Musings of a Trophy Wife

It's My Party. And I'll Cry if I Want To.

2012-01-26T14:37:00.000-08:00

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.

2012-01-23T23:04:00.000-08:00

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.

2012-01-23T20:40:00.000-08:00

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

2012-01-20T14:08:00.001-08:00

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.

I Am Not in My Right Mind. Or My Left, Sadly.

2012-01-11T13:30:00.000-08:00

I am tooling around Target with The Hub and The (Big) GrandBoy. Big Grand is sitting in the cart, sort of, because he's going through this ~~difficult~~ endearing phase where sitting in the appointed seat is so last month. It takes a great deal of energy/bribery to keep Big Grand safely seated and appropriately entertained.

So, The Hub is driving the cart like a ~~Drunk~~ Race Car Driver and he is saying, vroom vroom and Big Grand is sipping a red icee through a straw and is dribbling red stuff on his shirt in vroom vroom delight while eating multi-colored goldfish crackers because these grandparents do not care about food colorings and additives in the diets of the Grands as long as the child is happy and thinks we are freaking awesome.

We are on an aisle with lots of balls because GrandPop and Big Grand are now playing catch, except not really, because BG is sipping a red icee and munching on multi-colored goldfish. So, GrandPop is playing catch, yes.

A Fellow Shopper, late twenties maybe, says May I ask you a personal question?

Note: The question itself makes me giddy. I love personal questions.

He picks up a stability exercise ball, one of the giant ones. I see his receding hairline over the ball. He is squeezing the ball a little because he seems a little nervous and says Did you use a birthing ball when you had your baby? and he is gesturing over the ball with his head toward Big Grand.

I feel a little smug smile creeping across my lips, like the Grinch. First of all, The Hub and I cannot possibly be this child's parents. Aside from the obvious age issues, we are cruising around Target like crazy fools with a shopping cart while feeding the child red icees and multi-colored goldfish! No parent in his right mind would behave so recklessly.

Note: Clearly we are Grandparents. We have no right mind.

For some reason, I am frozen, in my amusement.

The Hub rescues me in my unusual silence and pipes up to Fellow Shopper, Actually, he is our Grandson.

I am thinking, Does this mean he doesn't want to hear my birthing experiences? but I find myself saying unnecessary things like, People make that mistake all then time, which is not true, and things like, I hear that lots of women like a birthing ball, which may be true but I do not know this for a fact and even things like, If I were having a baby today, I might try one, which is definitely not true because if I were having a baby today I would be too drugged up to even know my own name.

Note: I may be exaggerating, slightly.

Fellow Shopper slinks away. Without the ball, sadly.

The Hub is grinning and eating multi-colored Goldfish crackers.

Big Grand offers me a sip of his red icee. I oblige, dribbling red stuff down my shirt.

Heck, yes!

Beware. Granny on a Broom.

2012-01-08T20:52:00.000-08:00

You have been warned!

The witching hour is approaching quickly, yes.

Note: The witching hour is the time of night when witches and demons appear. It is usually associated with the darkest hours past midnight, or when a Cub Scout Planning Meeting has gone longer than 2-1/2 hours.

Sadly, I am discussing the latter scenario. And if my current state of mind is any indication, a witch of some sort may appear quite shortly indeed.

Note: I warned you ...

I am getting the jitters.

I am sitting at a kitchen table. My eyes are blurring and I am stifling a yawn. Hoping for distraction, I reach for a drink of water and whack the cup, spilling it on the milk chocolate bar with whole hazelnuts that has been provided for the enjoyment of the cub scout leaders.

I am sorry, I am saying, dabbing with napkins and kleenex from my purse and I really am sorry because now I'll have to eat the wet, gross chocolate because I'm responsible for the carnage.

I am so tired. Why are the other leaders not sleepy? I am wondering. Are they buzzed on caffeine? Are they on a sugar-high from the wet chocolate bar with whole hazelnuts? Are they decades younger than me?

Note: Oh, that.

We are discussing scout activities and swim teams and mascara. We are discussing Wolf achievements and Wolf electives and wet chocolate.

Note: My bad.

One of the other leaders who is pushing thirty, probably, is discussing the other women in her church congregation. The other women are very young. Newly married, blushing brides, she is saying and adds, it makes me feel like a freaking granny!

Excuse me, Pal I am saying. I am the freaking granny.

Note: Okay, fine. I did not say that. Not exactly. I stuffed a piece of wet chocolate in my mouth. To gain a little time.

But I definitely feel that witch wriggling just a little bit inside of my head, yearning to be free!

Ah, yes. The Witching Hour Indeed.

Heck, yes!

And You Think YOUR Holiday Dinner is Rough.

2011-12-06T13:34:00.001-08:00

And you think YOU have a crummy shower ...

Okay, so I am watching a well-known Home & Garden Television Network, which I shall not name.

Note: Okay, fine. So I am watching HGTV.

And because I am in the midst of renovating my Ramshackle House on the Hill, I am particularly interested in whole-house renovations.

Note: Okay, so actually I am in the midst of planning the renovations to my Ramshackle House on the Hill. Donations are accepted. Gifts cards. Firstborn. Whatever.

So I am watching HGTV and some Gentleman is talking about how he spent 140 grand renovating his condo and how his new master bath is totally totally fab and and lavish and an exquisite use of materials.

Um, okay.

The Gentleman is showing off the exquisite use of materials and the plushness and the decadence. Of it all, including the bidet.

Um, okay.

Now The Gentleman is referring to THE SHOWER. He is referring to the exquisite use of materials and the spray heads and the waterfalls that grace THE SHOWER.

It is a SHOWER FOR FOUR, he is saying and smiling and gushing. About the exquisite use of materials, I hope.

Oh dear. My heart is happy that The Gentleman loves his renovations. And his materials. And the decadence.

But really? A shower for four? On national television when dear Grandma Ethel, with her pacemaker and all, is watching?

Now, there's a holiday dinner I wouldn't want to miss ...

Heck, yes!

Pick a Peck. Go Ahead. I Dare You.

2011-12-02T09:46:00.001-08:00

It's killing me.

Literally, and I am not exaggerating.

Note: Yes, I am.

It's killing me because there is a woodpecker outside my bedroom window. That stupid beast is outside my bedroom window every morning at 6:45 a.m.

Pecking away, yes.

It's not killing me because that danged creature is damaging the house, no. I don't really care. And it's not really killing me that every morning I am awakened, not by a tap-tap-tap but a tap-tap-rat-a-tat-tappity-Mc-Tap-Tap tap-tap-rat-a-tat-tappity-Mc-Tap-Tap.

Note: How does that bird not have a headache?

No, it's killing me because I am sitting on a plethora of Pecker jokes, which, due to my genteel manner and strict upbringing I feel may be inappropriate to share with my readers.

Blast!

I want to say Death to the Pecker or That Pecker is Going Down or That Pecker Has Pecked His Last Wood, but alas, I cannot.

And I cannot observe how Peter Piper Picked a Peck of Pickled Peckers. Oh, wait. That's not right.

Whatever.

But I have to tackle the Pecker problem. I've got a bone to peck with that bird. Pick, I mean.

Sweet Holy Smokes.

Whoopi Calls It African-American Friday, Yes!

2011-11-28T16:58:00.001-08:00

I am doing it. I am finally doing it! I am Black Friday-ing!

Note: Cross that puppy off the bucket list, yes!

I am standing in a line. A very, very long line. I am pushing large boxes of items on the floor because there are no carts available. Precariously stacked in a Grinch-like manner on top of the large boxes are smaller boxes and trinkets and stuff. There are no carts available anywhere in Contra Costa County, probably.

It is hot in here. It is hot in here because there are a thousand other shoppers, pressing their bodies this close to mine. I am sweating, but I can not take off my sweatshirt to reveal my turtleneck underneath. I am not wearing a bra, you see.

Note: Wearing a bra while shopping in the middle of the night seemed optional, at the time.

A vendor comes through the line with 5-Hour energy shots. For free. No thank you, I say. The ladies in front of me gulp theirs down. They ask for more.

The guy behind me actually has a cart. He keeps ramming it into my ample bum, accidentally, I think. He is staying this close just in case some unruly shopper tries to cut into our line, I suppose.

The ladies in front of me getting boisterous. I think the Energy Shots are kicking in, yes.

I pass the time by fluffing up the artificial Christmas trees dotting the store. My pet peeve is unfluffed artificial trees. The trees look so much better now, the other shoppers agree. Thank you, I am saying.

Why isn't the line moving? I am so hot. The Hub goes to get another Diet Coke to add to our growing pile of empties, which lies on top of the boxes we are pushing, for which we will pay when we get to the checkout. If we ever get to the checkout.

Our line has not moved for thirty minutes. Shoppers are getting restless. I am selected to investigate. Because of my calm, collected manner and excellent negotiation skills, I suppose.

Note: I am chosen because I am the only shopper with the grim determination to take on the Line Manager.

Additional Note: The Line Manager is a roundish control-freak who is a loud talker who employs a series of walkie-talkies and clipboards and bathroom passes to leave the line for necessary breaks, at her whim. She doesn't scare me, oh no she doesn't.

Additional Additional Note: She might scare me a little.

Quick Observation: My cause would be greatly aided if the Line Manager were a balding fellow in his fifties with a belly hanging over his belt. Just saying.

The Line Manager is explaining to me that the Laptop people got to cut in front of the rest of us regular shoppers.

What! Cutter Cutter, Peanut Butter I am saying and then I am offering to buy a laptop so I can cut in line too. She sends me back to the crowd to deliver the news to my fellow shoppers.

No one is happy about the news. There is rumbling. There is pacing. There is a quiet threat of rebellion.

It's so hot in here. I lift up my sweatshirt and fan myself with it. I am careful to not flash the boobies. But if the Line Manager were a balding fellow in his fifties with a belly hanging over his belt ...

After two and a half hours in line, I am done! I am out! I am free!

I need a cart!

I skim the parking lot with my eagle-like vision. I see one, oh yes! The Lady next to me sees it, too. The Lady sees it after I see it, because I am already jogging to the cart, inhaling the cool air. My boobies are bouncing, but it is refreshing, yes.

The Lady next to me bolts for the cart. Seriously? I can take her. I speed up. My long legs are gliding like a gazelle.

She speeds up.

What am I doing? I hand her the cart. Merry Christmas, I say. After all, there must be one more cart somewhere in Contra Costa County.

Merry Christmas!

Heck, yes!

Power. To the People!

2011-11-21T17:07:00.001-08:00

Oh Yah!

The hospitality of my new friends in the Northern Plains is refreshing, dear readers.

I am refreshed, not because it's 21 degrees in Fargo today but because it is so darned refreshing to see that Customer Service is alive and well at the Home Depot, oh yes it is.

I do not know what this sign means, exactly, but odds are high that I am quite pleased about the prospect. Of the Employee. Powering up.

Gives a whole new meaning to power tools, you betcha.

Heck, yes!

Mathematics, Simplified. Grand + Grand = More Grand!

2011-11-16T20:14:00.001-08:00

Life just keeps getting Grander.

Grand Boy, The Sequel. Grand Boy2. Grand Boy, Part Deux.

A little piece of heaven dropped into my world on a blustery Fargo day.

Note: Most days are blustery in Fargo, yes.

Grand Boy emerges with a lusty cry. The Dot's head rests on the pillow, a smile crosses her face, strands of damp hair stick to her forehead. The SIL brushes tears from his cheek.

The Trophy Wife is speechless.

Note: Some occasions are just simply beyond words. And this, my friends and readers, is one of them.

Additional Note: Do not worry. Do not fret. The Trophy Wife will not remain speechless for long. Oh, no.

Welcome to the world, Little Will. Welcome to the world!

Just Call Me Wild Thing. Yup.

2011-10-28T16:10:00.000-07:00

So, I am in the hardware store buying spray paint. I am in a fancy hardware store in a fancy neighborhood and I note that the aerosol cans are not locked up in spray paint jail. I do not have to ask a bored employee to unlock the prison gates to buy spray paint. I can just select the paint. And then buy the paint. It is a revelation in shopping, yes.

Note: I do not know why spray paint in a fancy hardware store in a fancy neighborhood does not require security guards. Perhaps the adolescents residing in the fancy neighborhood are either lacking in the artistic ability required for vandalism or do not wish to spray their private school logo on the wall of the local bistro, under cover of darkness, no.

Oh, yes. As an adolescent, I had occasionally urges to stick it to the man, sure, and I definitely caused my fair share of mayhem and whatnot. Oh you'd better believe it.

Note: No you shouldn't. I am a liar.

I carved my name in a bench at The Ice Burgie. Oh, yes I did. And, if I recall correctly, I was taken to the police station for breaking the curfew and blaring my car stereo at all hours of the night.

Note: No, I wasn't. I am a liar.

But the point is ... I am buying adulterated spray paint by my own free will and choice.

I am at the checkout, looking down, digging in my purse for my wallet.

Note: The Trophy Wife has a giant handbag which is sadly disorganized.

The store clerk is ringing up my purchases.

I am still digging.

Are you over the age of 18? she is asking.

I stop digging. Am I on candid camera?

I look up. My golden hair falls back from my 40-something face. We make eye contact, the clerk and I.

Oh, she says.

And that is all.

But for one brief moment, I am a wild adolescent once again, drinking soda pop in the parking lot after dark, cruising the strip, although my car is overheating and that's kinda lame. I am carving my name is benches. I am turning in my homework ... a day late.

Oh, the wildness of youth.

Heck, yes!

Just Roll With It.

2011-10-27T14:10:00.000-07:00

Actual USGS Scientists at Work

So, the earth is shaking out here in California, a bit, yes.

I do not care for the earthquakes, no. Mostly because earthquakes are so darn unpredictable. Earthquakes tend to strike when I'm on the potty or naked in the shower or watching Temptation Island. I do not wish to be found in the ruins with my pants puddled around my ankles or in my birthday suit or lazing around on the couch watching cheesy television.

And then there's all the drama. Not from the residents of my fine state, no, because mostly it's how we roll, pun intended.

It is the drama of the USGS.

Note: United States Geological Survey, yes.

Having emerged from his underground bunker in the wastelands of the Nevada desert, probably, The Earthquake Scientist is on the evening news, standing in front of a map and some gadget that looks like my Grandma's old washtub and is pointing and looking grim, yes. Very grim. In somber tones he delivers the bare facts. No sugar-coating from this guy, nosiree.

There is a 99% probability that California will experience a 6.7 magnitude earthquake ... wait for it ... wait for it ...

... in the next thirty years.

Thirty years? Really?

How much government funding does it take to figure that one out?

Thirty years?

Well, I want a piece of this action. I predict that a major hurricane will make landfall in the state of South Carolina ... in the next thirty years. I predict that Will and Jada will split up ... in the next thirty years. Heck, I'll even go out on a limb and predict that the Lowly Chicaco Cubs will end their century-old World Series drought ... sometime in the next thirty years.

Ooh, I think I kind of have a knack for this thing.

I wonder if there are any job openings at the USGS?

Heck, yes!

Note: This post is not intended to diminish any of the suffering of individuals or countries that may have experienced major earthquakes. I'm just fooling around.

A Wolf. In Scout Clothing.

2011-10-18T19:25:00.000-07:00

So, I am a Den Leader.

Note: I know, I know.

But I can't help myself really. Sure I am saying. And I am smiling, even! Sure, I can be a Den Leader.

How hard can it be to corral ten 8 year old boys for an hour once a week? I am thinking. After all, I like boys. I raised a boy. I married a boy, sort of.

Note: I am breaking out in a sweat.

But being a Wolf Den Leader has its perks, yes. I have a spiffy uniform with a necker-cheeef that really ups my street cred. Plus, as a leader, the Wolves refer to me as Akela, which is Native American for Is that Lady Really Wearing a Cub Scout Uniform in Public?

But I am a good sport and with a rocking pair of boots, I can pull off nearly anything, including a scout uniform.

So, I am a Den Leader. Today, we learn about The Buddy System, which can be summarized as this: Get a Buddy. Stay Together. The End.

But Cub Scouts turn The Buddy System into some sort of Lord of the Flies scenario with each Wolf jockeying for position, trying to buddy with the Alpha Male, who by the way, is delineated by his ability to give Turkey Bites to the buttocks of the other Wolves without Akela's detection.

Note: Don't mess with Akela. It has been a long day.

Then one Wolf says to another, We are buddies because we've known each other ever since we were born. Right, Jake? The Other Wolf gives him a Turkey Bite and responds, Dude, my name is Jason.

Ah, another long-lasting friendships made right here. In the Wolf Den.

Good job, Akela.

Heck, yes!

Sweet Holy Amnesia, Batman!

2011-10-10T21:00:00.001-07:00

My life is so boring.

Note: Oh, it has not always been this way, no.

Previously my life was filled with amnesiacs who fell off bridges and were nursed back to health by misunderstood ex-prostitutes with hearts of gold. Nowadays, the only amnesiac in my house is The Hub who forgets to take the garbage out.

My life was a tangled mess of love triangles with outrageously beautiful people with outrageously impressive wardrobes. Now the closest thing to a love triangle around here is sneaking in an episode of Sister Wives when no one else is looking.

Note: I know, I know.

Once my life boasted heartless baby swaps, persistent brain tumors and the dead-coming-back-to-life. And everyone had six-packs and perky boobs and private jets and cash oozing out of their pores.

Sweet Holy Moses.

Oh, All My Children. How I miss you.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

True. Grit.

2011-10-07T23:10:00.001-07:00

Today, a cooking lesson, sort of.

I am making an orange vinaigrette to top a mixed green salad with roasted beets and pistachios. I am grilling and juicing and emulsifying. I am zesting and tasting and seasoning.

And although the Kosher Salt Box and the Albers Quick Cooking Grits Box are similar in shape and similar in heft and similar in color, they are not, in fact, interchangeable in cooking applications.

Oops.

The Hub hears my lament.

Note: 'Lament' may or may not be a euphemism for a colorful expletive.

He listens sympathetically to my sad Tale of Two Boxes.

Well, he says, look at the bright side. You have discovered a brand new recipe.

Wait for it ...

A brand new recipe, he is saying, for Orange Vinai-Grit.

Sweet Holy Moses. The Hub is a freaking genius.

Be still my heart.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Reunited And It Feels. So. Good.

2011-09-07T12:06:00.001-07:00

So, I am chatting with the Twin Brother.

Twin, yes.

Note: No, we are not identical twins and if one more person asks me that question I am going to threaten to whip out my ~~penis~~ dingaling and say Heck, yes!

Additional Note: Morons.

The Twin and I are discussing our High School Reunion this weekend, which he did not attend. And in an impressive display of the high quality education received at Gridley Union High School and with a particular nod to the mathematics departments, he asks

What reunion was it?

Sigh. My Twin Brother is seriously asking this question?

Sweet Holy Moses!

What Came First, the Chicken or the Pasteur?

2011-08-30T14:52:00.000-07:00

So, you know how when the store employee comes up and says Can I help you? and you're thinking There's not a snowball's chance in you-know-where but then you go ahead and take the plunge to ask for help anyway in spite of the fact that previous experience is screaming Stop! Back away!?

Yeah.

Do you have any pasteurized eggs?

The Worker looks at me and he is pursing his lips and pulling them to one side, like that Rugrats kid. Angelica, yes.

Note: The Daught does a mean impression of that kid.

He has longish dark hair and he flips it, a little. When he speaks he has an accent, French I think, and I am suddenly imagining him in a beret.

Pasture eggs? I do not know of such things. He calls to a buddy, a larger dude, hairless to speak of, who is balancing several cartons of eggs on his belly.

Do we have eggs from zee pastures?

Buddy looks confused by The Frenchman's question.

No, I am saying, pasteurized eggs. The Frenchman's hands land on his hips. Are you meaning eggs that come from zee chicken in zee pastures? I do not know of chickens in pastures.

Buddy laughs.

I am thinking about how all American children learn about Louis Pasteur, who, with a name like that has got to be French and how he saves all of our lives from germs and stuff in our food supply through the process of pasteurization but somehow The Frenchman seems oblivious to the greatest achievement of his Fellow Countrymen, so far as I know, except perhaps for the croissant, which is plenty impressive.

Note: Okay, fine. I don't eat croissants.

So, finally I just grab a dozen eggs laid by certified free-range chickens which is very close to a pasture-ized egg, yes.

Heck, yes!

Thank you for calling. My Name is Peggy. What is Problem, Please?

2011-08-09T15:56:00.000-07:00

Actual Conversation with a Helpful Customer Service Representative:

Note: I am lying about the helpful part, yes.

Helpful Dude: Thank you for calling. How may I help you?

Me: I subscribed online to your newspaper and I'm trying to figure out why we're not receiving it yet.

Helpful Dude: I see.

A protracted moment of silence follows. I can not bear protracted silence, as you know. So, I speak, obviously.

Me: Well, can you check your database and see if my credit card payment went through and that I am listed as a subscriber?

Helpful Dude: Not really, no. But I can set you up as a new account.

Me: But I don't want a new account because then I may receive two newspapers. I only want one. I just need to know if you have received my payment and activated my service.

Helpful Dude: I guess you will just have to wait awhile and see if you get a newspaper.

Me: What? You can't check?

Helpful Dude: No. I don't have access to that type of information.

Me: What type of information do you have access to?

Helpful Dude: I can start a new account for you, M'am.

Me: I still don't want a new account. Can you just start sending me the paper until someone figures this out?

Helpful Dude: Would you like a trial subscription, M'am?

Me: Sure. I mean, I really want a regular subscription but I guess I'll take a trial subscription for now.

Helpful Dude: Oh, sorry. I can't give you a trial subscription if you want a regular one.

Me: Fine! I changed my mind! I don't want a regular one anymore. Give me a trial subscription.

Helpful Dude: I'm sorry.

Are you kidding me? Am I on Punk'd?

Note: For those readers who need relevancy training, Punk'd is the modern-day equivalent of Candid Camera.

Me: What am I supposed to do to get a newspaper?

Helpful Dude: I have a phone number that you can call. Perhaps they can help you with your problem.

Me: Whatever.

I am wondering if this dude's name is Peggy and he's sitting in Alaska or Fargo in a remote cabin answering the phone.

Helpful Dude: Please call 1-800-555-1111.

Huh?

Me: That's the number I just called to get YOU.

Pause. Another pause. Wait for it ... wait for it ...

Helpful Dude: Oh, well thank you for calling. How may I help you?

Sweet Holy Moses!

Extra-Virgin? Really? Yeah, Right.

2011-08-08T14:09:00.000-07:00

So, apparently I am missing out on an important form of self-expression, but I cannot be blamed for the oversight.

I simply did not know.

I simply did not know that I can express myself with olive oil.

Note: I know, I know. So many good and expressive years, lost.

Oh, sure. I have tried the conventional approaches to self-expression, such as but not limited to words, wild gesticulations, dirty looks, teeth-baring and whatnot, particularly upon encountering Stupid Drivers. I have also tried the artistic approaches to self-expression, such as but not limited to writing, poorly-executed arts and crafts, modern dance and cleaning.

Note: Okay, fine. The modern dance part was just to impress the Lovely DIL, who clearly knows better.

Additional Note: Cleaning is so a form of self-expression. Darned Non-Believers.

But olive oil? Never tried it. Just seems too darn slippery, really.

But, I can picture expressing myself by clunking the bottle on the head of one of those Darned Non-Believers and/or Stupid Drivers ...

Heck, yes!

Hello, My Name Is Moron. How May I Help You?

2011-07-18T09:39:00.001-07:00

The Clerk is singing along with the music, which is too loud. I am the only customer at this time of night in the national drugstore chain which shall remain unnamed and purposely, I hope, spells its name incorrectly, for what reason, I do not know.

Note: All right, fine. I am in Rite Aid.

I drop my armload of purchases on the counter.

Advil Liqui-Gels, Tums (extra strength berry fusion), Prilosec, Immodium AD, Pepto Bismol. Oh, and mascara, of course, so the reason for my late night pharmacy run isn't too obvious, if one is a moron.

The Clerk peruses the items and begins scanning. She smiles up at me, still grooving a little, yes.

So how you doing tonight, Hon'? She asks.

Really?

How am I doing?

Are you kidding me?

The mascara purchase really works!

Heck, yes!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location: Still Extending ...

Heeing And Hawing, Yes.

2011-07-15T14:34:00.001-07:00

The Son and I are chatting and I am waxing nostalgic, about the good old days, when kids rode bikes and ate peaches straight off the tree and pulled the tails off pollywogs, accidentally. Maybe. Hopefully, anyhow.

I am considering the best era in which to live. I ask The Son his opinion. He hems. He haws.

Note: Please no Heehaw jokes, if the reader is even old enough to wax nostalgic about Heehaw.

He finishes with the hemming and hawing. The future he says, finally. I couldn't survive without my technology.

Note: What? He is waxing nostalgic about technology?

I demand a better answer. A real answer.

He hems. He haws some more. A time when music was better, he says. The music nowadays is awful.

Note: Nowadays? How old is this kid?

I tell him about my last three purchases on iTunes. Save Me, San Francisco by Train because I love any lyricist who can rhyme 'Oh, hell no' and Rolling in the Deep by Adele and The Lazy Song by Bruno Mars.

Wow, look at you! he is saying and adds Never heard any of them.

Note: This kid needs serious Relevancy Training.

So we wax some more. The Son is also wishing for a simpler time, before texting. When people talked face to face.

Ah, yes I am saying. Simpler times.

The Son has made his time travel decision. A simpler time with great music. And no texting.

The Nineties, he says.

The Nineties? Are you kidding me? The Nineteen-freaking-Nineties? Not the Gay Nineties, whatever the heck that means?

Sweet Holy Moses!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:STILL Extended ....

Gremlins. Chewbacca. And Jacob, Oh My!

2011-07-13T16:39:00.001-07:00

Everyone's a comedian, in his own mind.

And it's not like I haven't heard it all a thousand times before. For example, if my last name were, say, synonymous with, say, an activity only performed legally in certain cities across the country, when meeting me for the first time, say, some may find it humorous to make jokes about whether or not I reside in said city, which I don't, and trust me pal: You're not that funny.

Note: And no, my last name is not 'Girls that Want to Meet You Now'.

So, the Front Desk Receptionist in My Extended-Stay-Type-Hotel squeals when I walk through the door. There it is! There it is!

Another Front Desk Type appears.

See? I told you. That dog looks just like a Gremlin!

Note: Like I've never heard that one? But personally, I just don't see it.

Additional Note: Sic 'em, Rube.

The Housekeeper approaches me in the hallway with her hand extended to my dog, who totally ignores her. Wow! He looks just like Chewbacca!

He? I am thinking. Chewbacca? I am thinking. She is a girl. Can't you see her nine nipples hanging to the floor? And Chewbacca? Really. Rubi is far better groomed and so far as I know has never carried an assault weapon.

Note: Personally, I just don't see it.

Additional Note: Sic 'em Rube!

Today some Comedian in the elevator says My, what big eyes you have, my dear in reference, I suppose, to The Big Bad Wolf.

Hmmmn.

She may have a point. There is a family resemblance.

Heck, yes!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Still Over Extended

I Am Over-Extended.

2011-07-12T14:16:00.001-07:00

So, I am homeless. Not technically, I suppose. In technical terms, I am between homes and although The Aging SUV looks like I am living in it, what-with the crumpled sheets and boxes of Bisquick and a Dyson vacuum cleaner tossed in for good measure, I am not.

Instead, I am sitting in the room of my My Extended-Stay-Type Hotel.

This is the life! I am thinking with exclamation points. This is how the fancy folks live!

Note: No, it is not.

Oh, sure. My Extended-Stay-Type Hotel offers some excellent amenities such as shelter, with the added benefit of not being bothered by those darn maids making my bed and cleaning my room and providing fresh linens, for example.

However, as time passes and the glamour of the life in My Extended-Stay-Type Hotel dims, however slightly, I wish to offer a few notes to the management of such facilities to further ensure the comfort of their guests:

1. Thank you for considering the addition of binoculars in the bedside tables to enhance the viewing of the stunning 19" television.

2. Thank you for hiring gentlemen to paint the metal pool fencing all day everyday. The use of the pool by the Ladies is greatly enhanced by said-gentlemen hanging around all day, painting and painting and painting.

3. Thank you for placing all pets on the third floor. The extra exercise required to traipse up and down the stairs to do business at all hours is an added benefit.

Pardon me now Readers, while I shower for as long as I wish with the water as hot as I wish with no concern for increasing my utility bill. Whatsoever.

I may even shower again, immediately after my shower.

Don't be a hater.

Heck, yes!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:My Extended-Stay-Type Hotel, Third Floor

Do Not Name Your Son Earl.

2011-06-10T09:17:00.000-07:00

I am watching one of those morning shows, sort of. It's the one with the pert, chipper and Hilarious Blonde and the aging, self-important Old Dude.

They are bantering with some fellow I do not recognize. He is lean with dark hair and those kind of glasses that the hipsters are wearing nowadays.

Note: Yes, that is correct. Hipsters.

Imagine my surprise when the fellow turns out to be Jason Lee, who is the star of 'My Name is Earl,' which I have never watched, no, but being socially relevant, as I am, is someone with whom I am familiar, yes.

Note: I associate My Name is Earl with the Earl that has to die, according to the Dixie Chicks. In short: Do not name your son Earl. That's all I am saying.

No, I am saying more.

So Hilarious Blonde turns to Earl and says I did not even recognize you! You look amazing!

Earl nods in appreciation, I think. Or maybe those hipster glasses are so darn heavy that his head is bobbing.

Hilarious Blonde continues to gush. The transformation is amazing! she says. You look like a male model!

Male model? Really? Is that kind of redundancy necessary?

I am thinking that the transformation would be infinitely more amazing if he looks like a female model.

Heck, yes!

May I Borrow Your Tool Belt?

2011-06-10T07:48:00.000-07:00

The Pool Repair Guy is standing at the door.

I am baffled. By the Pool Repair Guy.

He is asking What is wrong with the pool?

I am explaining that the spa keeps emptying into the pool and it freaks me out to see the empty spa and the remote readout for the pool is claiming that the water temperature is 114 degrees farenheit, yes, and if that's true, then the PG&E police are going to be all over me.

Note: Am I alone in thinking that when someone sneezes it would be fun to say Farenheit and see if the sneezing person will just nod and say thank you?

The Pool Repair Guy is still looking at me. And asking the same question again. What is wrong with the pool? Have you checked the valves?

Have I checked the valves? I am thinking. Do I look like a Pool Repair Guy? No, I do not. I am dainty, in a larger sort of way and although I have been tempted to wear a tool belt, from time to time, valve-checking and gadget-prodding is not my forte.

Note: Righty-Tighty. Lefty-Loosey!

But he is asking.

And suddenly it comes to me. Like a blessed bolt of lightning from the blessed Pool Repair Gurus Above.

My best guess, I am saying, is that I need a new Flux Capacitor.

I wish Doc Brown was my Pool Repair Guy.

Nothing like 1.21 gigawatts of power, baby!

Heck, yes!

The Northern California Girls Were Warm, Yes. And Good Kissers.

2011-06-08T22:37:00.001-07:00

Do not believe all the hype.

Oh, sure. It is true that California knows how to party. And everybody wishes she was a California girl.

Duh. That's just obvious.

And although California is the world leader in fruit production, smog emissions and silicone implants, it is unfair to assume that all residents are cruising around in polluting convertibles while eating peaches and flashing generously-sized tatas at passing truck drivers.

And now the California mystique has gone too far, again.

I am thumbing through a lifestyle magazine. It is loaded with fashion, home decor and entertaining tips. And then, I see this:

Huh.

Tuna is great on the go? Well, okay. I guess that I can accept that. Tuna the wonderfish? Well, okay. I guess that I can accept that, too. But closer examination reveals the devastating, unacceptable blow:

Tuna California Pizza? Can't somebody give my fine state a break already? Haven't we suffered enough with the revelation of our ex-Governor's love child with his maid? And never mind that we are the only state in the union to prohibit a woman from driving a motor vehicle in a housecoat. Whatever that means.

And now we are taking the rap for putting tuna on an innocent pizza.

Californians do not aspire to fishy pizzas, folks. So, blame Charlie the Tuna. Or the Gorton's Fisherman. But leave California out of it!

Please. Can't someone just stop the madness?

Heck, yes!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:CALIFORNIA!!!

If Bigger is Better, Then Giant Must Be Awesome. Fail.

2011-06-07T17:53:00.001-07:00

As my more astute readers may recall, I recently discovered my husband's unfortunate indiscretion.

He has been tempted by the fruit of another, yes.

A BMW 6 series.

Oh, I realize that I am not entirely blameless in the matter. And I can own my responsibility, yes. I've let the Aging SUV go, I'm afraid. She's dusty and smells like a mixture of strawberry vinaigrette and Pilates mats.

But to be honest, the BMW started it, with her lurid offerings of pleasure. And power. And special financing.

Well readers, I have to say The Hub is not the only person in this household receiving tantalizing automotive correspondence. No he is not.

Check out the following note with it's sensual warm hues and curvaceous lettering addressed to me. Yup.

Note: Oh, yes. They want me. Bad.

I open the card, with trembling hands, somewhat.

Note: I should totally be writing cheesy romance novels.

But wait! What is this? How can this be?

I am being courted ...

By a Used car?

And a giant one at that.

Sweet Holy Moses.

Fail.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:The Kitchen Island

Further Proof That Men Pretend to Listen. Especially When Hair Care Comes Up.

2011-06-02T12:14:00.000-07:00

So, mathematics.

And hair care, yes.

Not a fan, really. Of the mathematics, that is. Numbers are just so finite. There's no wiggle room. No romance. Just doggone reality.

Words are a lot more fun. I can be happy or delighted or exhilarated or even exonerated, hopefully.

Note: What was I talking about? Oh yes. Numbers. And hair care.

So, I am telling The Hub about my upcoming High School Reunion. I am planning my hair highlighting schedule to coincide with the date, of course, and I must be speaking out loud about such plans because The Hub is nodding, somewhat numbly, I believe.

But Wait! The Hub speaks!

Note: He is listening after all!

What reunion is it? he is asking.

The question is puzzling. It's the reunion of my High School graduating class I say and although I am thinking duh I do not say it.

No, no, he is saying, I mean how many years? Like 10? Or 15?

Are you kidding me? This is the man that deals with million dollar budgets on a daily basis. He can whip out a spreadsheet faster than I can recite the pledge of allegiance in Spanish, which I can still do, yes, thanks to my High School Spanish teacher who taught me to do so, but not just ten or fifteen years ago, no.

Really? I say. We have been married 28 years. We have a 27 year-old son. Fifteen years? Really?

Oh, it must be your twentieth, he says.

Further proof, yes, that although his head may be bobbing and his lips may be hmmning, he is so not paying attention.

Well, then. Happy Twentieth High School Reunion to me!

Heck, yes!

If I Have a Choice, Please Allow Birds To Peck Me To Death. Thank You.

2011-05-25T19:52:00.000-07:00

So, The Waltons.

For the uninformed and/or the twenty-somethings, which is a bit of a redundancy, yes, The Waltons is a television show produced in the 1970's about a depression era family living in the hills of Virginia. John is the dad and Olivia is the Mom and the children have crazy double-names like John-Boy and Mary-Ellen and Jim-Bob. They walk to church in their bonnets and lace-up boots and go to a schoolhouse which is attacked by crazy birds as a sign of the apocalypse.

Oh, wait. That was in The Birds by Alfred Hitchcock. I get the two confused all the time.

My bad.

Anyway, today's episode of The Waltons is a brilliant piece of work. Olivia (Liv) is showing strange, troubling symptoms which speak of impending doom, the family fears.

And rightfully so.

For example, Liv completely denies complying to sew a dress for her daughter's party. She gets mad at the eight children for making such a racket in their small farmhouse. And then, she refuses to go to church.

Note: I know, I know. And it gets worse.

She completely forgets to put the Sunday dinner in the oven! Imagine those crazy Walton men prowling around the house on empty stomachs.

Then poor Liv suffers from pain in the hands. And terrible, blinding headaches. And sudden changes in temperature. Some might say, a flash of heat.

A hot flash, yes.

Good news, Waltons. Mom is just achieving her Milestone. The Change of Life. Yup. The Menopause.

And based on those symptoms, folks, beware. Sadly, it may not be too many years before The Hub is getting awfully hungry on Sunday evenings.

Sweet Holy Moses!

I think I'd rather be attacked by birds as a Sign of the Apocalypse.

Heck, yes!

Is That Your Package? Or Wilting Zucchini? I Cannot Tell.

2011-05-24T16:57:00.001-07:00

I am standing in line at the United States Postal Service. I am standing in line with a fellow with a long gray beard and coveralls. I am wondering if he could be the Son of the Unabomber or perhaps The Unabomber 2 or Unabomber The Sequel. Or something. Then the Postal Worker asks him if his parcel contains anything breakable or perishable or hazardous. He shakes his head.

I guess he is not the Unabomber. That's a relief.

Note: I am wondering if a bad guy, say a Terrorist or a Vegetarian or the Unabomber, of course, is going to tell the Postal Worker that yes, his parcel is filled with explosives or anthrax or quickly-wilting butter lettuce.

Now it is my turn. The Postal Worker gives me options for mailing my small package to a city about a two hours' drive away. You may mail it Express with guaranteed delivery on Thursday for $16.55 she says or you may send it Priority Mail with delivery on Thursday for $5.30.

I am wondering if this is a trick question but no. This is an example of our Government at work, my friends. With our tax dollars, yes.

Bravo!

Sweet Holy Moses.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad, Paddy Also

Play Ball? Um, No Thanks.

2011-05-23T13:35:00.000-07:00

I do not understand the business world nowadays.

I am in the parking lot at the local grocery, hurrying in to grab a few important items before the car gets too hot. For the dog to sit in it. In a shady place, of course. I am hurrying and I overhear a Business Dude on his cellphone, speaking entirely too loud, by the way, if I can hear him from seven sunny parking spots away.

We need to get our shi* in a row so she can step right up and be ready to play ball, he is saying.

Wow. Really?

First of all, I cannot recall a Communications 101 class that encourages BusinessPersons to refer to their fecal material in any manner, let alone in a busy parking lot while on a business call with another alleged BusinessPerson. And secondly, what kind of metaphors is Business Dude mixing here anyhow?

I cannot identify a sport in which fecal material plays any significant role whatsoever. Defecation all in a row, besides requiring either excellent aim and/or lots of nasty gathering and storage of such, would definitely make a crappy basepath, pun intended. And although the idea of the BusinessPersons playing hopscotch amid excrement kind of ups the anty, if you know what I mean and I think you do, there is not a ball involved in such sport.

Bumpers for bowling?

And it definitely takes Dodgeball to a whole new level.

I'm glad that I'm just an everyday Trophy Wife because even when life kinda stinks, it doesn't stink that bad.

Heck, yes!

Now You See Her. Now You Don't.

2011-05-22T21:00:00.001-07:00

Due to the unexplained disappearance of The Trophy Wife, this blog has been suspended indefinitely.

The Trophy Wife was last seen on Saturday, May 21, 2011 just prior to 6:00 p.m. According to eyewitness reports, one minute she was there, working in the kitchen at the church, and the next moment she was gone.

Poof!

Disappeared!

Wow.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Eternal Bliss

Thanks, Little Buddy!

2011-05-17T16:27:00.000-07:00

Sometimes a blog post just seems to write itself.

No, really.

Just like a little gift from heaven, A Little Buddy of mine who is an avid follower of this little blog and a Trophy Wife in her own right, indeed, provides the following excerpt from her own Trophy Wife Life with just the teensiest bit of editing from The Trophy Wife because sometimes she just has to. Edit, yes:

I'm sitting with my Precocious Kindergartener working on her schoolwork. We are learning about our community and neighborhood and such in Language Arts. Today's topic is People in our Community and the roles they play. So, of course we are discussing police officers and firefighters and doctors and other scary-to-visit but necessary people.

At this point in the lesson I ask Precocious Kindergartener, aka Pre-K, about people she knows in the community and to discuss his or her role. In the community, yes. She names her car salesman father, of course and the nice pediatric dentist whom we just visited and who subsequently emptied mommy's wallet....but that's another issue entirely.

Note from The Trophy Wife: I detest dentists, especially pediatric ones. I do not need some kid telling me to brush and floss more regularly.

I ask Pre-K who else she knows and she says "Dianne." (Yes, really.... The Trophy Wife is a pillar in her community.)

So I ask, "And what is Dianne's job?" Pre-K smiles and replies, "She's a trophy wife." Now I am really smiling. Apparently she is paying attention when I read your blog.

"And what does a trophy wife do?" I ask her.

"She gives trophies to all the moms that are doing a good job."

Fantastic........

Be Still My Heart!

Clearly, my work is done here. But do not fret; I still have much more to say. See you tomorrow.

Carry on!

Relevancy Elephancy.

2011-05-16T16:13:00.001-07:00

I am watching a morning television program, sort of, and the ladies are talking about aging. Relevantly.

No, not reluctantly. I have that concept down pat. And not like an elephant either, although I have that one down, too, unfortunately.

Note: Click Here for visual proof of my Aging Elephantly. Oh come on. You know you want to.

So the lady is talking about staying relevant so our grandchildren do not roll their eyes and protest when it's time to go to Grandma's house.

What? Is that a possibility I must consider?

Note: I have the most adorable grandchildren ever. Photographic evidence follows.

Exhibit Number One:

Exhibit Number Two:

So, the television lady suggests adopting relevant behavior, such as, but not limited to tweeting and Facebooking and listening to popular music and watching Hollywood Insider and reading fashion magazines and dying crazy gray hair and avoiding mom jeans. And whatnot.

And your spouse needs to be relevant, too! she says.

So, The Hub is now in relevancy training. I question him regarding pop culture and current events in rapid-fire succession because nothing makes a woman less relevant than a dottering, suspenders-wearing, glasses-on-the-nose spouse, no offense.

Who is the latest two and a half-man?

Who sings the current number one song, Rolling In The Deep?

What size bra did Dustin Hoffman wear in the movie, Tootsie?

Note: 36C

But The Hub finds a much simpler solution. I will always be relevant, he says, as long as I have this.

He flashes his American Express Card.

The Hub is a freaking genius. And a heck of a timesaver!

Sweet Holy Moses!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Relevant Elephant.

You Give Aliens a Bad Name. Seriously.

2011-05-13T12:41:00.001-07:00

So, alien sex.

The demure Katy Perry has graduated from kissing a girl and liking it to kissing aliens, aka Kanye West and really, really liking it, apparently.

Note: I am sure that her mother is so proud.

The premise of alien sex may seem unbelievable, but the following photographic evidence may sway the reader's opinion:

Actual Photograph of an Alien

Actual Photograph of Kanye West

Eerie, I know.

So, the Alien, aka Kanye West, tantalizes the "lady" with his sweet talk from Mars or Pluto or His-Anus, maybe:

I got a dirty mind ...
I’m tryna Bathe my Ape in your Milky Way
They calling me an alien
A big headed astronaut
Maybe it’s because your boy Yeezy get *** a lot.

But he's not done with the sweet talking yet, ladies:

Pockets on Shrek, Rockets on deck
Tell me what’s next, alien sex
I’ma disrobe you, than I’mma probe you
See I abducted you, so I tell ya what to do
I tell ya what to do, what to do, what to do

So, Miss Katy responds as any hot-blooded freak of nature:

Kiss me, ki-ki-kiss me
Infect me with your love and
Fill me with your poison

Take me, ta-ta-take me
Wanna be a victim
Ready for abduction

I wanna walk on your wave length
And be there when you vibrate
For you I'll risk it all.

Oh, I can't take it anymore. Please make it stop.

And it'll be a cold day on Mars before I eat a Milky Way again.

Note: I think it's always cold on Mars, but whatever.

Sweet Holy Moses.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:You Give Aliens A Bad Name. Seriously.

My Piggly Is Wiggly, Yes It Is.

2011-05-11T09:06:00.001-07:00

I am driving The Mighty Civ. I venture through vineyards and green pastures and rice fields and towns with 267 residents and stores that sell Mexican food and bait in the same shop.

Note: Now, that's convenience.

I see cows getting it on and free-range chickens just ranging about the hillside and bugs smashing against my windshield in golf ball sized proportions.

And now the time has come.

I need to pee, yes.

I pull into a local establishment, take care of my business and buy a giant diet coke. I take a sip. The sheer pleasure on my face must be compelling because I hear a voice commenting behind me.

I guess that really hit the spot.

I turn to see Santa in the off-season, before he is re-fattened by The Missus. The gentleman is older and sports a long scraggly gray beard. He wears overalls and although he seems harmless enough, he is standing a wee bit too close to me.

Santa is joined by his buddy, who reminds me of the hometown boy in the movie that ultimately gets the girl because he's attractive enough to begin with, but lacks the finesse of the cool dude who ultimately turns out to be a jerk anyhow, but we already know that because we've seen the premise in a movie about a hundred times.

Hometown Boy speaks. He seems to direct his comment to Santa, but he is looking at me and my version of a Diet Coke commercial, apparently.

Boy, they sure grow 'em cute around here.

I look around. I mean, sure. I'm wearing my BCBG pants and my cheetah shirt and , my eyelashes are 40% longer and fuller but Hometown Boy is decades younger than me.

On cue, he repeats it.

Boy, they sure grow 'em cute around here

And then something strange happens.

I'm not from around these parts, I am saying.

These parts? Are you kidding me? Why don't I just don a pair of cut-offs and head on over to the Piggly Wiggly?

Sheesh.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:The Middle of Nowhere

Shocking News. Shocking Big News.

2011-05-08T18:20:00.000-07:00

I have news.

Big news.

And sometimes the only way to share big news is to do so personally. Face to face, if you will. So now, I present my face, yes.

Please prepare yourself. It isn't pretty.

Allow me to clarify: The news isn't pretty. My face is fine, mainly because I uploaded the video in standard definition. Wrinkles just disappear!

Note: The smeared mascara is a result of the news, of course. A Trophy Wife never wanders about with smeared mascara. Usually a Trophy Wife doesn't even wear mascara, no.

What were we talking about? Oh yes, the VLOG.

CLICK HERE FOR BIG NEWS

I know. Shocking.

Note: Who are the dudes sitting around a table at BMW headquarters getting jiggy about the sedans and sending lurid letters to innocent men?

Eew. I feel dirty.

So, I'm off to take a shower. Or a test drive. I can't decide.

Heck, yes!

I Got It From My Mama.

2011-05-06T16:51:00.001-07:00

The Lovely DIL (daughter in law) is on the phone and she sounds excited. She is laughing a happy laugh. Delighted, maybe.

He is cleaning! she says.

Note: No, she is not referring to The Son, unfortunately. But she is referring to The Son of The Son. Ah, The GrandBoy, yes. The GrandBoy with the big brown eyes and his Daddy's fantastic eyebrows and the most infectious laugh in the world.

The Lovely DIL interrupts my GrandBoy reverie. She is speaking quickly, but I am listening just as fast.

I am doing laundry and I folded the towels and washcloths but I didn't put them away yet and he picked up a washcloth and started wiping the bookcase!

So, I am thinking about the adorableness of the ten-month old GrandBoy Janitorial service and laughing because he sure didn't learn it from his father, no offense, and then it hits me.

He learned it from his mother.

My amazing little GrandBoy emulates the person with whom he spends his time. He cleans with a washcloth, he shares his cheerios, he 'reads' his books, he waters the tomato plant, he brushes his hair and he kisses big wet ones.

Note: Okay, so maybe the last example is not the best one of the bunch.

And as he grows, he will learn to say his prayers and to keep his hands to himself at recess and to listen when his teacher is speaking and to always tell the truth, yes, always tell the truth.

Because he will learn it from his mother.

So, go and thank your Mama for loving you and teaching you and sometimes even tolerating you.

Happy Mother's Day, one and all.

And, if I say so myself, I must be a darn good mama. Just look at my kids!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Dale Rd,Modesto,United States

(This) Woman's Suffrage.

2011-05-05T16:34:00.004-07:00

Sadly, I am suffering from a back injury.

Oh, do not worry about me, dear readers. The suffrage is mild, as far as suffrage goes, and is unlikely to cause major interruption to my daily schedule of sleeping, stalking Facebook friends, and lounging in the pool.

I wish that I could say that the injury was caused by an incident of Herculean strength and/or courage, such as lifting a car off of a pinned wine country tourist or dragging a St. Bernard, dead weight style, from a burning building.

Sadly, that is not the case, no.

Note: One of The Hub's more hilarious stories of back injury is the dreaded showering injury, caused by reaching over his shoulder with his soapy pouf. Boom! Man down!

I can mock The Hub because my injury is equally ridiculous, involving a bobby pin and a bottle of Suave hairspray, ultra hold.

So, although I'm shuffling like a (really old) granny and easing myself in and out of chairs and taking steps one at a time while gripping the handrails for dear life, my hair looks great.

Heck, yes!

Men Are So Weird.

2011-05-04T11:27:00.000-07:00

The Hub reads Road and Track magazine, a very fine publication. It contains flashy photos and reviews of cars he will never own, unless he becomes rich and famous by having a wild raccoon gnaw off his arm but does not allow the tragedy to stop him from scaling Mt Everest. Or something.

So the back of the magazine is filled with ads which appeal to men, apparently, because all the ads either contain images of women in swimwear or eye-catching images of sausage-shaped items including cigars. And there is a scantily-clad redhead on top of a car saying I love a hard brake pedal.

Note: Men are so weird.

My favorite advertisement is for a pheromone mixture which, when added to aftershave, turns the most undesirable man into Hugh Jackman. And creepy losers around the globe are extoling its virtues.

This stuff is like catnip. It is amazing!

Well, you should have seen the look on her face last night. We are more than friends now.

My friend ... is kind of a nerdy guy, you know, but has this GORGEOUS girlfriend. I figure I gotta try it.

Note to Creepy Losers: Maybe the nerdy guy has a hot girlfriend because he a) has a JOB; b) has a personality; and c) does not shop for sausage-shaped items in the back of a car magazine.

Men are so weird.

Heck, yes!

Yes. Leave the Toilet Seat Up. Very Nice.

2011-05-03T09:38:00.001-07:00

Warning: There is a crazy world out there, folks, filled with crazy people in crazy situations and those wacky real estate agents lead the pack. Of the crazies.

Or maybe the agents just run in packs, like hungry wolves circling the sparkling vampires or wild turkeys, looking for loose lady turkeys and free food.

Note: As a mildly amusing side note, my cell phone caller ID identifies my real estate professional as Agent Jane Doe and when she calls, for a brief moment, I imagine answering on my shoe phone and donning my x-ray vision glasses.

And those crazy agents speak in a crazy language which is taught to them in real estate school or in used car salesman school or by Satan himself, maybe.

For example, when an agent refers to a home as a cozy charmer she actually means that there is just one bathroom and it's across the street from the power plant. Beware the house in a great commute location unless living next door to the train station seems delightful. And do not be surprised when vintage turns out to mean that the appliances are harvest gold and shag green carpeting covers the entire house.

Note: As a mildly amusing side note, i recently viewed a house described as vintage, and the green shag carpeting extended completely up the sides of the bathtub in the ultra groovy master suite. Oh, if that shag carpeting could speak. The tales it could tell.

But thanks to the new world of Internet marketing, those crazy agents can entice the buyer to view a listing with glorious photos and virtual tours. Because, of course, a picture is worth a thousand words.

Actual photograph from an actual virtual tour:

When an open green toilet (and matching sink) becomes a selling point, you are in trouble, folks.

Sweet Holy Moses.

Actually, I am considering a new career in real estate. As a special agent. I've already got the crazy part down.

And I love talking into my shoes!

Heck, yes!

-Posted using BlogPress from my new iPad, Paddy Also.

Lend Me An Ear ... Sort Of.

2011-04-14T20:57:00.001-07:00

I think I am going through my dark period.

All great artists have them, you know.

Note: Do not scoff the greatness of my artistry.

Van Gogh, in a fit of something or other, cuts off his ear and gives it to a prostitute. And the great pianist Schumann, after permanently damaging his hand with some wacky apparatus to strengthen his fingers, throws himself off of a bridge. And of course, there's Britney Spears, forgetting to wear her underwear. Repeatedly.

Note: Oops, I did it again.

Yes, I think I am going through my dark period. But please, do not worry. I have entered the Zone of Darkness before. Stand back. I know how to handle this situation.

So, I drink a nice cold Diet Coke.

I wait. Still dark.

So, I take a long, hot shower with cranberry-mango shower gel.

I wait. Still dark.

I drink a nice cold Diet Coke while taking a long, hot shower with cranberry-mango shower gel.

Still dark. No change.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. It's time to pull out the big guns.

Martha Stewart marathon. Whipped cream straight from the bottle. A little Internet shopping on Paddy while curled up on the couch with the dog.

Hmmm.

Maybe I should have my dark periods more often. This is the life.

Heck, yes!

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

Are You Looking At My Wiener?

2011-04-12T20:40:00.001-07:00

I am driving by Golden Gate Field and the sign is blinking and announcing and proclaiming in big and bold and bright letters.

WIENER NATIONALS! SATURDAY! WIENER NATIONALS! SATURDAY! WIENER NATIONALS! SATURDAY! WIENER NATIONALS! SATURDAY!

And so forth.

Note: Huh?

Wiener Nationals? Did I miss the Wiener Regionals? Or the Wiener Qualifying Rounds? Or the Wiener Tryouts?

And, heaven forbid, what kind of wiener competition are we talking about here, anyhow? Are we talking Oscar Mayer or something else entirely?

Hang on to your hats, folks: Something else entirely.

No, not that.

Wiener dogs. Racing each other. For wiener domination.

Note: Oh no. I don't make this stuff up.

Unleash your wiener. May the best wiener win. Wiener takes all. Run, you glorious wiener, run.

Note: Of course you may pet my wiener.

Oh, grow up.

Heck, yes!

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

Winning. Eventually.

2011-04-08T11:51:00.000-07:00

Sheesh.

Wouldn't you just know it?

I am working on ways to become famous. And/or rich. Well, mostly just rich. I just have so many items on which to spend money, i.e. stuff for The GrandBoy which may or may not include ponies and bounce houses and a child-sized Porsche Boxster S Battery-Operated Car to drive around, until he's old enough for the real thing, yes.

And I notice that folks get rich and/or famous in many different ways and not all of the options require any particular skill or intelligence. Oh sure, Steve Jobs and LeBraun James and Those Facebook Dudes possess fine ideas or unusual skills or both, maybe. But for every rich and/or famous person out there with skill and dedication and hard work and intelligence there is a, well, Charlie Sheen.

Note: I am sorry reader(s), but he had to come up in a post eventually. Oh, sure. He's a fine actor.

Whatever.

But it's not just over-indulged and under-policed actors that get rich and/or famous without any particular skill or intelligence.

Oh no.

There are Folks-from-New-Jersey-with-Big-Hair on Television and Folks-that-Hike-in-the-Wilderness and get Trapped-and-have-to-Cut-off-an-Arm or other-Such-Appendage with Book and Movie Deals and there are Folks that-Carry-Eight-Babies-To-Term who sell the story to The Enquirer.

And there are Bachelors and Bachelorettes and Dads putting their kids in hot air balloons, but not really.

You get the idea.

So, wouldn't you just know it?

I have this great idea to go on a 20-City Tour to talk about stuff that no one really cares about and I am going to charge a bunch of money for each ticket and I am going to name my show 'The Violent Torpedo of Truth Tour' and then wouldn't you just know it?

That doggone Charlie Sheen beat me to it.

Sheesh.

He's winning. Definitely.

But just for now. I'm on the rebound with my next great idea.

Heck, yes!

The Three Foxes And a Potty. And Fabulous Hair, Yes.

2011-04-06T18:41:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time in a great, ~~magical forest~~ IKEA, there lived a lovely family of ~~three bears~~ arctic foxes. They lived in a ~~happy little cottage~~ Giant Blue Building with furnishings both attractive and reasonably priced, yes.

One sunny Spring day, a flaxen-haired maiden ventured deep into ~~the magical forest~~ IKEA with her lovely nutella-haired ~~partner~~ DIL and her adorable, delightful, brilliant, amazing cinnamon cheerios-haired GrandBoy of Wondrousness.

After some time, the cheerios-haired GrandBoy of Wondrousness grew hungry and the nutella-haired DIL grew thirsty and the flaxen-haired maiden really, really, really needed to pee.

Meanwhile, the family of arctic foxes noticed that something seemed strange about the ~~happy little cottage~~ Giant Blue Building with furnishings both attractive and reasonably priced, yes.

Papa wanted some dinner and slunk up to the table, as foxes will do. Someone's been sitting at my big Bjursta! Papa Fox said. Someone's been sitting at my medium-sized Bjursta! ~~Mama Fox~~ Foxy Mama said. Someone's been sitting at my Bjursta! Baby Fox said.

Papa wanted to relax in the living room. Someone's been sitting on my big Ektorp! Papa Fox said. Someone's been sitting on my medium-sized Ektorp! Foxy Mama said. Someone's been sitting on my Ektorp! Baby Fox said.

Papa Fox's hackles began to rise and Foxy Mama's hackles began to rise because that's what foxes do.

Because Papa was hackling and Foxy Mama was hackling, they did not notice when Baby Fox ran off to pee. Because that's what Baby Foxes do.

Suddenly, they heard the howling!

Papa Fox ran into the Potty Room. Someone's been sitting on my big potty! he said. Foxy Mama ran into the Potty Room. Someone's been sitting on my medium-sized potty! she said.

Then they all turned to Baby Fox. Someone's been sitting on my potty! Baby said. And she's still there!

That's right.

Note: After slaving over this brilliant post, I decided that the potty doesn't really look all that teeny teeny tiny. But it was.

Thus, I stand by my post!

Heck, yes!

This Is No Joke. Certainly.

2011-03-31T12:59:00.001-07:00

The following is an actual letter received by my actual Son regarding an actual recall of his vehicle. Seriously. And although the letter clearly speaks for itself and requires no elaboration, please be sure that I will. Elaborate, yes.

"On certain Mazda6 vehicles, a certain type of spider may weave a web in the evaporative canister vent line and may cause a restriction in the line. If this occurs, the fuel tank pressure may become excessively negative when the emission control system works to urge the vapors from the canister, potentially leading to fuel leakage and an increased risk of fire."

Sweet Holy Moses.

Don't we have enough troubles in our world without having to worry about certain spiders lurking in certain places? Don't we enough to keep track of with natural disasters and salmonella and economy woes and sunscreen and artificial sweeteners and global warming, for crying out loud?

Now we have to worry about certain spiders that like to go Zoom, Zoom?

I am happy that The Son will soon be driving a Mazda6 with a little net over the evaporative canister line to keep certain spiders out. But then what happens when those nasty creatures can no longer catch a ride in a sporty sedan?

What evaporative canister line is next? Commercial airliners? Aging SUVs? Weed whippers?

And who really cares about the evaporative canister line? I am more concerned about one of those babies deciding to hitch a ride in my ear some evening and weaving her little web that close to my precious brain tissues.

Holy Moly. I would hate to get one of those recall letters!

Heck, yes!

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

I Can-Can!

2011-03-25T15:15:00.001-07:00

I really appreciate a vandal with a sense of humor.

And an affinity for musical theater, apparently.

Singing in the rain, just singing in the rain ...

Heck, yes!

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

Of Course My Diet is Restricted. I Am Presbyterian! Oh, Wait. No, I'm Not.

2011-03-24T11:41:00.000-07:00

Occasionally, I hear something that I do not expect. It is surprising. Or it is hilarious. Or perhaps it is both, yes. And occasionally I hear things that aren't even actually said, such as:

Rachael Ray is discussing the difficulty of cooking for friends with assorted eating restrictions. She is displaying a pot of something with pasta, of course, and saying, Here is the dish that satisfies both the Vegetarians and Presbyterians at your dinner table. I am not aware of the eating requirements of The Presbyterians until I realize that Rachael is referring to Pescatarians, which are a different denomination completely, yes.

But I do hear actual real things, not imagined, that are pretty delightsome as well.

True Story: I am talking to The Dot on the phone. The Dot lives in Fargo, which is very very far away and at times, it is difficult to hear her clearly on account I don't know why, come to think of it.

But we are chatting and the background noises are brutal. I am wondering if The Dot is surrounded by Wolves or surrounded by Vampires or surrounded by Wolves surrounded by Vampires or if The Dot is scraping her fingernails on a chalkboard or listening to a kindergarten kazoo band or screeching to a halt in her new car over and over again. So, I ask The Dot about the horrendous, annoying, unbearable noise.

I'm in Wal-Mart and you are hearing the music, she says. It's Celine Dion.

I snort. With delight. Fantastic!

Note: Not a fan, clearly.

True Story: I am visiting my friend, whom I shall call Slim, on account of the fact that she is. Slim. We are admiring Slim's Baby and musing about the eventual eye color of said offspring. So naturally I look at her eyes and she gazes into mine, examining the color of course, and Slim mentions that my eyelashes really are longer and really are thicker and I'm saying I know! I know! and then Slim says:

I think you need to trim the ones on the edge.

Trim my eyelashes? Because they are too long?

I am now living my finest moment.

Heck, yes!

A Personal Ass. Istant.

2011-03-22T17:13:00.001-07:00

So, around my neighborhood an enterprising soul has placed signs advertising her services as a Personal Assistant. I am considering what exactly a personal assistant does. To assist.

I think it might be nice to have someone mop my floors and scrub my grout and remove soap scum from my shower tiles. But wait. Isn't such an assistant called a Housekeeper?

I think it might be nice to have someone who comes to my house three days a week to supervise my exercise schedule and to recommend specific ways to make my arms look like Kelly Ripa's. But wait. Isn't such an assistant called a Trainer?

I think it might be nice to have someone who mows the lawn and trims the shrubs and blows away the debris with an outrageously loud leaf blower. But wait. Isn't such an assistant called a Husband?

Note: And I do have one, yes.

I find my answer at the craft store of all places.

My hands are getting full of my purchases. I am juggling styrofoam Easter egg decorating kits and adorable daisy hand towels and two boxes of glittery eggs and two bags of malted milk eggs and two large wreaths for the front door when I see the chilled soda cooler and I'm thinking Oooh, a Diet Coke sounds delicious. But the bottle happens to be on the bottom rack, of course, so I squat down while holding the kits and the towels and the eggs and the candy and the wreaths and I jimmie the cooler open with my elbow which is pointier than I anticipate, luckily, and secure a soda with two fingers of my right hand.

And then I see the usefulness of a Personal Assistant.

Note: Or to be more precise, perhaps it is the older gentleman behind me who sees the usefulness of a my Personal Assistant.

Picture this, or better yet don't: My hands are full of kits and towels and eggs and candy and wreaths and soda, yes. My hands are full, and I am squatting and then standing and I feel a nice, refreshing breeze. In back, yes.

Now I understand.

I need a Personal Assistant to follow me around and pull up my doggone pants.

Any takers?

Heck, yes!

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

At Least They Are Not In Your Pants.

2011-03-18T23:05:00.001-07:00

So, you know the whole thing about how the ants go marching?

The ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah.
The ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah.
The ants go marching one by one, the little one stops to suck his thumb or drink some rum or scratch his bum or whatever
and they all go marching down. In the ground. To get out of the rain. Boom, boom, boom ...

And then you know how they march two by two? And three by three? And of course, four by four and five by five? And then those crazy ants go six by six (to get their kicks) and seven by seven and eight by eight and nine by freaking nine ...

And then. Finally.

The ants go marching TEN by TEN.

And did you ever wonder where the ants go then?

No, not my microwave, although that's a darned good guess.

I discovered their location while shopping at my local mall.

The TEN ANT ROOM.

Heck, yes!

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

She Bangs.

2011-03-17T18:14:00.001-07:00

So, Martha is celebrating St. Patrick's Day on her television
program. Men are marching around in kilts and playing bagpipes, which I always thought was a Scottish thing, but I suppose that once a man drinks enough green beer, anyone can wear a dress.

Martha is now making Bangers and Mash with Colin Firth, who seems to have a wee bit of an attitude, yes. She puts the big old Irish sausage in a sizzling frypan and makes idle conversation.

Do you know why they are called Bangers? She is asking Mr. Firth.

The camera shot is above the frypan where the hefty sausage sizzles. And bangs, yes. Martha is oblivious as usual and comments about the beauty of that darned sizzling sausage, turning it much too appreciatively with the tongs.

Mr. Firth seems delighted with the question. He smiles. It is an evil little smile, like The Grinch imagining that the Whos are finding out now that no Christmas is coming.

Oh, I think I could venture a guess, he boasts.

I think I just lost my appetite.

Carry on!

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One Thing is For Sure. I Like My Buns Nice and Toasty.

2011-03-16T09:21:00.000-07:00

I am at a local bakery and I am looking at the bread. And it hits me.

Bread is a metaphor for life.

Bread is a metaphor for our bodies.

Bread is a metaphor for what happens to our bodies as gravity takes its sad toll, yes.

Bread is a metaphor for my bum.

Note: I suppose that is why smaller versions of bread products are referred to as buns, although it is not quite clear as to what came first: The Bun or The Other Bun.

Regardless.

There are young, perky buns. Ah, yesterday.

There are soft, round, dimpled buns.

There are long, pointy, torpedo buns. Be careful. You could poke your eye out with that thing.

And then, there is my bum. Gravity, indeed.

I think I need a sandwich.

Heck, yes!

Green Jello. Never Tasted Better.

2011-03-11T20:50:00.001-08:00

Holy green jello, Batman!

It is time to dust off my recipes for ham and funeral potatoes to prepare for tomorrow's Mountain West celebration!

I've been Jimmered!

Heck, yes!

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

Danny, Do You Know What You Can Do With That Darn Thing? What Is It With Dudes, Anyway?

2011-03-09T21:00:00.001-08:00

I am the only patron in the Nail Place. My Nail Girl is nailing me. Bachelor Bob is on the giant television on the wall, hosting the gameshow network and chatting with Doris from the heartland about her adorable grandchild.

Note: My Grandboy can take hers with both hands tied behind his back.

The only other person around is Danny, the fellow who did my nails a couple of times when My Nail Girl was sick. He once told me how the bad guys in his homeland ate the brains of his pet monkey and pretty much scarred me for life. And whatnot. He is sitting out of my view on a brown leather sofa in the waiting area. But his presence is obvious.

And I'm not talking about the scent of Old Spice.

The channel changes.

Jerry Springer is holding the envelope. He is slaps it in the palm of his hand, then waves it under the skank's nose.

Are you ready to know who is the father of your baby?

The Men tussle. The Skank shrieks. The Muscle drag the men to opposite sides of the stage. Expletives flow.

Jerry pulls a sheet of paper from the envelope ...

The channel changes.

Jennifer Love Hewitt is playing hide and seek with some kid with wide, vacant eyes. Scary music flows as she looks in the closet or under the stairs or in some creepy and dark place. But there is a ghost in the hiding place, not some kid. The Ghost has dark circles under her eyes and looks as if she hasn't had a decent nights' sleep since she died, whenever that was.

Jennifer Love Hewitt is motioning to the ghost and saying What have you done to the child? Where is he? and the Ghost is motioning with her head and making quizzical faces and not whispering at all.

Note: I am sorely disappointed with the lack of whispering.

The Ghost makes a run for it and Jennifer chases after her, breasts jiggling, of course but then there is the scream. Of a child. She looks back.

The channel changes. Again.

The nose of Flight 800 explodes, sending the plane down into the frigid waters of the Atlantic. Thousands of pounds of razor sharp debris and hundreds of miles of wires and cables tangle the Navy divers as they recover the bodies of the 230 passengers and crew.

Bits and pieces of this and that, which I fervently hope are not body parts, drift near the ocean floor, and fish dart in and out of the wreckage.
The narrator's raspy voice asks Was it an accident or was something more sinister behind the crash of Flight 800?

You guessed it. The channel changes. Again.

Now I will never see Doris' adorable grandchild. I will never know which Loser fathered the Skank's child. I will never know if the hiding child was ever found. And I will never know the outcome of the investigation of Flight 800.

Danny, Do You Know What You Can Do With That Darn Thing?

Heck, yes!

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The Cowboy. the Tangerine. And the Damsel in Distress.

2011-03-08T15:26:00.001-08:00

After fifty-seven freaking minutes, the Tow Truck finally pulls up, brakes squealing.

I cringe. Look over here the truck squeals, check out the distracted middle aged woman who locked her keys and her dog in the car and please notice that she's not wearing any makeup and quite possibly hasn't seen a hairbrush this morning either. And oh yeah, Why is her butt all wet?

Two gentlemen emerge. The Big One hoists up his pants and ambles across the street, wisecracking to The Little One, who wields the Slim Jim.

Note: Yes, you heard me right. The Little One wields the Slim Jim.

How y'all doing today? The Big One booms, smoothing his fringe of short orange hair.

Is this a serious question?

The Little One has the door unlocked before I can even answer. I begin to thank him but I am distracted by his belt buckle. It is one of those big rodeo belt buckles that cowboys wear to brag about their prowess. As a cowboy, yes.

I ask him if he is a cowboy.

Nah, he is saying, his big brown eyes fluttering a bit, I think, I just like the buckle. I am trying to say something about growing up in the country but The Big One is making holler-up noises and saying, Hey Dude, she's totally into you.

The Cowboy is younger than The Son, for crying out loud, but The Cowboy is grinning and The Big One is nodding and I think that this day cannot be more mortifying.

Note: Sure it can!

The Big One takes my driver's license and says Wow, that's a hot picture and he's right, yes. He chatters about his license photo that makes him look like a Giant Tangerine and honestly, I can kind of see that possibility.

I say Thank you for your help today. The Giant Tangerine says We get that a lot. The Cowboy is nodding and he is smiling.

The Giant Tangerine says there are other ways to thank him. I love pancakes, he is saying, the next morning.

Are you kidding me?

Hope springs eternal, I guess.

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Location:Lakeside Dr,Oakland,United States

So Let It Be Written. In The Pudding.

2011-03-06T22:56:00.001-08:00

The evidence is now irrefutable.

If given the opportunity, a jury of my peers would find me guilty, beyond reasonable doubt. And yes, if given the opportunity, it would be my utmost pleasure to be in a room with a jury of my peers.

Note: Imagine the shoes!

So, the evidence arrives in the mail in an envelope with other non-evidentiary correspondence, such as the mortgage statement, the Val-Pak coupons in the blue mailer and an invitation for The Hub to join the AARP.

At first, I feel shock. Then awe. Then delight, yes, because there it is, right before my very eyes. In black and white, yes, I find payment for services rendered.

So let it be written, so let it be done.

The proof is in the pudding.

Heck, yes!

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

Blame It On The Signs.

2011-03-03T16:07:00.000-08:00

I am passenger-ing on the freeway.

Note: I am not driving. If I were driving, some of the activities in which I am engaging may be deemed dangerous or potentially illegal.

Additional Note: It is also possible, yes, that some of the activities in which I am engaging are potentially illegal regardless of my driving status.

Oh, simmer down. Can't anyone take a joke these days?

I am noticing signs today. There are billboards for Liposuction and We Will Adopt Your Baby. And there are lots of street signs. Road Twenty-Nine, Road Thirty, Road Thirty-One.

Note: I am in the boonies, yes.

There is a sign for a Wildlife and Bird Sanctuary. And there is wildlife! And there are birds!

Look Honey, there's a Snowy Egret, I say and Look! A Mallard Duck, which is the only duck I can ever hope to identify because of its green head and Look at that Flock of Canadian Geese!

Note: And the Geese are goosing each other. But of course, they goose with their sharp beaks, not their cupped hands. I do not believe that I will be trying the Geese form of Goosing anytime soon.

And I am wondering how the egrets and the mallards and the geese learned to read and found the Wildlife Refuge and Sanctuary in the first place. Incredible!

But my favorite sign in on the back of a Semi Truck.

Note: I am wondering why it is called Semi. A small pickup or SUV would be a semi-truck. The Semi Truck I am looking at is most definitely a FULL-FLEDGED Truck.

THE SIGN is written on cardboard with large black lettering and is duct-taped to the back of the trailer. It reads: Ladies! Have some fun. Flash me your Tatas!

I do not have time to appropriately analyze the pros and cons of this opportunity. The Hub is pulling alongside the Semi Truck in our Aging SUV. The Truck Driver smiles down at me. At least, I believe that he is smiling. His long mustache obscures the view, slightly.

That is all.

The End.

Heck, yes!

I Have Germs. And I Am Not Afraid To Use Them.

2011-02-21T15:23:00.001-08:00

I am entering another OPEN House and I see it. Again, yes. I feel my hackles begin to rise. And one thing you don't want to see is a Trophy Wife with raised hackles.

Note: Don't press the issue, folks. Just take my word for it.

There is a sign just inside the front door of the OPEN House. An incredibly annoying sign that says 'Please Remove Shoes'. And I am continually amazed by the complacency of the Open House Population as a whole that immediately peels off its collective shoes and tiptoes around the OPEN House as if it is the Museum of Natural Fibers or something.

I mean, really. If the owners of the OPEN House do not wish for people to walk around and look at the home then why in the heck is there a big sign out front inviting the whole neighborhood to come on in?

You are going to take off your boots? she says, but she doesn't really use the question mark.

The Young Real Estate Agent watches me as I consider my options. She is fit, but I think I could take her.

The Hub mutters under his breath something like Here we go again and makes a beeline for the kitchen in his complacent, stockinged feet.

Note: He is a patient man, The Hub.

The Young and Fit Agent waits. You about ready to take off those boots? she says, eyebrows in the raised and hackled position.

Oh dear. I feel my hackles again.

My home is also on the market I am saying and it is OPEN today, too. I would never dream of asking guests to take off their shoes. It's a floor, for Pete's sake. People walk on them all the time.

Note: I may not have said the Pete's Sake part. But next time I will.

The Young and Fit and Hackled Agent explains that it's not really about getting the floors dirty. The Homeowners are concerned about germs getting tracked through the house.

Germs? I am thinking. Has she smelled the Hub's socks lately?

I pull off my boots to reveal my bare feet. I smile a little.

Germs, really? I say to the Young and Fit Agent as I head up the stairs. I will try not to stand in the shower.

Heck, yes!

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Not So Great Expectations.

2011-02-17T21:52:00.001-08:00

I am attending a Literature Night sponsored by the Ladies Auxiliary at my church.

And although the Trophy Wife highly favors the reading of the written word, books about vampires do not qualify. As literature, no.

Note: I am, however, quite fond of the concept of a Ladies Auxiliary. I imagine us ladies sitting around in dresses and hats, yes, extraordinary hats. And probably we are fanning ourselves on account of the vapors or the gators or something Southern like that.

So, the ladies are listening to book reviews of literature, yes, and nodding and smiling and chuckling as it seems fit. And my mind is wandering, of course, on account of my admittedly short attention span and a sudden craving for grits.

So I'm thinking about creamy grits with whipped cream, of course, and how awesome my iPad is and how my eyelashes are now 30% fuller than before I started using that eyelash-growing stuff which has not changed the color of my eyeballs, no.

And I'm thinking about how the men at church never get together for a Literature Night and why is that? They could sit around and eat pizza and talk about Sports Illustrated and Motor Trend and Gamepro and they could burp and fart and have poor manners all in the name of higher learning.

Holy Moly.

Every once in awhile, however brief, I think it would be awesome to be a man.

Heck, yes!

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

Scrambled Or Over Easy?

2011-02-14T23:06:00.001-08:00

What came first, the chicken or Lady Gaga?

Really?

Heaven help us.

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

Beware the Citizens of Pavlov.

2011-02-09T13:48:00.001-08:00

So, I am entering the restroom at Kmart.

Note: That sentence is wrong on so many levels, yes.

But there seems to be something about Kmart that stimulates the bladder. Or the bowels, unfortunately. I have long surmised that the fluorescent lighting has some effect on the whole elimination process.

Note: I apologize for the plethora of bathroom posts, as of late. What am I? A seven year old boy?

So, I am entering the restroom at Kmart but I am nearly bowled over by a somewhat frantic, lanky woman in army boots, her fried blonde hair piled haphazardly on her head. She is dancing a bit on the tippy toes of her boots, holding herself, if you will, in a manner that makes it obvious that she's got to go. Real bad.

But the bathroom is busy.

Note: Darned fluorescent lighting.

Sorry, sorry she is saying in a distinctly heavy accent. German? Latvian? Pavlovian? I am hurry, she apologizes and darts into an open stall without bothering to close the door. She drops her pants which puddle at her army boots as she hovers over the toilet, sort of. Dude, I am thinking, are there no stall doors in Pavlov?

As I smash myself against a wall to avoid the spectacle, another patron walks in and aghast, smashes herself against a wall directly across from me. We make eye contact. Big, round freaked out eye contact. It is not smelling so great in here.

I can hear the clunk clunk clunk of the toilet roll spinning. Clunk, clunk, clunk.

How much of that stuff is she using? I wonder.

Then she speaks. Cud dey make dis toilet paper any theener?

Freaked Out Girl looks at me. In panic. Is the Pooping European in the Open Stall engaging us in conversation? Is she cracking jokes while sitting on the toilet? Really?

No, I am saying. Kmart has it specially made, just for them.

Why am I speaking? What is wrong with me? But The Pooping European laughs. Freaked Out Girl laughs. This is an easy audience, yes.

I finally dash into the next open stall and pee as fast as humanly possible while the Pooping European's toilet roll is clunk clunk clunking still and I am getting faint on account of holding my breath.

Nothing prepares me for what happens next. I emerge from the stall to wash my hands and run run run, as fast as the wind, yes.

The Pooping European is now standing near the sink, pants still puddled, somewhat. She is splashing water in her nether parts, somewhat and patting said area with more of that cheap toilet paper and I'm thinking Dude, this is a sink, not a bidet. Then The European looks up and sees me and proceeds to hold the tissue in such a manner as to be discreet, somewhat.

Oh, sorry, sorry she is saying in her heavy accent and I am probably looking like Freaked Out Girl and then several things become clear to me. Crystal clear, yes.

First, I will never use this bathroom again. Second, I need a shower. And my upcoming European travel plans will not include an excursion to Pavlov.

Sweet Holy Moses.

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

To Pee. Or Not to Pee.

2011-02-08T08:17:00.001-08:00

Disclaimer: This post contains references to pee pee and euphemisms for the male anatomy that The Trophy Wife believes to be scientifically accurate. Reader discretion is advised.

I cannot help myself. It is not a question that I want to ask, but I must. I have to know, yes.

The Hub and I are driving home from a splendid church service. In the convertible, yes. The sun is warm on my face and the scent of early blooms is in the air. Ah, spring.

But I cannot help myself. I have to know. About the condition. Of the church's urinal, yes.

Note: If the reader finds this statement baffling, perhaps a quick CLICK HERE is warranted.

The question is somewhat awkward. As a Trophy Wife, and a genteel one at that, I wish to maintain an air of dignity with my inquiry. About the condition. Of the urinal.

How was the pee hole today? I ask The Hub.

Note: The business of gentility needs a little work, apparently.

The Hub relates chatting with a Fellow Member in the sparkling men's room while The Fellow's adorable and precocious four year old lifts up his thing to aim it into the urinal. As the men chat, yes.

Note: I am grateful for female anatomy, my friends.

So The Kid is aiming his ding-a-ling and saying Daddy! Daddy! But Daddy and The Hub are discussing deep spiritual concepts, probably, and ignoring the fact that The Kid is high on his tippy toes, teetering and peeing in the urinal, yes, but there is some sort of ricochet problem. With the pee pee.

Daddy! It's splashing on my face!

Oops.

The urinal wins again.

Carry on!

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

Super Mazeltov!

2011-02-06T18:50:00.001-08:00

So, the Super Bowl half-time show.

Note: How does one get cast as a dancer with a box on his head?

Casting Agent: You are a good dancer, yes. Unfortunately, you have a face that not even a dog would lick. Here is your box. Place it on your head. Next!

Dancer: Thank you, Sir.

Admittedly, I am not real savvy with the whole Pop Culture thing. Maybe it is because I grew up in a small town that boasts very little pop and even less culture, sadly. Or maybe it is because instead of reading teen magazines, I chose to spend my spare time feeding the hungry and caring for the needy.

Note: Or stealing my neighbors peaches, yes.

The Hub, on the other hand, watches a guitar player emerge on stage during Super Bowl halftime and says stuff like, Slash? Really? And I'm thinking Slash? Really? because if my life depends on it, no wait, If the lives of all Pop Culture Icons depend on it, there is no way in heck that I will ever pull that name out of my (admittedly flat) behind.

And then there's Fergie. She's certainly new and improved. The last time I checked she was the redheaded Duchess of York and married to Prince Andrew, the cute one.

Note: When your brother is Prince Charles, it is not hard to be the cute one.

But now Fergie has long blonde hair and long legs and short lingerie and sings with the Black Eyed Peas, who seem to be Jewish in some fashion because of the whole Mazeltov and L'chaim business but I've Gotta Feeling that the Hebrew connection has nothing to do with will.i.am.

I'm just saying.

Note: Okay, I admit that I know Fergie divorced Prince Andrew and is now apparently hot and much, much younger and married to Josh Duhamel. But I know this fact because Josh is not simply a Pop Culture Icon. He's practically a legend. In his own time. Well, he's super cute, anyhow.

Note: Maybe if Slash were cute, I would recognize him.

I'm just saying.

So I am watching the Super Bowl and hoping that Green Bay wins on account of the fact that they make a mighty fine cheese.

Mazeltov, yes!

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

Location:My Butt

Don't. Call. Me. Blond.

2011-02-03T13:48:00.000-08:00

If you meet the Daughter on the street, or say, in a cafe or at the gym you will not know she is my daughter.

Note: The picture to the right is definitely not the Daughter.

Additional Note: The chances of meeting the Daughter in any of these settings is unlikely, indeed, unless one frequents the frigid streets of Fargo, North Dakota, in which case, why are you wandering around town in this weather?

Genetically, we share the same brain, but that is all.

Note: Yes, Daughter has the custody of the brain more often than I do, sadly.

My eyes are green; Daught's eyes are brown. While my bum is a teeny bit on the flat side, Daught's is round and perky. My skin has a somewhat greenish-olive glow; Daught's skin is pearly white. My feet are dainty; Daught's are not-so-much.

But now, through the miracle of modern science, we have revised our DNA and now share a genetic trait: We are both blonde! Well, flaxen-haired with ribbons of caramel, but you get the idea.

Note: It has come to my attention that some people are blond and others are blonde. Why is that?

Additional Note: Of course I know why. I googled it:

The words blond and blonde come from the French and follow somewhat the French pattern. Blond (without the e) is used to describe males, mixed gender, or uncertain gender. Blonde refers to women or female gender.

Hold up. Mixed gender? Uncertain gender?

Sweet Holy Moses.

Whoever said Blonds have more fun is creeping me out, just a little.

Get it right: Blondes have more fun.

Just ask Daught!

Heck, yes!

You Don't Get a Lot More Transparent Than That, Rick.

2011-02-02T19:51:00.000-08:00

So, Ricky Martin.

He is on The View. With the ladies. Talking about stuff. And other related things. Talking about stuff and things.

Note: Clearly, I am not paying much attention to the conversation. I am simply enjoying The View. Of Ricky. If you know what I mean, and I think you do.

Note: Oh, simmer down, everyone. He's pretty. That's all.

But then Ricky says something worthy of my attention, however brief, yes.

He folds his hands in his lap. He looks up with big, brown-eyed sincerity. I just want to walk through life with a lot of transparency, he says.

Transparency?

Mission accomplished, Ricky. No one rocks the see-through shirt like you do, Sport.

Mission accomplished indeed.

Jugs. Gourds. Bouncing Buddhas, Etc.

2011-01-31T16:26:00.000-08:00

I am cutting edge, yes. I am always on the lookout for the latest. The greatest. The coolest and yes, the hippest. It's how I roll.

And I'm rolling this new product in your direction.

Click here and watch the first 60 seconds and by golly, you may need a shower, but you won't be disappointed .....

Sweet Holy Moses.

No wonder China is the world's new economic superpower. The United States is sitting on our collective butt attempting to cure cancer and creating biofuels and establishing world peace when we could be shaking our boobies. Literally.

Sheesh.

Handsome. In. Pink.

2011-01-26T20:55:00.001-08:00

I am sitting across the table from The Son. Our legs are dangling and swinging because we are sitting at one of those awesome high tables like the kinds at bars or pubs or other dark places without windows or milkshakes.

Note: No, we are not sitting in a bar or pub or other dark place. We are lunching at MacDonald's which boasts both windows and milkshakes, luckily.

Additional Note: Simmer down. Of course I am not having a milkshake. The temperature in hell remains stable.

So, I am sitting across the table from The Son. We are eating and laughing and discussing current events such as The Bachelor and Is it just me or does Giada deLaurentis have an unusually large head? and The Perfection of the Grandboy, oh yes, we are discussing The Perfection of the Grandboy.

And I always forget how handsome The Son is. In real life. And I am always so surprised when I see him. In real life. In my mind I just think he's uglier, I suppose.

Note: Oh, come on. Can't a Mama joke now and then?

But then The Handsome and Funny Son steps it up a notch and pulls out all the stops. I think I may burst with pride.

Note: No, he did not buy lunch. Now you're just getting silly. Please try to Focus.

We prepare to leave. My hands are momentarily full. I need to answer my phone or I need to blow my nose or something important, so I ask The Son to hold my purse. For a moment. It is an enormous, hot pink tote, which he takes without hesitation. And rather than holding the bag at arm's length in obvious manly distaste, The Son throws the enormous hot pink tote over his shoulder, like a continental soldier, yes.

I smile.

I am walking with a giant, confident, handsome and successful man. And he's carrying an enormous hot pink tote bag without a second thought.

That's My Boy.

Heck, yes!

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

Location:The Family Room. On the Sectional. With Rubi.

I Can Fly!

2011-01-25T09:56:00.001-08:00

The billboard on the side of the highway has captured my attention, however fleeting that span may be.

It advertises a cosmetic dentist and the billboard shows him surrounded by his loving family. Or his loving staff. I cannot really tell. I am driving 65 miles per hour, after all. His hair seems a little long and curly for a dentist, but I imagine he wears one of those awesome shower caps during the dental procedure.

But here's the thing: In big letters that can be easily read at a high rate of speed the sign says PETER PANG.

Peter Pang?

Are you kidding me?

I can just picture that delivery room scene.

Mr. Pang: Oh darling, he is a perfect little boy. God has given us such a gift. What can we name him to be sure that the other children pick on him at recess and steal his school lunch?

Mrs. Pang: William? Matthew? Robert? Peter?

Mr. Pang: Oh yes. Peter Pang. Perfect!

Sweet Holy Moses.

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

Location:Interstate 880, Oakland, California

Urinal. Analysis.

2011-01-21T14:50:00.000-08:00

I am cleaning a urinal!

Note: I suppose that I can now cross number 47 off my bucket list.

Additional Note: No, of course cleaning a urinal is not on my bucket list, even if I have one, which I don't.

Nevertheless, the cleaning of the urinal is quite an experience.

No, The Trophy Wife has not fallen on times hard enough to justify custodial labor in a men's restroom, of all places. Thankfully.

Note: Not that there's anything wrong with it. I'm just saying.

I am cleaning the urinal at the Church and I am attempting to keep my mind off the task at hand so I am singing Pink's stupid "Raise Your Glass" because I cannot get it out my mind, no matter how hard I try and I am imagining that I am Cinderella preparing for the ball and the pumpkin chariot will be awaiting and I am wondering if it's the same pumpkin that was used to hide Peter Peter's wife? and then I am imagining every man's ding-dong-dilly spraying the walls and causing the paint to peel, yes, peel right off!

Sweet Holy Moses.

Clearly, the urinal was not the brainchild of a woman.

Heck, yes!

Britney Made Me Do It.

2011-01-20T08:32:00.000-08:00

Those who do not learn from the past are doomed to repeat it. --George Santayana, American Philosopher

Oops, I did it again. --Britney Spears, American Philosopher

History has repeated itself.

I am standing in front of the mirror, huge white towel wrapped around me, for modesty's sake, and reaching into the cabinet to grab the spray deodorant and inexplicably and quite stickily I grab the hairspray instead.

Note: Jokes about keeping my armpit hair in place are simply not necessary, thank you.

Oops, I did it again.

Fool me once, I'm a fool. Fool me twice, I'm a bigger fool. Or something like that.

But in True Trophy Wife Fashion, I look on the bright side.

It's going to be a great hair day!

Heck, yes!

I Wonder if Mrs. O'Leary Was Ample-Bosomed.

2011-01-18T13:27:00.000-08:00

So, the Bachelor.

The dates keep getting grander, the drama keeps getting deeper, and the breasts keep getting larger.

Oh, Bachelor. How I have missed you.

On last night's episode, Ashley and Brad recorded a totally unrecognizable version of Seal's Kiss From a Rose and then were serenaded by Seal in the flesh while Ashley wept and touched Brad's heart with the tragic story of her dad's sudden death and how this song was their favorite and it's like he was here with them. Singing in the studio.

Note: If he were actually there, he too has a lousy singing voice.

Additional Note: Simmer down. I'm just saying.

And Madison, the Vampire-Teeth girl wept and took out her fangs and the ample-bosomed Chantal wept as she recounted her Dad's death before she could forgive him for whatever he did, I forget.

But my favorite part was the date in the wine country when Emily wept and recounted her tragic story of her fiance dying in a plane crash and then the next day she finds out she is pregnant with his child and now she wants to find love again and did I mention she's adorable? Emily, not the child.

But wait, that wasn't my very favorite part. The best part was when Brad and Emily walked from the vineyard into the barn which had been magically transformed for their private dinner date and was aglow with lantern and candlelight.

Yes, that is correct.

Lanterns and candles in a barn filled with straw.

What is going on here? Have none of the producers of this fine program ever heard what happened when Mrs. O'Leary left the lantern in the shed?

Note: Yes, the cow kicked it over and winked her eye and said, There'll be a hot time in the old town tonight.

Fire! Fire! Fire!

Sweet Holy Moses.

What the Turkey Taught Me.

2011-01-17T17:51:00.001-08:00

I am driving with Rubi perched on the armrest beside me. We come over a hill and suddenly find ourselves face to face with a flock of wild turkeys. Standing in the middle of the gall-darned street, of course. Because that's how they roll.

Note: The term 'flock' seems ill suited for turkeys. Flocks conjure up images of birds in flight soaring high overhead or, at the very least, a bunch of squawking creatures high in the oak trees in the backyard. Turkeys are never high, unless they've been eating some fermented wild berries, if you know what I mean and I think you do. Honestly, a better term would be a herd of turkeys or maybe a twit of turkeys or possibly an idiot of turkeys, standing in the middle of the gall-darned street.

I brake in time. Just barely. I am this close to a big fella who is standing directly in front of my daunting Honda Civic. He is not impressed. With the Civ.

Note: Wait, perhaps he is impressed. With the Civ. He is attempting to climb up on the hood. One might even say that he is mounting the Civic, apparently.

Eeew.

I begin to inch the car forward and he fluffs up like a Thanksgiving centerpiece. He's dancing and jigging and strutting and I'm inching and eewing at the spectacle.

I manage to move around him and I accelerate slightly, hoping to leave Loverboy in the dust. But he surprises me and begins to run. Alongside my automobile, yes!

And that is how I have come to know for a surety that turkeys can run 9 mph.

At least.

Heck, yes!

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

Life with a Neanderthal. It's a Rough Road, Yes.

2011-01-14T16:22:00.000-08:00

I am living with a neanderthal, yes.

Oh, silly readers, I am not referring to The Hub, The Great Gem in My Trophy Wife Crown.

Note: That was a good one, indeed.

Oh, silly readers, I am not referring to Rubi the Dog, the most genteel of Whipped Cream Afficionados.

I am referring to my stupid, crappy, irritating, out-dated, lazy, procrastinating, and annoying cell phone.

If cell phones had knuckles, my cell phone would be dragging its knuckles. On the floor, yes.

If cell phones had clothes, my cell phone would be wearing some sort of goat-skin diapery thing to cover its apparent (lack of) manhood.

If cell phones had hair, my cell phone would have wild, crazy, nasty hair, a little like Conan O'Brien, yes.

Oh, I'm not complaining here. I'm just saying.

And I'm just saying it on a stupid, crappy, irritating, out-dated, lazy, procrastinating, and annoying cell phone!

Carry on.

A Trophy Wife Quiz. About Ants, Mostly.

2011-01-11T13:57:00.000-08:00

Today, the Trophy Wife tests the knowledge of both of her readers regarding ant life. In the microwave, yes.

The following questions are presented in a True or False format.

True or False: In their desperation, ants will assess the specks of spatter and cooked on gunk in the corner of the microwave as a significant food source and will send out the ant calvary to return with more and more ants who will, in turn, seize the specks of spatter and cooked on gunk in the corner of the microwave and will find more dried bits underneath the rotating microwave tray and near the vent in the top of the appliance.

True. Desperate ants also enjoy used Kleenex, sadly.

True or False: After five minutes in a microwave on 'High Power', ants begin to 'pop' or 'crackle', if you will.

False. But that would be awesome.

True or False: After five minutes in a microwave on 'High Power' with a mug of water, ants retain enough moisture to be killed by the waving micros.

False. But the ants run all around all over the microwave, like the teeny tiny tourists that were attacked by King Kong, which according to my metaphor, is me.

Sweet Holy Moses!

True or False: Scurrying teeny tiny tourist ants succumb to Lysol Anywhere Daily Disinfecting Spray.

True. And False. The ants succumb, yes, but new ones quickly arrive to take their place. Two by two, even. And then they succumb. And then new ants arrive. And then they succumb.

And then they arrive. And then they succumb. And then they arrive. And then they succumb.

Building Walls. And Pharmaceuticals. Where Else Can You Find Both Ideas in One Post?

2011-01-10T09:51:00.000-08:00

I am having a conversation with a fellow church member.

Note: In this case, conversation is a very loose use of the word. Mostly I am head-nodding and eye-blinking and wondering what the heck we're talking about.

Additional Note: I am wondering if this is how people generally feel when they are conversing with me.

I seem to be doing a very good job of pretending to follow along. We are discussing walls, metaphorical ones, and the importance of tearing them down, I think. But the Church-goer is standing a wee bit too close to me and I am thinking that building a wall might be a very good idea, yes.

We now seem to be conversing about inclusion and flexibility but I think we are actually talking about touching toes, not flexibility about inclusion and/or walls because the conversation turns to pilates and about having flexibility about the inclusion of the less-flexible and making all welcome, without walls. Of some sort.

And apparently all of this wall-building and body-flexing is causing pain and our conversation, of sorts, turns to the importance of listening to the body and the staggering overuse of pharmaceuticals in today's world. Popping a pill instead of listening to our bodies, the Church-Goer says.

Excuse me?

Pharmaceuticals are the American way.

Have you seen my medicine cabinet? I say, but actually I keep my pharms in the kitchen so when a pill-popping moment arises, I am at the ready.

I'm practically a Licensed Pharmacist in fifteen states, I boast.

The conversation drifts to filling our empty spaces with light instead of drugs but I'm thinking about filling my empty spaces with Advil and building walls with little boxes of decongestant and Excedrin PM and Viactiv calcium chews and nasal spray, oh yes, the nasal spray.

All of this deep conversing seems to be causing a headache.

Good thing I've got Advil in my purse.

Heck, yes!

Terrible. Horrible. No Good. Very Bad. Day.

2011-01-05T12:50:00.000-08:00

Note: Judith Viorst is my inspiration for this little rant. If you haven't read her children's book Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, please pick up a copy. It's genius, yes.

Sadly, The Trophy Wife is having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I went to sleep with my purple flannel pajamas on and I woke up naked and feeling feverish and achy and when I got out of bed my hair was stuck to my neck and my nose was unfortunately a little crusty from my stupid cold. I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

At breakfast, my whipped cream bottle was empty and who wants Bob's Mighty Tasty Gluten Free cereal without whipped cream? And then the phone rang and my voice was squeaky and squawky and the man was saying, Are you all right? while my cereal was getting cold and turning into mortar and I'm saying, I'm fine, I'm fine, but I'm not fine. I am miserable. I think I'll move to Australia.

I figured a hot shower would help, but I got shampoo in my eyes and the razor blade was dull and I shaved and shaved and shaved, but I've still got hairy legs and the hot water made my skin so dry that I can't move my lips. I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

And when I came downstairs the dog was sitting by the front door needing a walk and so off we went in my fleece pants and my yellow thermal and my blue Fargo sweatshirt and my hair was wet and I was freezing, so I put on the hood part and when I got home with the dog's poop in a neat little ziploc baggie, my hair was drying into a convoluted mess. I doubt that anyone has a bad hair day in Australia.

And there is a line of ants marching from a teeny hole in the woodwork on the staircase all the way down the stairs and down the wall and through the family room and into the kitchen, where they found some miniscule piece of something delicious and when I spray them with Raid, I have dead ants to clean up and oily spots on the wall. I am having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

And then a real estate agent calls and says Is it convenient to take a look at your house now? and my voice is saying Of course and my mind is singing The Ants Go Marching Song and I wonder if I will ever sell my lovely home and I am wondering if the real estate market is better in Australia.

So I do what any Trophy Wife would do in this situation. I find a piece of dark chocolate and a Diet Coke.

Yes, I'm having a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. But some days are like that. Even in Australia.

Babies. Not to be Organized.

2011-01-03T15:37:00.001-08:00

I like The New Year. I like the list-making and the organizing and the resolving, oh yes, the resolving. Lots and lots of resolving.

Note: A passing fancy becomes a resolution when it is written on adorable paper, yes, in a manner requiring frequent review and the creating of little boxes for checking, yes, or in a manner requiring little stickers for placing upon the chart, indicating SUCCESS!

Additional Note: I have never met a sticker chart whose trash I could not kick, no.

So, I like The New Year. It is excellent fun to go to The Walmart and buy storage containers, which come in many handy sizes. There are little teeny ones for storing little teeny things such as mini M&M's, yes. There are big, enormous ones for storing big enormous things like the huge pile of laundry in my closet, yes.

For the novice New Year's storage container organizer, the storage bins themselves come with handy visual instructions, in case reading is not the strong point of the organizer.

Apparently, storage of the baby in the container is not suggested.

Heck, yes!

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

He Speaks Out. The Hub, Yes.

2011-01-01T19:43:00.001-08:00

The Hub is wrestling with the Christmas tree, the nine-footer, yes. It is large. It is heavy. It is not for the faint of heart. Or biceps.

He is shoving and taping and heaving, a little. And grunting and pushing and smacking the tree into submission. And into the box, yes. I refer, of course, to the teeny, tiny box that miraculously holds the gall-darned thing in the factory but is woefully too small for the tree, after the Christmas fluffage has occurred.

I think, he says, that I will invent a Christmas tree that comes in a box that is actually big enough to hold the gall-darned thing.

And then he adds the statement that makes me go weak in the knees.

Instead of the dumb box that requires the strength of ten husbands, plus two.

The Hub is quoting Christmas Specials. From the Sixties!

Be still my heart.

Heck, yes!

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

'Tis the Season

2010-12-21T16:24:00.001-08:00

'Tis the Season.

Oh, I am not talking about spending too much or eating too much or fretting too much, about the spending and eating, mostly.

Oh, I am not talking about cranky drivers in the shopping mall parking lots or bell-ringing Santas with obviously fake spectacles or poinsettias dropping leaves faster than the falling of the stock market.

Oh, I am not talking about joyful holiday gatherings and hanging stockings with care or delivering goodie plates, which are probably regifted elsewhere, let's face it.

I am talking about the epitome of the holiday. The end-all, be-all of the holiday season.

Yes.

I have lost the Christmas gifts that I put away for safekeeping.

I am searching high. I am searching low. I am searching above. I am searching below. I am searching inside. I am searching outside. I am wondering where I could have possibly hidden the perfect must-have gifts that I purchased a few mere weeks ago and hid away.

Forever, yes.

It's officially Christmas!

Heck, yes!

My. Christmas. Wish.

2010-12-16T12:47:00.000-08:00

I am listening to the conversation of the Cute Young Men who are checking me out at the grocery store.

Note: Simmer down. They are not checking me out, per se. The Cute Young Men are checking out my groceries: two stalks of celery, two red potatoes, a sourdough roll, a bottle of diet coke with lime and a can of light whipped cream.

Additional Note: Light cream? That's an oxymoron, my friends.

The Cute Young Men, with Justin Bieber hair, are discussing their shared mutual Christmas Wish of saving the world, someday. I comment, because I must, of course. What aspect of Christmas world-saving do you have in my mind? I say.

The Cute Young Men shrug. Oh, the environment, one says while the other, clearly his wing-man, nods agreeably.

Oh, I say, that's nice, but my Christmas Wish is for everyone in the world to have an iPad.

Then I realize that sadly, I am in the midst of Non-Believers.

The Cute Non-Believing Young Men mock the iPad. The best gadget you didn't know you needed, they are saying, Oh the giant iPhone, they are saying.

I am patient with The Ignorant. It is not their fault.

It's because you do not own one, I say, it's because you simply do not know the fantasticness that is the iPad.

I explain it's fantasticness, briefly. I read and respond to emails, I peruse MLS listings, I use it for recipes, I GPS myself and others, I blog, I write my book, I play games, I create grocery lists, I check my (busy) social calendar, I check weather anywhere I wish, I buy stuff online, I share photos of my freaking adorable Grandson, would like to see?, I listen to music, I draw pictures, I read novels, I G-chat, I watch movies and television when I travel, I read and mark my scriptures, I wirelessly print all kinds of stuff, and that's just the beginning, yes!

The Cute Non-Believing Ignorant Young Men listen, politely. Then, as if hit by some bolt of lightning, Checker-Outer says, Oh, it's like a computer. Except you can take it anywhere you wish!

The Wingman agrees. And it doesn't take up so much room in a landfill oneday and ruin the environment like a big old computer.

I smile. My work here is done.

I will go home now. To my Big Giant Desktop 27-inch I-Mac with all the bells and whistles.

I hear a landfill, calling my name ...

Heck, yes!

Yes. That's a Peg Leg, My Friends.

2010-12-15T10:03:00.001-08:00

My obsession with pirates is well-documented. And my fetish, if you please, with the rubber chicken is no passing fancy, no.

So, what's better than a rubber chicken? What's better than a pirate?

Yes, that is correct. A rubber chicken dressed as a pirate.

It's like a marriage made in heaven, yes.

Sweet. Holy. Moses.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad Paddy, or Paddington, if you prefer the more formal approach from the Sonoma County Hall of Justice, where as a public servant, I await Jury Duty.

Mom

2010-12-13T12:11:00.000-08:00

I'm thinking about my Mom, who is celebrating her eighth birthday in heaven today. Eating angel food cake, of course, because after all, she's in heaven. With lots and lots of candles, which makes her mad, probably, but the cake will light up heaven tonight. And when I look into the sky, I'll find the brightest star and I'll know that she's there, blowing out candles and laughing. And her eyes are crinkly at the corners and almost disappear when she laughs. And I love that.

In her honor, please indulge my reposting a tribute from 2009. I love you, Mom!

I'll Be Seeing You.

Dear Mom,

I hope that you are having a great"Birthday to Heaven" today. I'm not sure what you do there to celebrate the anniversary of your return. From my earthly perspective, I hope that your day is full of flowers. Pink camellias, towers of impatiens, fragrant bunches of lilacs and poinsettias. Lots and lots of poinsettias. Do you remember that at your memorial, the room was full of poinsettias? And Mom, they have so many new colors of poinsettias now! Oh, but you probably already know that, being in heaven and all.

I also hope that you are surrounded by people you love. Well, otherpeople that you love. Like your Mom and Dad and your brothers and sisters. And I hope that you are spending time with people I haven't met yet, like my future grandbaby. And I'll bet you have so many family pets running around there that every once in awhile you want to give them a little shoo, Sissy! Or shoo, Peppy! I always thought it was hilarious that dog was named Peppy. I don't think I ever saw her do more than saunter. And on an occasional basis at that.

And I hope that you are celebrating Christmas just like we used to in our cozy old house, except it's not foggy. And you get to decorate the tree with icicle strands and make divinity and snowballs. And I hope that you finally learned the harmony to 'Silent Night' because I have learned it and I look forward to singing it together sometime.

There have been some changes around here in the last seven years. Did you know that I am now known for having fantastic shoes? I know. I thought that would make you laugh. And get this--my last hair appointment cost me two hundred bucks! Two hundred! Isn't that something? Oh, and my hands are looking more and more like yours. The arthritis in my thumbs is progressing pretty fast. But I manage.

Oh! I finally wrote my book! Dad likes it. He's not exactly a tough critic. I imagine that you would like it too. I hope you don't mind that I talked about the time we went skinny-dipping. Yeah, I know. Good times!

I've thought a lot about your last moments on earth. A little part of myself was ripped away that night. Well, a big part, really. But that big part has been filled, mostly, with friends, family, joyful memories and happy thoughts of the future.

And that future includes you, Mom.

I'll be seeing you. One day.

God Bless Mr. Dyson: A Christmas Story.

2010-12-07T15:21:00.000-08:00

In an unusual turn of events, to be sure, I am experiencing a Grinch moment. Yes, me, the proponent of all that is Optimistic and Hilarious, yes. My Scrooge-Meter is in overdrive. A Bah Humbug spirit envelops me. Or envelopes me. Whatever. I don't even care.

Note: I warned you. It's not pretty, no.

How can this be? The Trophy Wife Spirit is a joyful and decidedly merry approach to this grand adventure called Life. What the heck?

It all begins with rat poop, but that is true of all great Christmas stories, yes.

Note: Technically, I suppose it begins with the rats themselves with their beady little eyes and their dirty little feet and their nasty, promiscuous ways. In my garage, yes.

It is a warm midsummer day when I notice the first scurries upon entering my the garage, followed shortly by mounds of shredded paper before the sighting of the nasty little pellets. Of rat poop, yes.

The confirmation, yes. Of the rat.

So, I set out a trap or two, not fully understanding the ramifications of the presence of the rat. In retrospect, I realize that I waste valuable time because in the ensuing week or two of trapping nothing, those beady, dirty, nasty, promiscuous rats have been doing the happy dance in my garage, if you know what I mean, and I think you do, and have created hundreds, perhaps thousands more of the beady, nasty, dirty and promiscuous beasts and as you know, the Trophy Wife does not exaggerate such matters.

So, with no recourse, the rat poison buffet begins. And those beady, dirty, nasty promiscuous, and stupid beasts love their Buffet of Death. They consume box after delicious box, probably telling their stupid rat friends all about the free lunch in the Trophy Wife’s garage.

Fast forward to December.

I open the door to The Dungeon, which isn't actually a real dungeon, although that would be hecka cool, but is actually an under-the-house room accessed through the garage and although probably originally intended as a wine cellar, it serves well as a Christmas decoration storage unit, yes.

There is an avalanche.

Of rat poop.

Note: Okay, maybe not an avalanche, exactly.

But it's dirty and nasty. And it's everywhere. There is rat poop in the garlands and ribbons and all that is merry. There is rat poop in the wreaths and trees and the berries. There is even rat poop in the manger.

Note: No, there isn't.

I have found the Lair of the Dead Rats.

So, I'm feeling grinchy, yes. But thanks to Mr Dyson who invented a vacuum cleaner that never loses suction, even when the device is full of rat doodle and has inadvertently sucked up the skeletal remains of a beady, dirty, nasty, lusty, gluttonous beast, yes, and thanks to Mr. Lysol who invented disinfectant which, inadvertently causes a mild, but pleasant high when inhaled by the canfuls, yes, Christmas is cleaned up and back on track, almost.

God Bless us, Every One.

Especially Mr. Dyson.

Heck, yes!

Illegal. Aliens.

2010-12-02T17:01:00.000-08:00

So, NASA has big news.

Apparently, there seems to be evidence of alien life. Scientists have released the startling discovery of alien DNA, potentially. In California.

Duh.

I've lived here my whole life and I see aliens every single day.

Note: I wonder if the NASA aliens are legal immigrants to this fine state. Are there passports and VISAs in outerspace?

Just wondering.

Heck, yes!

Simmer Down! I'll Be There in a Minuet!

2010-12-01T12:51:00.000-08:00

I am reading the local newspaper. The Food section catches my attention because I am always hungry, yes. There is an article about the importance of thoroughly washing and rinsing leeks, which is a very good idea.

Note: Sadly, I experienced a poorly-rinsed leek in my Sausage-Kale Soup, which is akin to eating a nice hot bowl of soup at the beach on a very windy day, if you know what I mean.

Ooh look! Readers of the newspaper are sharing favorite holiday cookie recipes.

Note: I love holiday cookies, although in the olden days, we made Christmas Cookies.

I peruse. There are recipes for Raspberry Ribbons and Ginger Doodles and Viola Shortbread Cookies, which contain neither musical instruments nor pansy-like flowers, no. Then another recipes catches my attention, however briefly, yes.

Note: I have many things that require my attention, as you know, which accounts for my somewhat short attention span.

Oh, I am thinking, Graham Cracker Cookies sound delicious.

I glance through the recipe. Four sticks of butter. Excellent! Bittersweet Chocolate. Excellent! Raspberry jam. Excellent! And the directions seem pretty straightforward. Whisking dry ingredients, creaming butter and sugar, blending until combined, dividing dough and securing in plastic wrap to chill for 30 minuets.

Thirty minuets? Really?

I am loving this recipe!

So, I google The Minuet and learn how to perform The Minuet and I'm practicing with the Hub, who is a very tolerant man, yes. It is requires curtsies and bows and pointy toes and counting to three. A lot.

Yes, the recipe seems like a lot of effort, what with the dancing and all, but it's Christmastime! So, I'll just keep practicing.

Perhaps a new Christmas tradition is born!

Heck, yes!

For Wuss And For All.

2010-11-28T16:41:00.000-08:00

For some reason, there is a belief floating about, and I don't know why, that I am a wuss. For once and for all, I plan to put such preposterous-ness to rest.

Now let's be clear: I have given birth to two full-size babies, yes, without the use of an epidural or, in one ridiculous case, without the use of drugs of any kind, which is just silly.

Now let's be clearer: I have endured a brain explosion, or more precisely, a brain implosion, and yet I live to tell about it. In very lively verbage, yes, because that's how I roll.

Now let's be clearest: I have removed an actual bullet from my arm using only my teeth.

Note: No, I haven't.

So, I'm in Fargo for Thanksgiving. And it's cold. Some people, wusses yes, may even call it frigid. Sure, it's negative-something but I can handle it. In fact, I wish to experience the negativity and prove I am not a wuss, once and for all.

So, I decide to go outside and make a snowman, but I change my mind on account of I lost my mittens. I decide to go outside and make snow angels, but I change my mind on account of laying in the snow seems a bit silly. Because getting snow down one's pants is not ideal.

So, I decide on the next-best non-wussy thing to do.

Yes, that is my hand. Sticking out of the doggy door.

I'm no wuss.

Heck, yes!

I Guess I'll have It On Ice, Yes.

2010-11-26T13:37:00.001-08:00

Actual conversation overheard at the entrance of an Air Canada Regional Jet, which is too small for my liking, yes, parked at the terminal at Hector International Airport, located in Fargo, North Dakota where a foot of snow rests on the ground and the temperature at 6:00 a.m. is a brisk 4 degrees, not including the wind-chill factor, no.

Pilot, looking through sheets of paper: Hey, do you know how to de-ice this thing?

Co-Pilot: I'm not quite sure.

Pilot: Okay.

I am sorry, Mr. Pilot with the snazzy Michael Jackson jacket, but you are really chapping my hide.

Holy Moly.

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