Varmints. And Gourmet Cuisine.

I am selecting vegetables at the Home Depot. Again.

Note: My earlier vegetable selections were eaten down to teeny tiny nubs by a varmint.

Note: A varmint is defined as any critter in your yard with beady eyes and irritating habits.

Note: This particular varmint is going to regret his practice of eating my vegetables to nubs. I am sprinkling hot pepper sauce on my veggie leaves. Tonight.

Note: That's what I'm talking about.

A Dude is buying vegetables with his skinny-legged son, who is using the cart as a spaceship, probably.

Dude hands Skinny-Legged Boy the veggie pack and Skinny-Legged Boy flies the pack through the air and lands it in the cart. He is making flying noises and shooting noises. Boy noises, yes.

Skinny-Legged Boy is naming each vegetable with delight as the veggies fly through the air. Corn! Eggplant! Snap Peas!

Skinny-Legged Boy wants more tomatoes, but Dude says we have plenty already.

You can never have too many tomatoes, I say, because it's true. Everyone knows it.

Dude is agreeing and saying stuff but I have lost focus until he says, I am a gourmet chef, so I blah-blah-blah.

My brain is stuck. A gourmet chef? What does that mean? Isn't that statement just a little bit redundant? Is there such thing as a Non-Gourmet chef, specializing in mediocre cuisine? Doesn't the term chef already connote a certain level of expertise versus, say, a cook?

Oh, never mind. I have bigger fish to fry.

Tonight, I become a gourmet chef. For varmints.

Heck, yes!

Cats. A Real Drag.

I am driving home from The Home Depot with practically the entire garden center in the back of my big purse, aka, my aging SUV.

Rubi is sitting beside me on the center divider, just observing things.

Note: Sometimes I wonder what she observes when she sits there. She sits very tall with her chin tilted upward, probably to see over the dashboard. When I point out something of potential interest to her, she looks with great intent to wherever I gesture.

Right now I am gesturing at a lady walking down the street, holding her cat.

Rubi looks, with great intent.

The lady is placing the cat down on the sidewalk. The cat is on a leash.

Note: Silly lady.

The cat sits there.

The lady walks away, about five feet or so which is, of course, the length of the leash. She tugs on the leash.

The cat flops over. The cat is on its side on the sidewalk, yes.

The lady picks up the cat and then places it back down on the sidewalk.

Note: Silly lady.

The cat sits there.

Again, she walks away, about five feet or so which is, of course, the length of the leash. Again, she tugs on the leash.

The cat flops over. The cat is on its side on the sidewalk, yes.

Note: Good luck, Pal.

Perhaps the phrase Look what the cat dragged in could be rephrased to suit the moment. How about, Look, I dragged the cat in!

Heck, yes!

Oh, Brendan Fraser. Oh My. Oh Dear.

Oh dear.

Brendan, what has happened?

I loved him in Blast From the Past. Oh my lucky stars! A negro!

I loved him in The Mummy. Yummy. Yummy in the Mummy.

Today he is making sidewalk chalk with Martha.

His face is puffy. His belly is hanging over his pants, a little. He is talking about his new movie, Furry Vengeance. He is showing a clip of his movie. In the clip, he is waking in the night. There is music playing. He steps into the living room. There are rodents and I don't know, maybe marsupials and moles and voles and squirrels, probably, in his living room. All over. And they are dancing. To the song, Freak Out and I kid you not.

Oh, Brendan.

What has happened?

Bummer. No, Really.

I am in my pilates class. In a new spot. Usually, we have designated spots. The spots are not actually designated by the instructor as in assigned seating. Or assigned mat-laying. Our spots are designated because that's what we do. I belong in my spot. I belong in the second row. Between Katie and Pam.

Some new lady in class has messed up the whole system. She took Debbie's spot and Debbie took my spot and I ended up in the back row, sort of, squeezed in too close to the girls that I don't like although I have no good reason for the dislike, except that I covet their implants. A little.

So, I spend the whole class looking at new bums.

I am used to the old bums.

Note: I can go so far as to say that the old bums were my favorites.

I am trying not to look at the bums.

One is a Mom-Bum, for sure. It is flat, wide and saggy in its exercise wear, yes. I worry that my bum looks like that Mom-Bum. I look away. At another bum.

This bum is bubbly and perky and has a perma-wedgie in its exercise gear. I want, badly, to walk over and give the pants a good yank to remove the wedgie, but such behavior in a pilates class is frowned upon.

I am tired of this whole bum-thing. I can't wait to get back to my spot. Where I belong. This situation is really bumming me out.

Heck, yes!

A Trashy Trophy Wife, Yes.

I feel lighter. Not necessarily the bounce-in-your-step I've conquered-my-demons- lighter, but lighter, nevertheless.

I feel that way because I am 1200 pounds lighter, more than half a ton, for those inclined to measure weight in tonnage, yes.

Note: As a Certified Weighmaster in the (great) State of California, I understand such propensity. Seriously. Weighmaster. How fantastic is that?

Nevertheless (my new pet word, obviously), the Hub and I hauled 1200 pounds of junk and/or crap to the Transfer Station yesterday. The 1200 pounds did not include the metal, wood and rubber recyclables which may, I fear, bring our tonnage to nearly a ton, yes.

Which bears this question: Who has a ton of crap in their garage?

Note: Where do I live? A trailer park?

Note: I am not denigrating the trailer park, for I know a few Trophy Wives who live there. Or I know a few Trophy Wives who may have driven through. Or may have seen it as they have driven by. But still.

The Transfer Station, a dump, yes, did not take credit cards, so Hub and I had the luxury of driving back into the nearby hip winery town and buying two Diet Cokes and some polenta at the grocery store to get cash back.

It may seem odd to carry polenta to a 14' U-Haul filled with nearly a ton of crap.

But a Trophy Wife's got to eat.

Heck, yes!

Pardon Me. Do You Have Any Grey Poupon?

I am driving in my aging SUV, heading to pilates with my mind full of important things, such as but not limited to pilates and driving. The local radio station is playing a lame hometown commercial with poorly written copy and a weird voiceover that is too loud and is followed with a crazy jingle, yes.

This jingle catches my attention. Because it's catchy, yes.

Sebastopol. Sebastopol. The Sample-Possum Festival in Sebastopol.

No kidding.

The most liberal, granola-eating, hybrid-driving city in an admittedly liberal, granola-eating, hybrid-driving county is having a festival to commemorate the tastiness of the possum?

Sebastopol, a Drug-Free Zone and a Nuclear-Free Zone and a Wi-Fi Free Zone, seriously, on account of those wacky radio waves that transmit signals that bounce around in our heads and cause either a) brain damage or b) fill our minds with evil, conservative rhetoric resulting in brain damage is advocating eating possum? The city that Saves the Whale and Saves the Laguna Salamander and Saves the Russian River Smelt or whatever fish that needs saving over there is now eating possum? And celebrating it?

Heck, yes!

Note: Simmer down. As it turns out, Sebastopol is celebrating the Apple Blossom Festival. Which sounds eerily and delightedly, like a Possum Festival. With sampling.

May the possums rest well tonight.

So, Kate Gosselin. The Tribe Has Spoken.

So, Kate Gosselin.

What a glorious experience on 'Dancing with the Stars'. She laughed. Wait, no she didn't. She cried. A lot. But she cried those kind of tears that are dabbed with a kleenex, like it's allergies or something. She grimaced. But that's her normal face. And she danced. Let's not forget how she danced.

Note: I changed my mind. I am happy to forget, personally.

Carry on.

Epiphanies. And Drama.

So, I have had an epiphany, of sorts.

My efforts to train each woman to embrace her inner trophy regardless of employment situation, size of bosoms or marital status has been rewarded, greatly.

Note: Well, not really. Greatly is probably an overstatement. But still.

I have personally witnessed the metamorphosis that occurs as a woman embraces her innate strengths and talents regardless of her hair color, which really should be blonde, yes.

But I have realized that I have limited the scope of my influence on mankind in general by such categorization of Trophies. And Wives. And such.

Would you like to see what I mean? Click the link below. And be patient ... stay with it .... until the end ... it's only a minute and a half, but my approach to the following link espousing the need for patience and waiting sounds so dramatic ...

Note: Trophy Wives may be occasionally prone to drama.

click here

Heck, yes!

Blood. Guts. And French Toast, Yes.

I am cooking, which is no great surprise. Hub is sitting on the couch, chatting with Son about guy things, such as but not limited to the A's game, sirloin steak, commuting and jock itch.

Note: I might be making up that last part, for dramatic effect.

I am preparing french toast bites. What they are is french toast, in bite-sized morsels, yes. So, I'm making a maple-egg custard to pour over the chopped up sourdough bread in muffin cups and the whatnot. And topping the bites with a pecan crumb coating, with additional maple syrup, on the side.

Note: The specifics of the recipe have nothing to do with the incident that I am reporting. I just think it sounds so delicious.

I am removing the crust from the sourdough bread. It is crusty. It is crusty, like an old sailor, yes. Or a pirate, even. It is difficult to remove the crust with my admittedly dull knives. But I am sawing and hacking and thinking little teeny swear words in my mind, maybe.

The knife slips from the crusty bread and skids across my knuckle. Dang it! I say and I throw the knife down which makes a loud noise on the granite, but I do not put the wounded appendage in my mouth to lick off the blood. I hate when people do that. I find it most distasteful. So I bleed on the countertop, like normal people.

Are you okay? Hub asks and he sounds concerned, even a little panicky. Did you cut yourself? I hear Son on the phone. Is Mom okay?

I am fine, I say through gritted teeth but I am seriously annoyed. I am so sick of my crummy knives. Everyone knows that my knives are crummy. Hub knows. Son knows. Heck, the paperboy knows.

There are lots of bandages in the cupboard, Hub is saying.

Note: Understatement.

Hub is bragging to Son about the great deal he got on about a million bandages at Costco.

Turns out that bandages are much cheaper than new knifes.

Real Men Wear Monocles.

Maybe it's just me, but the monocle is, perhaps, the most overlooked fashion accessory of the modern era.

Note: Modern, of course, meaning, now. This very minute.

Historically speaking, the monocle was a symbol of wealth, prestige, education and yes, poor vision.

Note: And perhaps, the monocle is associated with the cane due to the fact that wearing glasses in one eye only has to present some sort of balance and coordination issue which may or may not be a danger to society, in general.

Additional Note: The top hat gained popularity in the 1800's when men realized that it made them look both taller and leaner. Some scholars claim that men kept important papers in their hats, sort of like a man-purse or a European carry-all, yes.

And although my cat has never actually been monocled, I look forward to doing so. After I shave him. I highly doubt that this cat is carrying important papers in his hat. I also highly doubt that this cat is really a cat.

Note: The cat's hand looks eerily human to me.

Mr. Peanut, a sex symbol and a legume, epitomizes the use of all three accessories without being somewhat over the top. Subtle. If you don't look too closely at those legs.

Note: Wow.

The monocle, however, really should make a comeback and the sooner the better, as far as I am concerned. As photographic evidence I present the following:

Tasty.

Heck, yes!

Moving Forward. Because I Must.

So, I'm driving on Interstate 80. It is a large freeway that links San Francisco to somewhere in Maine. Or Massachusetts. Or Manhattan. Or someplace that begins with the letter M and is far, far away.

Note: Maybe it's not the letter M. I don't know that for sure.

So, I am driving on this big freeway, uphill. There are many lanes of traffic. I am in the far left lane because I am driving fast, yes, in my Civic and I am wishing to avoid the mergers on the right side of the freeway.

One of the mergers has my attention. It is a seagreen Prius, yes, and I am wondering if it's not redundant that an ecologically-conscious vehicle (i.e. "green") is actually green and if it's an attempt by the automaker to be humorous or an attempt to be annoying or perhaps, both. As I am wondering about this, the seagreen Prius merges, poorly, onto the freeway which as one may recall, is currently an uphill grade.

The Prius is crossing all lanes of traffic from right to left in a somewhat mad dash for the fast lane. I do not know why the driver is veering to the left lane because fast certainly does not describe her current rate of speed, although granted, said vehicle is probably moving at its fastest possible speed, which is a crawl due to the uphill slope and the sad lack of any power whatsoever, and all.

Note: Yes, I have applied the brakes at this point.

Meanwhile, cars in the other lanes are brake-slamming and honking and cursing, probably, but I remain calm.

Because I understand: The Prius driver is either a really crappy driver or the Toyota was simply Moving Forward ...

... whether she wanted it to or not.

Observations. Of Brilliance, Yes.

"Soapy water is amazing, the way it cleans things."

--Martha Stewart

Bacon. On. The. Run.

I have misplaced many things. In the past. And I am certain that I will continue to do so in the future. Things like car keys and cellphones and earrings and birthday gifts.

But this situation is ridiculous. It takes the cake. It is lame-sauce, yes.

I have misplaced my bacon.

Note: I know.

The bacon can be described as Oscar Mayer Center Cut with five missing pieces. It was last seen in my kitchen yesterday. I have checked all of the usual places such as the refrigerator, the other refrigerator, the beverage refrigerator, the freezer, the other freezer, the garbage, the dishwasher and of course, my new orange handbag.

Nothing.

It has flown the coop. It has left the building. It has seasoned it's last green bean, yes.

Run like the wind, little buddy. Run like the wind.

Romance, Yes.

I am spending the weekend with the most romantic man alive. He's an older man, yes. Quite a bit older than me. And pretty much anyone else I know, actually.

I am in an old two-story house with a wrap-around porch and drafty, single-pane windows and one electrical outlet per room, if you're lucky. I am in my old bedroom. It has been washed in a pale shade of blue, erasing the bright orange and yellow flowers from the walls, but not my memory. If I close my eyes, I can still see the wallpaper. And the patchwork carpet, made from scraps. And my tall white cabinet, with horse statues posed in every nook and cranny.

The house sits quite grandly, back from the street. Dad has lived there for 45 years. For the last seven years, he has been alone.

Together we go to the cemetery to visit my mother's grave. Today is their 63rd wedding anniversary, if you're counting. And we are. He helps me tear the price tags off the artificial flower bunches we purchased in bright, spring colors. Why didn't I bring my knife? he laments and I arrange the sunflowers in the vase below her name.

Millie.

Well, girl, he says. He always calls her that now. It's been a long time. I know he is referring to the length of her absence, not the length of his marriage. And then he starts to sing. Romantic, old songs about lovin' you always. He reaches his hand out to me. He wants to dance. A little.

We do. And I notice the ring on his left hand. He lost his wedding ring a few years ago while pruning his orchard. But he has a new one. On his ring finger.

I can see that it is hers. Resized to fit him.

Yes. I am spending the weekend with the romantic man alive.

But Would You Serve Soba Noodles To the Queen? Didn't. Think. So.

I am watching Martha, sort of. Actually, I am cleaning the bathroom adjacent to the family room and I can hear her in there, making some tofu dish with Andie MacDowell who is just a bit boring.

Note: Hence, the bathroom cleaning. A clear and overwhelming sign of 'boring' is when cleaning the bathroom wins.

Martha is gushing about the food. Andie is also gushing because when Martha tells you to gush, you gush. And you gush hard.

Look at these soba noodles, Martha says, aren' t they beautiful?

Andie is agreeable. Oh yes, she replies. The noodles are gorgeous. Simply gorgeous!

Note: Soba noodles, on a good day, barely look palatable. Soba noodles look like the fat worms that gather on the sidewalk after a storm and sadly, end up under bicycle tires and skateboards and men's size 11 running shoes and then dry up in the sun, eventually turning to dust.

Granted, it may not seem like good television to say Look at these soba noodles, aren't they worm-like and inadvertently disgusting?

But gorgeous?

Beaches with white sand and crashing waves are gorgeous. Spring blossoms that burst in pinks, whites and reds are gorgeous.

But soba noodles?

Luckily, I have a couple more bathrooms that need cleaning.

Do Two Editing Mistakes Make You Look Really Stupid? Or, Does My Misspelled Uniform Make Me Look Fat?

Apparently, no one noticed that Eugenio Velez was wandering around in his Giants uniform with "San Francisco" spelled incorrectly until, seriously, after the game.

But even more delightful? On the CBS News website reporting the "Giant" editing error, the young player was asked about his uniform. The following quote appears:

"Increible!" the Dominican backup said in Spanish.

I say incredible, you say increible, let's call the whole thing off.

If You've Got An Itch.

It's early on a Sunday morning. I've got the jitters. It's a very big day at church and I can't be late. Inappropriate.

Note: DIL, that one's for you.

Son is carrying my stuff to his car. To drive us to church, for which we still cannot be late. Son is carrying a big box with a tablecloth and large, filled easter eggs and eighteen verbena, potted in little eco-friendly containers and a large outdoor music speaker and a picture of Jesus, yes. And more stuff like markers and papers and scriptures.

Note: It is a big box. But Son is a big man, yes.

He walks to his car. It is white. It is nicer than my car. But that's good because soon Grandboy will be riding in that car. And it needs to be nicer and safer and comfier and air-conditionier and smoother-ridier and soothing-auxiliary-iPod-compatiblier and whatnot. For the Grandboy, yes.

Son is standing by the trunk. Now he is rubbing his leg on the trunk. His upper leg, yes. It's not working, he says, and appears to adjust his rubbing somewhat.

Note: I am not sure what is not working and frankly, I do not want to know.

Wait. That is a lie. I have to know.

As it turns out, Son has a keyless entry system to his nicer-car-than-mine. If the key is in his pocket, say, and he comes close to the car, it recognizes the key in some miraculous way and pops the trunk or opens the doors or even turns the car on.

Note: The rubbing has nothing to do with it.

That is, the car recognizes the key in some miraculous way and pops the trunk or opens the doors or even turns the car on unless he does not have the keys in his pocket after all. Then it's mostly just a scratching post.

Heck, yes!

Names. In Vain.

I am watching Dancing with the Stars. Brooke and Tom, our hosts, are announcing the names of the contestants. The "dancers," a term used somewhat facetiously in a few of these cases, prance down the elaborate stairs on either side of the set. Names are swirling in my brain. Names like Maksim and Buzz and Niecy and Chad Ochocinco (hanging Chad, anyone? and please remove your mind from the gutter as this is a family blog) and Damian and Edyta and Buzz, yes, back to Buzz.

Note: One of these names is not like the others. Because it's not a name. I take that back because yes, it is a name. In fact, it is the name. Of my cat, who still needs shaving, by the way.

Names are kind of a big deal. A name gives an impression of a person before one ever meets said person. Example: Say you're a woman, going on a blind date. The fellow's name is Bertram.

Note: Oh. Bertram.

Now, let us contrast the initial impression. What if the dude's name is Maksim?

Note: Yeah. That's what I'm talking about. And what is it with the gutter-minds today, my friends?

I guess lots of folks have done lots of research about names and impressions of names because, you see, it's on the internet. Pop your name in the little search box and Boom! you can find out what people think about you. Before they meet you. And maybe after, yes.

I pop my name in and find that my name connotes the image of "an upper class girl, intelligent and quiet."

Note: One out of three is not bad. You can decide which one, if you wish.

Lest one dare to question the validity of the "pop your name in a box" impression, check this out: I popped Hub's name in the box and the impression says, and I KID YOU NOT:

A sexy and handsome chap.

Note: Apparently there's something to this whole name thing.

Heck, yes!

Joy! Joy! Joy!

Easter Joy from the Trophy Wife's Home to Your Home.

Easter Joy from the Trophy Wife's Dog to Your Dog.

Easter Joy From the Trophy Wife and the Dog to all within our "voice ..."

Joy! Joy! Joy!

Pausing. And Wondering.

I am leaving the fabric store. It is pouring rain outside. I pull my hoodie over my hair in an attempt to stay dry. Ish.

I step outside into the rain, which is definitely pouring, and see a little tiny old lady making her way up the sidewalk with her walker. In the pouring rain.

She looks up at me, her hands firmly gripping the walker while her black handbag swings under her fingertips, sending droplets of water into the air. She is wearing a rain slicker. A purple rain slicker and the water is sliding right off. Because it is slick.

Note: My two sweatshirts covered by a wool coat made in China is more of a rain absorber, unfortunately.

Oh my, I say as we cross paths. We are in the drenching process, yes. In the pouring rain.

She smiles. Isn't it wonderful? she says. What a wonderful day to be alive!

I pause.

Note: I rarely pause. I am usually planning this or cooking that or cleaning this or bossing that, but in a good way, really.

I pause.

Yes. My hair is wet. My clothes are wet. My dog is wet. My car smells like wet dog. But who cares?

It's a very good day to be alive.

Heck, yes!

The Gayness. Of Ricky Martin.

News Alert ... This just in ...

Ricky Martin is ... prepare yourselves, readers ... gay.

Note: Is this seriously news? Isn't this the guy who wears see-through shirts and shakes his bon-bon?

I believe it would be far more surprising to find out that Ricky Martin was not gay.

Seriously.

Carry on.

April. Fools. Not. Dang.

Thursday, April 1, 2010, 8:59 a.m.

Current Temperature in Sonoma County, California: 37 Freaking Chilly Degrees

Note: What the heck? I usually have a tan by April. Sort of, anyhow.

Current Temperature in Fargo, North Dakota: 52 Degrees

Note: Pardon me while I get my coat and scarf before heading out to pilates.

April Fool, indeed.