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!



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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.

The 49ers' Final Rose. Sigh.

Gentlemen, this is your Final Rose
of the Season.

It is a sad day. Our 49er flag is flying at half-mast, yes.

Note: Actually, that is afigure of speech. Sadly, I do not own a 49er flag.

I am lamenting the painful loss to the New York Giants and one-of-the-Manning-brothers -but-who-really-cares-which-one in the NFC Championship game. I am lamenting the injustice of it all. I am lamenting the injustice and inhumanity of the loss.

I am exaggerating, but not much.

But I am lamenting the end of the season, the end of being a fan for the year.  I will miss football. I have never cared much for professional basketball, a game in my opinion, combining freaks of nature and outrageous egos. College sports are a little dull this year and baseball season is far off.

Note: And, sadly, if you are an Oakland Athletics fan, it's farther off than that.

So I am lamenting my deep feelings of loss and grief about the situation to The Hub. He understands my pain. He is my soulmate, yes.

But Honey, he is saying in earnest heartfelt fashion, we'll be okay. He takes me in his arms. At least we still have The Bachelor.

Be still my heart.

Heck, yes!

The 49ers' Last Rose. Sigh.

Not By the Hair of My Chinny Chin Chin. Please.

So, let's play a game. 


Let's say that I am lost. Or you are lost. Or your Dear Husband slash Significant Other slash Grandmother is lost. 


Note: Okay, let's eliminate the possibility of losing Grandma. Not cool. 
Let's just say that I am lost.

The other day I am walking The Dog and she is stopping to pee at a telephone poll, because every other dog in the neighborhood has done so, apparently. She's sniffing and peeing and I see that someone has posted a Lost Pet sign. On the telephone pole, yes.


Oh dear! A lost pet! 


The sign has a big photo of a missing cat with a short description of the animal. 

A Big, Swinging Belly? Really?

Note: Do her boobs hang low, do they wobble to and fro? 


A Big, Swinging Belly? Really? This creature's defining characteristic is her Big, Swinging Belly? 


So, it got me to thinking, which is always a little dangerous. Hence, the game. 


Let's say that you are out walking your dog and on the telephone pole is a picture of me. Because I am lost, apparently. How does the sign describe me? What is my defining trait to the eye of a Local Search and Rescue Team. 


Lost! The sign may read, Friendly, with Slightly Saggy Jowls. 


Or Lost! The sign may read, Pleasant, with Unfortunate Chin Hair.


Or Lost! The sign may read, Outgoing, but Needs a Boob Job. 


Sweet Holy Moses. 


This is a dumb game.