something is amiss. My bum is plopped into the driver's seat of my aging SUV. The car is unusually messy.

Note: Perhaps a more appropriate description of the vehicle is that it is messier than usual. My car has a tendency to be somewhat messy, with the pilates balls and outdoor speakers and about 8000 empty soda cans and tupperware containers and water bottles and junk, yes.

On this day, the car is actually spiffier than usual, except for the messy part. The back is empty of its usual pilates gear. But I note that the seats and floor are littered with lots of odd objects, such as shredded kleenex, a used bandaid, empty easter eggs, receipts, car manuals and wires and adapters for the in-deck casssette player, yes.

Note: Yes, in-deck cassette player. I told you that the SUV is aging.

With a bit of a shiver, I admit, I then realize that the glove box is open; the ashtray is open; the center console is open. And the contents are thrown around inside my vehicle.

Someone's been sitting in my chair.

Ooh, there's that nasty shiver again.

Then I notice a couple of things that seem almost amusing. Thrown in the back if the SUV is a baggie of cell phones, ancient ones, that are going into the recycling box at church. The would-be-thieves weren't too impressed with those, apparently. And with greater amusement, I realize that all of the Easter eggs from the center console are open, with no remnants of the candy. Which has been inside the eggs and sitting in my center console since 2008.

Yum.

But wait. My sunglasses are still on the dashboard.

What the heck?

Goldilocks didn't think my sunglasses are worth stealing?

Goldilocks had been watch her thieving, trespassing, candy-eating, sunglass-rejecting back. I've got three Bears that hold a darn mean grudge.

Note: Yes, you heard me. Darn mean.

And some night, Goldilocks, when you're sleeping, you are going to so regret messing with me and my SUV.

Sleep tight.

Heck, yes!

A Knick. Knack. Paddy-Whack.

Son has advised me that I am now enjoying the Forefront of the Mobile Computing Revolution. Scratch that. Make that Riding the Forefront of the Mobile Computing Revolution. Yes. That's it. Riding.

Note: Yes. Me.

Hub, in a fit of frivolity, bought me an iPad.

Note: He is currently sitting on the couch, playing with the iPad, which, from this point, will simply be referred to as 'Paddy'. Yes, like Paddington the Bear. So what.

Anyway, he is sitting on the couch with Paddy, watching snippets of 'All My Children', I believe, which makes him even more endearing, if that's even possible, at this point.

And Paddy is everything the media and my Son have purported him to be. Paddy has placed me smack dab in the Forefront of the Mobile Computing Revolution. And yes, Paddy is very mobile, indeed.

Here is a picture of Paddy and me lounging poolside. Mobile, indeed.

And here is a picture of Paddy and me unloading the dishwashing in a mobile fashion, yes.

Please enjoy this photo of Paddy and me in the ladies room. Mobility, mobility, mobility.

Here is a picture of Paddy and me in the shower. Ah, mobile.

And finally, Paddy and I prepare for a good night's sleep.

Sleep tight, Paddy, for tomorrow a new dawn of Riding and Computing and Mobilizing begin all over again.

Heck, yes!

Ah, Garbage. And Romance.

So, my garbage bag is leaking. All over the floor. Pink juice, likely from the sliced-off tops of oh, about, eight thousand strawberries.

Note: I am not even exaggerating about the eight thousand strawberries. Well, maybe a little, yes.

As an experienced Trophy Wife, I am accustomed to minor setbacks in life and I embrace the little pratfalls and pitfalls and Humpty Dumpty's Big Falls of daily living. Such as leaky, sticky garbage bags, yes.

Note: Well, maybe not embrace, exactly, but to not say a bad word, at least.

So, my garbage bag is leaking.

I inspect more closely. Imagine my surprise and delight when I see that the garbage leakage has formed an image of The Hub.

Sweet Holy Moses! It's a Miracle!

Who knew garbage could be so romantic?

Heck, yes!

The. Voice.

I am pulling into my driveway. Down the street I see a tall, dark, handsome man walking a teeny little black and white dog.

This sight pleases me. I like the confidence exuded by a strong, tall, handsome man who owns a teeny tiny dog.

Note: Yes, it is the Hub. Please put your eyebrows back down.

You see, real men don't need big dogs or big noisy trucks with big expensive tires and big old holes where his brains should be. Real men just need to have big paychecks.

Note: I digress. What was I talking about?

Oh, yes. So, I walk to the sidewalk and call Hey Rube!

Rubi stops and looks around. She cannot see me, but she can hear my voice. She looks back at the Hub, who is encouraging the teeny dog. Go see your Mom.

He lets go of the leash and I call her again. She races toward my voice, the voice of her Master, yes, with her ears flying back and her eyes wide. She finally reaches me and licks and bounces and butt-ups as an expression of her great joy. Of seeing me.

Note: There is likely a deep message in this beautiful story about listening and responding to the Master's Voice and the whatnot. And not waiting, but running to that Voice.

So, I will file the little gem away for future use, in the back of my mind where there is plenty of room, and then I consider the Hub. He's strolling. To the Voice.

So, Rubi runs to my Voice. Hub meanders to my Voice.

Note: I have some training to do.

Heck, yes!