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.

Paint the Town Red

Scenario: I am in K-mart (yeah, I know) attempting to buy red spray paint. I am attempting to do so, because in the Great State of California, spray paint is kept in little cases with bars, under lock and key. I suppose the spray paint has been very, very naughty.

Note: And no one ever has the key to spray paint prison, either. Not the supervisor with the crazy hair. Not the sweaty guy stocking the Christmas ornaments. Ah, customer service has the key. There's humor in that, I believe.

I am finally in line with my red spray paint and diet soda. The soda and the paint fall over and roll around each time the conveyor belt moves. I am chatting with the lady behind me. Because she is buying a new lamp shade. She wonders how I feel about it the shape of the lampshade. Will it look right with her brown area rug?

Note: I am not sure how the shape of the lampshade affects the color of her area rug. But I tell her it will look beautiful. You have excellent taste, I say. (Yes, we are still in K-mart. Excellent may have been an overstatement, but the woman, obviously a trophy wife in training, is delighted.)

Our happy moment is interrupted by the staccato voice of the middle-aged checker. He has a pleasing accent I cannot identify. But I am lousy at accents.

"Date of birth please, Ma'am."

Note: I am not proud of the following interaction. Trophy Wives should not be disagreeable with pleasant, staccato-voiced clerks at K-mart.

What? Clearly I am over the age of eighteen, I say. Clearly I am not a gang-banger, I say. Clearly I am making a Christmas poster for our church, for-crying-out-loud, I say.

Note: I am saying this in a manner of light-hearted banter. Pretty much.

"Date of birth please, Ma'am."

What? Put your birthday in the computer, I say. Or make one up, I say. Yes, make one up.

He is staring at me.

I need to be over the age of 18, eh? Well, that's what I"ll be.

"12/12/90"

Ah.

Unfortunate. Indeed.

Unfortunately, Hub drops a Costco-sized glass bottle of garlic-infused olive oil on the wood floor.

Unfortunately, it shatters into about a zillion pieces.

Unfortunately, the olive oil begins to glug and ooze dangerously toward the area rugs,the upholstered furniture, the dog.

Unfortunately, I grab the nearest towels--a couple of oversized (Costco, yes) white bath sheets to corral the mess.

Unfortunately, I throw the garlic-infused towels into the wash. With other towels. And kitchen dishcloths. Whatnot.

Unfortunately, I now have garlic-infused towels, dishcloths and whatnot.

Unfortunately, after several hot-water-vinegar washings, I still have garlic-infused towels, dishcloths and whatnot.

Unfortunately, the very clean but garlic-infused towels, dishcloths and whatnot are now in the garbage.

Unfortunately, the washing machine smells like a pizzeria.

Fortunately, Trophy Wives like pizza.

Humanoids and the Whatnot.

Every body of water has its secrets. And I'm not just talking about kids peeing in the pool here. No, I am talking about frightening, dangerous and real creatures that haunt the deep waters of the earth.

There's the Creature of the Black Lagoon, a monster of the "mist-shrouded Amazon, the domain of a prehistoric, amphibious "Gill Man" -- possibly the last of a species of fanged, clawed humanoids who may have evolved entirely underwater." amctv.com Yes, fanged, clawed humanoids. But also note that he is possibly the last. There may be more. Please use care on your next voyage down the mist-shrouded Amazon.

Note: In the accompanying actual photograph of the Creature of the Black Lagoon, he is, indeed, real and has a penchant for the ladies.



Nessie, the Loch Ness Monster has been traumatizing young Scots in kilts for decades.

Note: The Scots wear the kilts, not the Monster.

Another Note: Personally, I like the kilt. Men in skirts, fine. Men with bagpipes, not fine.

Nessie has been described as "egg-shaped" or "two-humped" or "elephant-like" which is a description that applies to many types of animal life, including some member of my pilates classes. Please refer to the actual photo below, taken at the trembling hand of a brave soul. But if one looks closely enough, the creature is there. It is real. It is frightening.




A new monster has been sighted on the shores of a wine country lake. The creature is described as "multi-tentacled" and "quite buff" and although it is photographed on the shore, authorities believe it is amphibious and spends time in the Deep. Dark. Water.

Note: It's a rough photograph, taken at the trembling hand of a brave soul, but if one looks closely enough, the creature is there. It is real. It is frightening.



And it bears a stunning resemblance to Ursula, from The Little Mermaid, also a real monster.



It is, I believe, The Trophy Monster of Lake Sonoma.