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!


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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.