Laboratory Instructions. Wow.

I received instructions from the Laboratory yesterday through the U.S. Postal Service. I feel inclined to share with you, my reader, the type of day I am experiencing. Sometimes it doesn't matter if I am a Trophy Wife or The Pope. Sometimes, yes, things have to be done.

Disclaimer: This information is real. Some of the more technical terms in this post have been altered for the clarity of the reader.

Let us begin.

"1. Unfold and put the large collection tissue paper inside the toilet bowl on top of the water.

2. Have a bowel movement so that the poo-poo fall on top of the collection paper. (Remember: I am not making this up.)

3. Take a sample of your poo-poo. Here's how: Scrape the surface of the poo-poo with the sample probe. Be sure to cover the grooved portion of the sample probe completely with your poo-poo!

4. Insert sample probe into the sample bottle. If some poo-poo has gotten on the outside of the bottle, please wipe it off before mailing. (There's a nasty job: The Lab Collection Mail Opener. "Hey Larry! Another one forget to wipe!")

5. Place poo-poo sample in the bio-hazard bag and mail immediately after collection, within 3 days." (Three days? Really? That's immediate?)

Trick or Treat?

Eeeeew.

Trick or Treat. I am the Treat. Yeah.

So, last night I went trick or treating. At 7:00 p.m. In reverse. Not backwards exactly. We brought candy. We played games with the little kids.

Yes, we were the treats.

6:35 p.m.: I need a costume. It is cold outside. Seriously. Like in the 40's. I put my orange jacket over my black t-shirt and jeans. Not a costume.

6:37 p.m.: I am standing in my closet. Looking. At my clothes. For inspiration. I see Rosie, the creepiest doll on earth. Please do not ask why Rosie is in my closet. It is personal. Okay, fine. I'll tell you. She is in my closet, face down, because she scares me. She reminds me of Chucky. Yes Chucky, from the creepiest horror movies ever. She even sounds like Chucky when she talks. Yes, she talks. Creepy!

6:39 p.m.: I am standing in the kitchen. I am inspired. I pull my awfully cute apron from the drawer. It matches my jacket. Nice. I grab a spatula. Rubber. And my personal guidebook. Martha Stewart's Cookies.

6:40 p.m. Hub wraps his belt around me, around the wool coat, around the apron, around the creepy doll that sounds like Chucky and around my guidebook. He makes jokes about strapping the creepy doll at my breast. He thinks he is hilarious. He struggles to find the smallest notch. I am tiny, he says. Nice.

Susie Homemaker, at your service.

Let the Halloweening begin! Well, continue ...

Now you see it. Now you don't.

Look closely at this picture.

You may not see it at first. Look again.

Believe it or not, the photo is my thumb. Yes. It is difficult to see because I am wearing a camouflage bandaid. You will note that the use of the camouflage causes the injury to just blend into the background and ... disappear!

Wow. Think of the implications of such a product. Sure, it can cover a nasty wound.

But wait!

Imagine a giant camouflage bandaid plastered right over your cellulite. (Not that you have any. I'm just saying.) The dimpled fat just blends into the background and ... disappears! Unexpected company? Imagine a giant camouflage throw tossed over the mess which just blends into the background and ... disappears! Or better yet, toss an even gianter throw over the house and it just blends into the background and ... disappears! Unexpected guests are a thing of the past.

But wait!

Zip yourself into a giant camouflage bag and become a 'fly on the wall' in your teen's room. Zip yourself up at the PTA meeting when they are looking for a volunteer to Chair the Annual Groundhog Day Masquerade Ball and you'll just blend into the background and ... disappear!

Genius!

She Walks in Beauty. Whatever.

So, Kendall is on the run with Aidan, a handsome ex-Special Ops agent with a sexy Austrailian accent and, apparently, a penchant for poetry. He helps her escape from the hospital after her "double," who is serving her life sentence in prison (while she lives in a secret room in her own home) gets stabbed by a disgruntled inmate and is sent to the hospital.

Oh, the plotline doesn't matter. The following information matters: Her husband, Zach is handsome, mysterious, brooding, rich and apparently, has a penchant for poetry. Also.

Note: Hub has a penchant for many things. Poetry, however, is not one of them.

So, Kendall and Aidan are holed up in a charming, old run-down church while Aidan recovers from the gunshot wound which he received during the daring escape. Nevermind that Kendall and Aidan have done the whatnot more than once. She is devoted to Zach (currently) and is reminiscing. About Zach. And their love. And about how deep and abiding it is (currently). And about how Lord Byron wrote "She Walks in Beauty" after seeing a woman that took his breath away. And nevermind that Lord Byron, who was also mysterious and brooding (because of his clubfoot, some poetry authorities muse) had a penchant for a few things himself (including his own female relatives).

Kendall: I'll never forget the first time Zach read it to me."

Wait. The first time? Doesn't that imply that there are other times as well? Are you kidding me?

Note: Hub needs a scriptwriter. Now.

Cue music. Cut to Zach and Kendall on a couch, in a room too dark for reading and seriously, Zach is my age and in that lighting would need reading glasses, and of course the fire is roaring and Kendall is glowing and Zach is gazing. Adoringly. At. Her.

Cut to old run-down church. Kendall is quoting the poem, her eyes glistening with the remembrance of it all. Aidan's eyes are glistening as well. He quotes the poem with her. In tandem. They hold hands. And quote.

Note: Oh please.

Eye-Popping Fun!

This most eye-popping and delectable dish was served for dinner by the Trophy Wife last night.


Eat your heart out! Or your eyeball, I suppose.

Your choice.

Let the Halloweening begin!

Anatomy of an Idiot

I am driving down a busy street, heading to pilates, as usual. I am driving within the confines of the speed limit, as Trophy Wives do not endanger the lives of others with their automobiles. I notice a cute old Grandpa-type driving beside me in an older brown sedan. He has silvery hair and very large spectacles. All the better to see you with my dear. I wonder briefly if the Big Bad Wolf has swallowed his wife.

I am jarred from my reverie when the light ahead turns yellow. Grandpa and I both make the (correct) decision to brake. It is a firm-brake situation. Not a slam-brake, not a gentle-brake. Firm.

Grandpa and I are both coming to a firm stop. In my rear view mirror I see a pickup truck coming to a gentle brake behind me, as the lady (likely a Trophy Wife also) has allowed plenty of distance to stop. The whole car-length theory in action.

But Grandpa's situation is different. Because he is being followed by an idiot.

Idiot, who is in his mid-20's and has a nasty goatee, is driving a white Yukon that is raised. Yes, raised, because a Yukon certainly is not already far enough off the ground. And it is modified, meaning it can be heard in the next county.

So, Grandpa can hear clearly that Idiot is accelerating at the yellow light. But Grandpa is firm-braking at the yellow light. Grandpa is alarmed. Idiot realizes he is an idiot (however briefly) and begins the slam-brake option. But it is too late to stop in time.

So, Idiot skids to Grandpa's right, which is a public sidewalk and comes to rest, two wheels perched on the curb, but interestingly, clearly behind the limit line.

Grandpa is pounding his steering wheel and cursing, probably, but I'm a lousy lipreader. Idiot is ignoring everything, swirling his nasty goatee in his fingers, probably a nervous habit. Meanwhile, the Yukon is perched on the curb, as Idiot guns it repeatedly, waiting for a green light.

Light turns green. In case Idiot has not made the point yet that he is an idiot, he floors the Yukon. Yukon jerks off the curb, squeals down the street, careening across lanes, sounding a little like the space shuttle.

So, in summary: What an idiot.

Why does the Big Bad Wolf swallow sweet old ladies when he could be doing the world a favor by eating all the idiots?

A Moment of Silence

Today, The Trophy Wife Blog will observe a moment of silence in tribute to the tragic death of Scooby the Skunk (okay, I admit that is not his given name) whose life was forever altered (well, ended) by a brutal whacking-over-the-head-with-a-shovel at the hands of a rather giddy Animal Control Officer and my Cigar-Smoking, Wine-Making, Over-Age-70-National-Rifle-Champion Neighbor, who turned Scooby into the authorities because he kept hanging out in our backyards and eating our cats' food and rubbing against our ankles when we didn't expect it and had become, I suppose, a threat to our nasal safety.

Scooby was carried unceremoniously away in a satchel that smelled like holy heck.

Yeah, I guess that's one way to control a skunk.

I Think I Mooned My Contractor

It is late. I am steam-mopping my family room. Mr. Contractor is still outside, contracting.

Note: It is actually 9:00 p.m., which may not seem late in the traditional sense. However, to some readers it may seem late to be steam-mopping the family room, but to anyone who knows the Trophy Wife, it is not a surprise at all. It does seem late, however, to be putzing around outside with a flashlight and 30' ladder.

My family room has a large slider and lots of windows. But it is late. It is dark. I am not looking out the windows. I am steam mopping. But even if I looked out the windows, I would see nothing. It is dark.

Unfortunately, although I cannot see out, others can see in. It is the whole basis of the Peeping Tom's Strategy.

Note: Mr. Contractor is not a Peeping Tom. He is merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I am mopping. Happily. I love my steam mop. And perhaps because of the steam, I don't know for sure, as I'm bending and reaching, my pants are slipping and sliding.

Note: It could also be on account of the fact that a) my bum is bumless and/or b) I need a belt.

I try to hitch the pants up with my thumb, but it requires more ummph than I can render and I have almost reached the far corner of the room so I keep mopping and bending and reaching and unfortunately, slipping and sliding.

The air feels cool on my bum.

I hear knocking. Rubi barks. I drop the mop. I stand up, hitching up my pants. I turn. To the slider.

It is Mr. Contractor. Literally three feet away. In the dark. In the night. I think he may be smiling.

Mr. Contractor is expensive. But this time, he gets more than he is paid for.

Wild Turkeys Gone ... Wild

While driving home, I am required to stop three times to allow hordes of Wild Turkeys to cross the street. And there were seriously more than twenty. In each horde. And Wild Turkeys are not particularly quick on their feet, on account of the effort and concentration it takes to coordinate the moving of the feet with the bobbing of the head. So I am waiting awhile because Wild Turkeys are also STUPID and do not see the imminent danger of 4200 pound automobiles.

Why do the Wild Turkeys cross the street, anyway?

Note: I am not telling a joke. I am asking a serious question.

Anyway, I believe it was Ben Franklin who championed the Wild Turkey as the National Bird, or maybe it was Aretha Franklin, I'm not really sure. The premise behind the whole idea probably stems from the whole first Thanksgiving thing, which I understand. But aside from being tasty, the Wild Turkey has little going for it. And did I mention it is STUPID?

The Wild Turkey does not have much happening in its head. Unless you count that red gobbly thing that jiggles around on the male's chin. The technical name for this apparatus is a wattle. And apparently the wattle changes colors when a male turkey is excited. Okay, then.

Simmer down, everyone.

Every year in the early spring, the males, well, their wattles change color. And I guess that the females go for that kind of thing and that gets the fellows all riled up, so they fight and argue and bicker to be the Alpha Male. That's right. One Alpha Male wins a flock of ladies and marches away, the victor, taking his ladies off to some sort of Male Turkey Utopia. And he, um, services all the ladies in his flock.

Meanwhile, the whole group of juvenile Losers wander away, running around the streets in large unruly gangs, vandalizing flowers, chasing dogs. Probably selling drugs. Assorted mayhem. (That's what happens when there isn't a lady around to keep the men in check.)

And in the fall, the Losers really show their stupidity. Aside from coming down from the Wild Turkey Sanctuary (The Golf Course behind my house) to cross the streets, they decide that the cool weather is a good time to plump up their feathers.

Picture: Twenty male Losers. All plumped up looking exactly like those Thanksgiving centerpieces we had when I was a kid. Crossing the street in mass numbers.

They may as well ring my doorbell and say, "I'm here for Thanksgiving Dinner!"

Losers.

I am Pavlov; This is my Dog

Everybody knows about Pavlov and his research with dogs and bell ringing and food and saliva. I am not impressed with his "research" because anyone who has a dog knows that canines spend their lives waiting for cues to salivate. Or wag. Or piddle. Or bark. Or whatever.

However, a new low in Pavlovian Dogisms has occurred in my life. But first, one must understand the Dogisms at play in my household:

Cases in point:

Note: Reader, please use your imagination in these scenarios. I am Pavlov. My Dog is the Dog.

Doorbell ringing: Dog jumps to feet. Dog skids to front door. (Hardwood is slippery). Dog leans head back and barks. Dog greets Feared Intruder. Dog goes back to sleep.

Keys Jingling: Dog jumps to feet. Dog cocks head back and forth. Dog gets in the down/ready position (butt up, eyes wide. Wait. Her eyes are always wide). Dog spins wildly in excitement. Dog realizes Dog is not coming. But Dog runs to cookie closet. Dog gets cookie anyway, so that's good.

Shoes Going On: Dog jumps to feet. Dog cocks head back and forth. Dog gets in the down/ready position (butt up, eyes wide. Wait. Her eyes are always wide). Dog spins wildly in excitement. Dog is coming! Dog races about, trying to find a toy, a cookie anything to take with on her "go"! Dog pants. Dog gets a drink. Dog is overjoyed.

Dog Hears Whipped Cream Being Sprayed: Dog jumps to feet. Dog runs to Pavlov. Dog spins. Dog licks lips. Dog digs the whipped cream.

Now for the sad commentary: I am addicted to nose spray; Fine. I said it. And one day my nose will become one large nasal cavity, the cartilage between the noses (make that nasal cavities maybe?) will disintegrate and I'll have a giant big hole. But at least I won't be congested.

Anyway, I spray my nose and sure enough, a few minutes later, I can breathe, which necessitates the use of a kleenex and the blowing of the nose.

Dog Hears. Dog runs to Pavlov. Dog spins. Dog licks lips. Dog think I'm spraying whipped cream. Dog can't find the spray bottle. Dog wonders what the heck? Dog goes back to sleep.

Dreaming of whipped cream, probably.

Nipping

Three-legged dogs are prohibited from pooping here.

It is a beautiful morning. The fog dips into the nooks and crannies of the rolling hills in my neighborhood. It is quiet out; Malamute Guy is nowhere to be seen. Annoying Blonde Girl must be taking a morning off from appearing to hate the world.

Then we see it. Rubi and I. The sign.

Three-legged dogs are prohibited from pooping here.

So, what's the big deal, you say? How many three-legged dogs poop in your neighborhood, anyway?

Well, let me tell you why: Currently, it is discrimination against just the three-legged dogs. Then before we know it, it's the blind dogs or the dogs with nubby tails.

Then what? Do we discriminate against dogs of color? Mutts?

Nip it in the bud, folks. Nip it in the bud.

Play that Funky Music

Last weekend I participated in a church campout.

Stop. I know what you're thinking, which is something like, "What? Isn't it October?" or "What? Aren't you a Trophy Wife?"

Well, the answer to both question is yes, but remember always that a Trophy Wife is, above all, a very good sport about things. Even camping. In October.

It is a lovely and well-equipped campsite. There are shady trees. There is beautiful foliage. There are barbecue grills, picnic tables, a beautiful firepit.

There are bathrooms with running hot and cold water. The toilets flush. The birds sing. The Rangers wear those really big hats.

And when I think, Wow, this campsite can't get any better, it does. It's gets better because I see the sign and realize that ...



this campsite is also equipped with a disco!



Heck, yes.

I Just Realized Something

Somewhat of a confession: Hub and I watch 'All My Children' during dinner every evening.

Yeah, I know.

Anyway, It's-All-About-Me is having a flashback of a romantic moment with Ultimate-Hunk:

The sound of crashing waves. The wind is causing Hunk's filmy white shirt to billow about. His hair is tousled, his beard his rough. She gazes at him, she professes eternal love. He gazes at her, his dark eyes piercing to, perhaps, her very soul.

Or mine. Or maybe even Hub's.

He speaks, his voice gravelly and deep. "I just realized something.......... I was made to love you."

Huh?

Okay, I don't mind suspending reality now and then (like when the cute coed decides to go to medical school and in like, three weeks, she is performing brain surgery at Pine Valley Hospital or when the sister threw the other sister down the well so that she could get impregnated by the husband of the sister currently in the well) BUT this has gone too far.

Seriously.

I think it's more likely that I'll win the Nobel Peace Prize than words like that will ever be uttered by any man who does not have a script writer.

More likely:

I just realized something ...... peanuts give me gas.

I just realized something ...... there are three college football games on in a row this weekend!

I just realized something ...... I forgot to take the garbage cans out to the street last night.

Let's hear it for our real men. Our belly-scratching, gas-passing, socks-on-the-floor-leaving men that make us smile everyday.

I wouldn't be a Trophy Wife without mine!

Where in the World is the Trophy Wife?

I do not know Carmen San Diego. I do know that Carmen San Diego went lots of places and apparently, got lost. A lot. Because everyone was always wondering where in the world Carmen was.

That gets me to thinking, though. I haven't heard much about Carmen San Diego lately. Did Carmen finally get completely and totally lost?

Anyway, it is time for my reader to play "Where in the World is the Trophy Wife?" Yay!

Disclaimer: Maybe it's not so much "Where in the World is the Trophy Wife?" but "Where in the Heck is the Trophy Wife and what is she doing there?"

Let us begin with the first clue. Please view the photo below and consider a valid guess as to the whereabout of the TW.





Hmmn. Obviously it is to early to know the answer, or the game would be over. So, let us continue.




Hmmn. This game is tricky, yes? The Trophy Wife could be almost anywhere. Anywhere that's kind of creepy with some large creepy things with creepy hands.


Very good! We are getting close now, yes. The alert reader will notice the moniker of OSH. It is not Osh Kosh B'Gosh children's wear, however. Osh Kosh B'Gosh got it's start in Wisconsin and there is NO POSSIBLE WAY THAT YOU WILL FIND THE TROPHY WIFE IN WISCONSIN.


Oh, fantastic! The Orchard Supply Hardware BEAVER! Are you kidding me? A beaver?

That's one giant beaver as the Trophy Wife fits under his, um, man area.

Lovely!

Eat your heart out, Carmen.

A Message From God. Seriously.

Scenario: I am teaching a church Sunday School class with the 15-18 year olds. We are learning about love. Compassion. Reaching out to others.

Good stuff, yes.

Scenario Continues: I challenge the class to consider the needs of members of our class who, for whatever reason, are not here. (I am not sure about the use of who in that sentence. Whom?)

Good stuff, yes.

Scenario Continues: We look around the classroom. Student X is not here, we realize, nor has he been for a few weeks. But I already know he will be absent and I have contacted his Father for permission to text him. On his cellphone. One member of the class at a time. To say we miss him. We care. We hope to see him soon. A text every ten seconds for 100 seconds, which is longer than most people can hold a plank in my Pilates class. Not me. I can hold it for three minutes, easily.

Good stuff, yes.

Scenario Continues: We enter the number provided by the Father into our phones. We type our messages. We prepare to send.

I go first. SEND.

A student pipes up, and ironically, it is the same student who worked in the pawn (porn) shop mentioned in an earlier post. He says something about having Student X's number in his cellphone already and Student X's name does not come up when he enters the digits and, "Wow, that's kinda weird. Are you sure that's the right number?"

Of course I am sure. Well, I think I am sure. Maybe I'm not so sure.

Oops. I am wrong. Someone out there just got a text. Some random individual. Some random individual who's life will never be the same.

Because God just texted him. It had to be God. Because who else would say, "I missed you in Church today. I hope to see you next week!"

Heck, yes.

A (Very) Small Triumph

Apparently I look bad today.

No, no. It's true. I can handle it. How do I know? Because my Contractor tells me. Not in so many words, but here's the situation:

I must look bad when Mr. Contractor, who wears a back-protection brace at all times which causes his belly to protrude over his pants in a "blurb" and therefore clearly understands fashion, watches me walk down the stairs leading to my driveway with what I believe is a bounce in my step but must appear somewhat hobble-like to Mr. Contractor, and yes, I choose to neglect my makeup this morning because it is in the backseat of the Civ and I do not choose to retrieve it and besides, I am going to Big Lots for crying out loud and wearing makeup at Big Lots is clearly over the top but I have showered and pulled my hair back into what I believe to be an adequate attempt at a "hairdo."

Big Breath. Continue.

So I am bouncing or gimping, depending on one's opinion, and he is looking at me with a definite head cock and concerned eyebrows which are like angry eyebrows but without the anger, and he is stepping closer and closer until he blocks my path and is definitely in my personal space because I can see the sawdust on his safety glasses, which are jauntily perched on his head and he is probably the nicest guy in the world, seriously, so I cannot blow him off and besides, he knows when I shower and eat and what I watch on television and he brings me fresh apples and heirloom tomatoes, so I pause and he says, " Are you okay?" which translated means, "You look like *&!!" and because he has seen me in a bathrobe and swimwear and flannel pants and big slippers he is probably qualified to make the assessment.

This is where regular wives are divided from The Trophy Wives, like the sheep and goats and the egg whites and the yolks.

I say to Mr. Contractor, "I am excellent! Have fun with those beautiful redwood posts you bought with the money I wanted to spend on a new Thermador range. I hope you don't slice any major arteries with that big noisy saw or plummett off the balcony you are replacing!"

Okay, I exaggerate a little. But I did say the 'excellent' part.

But it was still a triumph.

Carry on.

See the Signs

Sometimes life feels a bit crummy, no matter how hard we try to be positive. It's kind of the way the cookie crumbles, or the ball bounces or the hormones rage. But that's when a Trophy Wife shines by rising to the occasion to look for signs that the world is a wonderful place to be.

Cases in point:

•A dude's car is broken down in the right-hand turn lane of a very busy intersection. His hazard lights are flashing; he is standing on the sidewalk, pacing. Losers are honking and jockeying their cars, trying to get around. I am blocked in the lane next to the scene. An older green sedan pulls over and a young guy jumps from the car. He pops his trunk and leans into it, rummaging about until he pulls out a tool box and a jack. He holds up his sagging jeans with the same hand holding the jack as he runs to aid the stranger.

•I pause at a stop sign in my car and wave a little family to cross in front of me. The Daddy is tall and fair with a little blonde pig-tailed girl riding on his shoulders. Her curls bounce with each of daddy's long strides. She is jabbering and pointing. A light haired boy leads the way, pedaling on his tricycle. He has a baseball cap on his head, a little sideways. Behind them lumbers the family dog, a large nondescript hound. I hear their laughter through the open window.

•I have been gone all day, which is unusual for me. I walk in the door, dragging my pilates mat, purse, shopping bags and my attitude. I am greeted by Rubi as if I have been gone for days, weeks even. She leaps, she licks, she chases her ball. She gazes at me. Her whole body wiggles with delight.

Stop and read the signs, reader(s).

Life is good. Even when it isn't.

A Visit to the Pawn Shop

I am killing time downtown before a mid-morning meeting. Yes, a mid-morning meeting. It pleases me to appear important, but I admit that I am meeting three friends for diet cokes, basically. At least I have three friends.

I see a pawn shop. I've always wanted to go in a pawn shop and gaze at the sad wedding rings, practically oozing stories of lost love. Oh, and the antique watches pawned to buy the hair combs for the wife who cut off her hair to buy the pocket watch in the first place. Or something like that.

I can never get that story straight.

Amusing anecdote: A teenage piano student of mine had a part-time job at the pawn shop. The very pawn shop where I now stand. He was excitedly telling an adult friend about his new job. The adult friend misunderstood and somehow (probably because he's a man) thought the young fellow was working in a "porn" shop. "Yes," the young fellow says, "I work in the back. Where the good stuff is."

I digress.

I walk in. The carpet is turquoise and it smells like the Las Vegas strip a little bit. A guy with green hair is looking at a wall of electric guitars. Really? A whole wall of them? There are knives locked up in a wall case with sharp blades that could gut and slice me pretty darn quick, in the right hands. There are golf clubs and amps and really old televisions (all turned on, which amuses me).

I walk around the jewelry case. There are Tiffany boxes inside. Riiiiight. Do I look like I was born yesterday?

Wait. Don't answer that question.

And that's it. I'm very disappointed. It's just a bunch of crap.

Maybe I need to go into the back. Where the good stuff is.

The Exception to the Rule

Most rules can be stretched or bent or realigned or outsourced to meet our needs. I'm sure that if kids were really required to "eat those peas or there will be no dessert for you, young lady," the pea industry would suddenly skyrocket. Investors would pull their money out of stocks and bonds and mattresses to get a piece of that action.

Then there's the whole i-before-e-except-after-c debacle. Remember the additional baloney "except as sounded as 'a' as in neighbor and weigh?" Well, how does one explain 'seize', 'weird' or 'deity'?

Thanks to an alert reader (Daughter), an exception to the Shoulder Pad Rule has been identified.

Yes, I know. Unbelievable.

However, a very small sub-group of the population exists for which shoulder pads are most useful and I am not referring to football players.

I am referring to Bobbleheads.

And you think bobbleheads only exist as baseball-game-giveaways and as bobbing-head, bobbling-hipped hula girls on the dashboard. No, the Bobblehead is alive and well and found mainly in its natural habitat, Los Angeles. Or in this case, somewhere in the 90210 zip code.


These are girls desperately in need of the shoulder pad and/or a sandwich. It is a miracle that they can even hold up those giant heads on their little tiny necks and little tiny selves.

And yet, I cannot, in good conscience, recommend shoulder pads. Even for these exceptions.

I can, however, recommend the sandwich. Wait, I lied.

Make it a salad.

Pinheads and Beetles and Superheroes, Oh My!

It is human nature to try to relieve needless suffering. We teach our children not to repeat our mistakes and thus lead happier lives. Heck, even Erica Cane on All My Children had a dance marathon to raise money for starving children in Africa. During the marathon, contestants still had time for quickies, attacking killers in the women's bathroom and concocting kidnap plots all while never breaking a sweat or smearing their makeup.

(Sidenote: When I was a kid, the starving children were in China. We were required to clean our plates at dinner because they were starving over there. I am not sure how my gluttony helped those kids. But I certainly did my best.)

So it is my own compassionate human nature, wishing for the world to be a better place for my children, that causes me to sound the alarm.

Again. Yes, I am referring to the the Fashion Crime of the Shoulder Pads. The Fashion Industry has referred to this atrocity as "Power Suits" as a means of selling the product to women wishing to project a stronger image. But what if we call it like it is? What if we called it "The Pinhead Effect"? Would women be lining up to look like pinheads?

Warning: This post contains graphic images of The Pinhead Effect. Reader discretion is advised.

After a recent delightful evening with Son and Favorite DIL, I am at Fenton's Creamery, enjoying a salad. (Yeah, I know). It is late, after midnight, and there is a chilly breeze blowing off the San Francisco Bay. So, gallant Hub gives me his jacket. With shoulder pads. Need I say more?

No, but I will say more anyway, of course. Is this what we are looking for, Ladies? Pinheads? And note: I did not feel more powerful. I felt warmer but that's about it.







Perhaps truth in advertising should be taken a step further. Let's have the fashion industry tell us the truth. What about "The Soldier Beetle Effect"? Compare these photos, folks. I look frighteningly like a BEETLE.





What? Do you need more to dissuade you? Then what about the "Superhero Effect"? It sounds a bit more glamorous, but do you really want to look like 'Volton, Defender of the Universe?' (That one was for you, Son).

Fine. I will pull out the big guns. Is it your desire to sport the "Michael Jackson Action Figure Effect"?

I rest my case.

And my shoulder pads.

A Day in the Life

Trophy Wives lead glamorous lives.

Okay, not really. But a true Trophy Wife is inclined to find the glamour in her life. And if there isn't any glamour, then she must, at the very least, be good-natured about it all.

Which really describes my day. To the T. (As in Trophy, of course).

I go to get my nails done at my favorite place, conveniently located in the K-mart shopping center. Yeah, I know. But I've got a great nail girl and I can even remember her name now, Yvonne. (Click here for a previous post all about Yvonne). The shop has amusing signs like "Waxing. $30 for 1/2 Leg" and I like to imagine asking my girl to wax just the front half of my leg (who sees the back anyway? Not me!) . Or maybe the right side of my leg or if I'm feeling really crazy, let's wax it on the diagonal!

It is a quiet morning in the salon. I am amused to watch the other "nail care providers" monkey around and kill time.

One of the new dudes (I will call him Jim) is in the back behind a beaded partition, which doesn't part much. He has a mannequin head back there with long dark hair. He is squirting the head with--I swear--windex and then parts it and clips it, parts it and clips it. Then he clips it and parts it. Danny is chain-smoking out front even though I tell him it'll kill him. Some very old dude I do not know, also Vietnamese and whom I will call Robert, is sitting on the couch reading "Woman's Day". I am not sure if he is reading "5 Clutter Busters--They'll Surprise you!" or "Fall's Cutest Cookies Easy How-Tos" but the expression on his face is clearly not one of surprise, so perhaps it is the latter.

And Cindy is hungry. She comes from the back where Jim continues to clip and part, carrying a tray of white stuff. This white stuff is cut in large triangles and has forks sticking out. Of each piece. Straight up.

Since I'm the only client there at the time. she asks politely, "Would you like some?" And so I am taken off guard. Completely. I don't know what is happening but I hear myself say, "Sure, I'll try it." And before I know it she cuts off way too large of a piece and spears it with a fork and hands it to me.

Yvonne says, "It's jelly" and I think of "jello" (a personal favorite) and for some reason I bite off some of it.

At first I am okay. It is firmer than I expect. It feels bouncy. I think to myself, "if I drop this on the floor, I believe it will bounce right back." I swallow. Coconut! I recognize the flavor. Vaguely. Because there is another flavor also. And I don't care for it. And I remember Danny telling me how when he lived in Vietnam his dogs got stolen and cooked up in the restaurants and I'm looking at this white stuff and wondering what the heck is in it and I'm not feeling so good and now what do I do with it?

Note: Upon returning home to my blessed Google, I have found the following, slightly stomach-roll inducing information: Agar is a gelatinous substance derived from seaweed. Historically and in a modern context, it is chiefly used as an ingredient in desserts, but in the past century has found extensive use as a solid substrate to contain culture medium for microbiological work. (Oh YUM!) The gelling agent is an unbranched polysaccharide obtained primarily fromseaweed (Sphaerococcus euchema).

Further Note: Anything with "ococcus" in it DOES NOT BELONG in my mouth.

So I do what any Trophy Wife would do. I take another huge bite. I realize that the best way to make it go away is to eat it.

Wait! What am I thinking? I feel a gag coming on. I swallow. I feel gag tears coming to my eyes.

The only option now is to pretend to blow my nose and slide the substance off the fork and into my kleenex and then drop it in my purse.

"Oh, no thank you, Cindy. No more for me! I'm full!" I say, patting the belly for emphasis.

Which reminds me. I need to get that stuff out of my purse.

P.S. Of course those toes aren't mine!

Twenty-Three

Twenty-three years ago today, Daughter arrived in this world somewhat against her will. And if you know much about her, she has quite a will. When she was just two years old, she stood at the top of the stairs in her pink dress and white cowboy boots, demanding something or other. Probably a cupcake. When I didn't comply, she responded by holding her breath until she passed out, tumbling down the stairs.

Daughter got her head stuck between the wrought-iron railing of those same stairs when she was three. It didn't matter if we suggested that she "not stick her head between the rails," because if Daughter wanted to do something, well, she usually did it. The neighbors gathered to assess the situation and we alternately greased her head with oil and shortening and soap. Finally her dad got the jack from the car and pumped the iron railings far enough apart for her to remove her goopy little self. As I recall, she was mad that she had to take a bath afterward.

When she was not yet five, she announced that she was going to "ride her two-wheel bike now." I must have given her some sort of encouragement, because she ran outside. Less than thirty minutes later, she returned to the kitchen, urging me to watch her "ride a big girl bike." I figured she'd be scooting herself along, Fred-Flintstone style. Imagine my surprise when she hopped on the bike--by herself--and rode happily down the street, the wind blowing her pigtails.

Daughter came up missing one day when she was eight. I wasn't too concerned; we lived in a pleasant family neighborhood. But nonetheless, I went on a search. When I finally found her, she explained that she had been going from door-to-door selling tickets to a "show" that she would put on a few hours later on our front lawn. Before I chastised her, and explained that she "can't sell tickets to a show no one wants to see," she pulled wads of dollar bills from her pockets and looked up at me in delight. So, we had a show.

As she grew, that determination became her great asset. When my own mother died, my barely-sixteen year old daughter stepped up to the plate. Together we made 100 enchiladas for the family dinner, side by side. Daughter found the strength to sing at the funeral and to become my dearest friend and greatest ally.

And now, we "share a brain between us." I never laugh harder than when I am with Daughter. I never feel more hopeful than when we are together. I have hope for my Daughter, hope for myself and hope for many more years of birthdays.

I love you, Dottie.