A Trophy Wife New Year!

Resolutions. Oooh. Resolving makes me tingly all over. I am in my own personal sort of zen when it comes to resolutions and goals and stickers and charts. I feel giddy just thinking about it. Imagine, then, my delight to learn that the verb resolve has like, seriously, a zillion different meanings of subtle differences.

Note: Ooh! Tingle!

So, as a challenge to the great guru of all things resolving (not revolving; revolving makes me feel queasy just thinking about it) I will make a resolution that matches each meaning of the specific verb action.

Note: Ooh! Grammar and resolving! Tingle!

re·solve (r-zlv)

1. To make a firm decision about.

•I resolve to finish editing my book so that I can share it with others. Whether they want to read it or not.

2. To cause (a person) to reach a decision.

•During 2010, Rubi and I will resolve our bitter dispute regarding her daily brushing and combing. She will probably reign victorious. And she will probably reign with sticky things and burrs in her hair.

3. To decide or express by formal vote.

•During 2010, Hub and I will resolve our current concerns regarding our living conditions.

Note: Simmer down. Hub and I will both still live; we will both still reside together. Happily. It is merely the conditions of our living that need resolution.

4. To find a solution to; solve.

•During 2010 I will resolve my issues with Comcast. Hopefully, no one gets hurt in the process.

Note: Warning to Comcast: You are done messing with me.

5. To bring to a usually successful conclusion:

•During 2010, I will resolve my relationship with my tatas, with or without surgical intervention.

Note: Okay, fine. Without.

6. Medicine To cause reduction of (an inflammation, for example).

•My dry elephant skin will resolve in the New Year through the use of copious amounts of Victoria's Secret body creams.

7. To melt or dissolve (something).

•I will enjoy the resolution of butter in a warm saucepan in its progress to a rich, buttery caramel sauce or a thick roux, perfect for a pot of chowder.

Happy New Year, one and both my readers! Have a Trophy Wife New Year!

Heck, yes!

Act Fast!

So, a famous national retailer, who shall remain unnamed due to the legal ramifications of divulgence of the name (please do not be concerned if my terms are confusing; big words are required when discussing implications of defamation of character and the whatnot), has a real numbers-cruncher working on their accounting books.

Note: Okay, fine. I will tell you the name of the famous national retailer. The famous national retailer starts with an 'Old' and ends with a 'Navy".

But, really. Is this idea going to catch on? T-shirts previously priced at $5 are, for a limited time only, available to the consumer for $10?

The best part?

Act Fast. Pretty soon the shirts will revert to the previous price of $5 and you'll miss out on your chance to get ripped off.

Good thinking. Good thinking, indeed.

Tick. Tock.

It occurs to me that I am running. Out. Of. Time.

To make my mark. To provide the world with a glimpse of my greatness. Well, not greatness. A glimpse of my, well, yes. Greatness.

Note: I am not afflicted with an illness of any sort which has caused this line of thinking. Please do not worry. The new year is dawning and I am just getting old. er.

Now, there are several ways to achieve this notoriety. One method is to be truly talented, gifted even. And to share that remarkable gift to the world.

Note: This option appears to be out for me unless the ability to swallow dozens of pills at once becomes chic.

There is also an option that involves performing ridiculous stunts, i.e. the Balloon Boy debacle or sailing around the world in a bathtub.

Note: This option also appears to be out as I have an aversion to both heights and bathing.

Note: Of course that's just a little joke. Heights do not bother me.

Yet another option is to be stupid and get lost in a frigid or sweltering or rat-infested place and to get stuck, somehow, in such place and to get either frostbite or heatstroke or bubonic plague in such place, ultimately forcing one to gnaw off his or her own arm or potentially, the arm of a loved one. To free oneself, somehow, from such place, of course. Otherwise the gnawing is a bit over the top.

Note: I have briefly considered this option.

It just seems like everyone else comes up with all the good ideas. Like vampires. Who thought that writing poor prose about vapid teenagers and blood-suckers would unlock millions of bucks? And tweeting? Seriously, tweeting? When I was a kid, we tweeted and got in trouble for not excusing ourselves after emitting the tweet.

All the good ideas seem to be taken. I can't cook Julia Child's recipes one day at a time and blog about it. Already done. I can't invent the internet. Already done. I can't come up with the idea of stuffing cheese into the crust of a pizza. Already done.

So here I sit. In front of my brand new 27-inch Quad Core iMac computer. Clock ticking. Hub practicing his Wii tennis stroke. Clock ticking. Dog curled up on the couch on top of a pile of cushions.

If I can't leave a mark, I guess this life isn't so bad.

Heck, yes.

Because. I Had To.

Kraft Marshmallows.

Dangerous. Very Dangerous.

Note: Do not try this at home. Because it is dangerous. Very dangerous.

However, it is delicious.

The Meister

So, Daughter and Favorite Son-in-Law have new cell phones, on account of moving to North Dakota and AT&T not providing service there and the whatnot. Her new cell phone carrier, which shall remain unnamed is pretty lame, so far as I can see.

Note: Okay, fine. I'll tell you. The carrier is Sprint.

The phones are working now and have finally been given actual Fargo phone numbers based on the new wacky area code. Now, when Daughter and SIL call, we can identify them by the caller ID in a brand new way.

Daughter is now identified as 'Jason Pena'.

Note: Good job, Sprint.

But there is even better news regarding SIL. When he calls, our caller ID identifies him as (and I kid not you) Burkmeister.

Wow. Burkmeister.

Heck, yes.

Merry Christmas to all!

A Crowning Achievement.

I am having breakfast. With the girls. At a homey little cafe nestled on a creek by a liquor store. It is my birthday breakfast. My girls are ordering pancakes and hash browns and eggs of all types; scrambled, over-easy and even poached.

Note: I made poached eggs. Once. I did not eat them. The process reminded me too much of a water birth I saw once on TLC.

I am ordering a bowl of oatmeal. With raisins and cinnamon. The oatmeal comes with a little teeny pot of milk and a couple of pats of butter. I do not understand the pats of butter. On oatmeal? Really? Butter?

Note: My older brother ate a cube of butter once. Just to be that way. Well, actually it was imperial margarine. The kind that had commercials back in the day where you ate the butter and a crown magically appeared on your head. I don't know why.

Note: A crown did not magically appear on my brother's head, although his prank caused another of my brothers to gag and hang his head over the kitchen sink. Which is just as good as a crown anyway.

At the precise moment of my ordering the oatmeal, hot cocoa is delivered to one of my girls. It is crowned--yes, crowned-- with the most delightful tower of whipped cream.

I must have some for my oatmeal, I am thinking. I love whipped cream on almost anything. Especially oatmeal. I will order some whipped cream on the side. For my oatmeal.

Heck, yes!

May I have some whipped cream in a little bowl? I ask the waitress, a smiling girl in her mid-twenties with her hair pulled back in a headband the way I wish I could wear mine and look to be in my mid-twenties. Or mid-thirties. Or ...

Yes, she says. And then comes the crowning moment of the morning.

Would you like that with your meal or would you like me to bring it out now?

Whipped cream? In a bowl? Right now? Are you kidding me?

Happy birthday to me!

A Picture is Worth Ten Words. Maybe More.

Seriously. Do I need to say anything more?

Heck, yes.

Note: Okay, fine. I admit it. I need to say more. And what I need to say is: Trophy Wives have come a long way, baby, when the initial criteria for the Trophy Wife label was the ability to stand upright.

Yeah.

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, other people 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.

Twelve Twelve

A little song.

Please sing it in your head. Or if you wish, sing it out loud, unless you are sitting in a cubicle somewhere.

Note: If you are sitting in a cubicle somewhere, please consider quiet humming. It is very enjoyable.

Happy Birthday to Me!
I look forty-three
I guess that's much better
Than looking fifty!

Note: I am not forty-three. And I am certainly not fifty.

Certainly, not.

Full Moon.ed and New Moon.ed

So, yesterday I was mooned twice. Well, three times if I am really counting, but since my children read this blog, I will stick with the original story.

So, yesterday I was mooned twice.

First, I was full-mooned. By my dinner, of all things. Kind of gives new meaning to a sweet potato.



Note: Sweet!


Then, I was new-mooned.


In case the reader thinks I just stole this photo from the internet, I will post a photo of my pal with the New Mooner. Pal is in her own bedroom with him. But she is supervised. By me. The New Moonee.

Note: Mr. Lautner may appear to be in an identical pose in both photos. This phenomenon is simply a figment of the reader's imagination.

Note: I am sure that my little pal feels honored to be in my blog post and will, in no way, require compensation or retribution for this photo, which will now be floating around the internet for all to enjoy.

So, yesterday I was mooned twice.

Note: I was not full-mooned and new-mooned simultaneously.

Simmer down, everyone.

Snap! Crackle! Pop!

We are experiencing a cold snap. I find it most interesting and descriptive that frigid weather is described as a cold snap. Snapping is the sound of ice crackling on the windshield when water is poured on it to melt it because there is no room for the car in the garage with all the Christmas boxes all over the place and it is the sound of tight muscles popping when a bum is landing on the driveway after slipping on an icy patch outside the front steps over on the side of the house where the gutter leaks.

Note: The previous examples are completely rhetorical.

The word 'snap' could also used to express one's utter disgust at slipping on the icy patch outside the front steps and landing on one's bum. Rhetorically, of course. Oh, snap! I fell on my bum!

Note: Snap is not the first word I would think to use. Rhetorically or otherwise.

Hot weather is referred to as a 'hot streak'. Yes, there are many descriptive possibilities with streaking and heat, but today I am discussing the current cold snap.

My Pilates Pal Pam (a charming illiteration, yes) and I are leaving the rec center. We are chatting together. We are chatting about her scarf, which she knitted. It is a beautiful scarf. I feel a bit covetous about the scarf. We are talking about knitting now. And that knitting is expensive. Because fine yarn is costly.

Triple P and I are talking about fine yarn. Her finest yarn costs $90 a skein. Snap, that's a lot of money, I say.

Note: Okay, fine. I did not say snap.

Triple P says it comes from the underbelly of the musk ox. It is relatively rare.

Note: Under belly of the musk ox? And it's relatively rare?

Now, that's a lousy job. Living in the arctic, sliding under an unsuspecting two-ton animal, giving him a little belly rub and snipping his fine underbelly fur. So Triple P can make a scarf.

Snap!

Oxy. Morons. Among us. Again.

So, I am at Wal-Mart. (Yeah, I know). Wal-Mart is not always considered a Trophy Wife destination, but heck, it's got lots of awesome cool stuff and it's cheap. I find orchids for two bucks each because the hideous, shiny holiday pots in which they sit are broken. I grab an armful. I briefly consider smashing a few more of the pots.

Note: Briefly. I would never do such a thing. Not even for two-buck orchids.

I find bendable, poseable snowmen and santas for a buck each. They are like Gumbys, except taller. I buy two. I place them around the house in pilates positions, such as but not limited to a full plank and a bridge position.

Note: Santa's boots get in the way because a bridge is best executed in bare feet. Safety first.

I am looking for table coverings. Sixty people will descend upon my house to eat waffles and scrambled eggs and make foam Christmas tree hats. A breakfast gathering calls for plastic table coverings, not linen. Linen is far too stuffy for waffles and whipped cream and errant blueberries.

Note: And thirty children.

And then on the party aisle, the oxy.moron rears its head.


Yes, the Best Occasions Plastic Tablecover.

Honey, the boss is coming over for dinner. Where the heck is our fancy Best Occasions Plastic Tablecover?

Heck, yes.

Under-Wear Under-Where?

So, Daughter's recent post about her move to Fargo and her preparations has me thinking. About freezing. To. Death.

I read somewhere that freezing to death is a pleasant way to die.

Note: Pleasant?

I read somewhere that freezing to death is a relatively pleasant way to die. That is, it's relatively pleasant after one gets over the aching and numbness in the arms and legs, the violent shaking as the muscles try to warm the body, the thickening of the blood. The palpitations. The hallucinations. Before being found naked (a final humiliation) by strangers after ripping off one's clothes as the capillaries burst.

Note: Relatively pleasant? I don't think so.

Anyhow.

So Daughter is buying things she needs for the sub-zero Fargo winter. The items on her list are a foreign language to me. For example:

In California, when we discuss face masks we are referring to the types that awaken and tighten our pores or allow us to hold-up nearby 7-Elevens without being recognized. We are not talking about face masks that protect our faces from the frostbite that can, apparently, occur instantaneously to appendages exposed to the air.

Yes, instantaneously.

Note: It may not be instantaneous. Maybe I am making that up.

In California, underwear is underwear. Oh, we may have Days of the Week underwear or Sexy underwear or even Grandma-panty underwear. But it's all basically the same kind of thing. We wear it. We change it everyday. Usually. And then we wash it and wear it. Again. Whenever.

Daughter is purchasing winter underwear. Which is layered. Under your other underwear, I guess.

Note: I do not know about this whole underwear-layering thing. I live in California. Did I mention that?

But I am excited for Daughter's adventure in North Dakota. Really. And I can't wait to visit her. I've never been to a foreign country, so it should be swell.

Heck, yes.

(Mostly) True Confessions

I have a confession: I peek at Christmas presents. Or presents in general, I guess.

Note: I do not peek at my own presents. I do not wish to spoil my own holiday. Well not usually, anyway. I prefer to spoil the holidays of others. So, I peek at other people's presents. No, not random people. That's just ridiculous. I don't wander into the homes of unsuspecting strangers and open the presents, although now that I think about it ...

It's not about lack of control, either, if that's what you're thinking because believe me: I have control. Oh yes. Cross that one off your list.

I peek at other people's presents because I must.

Note: I do not know why I must. It's either genetic or frenetic or potentially pathetic.

Gift bags have made peeking so much easier. But gifts bags are for amateurs. Yes. I far prefer the challenge of a gift-wrapped package with double-stick tape (the real test for peekers) and that curly ribbon that has to be carefully slipped off the package, like a beautiful woman slips out of her ... socks.

Son is going to love his gift from his Grandmother.

Heck, yes. I love December.

A Tiger Patch?

So, Mr. Contractor (yes, the lucky dude who has seen my bum) hires a sub to come out and perform drywall repair in the kitchen nook. Mr. Contractor introduces me to Martin (pronounced Mar-teen) who is wearing little blue elastic slippers like the kind worn by a surgeon before he tells you that you're not going to feel a thing.

Note: Except in your wallet. You'll feel it there, for sure.

The best part of all of this useless information is that Mar-teen's van bears the company's logo.




Hmmn. Patches in a Day.

Catchy.

This idea pleases me. I imagine that his shop is frequented by pirates. Ahoy, Matey! I need me a patch. And I need it in a day!



Note: Where the heck is this pirate's eye patch? Clearly, the need for Patches in a Day is, indeed, real.

However, there may be other applications for Patches in a Day that may be more lucrative than either the drywall or pirate patch business.

It occurs to me that the idea of Patches in a Day may also please, say, Tiger Woods. Can you patch up my reputation, Mar-teen? And can you do it in a day?



Note: Sorry, Tiger. Mar-teen's skills just aren't going to help you, Dude. You're on your own.

Morons. Oxy and Otherwise

Oxymoron: A figure of speech in which incongruous or contradictory terms appear side by side.

While shopping, I find a perfect example of an oxymoron:


Chic Pull-On Pants? Oh, I don't think so.

At the same shopping center, I also find an interesting example of the moron. To establish the difference between the oxy and the otherwise moron, please review the definition below:

Moron: A meson like particle that is responsible for holding together the neutron, assistant neutrons, vice neutrons and assistant vice neutrons found in the heavy element administratium

Note: Oops. Wrong moron. Let's try that definition again:

Moron: A stupid person; a dolt.

I hate to be dissing on poor grammar, but please look carefully at the advertisement for a "Found Cat". The wording may be difficult to decipher.

Note: I will help you to decipher it.




Let's read along together: FOUND CAT. Long-haired. Gray with White Markings. (Here comes the good part): Supper Loving!

I've never really heard a big-eater described this way. "Honey, I'm not fat. I'm just supper-loving" or "Do these jeans make my butt look supper-loving?"

What's next? Supperman, leaping tall buildings? Supper Walmart, where you can shop and have a jeans-filling meal? Oh, wait! Here's a good one: How about a Supper Model?

Now there's an oxymoron for you. And a moron.

Heck, yes! That's just supper!

So, David Archuleta.

So, David Archuleta comes cruising into our church meeting today. He arrives for the 11:00 a.m. service, instead of the 9:00 a.m. meeting that I attend.

Note: What's the matter, Dave? Can't get up for church by 9:00 a.m.? All that hard livin' catching up to you, boy?

No one is allowed to get close to him. His Publicist/Agent/Bouncer/Dude ushers him away from the menacing throng of teenage girls, Mormon teenage girls, holding cell phones in the air and snapping unauthorized photos of the back of Dave's head.

Note: The photo above may not be an actual representation of Mr. Archuleta's head.

So, this morning David Archuleta attends church.

Just wondering what Adam Lambert is up to this morning.

Little Things. Medium Things. Big Things.

Happy Thanksgiving! It's a beautiful morning and it seems appropriate to pause a moment to give thanks for my blessings, which are many. Without question I am thankful for the biggies, i.e. God, Family, Health, Whipped Cream, Home, Rubi. But today, in honor of the smaller things in life which ultimately add up to big things, or at least medium things, dependent on overall size, I suppose ... wait. What was I talking about?

Oh yes, blessings. Little things that are big when you think about it. In no particular order, then, I give thanks for a few of the smaller things for which I am grateful.

•Today's weather forecast is for 70 degrees and sunny.
•The newspaper is stuffed with tons of ads to look through for Black Friday.

Note: I have never actually shopped on Black Friday. Every year it seems like a good idea to rise at the butt-crack of dawn and spend money, but every year my cozy bed wins.

•The scent of Hub's neck when he squeezes me tightly in the morning, tight enough to hear my bones crack in my back.
•Duraflame logs that make my house feel like a home in a matter of minutes.
•Bob's Mighty Tasty Gluten-Free Hot Cereal. With whipped cream. Obviously.

Note: I eat it twice a day. The hot cereal. The whipped cream? More than twice. Way.

•The crazy messages my Pop leaves on my answering machine.
•Cataract lens replacement and surgeons who are confident enough to slice my eyeball.
•Radio Stations that play Christmas music 24/7.

Note: And the deejays say the word Christmas and that's just fine.

•Cuddling on the couch with Hub and Dog in the evening with popcorn and spray butter and Kernel's Popcorn Seasoning and Crystal Light and the DVR and no commercials!
•The way Rubi's toenails click on the hardwood floor and make it sound like she's wearing high heels.

Note: Wait, she is wearing heels.

That dog is such a diva.

So, Adam Lambert.

I have three words regarding Adam Lambert's performance on The American Music Awards.

Note: There may be more than three. I apologize.

Number One: Oh.

Note: I do not mean 'Oh' as a word of clarification, such as 'Oh, I get it' and I do not mean 'O' as the thirteenth letter of the alphabet. I mean it as eyes wide, lips pursed, eyebrows raised in the manner of 'Oh , I'm so glad that I'm not watching this with my Dad'.

See photo below.




Number Two: Wow.

Note: I do not mean 'Wow' as in 'Wow, look at that triple decker hot fudge sundae with extra whipped cream' or as in 'Wow Honey, that 2-carat diamond ring is for me?'. I mean it as 'eyes to the side, forehead creased, sideways Angelica-lips' in the manner of 'I can't believe I just saw that; please flush my eyes with warm water'.

See photo below.



Number Three: Shame!

Note: I mean it just the way it sounds. Shame! I mean it as 'Finger-wagging, you need a good spanking (wait, not a good idea) SHAME!'



Note to Adam, because I am confident he reads this blog: Dude, you're talented. Just sing, will you?

The Entire Spectrum, Sort Of.

Daughter and I are chatting on the telephone, about nothing in particular. We do that, Daught and I. Sometimes we discuss interesting topics, such as, but not limited to: s-e-x. Usually, however, we discuss more pressing social issues, such as, but not limited to: Big Lots was way cooler when it was MacFrugal's (how about some fries with that?) or please tell ABC to recast the large (politically correct) daughters of Gabby and Carlos on Desperate Housewives because, let's get real, Eva Longoria would have the most sleek (politically correct, also) children, ever.

Note: I'm not saying anything about large children, or largeness in general. But, seriously.

Today, Daughter and I are discussing job interviews and random questions that are asked. (Which is, ironically, neither an interesting topic nor a pressing social issue.) One of our all-time favorite questions is the 'what quality do you need to improve the most in your job performance?' one. Are people seriously going to say something like 'Previous colleagues have suggested that I shower more frequently' or 'My biggest problem with work is that I lose my temper easily and smash computer monitors. Over peoples' heads, preferably.'

Note: I'm not saying anything about people with body odor or anger issues in general. But, seriously.

At a job interview once, Daught said something about being able to perform the full spectrum of the expected performance objectives.

Note: I love talking to Daughter. She has a delightful command of the English language, her native tongue. I understand that English is the most difficult of languages to learn; thus her mastery is even more impressive.

Note: I'm not saying anything about people with poor grammar or English skills in general. Wait, yes I am.

Then Daught says the magic words, the money words, if you will.

"Boy, spectrum and speculum are two words you wouldn't want to confuse in a job interview."

Heck, yes!

It's the Great Turkey, Charlie Brown!

According to ancient Aleut legend (that one's for you, Daughter), the Great Turkey flies at night, spreading his message of Gratitude and Goodwill to all those who believe.

Note: I know that the Great Turkey is a male due to the jiggly wattle on his nose. Remember? I have discussed the turkey's color-changing-"I'm-really-into-you-baby" body part in a previous post, which has nothing to do with Gratitude and Goodwill. Mostly it's just a little disturbing. Reader discretion is advised.

Note: It is possible that I am making up this legend as I go along.

So anyhow, the Great Turkey flies at night, spreading his message of Gratitude and Goodwill to all those who believe. Leaving cranberry sauce, yes, as a sign. To the believers.

Note: Leaving cranberry sauce is way better than leaving turkey doodle.

Note: A few months ago, local 4Her girls were trying to raise money for their sheep, which they were walking on leashes down my street. The girls came to my doorstep, sheep in tow, requesting donations. Donations, yes. Well, I'll tell you who left a donation. On my doorstep. Yeah, seriously. Sheep doodle? On my doorstep?

Trust me, however. Once you've seen the Great Turkey, you believe. And once you believe, you can't go back. To the way you were. Before. You. Believed.

Perhaps these deep, meaningful lines from New Moon, courtesy Roger Ebert, who failed to find the deep and/or meaningful aspect of these lines, apparently, will endow greater understanding of The Great Turkey's mission after, of course, I have over-explained the whole thing:

Bella: So ... you're a werewolf?
Jacob: Last time I checked.
Bella: Can't you find a way to ... just stop?
Jacob: It's not a lifestyle choice, Bella.

However, in contrast to the Werewolf Lifestyle, The Great Turkey is here to remind us that Gratitude is a lifestyle choice.

Ours to make.

Hop on the Gratitude Bandwagon. It's going to be an awesome ride.

Heck, yes.

Yonkers, Richard!

My new Christmas tree has a name.

It is 'Yonkers'.

I did not name him. He came in a box with his name on it. A box that he will never fit in again. I do not understand why Christmas trees come in such tiny boxes. And I do not understand why my tree is named 'Yonkers,' when such a pine tree doesn't even exist. Somebody at the Christmas tree factory just made it up! Seriously, I googled it. So, my tree may just as well be named Bob or Richard, or you could even call him Dick, if you wished.

There are so many thing I do not understand. Not just about Christmas trees and names and tiny boxes. Like, why do vegetarians eat meat substitutes?

One of my favorite Thanksgivings ever was in a community which did not eat meat. No, it was not a commune. That year, I met Hub at the hospital, adorable two-year-old Son in tow, for a free meal served to employees and their families who had the misfortune to work that holiday. I was thankful for many things, as we sat there, our little family gathered 'round the cafeteria table. Not the fake turkey, particularly. But lots of other things.

I guess meat isn't a requirement for gratitude. But the gravy was good.

And I am very thankful about decorating Christmas trees with strange names, even if I have to shove him back into his tiny box in a few short weeks.

Yonkers.

I kinda like it.

The BeeGees, quite frankly.

I am watching 'Dancing with the Stars'. The BeeGees are performing and it is a match made, quite frankly, in disco heaven, which interestingly, is where disco has gone, except for the heaven part, maybe.

Note: Somehow, when passing through the pearly gates, I do not expect to hear 'Stayin' Alive'. It is, quite frankly, a poor choice under the, well, circumstances.

For those readers not familiar with the BeeGees, the hottest tight-pant-wearing-falsetto-singing trio of brothers, quite frankly, ever, I provide this brief review.

Note: It is not brief.

The BeeGees stands for 'the Brothers Gibb," hence B-G, hence BeeGee. To clarify for the reader, if you are brothers and your last name is Smith, then you are 'the Brothers Smith", or more simply, B-S.

Note: Perhaps 'the Brothers Smith' is not the best example in this case.

I do not recognize, quite frankly, the two BeeGees standing on the stage. And I do mean standing, although Robin (the ugly brother) appears as if he will topple when the dancers rush by in a flurry of energy. Barry (the foxy brother) is a bit puffy and his hair resembles, quite frankly, Santa Claus. Maurice (the other brother) has passed on (may he rest in peace in Disco Heaven, which as discussed earlier, may or may not exist).

This photo is a representation of the BeeGees as I remember them joyfully, quite frankly, from my youth. This photo represents an era when men were free to be real men, sort of. They were free to wear incredibly tight, shiny pants and display their hairy British chests and sing in feminine falsetto voices.



Note: My youth is quite long ago, and apparently, so is theirs.

This photo is a representation of the BeeGees today.



Note: In this photo, they are receiving their 'Golden Anniversary' BeeGee coin from, apparently, the queen (see painting on the wall behind them).

Note: They have been performing fifty years?

Heck, yes.

Oh, the Weather Outside is Frightful ... Oh wait, no it isn't. My Bad.

And THIS is the reason that Trophy Wives originated in California.

Note: It is November. I am in a convertible. Heck, yes.

Note: Check out the teeny tiny reflection of hub in the rearview mirror. Heck, yes.

Gas. And My Feelings. In One Post.

I am at the gas station.

Note: I hate getting gas. For my car, that is. Actually, I hate getting any type of gas, but that's beside the point. I hate nozzles and I hate gas fumes and I hate guessing what side the tank is on and I hate jockeying for position and I hate locking the hose mechanism and I hate worrying that the hose mechanism is going to pop loose and spew gasoline everywhere and I hate wondering did I screw on the gas cap? and I hate checking to see that I did.

I am at the gas station, concentrating.

The man getting fuel at the pump behind me laughs. He's talking about my dog, who is hanging out the window, sniffing the air for signs of dog doodle, probably.

I believe it, he is saying, I believe it.

I don't know what he is talking about. Maybe he is drunk. I smile politely. At the drunk. At the gas station. What is wrong with this picture?

But it wouldn't take much, he is saying. Your dog could get all C's and still be smarter than my kids.

Oh! I get it. My bumper sticker!



He honks and drives away. I am amused.

Note: When I arrive at my destination, I alight from my vehicle to see that gas cap door is open. Sigh.

I hate getting gas.

The Future is Now!

Daught sends me a photo. She looks glamorous in her photo. She always looks glamorous in her photos.

Note: She is glamorous.

Daught is in a clearance store. Looking glamorous. She is in the type of store that takes overstocked merchandise and makes it your shopportunity.



She is holding a tall, shapely mug. By its shape alone, one can determine that it is obviously a ladie's mug. I can not envision a man sipping from a mug of such shapeliness.

Peer closely at the mug. Future Trophy Wife.

Future? As in, not presently?

My dear reader. We are Trophy Wives today. We need not wait for tomorrow. Trophy Wifeness is a state of mind. Come join me. In my mind. (Click here if you need to know more about my mission to change the world, one trophy wife at a time.)

Note: Daught did not buy the mug. She knows false advertising when she sees it.

UPDATE: Aging Trophy Wife Remains Found

The Aging Trophy Wife is missing!

The timeline of the crime:

6:47 p.m. I leave the house for a busy evening with ice cream. Hub is going to the gym. He is wearing a muscle shirt. Nice.

9:05 p.m. I return home from a busy evening with ice cream. Hub is in the kitchen in his muscle shirt. Nice. He is returning a phone call. He says Hi Sweetie.

9:06 p.m. I notice that the Aging Trophy wife is missing. Her accessories remain on the kitchen table, sitting in a pile of sticky stuff.

Still 9:06 p.m. (Things are happening quickly now.) Hub, where is the Trophy Wife?

Still 9:06 p.m. He looks at me. I got rid of her.

My face is incredulous, I am sure.

Hub shrugs. She was stinking.

Lesson learned.

Something Sort of Stinks in My Kitchen

There is an aging Trophy Wife sitting in my kitchen.

No, not me, smarty pants.

Her.

For the past four weeks I have witnessed the accelerated aging process of a lovely Trophy Wife. And I have learned lessons from her, which of course, I will share with you, my dedicated reader.

Lesson One: Snazzy shoes really elongate the leg (well, if one has legs), and therefore provide a slimming effect for say, a roundish figure.

Note: I do not imply that every life lesson garnered from the aging Trophy Wife is deep and meaningful. Just a lesson.

Lesson Two: Accessories really make the outfit. Or in her case, accessories are the outfit.

Note: I repeat. I do not imply that every life lesson garnered from the aging Trophy Wife is deep and meaningful. Just a lesson.

Lesson Three: A smile makes any face beautiful. (Ah, meaningful at last.)

Note: Even faces with saggy skin and deep wrinkles and nasty fuzzy moles.

Aging is not for the faint of heart.

But I have a big smile on my face. So BRING IT!

Just a Few Instructions

Oh happy day!

The mailbox is full. And not just bills. It's a box. It has been sent from the internet, a magical place that, with just a few clicks of the mouse, sends stuff to your mailbox. Stuff from all over the world. Like China. And Cleveland.

Today, a new rechargeable laptop battery pack has arrived! Ace, my teeny, tiny netbook (my computer has a name, yes) has a new lease on life.

And the best part?

The crazy, delightful instructions written by someone in China who, bless his soul, is inadvertently hilarious.

The following is taken from the Rechargeable Laptop Battery Pack Instruction Manual. One must not then confuse these comments as suggestions or merely good ideas. These comments are instructions from someone across the ocean who knows a lot about computing, and apparently, home repair.

•Never hit a hammer on the battery pack. (Apparently, folks from all around the world and all walks of life grab a hammer and force the battery pack into place when it just doesn't quite fit.)

•Never hammer a nail into the battery pack. (What is this strange obsession with hammers and nails? Are contractors around the world abusing teeny, tiny laptops?)

•Never throw the battery pack into fire, as that could cause the battery back to explode. (A little Christmas Eve bonding as the family gathers 'round the fire to roast chestnuts, pop corn, and explode battery packs.)

•Never shock the battery pack. (I guess that mooning Ace is completely out of the question?)

Darn.

Is It My Hormones or Are You Really Annoying?

A Gentleman Visitor to my home remarks, after greeting my dog Rubi that "she must be having her time of month or something because she's really cranky."

Oops.

Gentleman Visitor is a married man with a lovely wife, sisters and I am sure, a mother who has given him the eye for remarks of a much milder nature than insinuating that women, while under the influence of hormones, are less than pleasant.

Okay. Maybe occasionally the Trophy Wife grows horns and sharp teeth and a head that whirls around in circles. Complete circles. Maybe next week, even.

However, all males, regardless of species, know to leave a lady alone when he suspects her to be in such a state. Of womanhood, yes. If he wishes to ever reproduce, that is. Or practice reproduction. Ever.

Granted, Rubi growled at him. A warning tone. Most men out there recognize the warning signs of hormone overload and growling, regardless of species, is definitely one of those signs. At the point of the growl, the Gentleman probably should have ceased and desisted any obtrusive behavior directed to the female dog and started doing dishes and writing love notes and asking his lovely wife if she 'has lost weight because her bum definitely looks smaller in those pants?'

Oops. Those instructions are intended for human males. But the generalities are the same. A quick cookie for the dog and a soothing comment about her fantasticness should do.

Please excuse me.

Rubi is standing in the pantry, asking for a cookie.

What is Polysorbate 60 Anyhow?

I love advertising icons, particularly those of the food variety. Cap'n Crunch, Tony the Tiger, Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. Fantastic.

Note: I am not so crazy about the Geico Gecko. Crazy, peeping-tom reptiles aren't really my thing, although I do find the accent to be attractive. I also have bad feelings about that hideous Aflac duck, which would make a potentially delightful pate, by the way.

Note: I also like Christmas commercials. The one with the Wal-mart lanes opening to the sound of 'Carol of the Bells' made me weepy yesterday. Yeah, I know.

Anyway, the reason I love the icons is because they remind me of people. Okay, me. But not in a self-centered manner, obviously. More like a "gee-I-must-really-be-more-awesome-than-I-thought because hey-look-that-icon-looks-just-like-me!"

Case in point: Mr. Peanut

Aside from the obvious (actually on closer inspection, not-so-obvious, really) gender difference, I bear a strong resemblance to Mr. Peanut. Note the long, skinny arms and legs and the somewhat jovial demeanor. And check out the monacle. Dreamy. And have you seen this guy dance?



Hub has long disagreed with my assessment regarding Mr. Peanut. I think it's because I really can't dance. Very. Well.

But even he finds it hard to ignore the resemblance I bear to "Twinkie the Kid".



Note: There is no shame in looking like a Twinkie. Granted, a twinkie is somewhat shapeless (I rest my case) with skinny arms and legs BUT look at the joyful smile on that face. And everyone knows that a Twinkie is filled with luscious, creamy, SWEET filling. And polysorbate 60.

So I rest my case. That's me. Kinda shapeless and perhaps a little soft in the middle, but my insides are sweet. Yup. And I've got a big smile on my face.

Maybe Twinkie the Kid needs a little crown on her head. The Trophy Twinkie.