Don't Drink. Don't Smoke. What Do You Do?

Good question, Adam Ant. Good question.

There's a lot of stuff I don't do. I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't drive fast, particularly. I don't eat crappy fast food loaded with fat and sodium, and I don't swear, because that's what people with lousy vocabularies do.

I don't scuba dive, because everyone knows that your lungs can explode due to the water pressure and all. I don't stand close to precipices and I certainly don't pretend to throw people over precipices because that's not nice at all. And I certainly don't litter, eat undercooked meat (salmonella is real, my friends) or throw innocent babies up into the air and then catch them under their armpits.

I don't engage in recreational sex. Oh, wait, yes I do, but the recreation part is with the Hub of 28 years. So, that's entirely appropriate.

Note: I apologize for not warning my more genteel readers about the potentially devastating information previously disclosed. But seriously, we're all adults here. Sort of.

So, Adam Ant wants to know. What do I do?

Oh, I'm edgy alright.

For example, I eat whipped cream straight from the bottle, yes. Oh and sometimes I have Diet Coke for breakfast. And it you're not already reeling from this news, prepare yourselves, because, on occasion, I have even mowed my lawn on a spare-the-air day.

Blast.

Global warming? Probably my fault!

Heck, no!

Jerks. Involuntary.

I think that I may be watching too many of those "Mystery Diagnosis" programs on TLC, if watching too many is even possible.

Note: Everyone has guilty pleasures, here and there. I do not care to watch Little People doing everyday things, nor do I indulge much in watching the Duggars procreate, at an increasingly alarming rate.

Additional Note: Eeewww.

Case in point: Today I am watching a program about Osteo Myogenotosis or something like that, an often-fatal disease of the bones, or the neurons or maybe the blood, I cannot quite recall. The episodes, although quite harrowing, always turn out well for the patient, so it's sort of fun to watch in a "The Big Bad Wolf Ate Grandma, yes, But He's Going to Spit her Out Whole and it's All Good" sort of way.

So, it is entirely possible that I am watching too many of these programs.

I am at the Nail Place, watching 'Deal or No Deal' on the Game Show Network. Some idiot just gave up $300,000 to open just one more case and ends up with twenty-five bucks.

Note: I hope that he is finding his new home, a padded cell, comfortable.

So, I'm getting my nails done and Nail Girl is just starting to polish when I suffer an involuntary jerk of the ring finger.

That's odd, I am thinking and Nail Girl says, Are you okay? Because of the jerking.

I am fine I say and then it happens again. Involuntary muscle contractions of the extremity.

My mind is flying now. That's a symptom, I'm thinking, of Osteo Myogenotosis, the often-fatal disease. I am trying to recall the other symptoms, but my brain can not seem to respond and then I remember that memory loss is another symptom! And fatigue and sleeplessness. And I had assumed that my restless night was due to the three refills of Diet Pepsi at dinner!

How can I be so naive?

Coconut, Yes. Completely Nuts, Also Yes.

So, I am eating frozen yogurt with my pal, Sprat.

Note: I have changed her name not so much to protect her innocence, but because the name Sprat is far more interesting than her actual, given name.

So, I am eating frozen yogurt with my pal, Sprat.

Note: I always get the same yogurt concoction, because that's how I roll, yes. Sugar-free, fat-free vanilla yogurt with coconut, hot fudge and caramel sauce. It's like a delicious German Chocolate Cake, without the cake part.

Additional Note: Have you noticed that coconut is a love it/hate it proposition? There is no Switzerland of Coconut.

Sprat and I share the same wedding anniversary date and we are discussing our upcoming celebrations. The Hub and I will mark our 28th year of wedded bliss and Sprat will celebrate her years of wedded bliss, which are less than mine, not because they aren't blissful, but because she has not been married as long.

Phew.

I am glory-ing in my yogurt, and chatting and somehow I forget the date of our shared anniversary because on rare occasion my mind slips, a little. I get the 18th and the 19th mixed up in my brain and is it Saturday or Sunday? and so I ask Sprat, in a busy yogurt shop, in Sonoma County of all places, in a voice that may have been a little too loud,

Sprat, what day did we get married? I can't remember.

Oh, yes I did.

Makes my heart flutter just thinking about it.

Heck, yes!

A Sighting.

So, The Trophy Husband.

I am thinking about The Trophy Husband. Not my Trophy Husband, particularly, because it's not Saturday night yet, is it? but Trophy Husbands. In general.

Note: Simmer down, everyone. The Saturday night thing is just a joke. Sometimes it's Friday nights.

I spot one. In Trophy Husband Habitat, to be sure. He stands in a Ladies Clothing Shop. A little awkwardly, yes, but nonetheless he stands, the lone man in the plus-size section. He sees me looking at him and he shifts a bit, raising an eyebrow, because he is mid-fiftiesh with a big belly and receding hairline, and I seem to attract those types, yes.

But, alas, I am not checking him out, no. I am looking at the large pink handbag draped casually over his forearm. Ah, the man who goes shopping with the wife and holds her handbag. A Trophy Husband. Indeed.

Other clues:

•The Trophy Husband is the fellow who fills your car with gas because you hate to do it and runs it through the car wash, while he's at it.

•The Trophy Husband is the fellow who mows the lawns and trims the bushes and wears his muscle shirt while he does so because you ask him to. Wear the muscle shirt, yes.

•The Trophy Husband wakes in the middle of the night and covers you with the blanket to make sure you are comfortable after disposing of a wayward cricket, if necessary.

Let's hear about The Trophy Husband in your lives!

Carry on.

Pancakes, No. More like Tortillas.

Warning: This post contains information about parts of me (two, actually) that may be best left unimagined especially if the reader is, let's say, my son, or potentially, any other dude that may not want to go there.

So, I am standing in my skirt, heels and hospital gown with the opening in the front. As directed.

The lady is looking me over. Head to toe, yes. With a practiced eye. Would you like to show me your breast size? she is saying.

I want to jump and down and say Sure! Heck, yes! I would be most delighted to bare my breasts for you! because the question is just that stupid. But instead I say, probably too jovially because I'm getting the jitters about this lady assessing my breast size and whatnot, Certainly.

I am flashing the lady. She does not contain her look of surprise very well. Oh, she is saying, I need to change out the machine to the small size.

Did she really just say that?

Ah, the joys of the mammogram.

Note: If you're due for one, ladies, go get it!

Trophy Wives take care of themselves. Heck, yes!