Stupid Criminals. Sonoma County Edition.

So, the Hub and I are walking into Big Lots.

Note: Yeah, yeah. I know.

A lady is running out of the door and the alarm is sounding and the lady is running and muttering and gripping her shopping bag for dear life and her eyes are wide and her boobs are jiggling. With fear, yes.

The police place her in handcuffs. She is handcuffed to the turtle that goes round and round when you put a quarter in the slot. Slowly, yes. It is, after all, a turtle.





The police question the lady. In question.

Police: How often do you come here and shoplift?

Lady in Question: I have never come here before.

Police: That's a lie and you know it.

Lady in Question: Sometimes I come on Thursdays, when I'm free.

Huh?


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad, Paddy. Or Paddington, if you prefer the more formal approach.

Location:Nimitz Fwy,San Jose,United States

Applying Makeup. In the Car, Yes.

Look! I got new concealer.


Note: There is a distinct possibility that I over-applied the concealer.

Try not to stare,

Heck, yes!




- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad, Paddy. Or Paddington, if you prefer the more formal approach.

Location:Nimitz Fwy,Union City,United States

Over. Stimu.Lation.

Good news. I am apparently eligible for Government Stimulation, yes.

Today I received my Government Stimulus Notification letter. An urgent notification from Mr. Lawver. With a reference number, so it must be real. I got this letter on account of my fine credit history and eligible property. And all that Mr. Lawver requires of me in order to take advantage of this limited-time offer, is a response to his stimulus.

Yes.

I am cordially invited to visit the Stimulus Servicing Department, which sounds like it should be located in the back of the adult bookstore downtown.

Eeew.

I. Don't. Think. So.

There's Gonna Be a Dead Pig.

Charlotte Cavatica: Templeton, haven't you ever heard that good things come to those who wait?

Templeton: No. Good things come to those who find it and shove it in their mouth!

Note: Not necessarily, Templeton. Not necessarily.

There's going to be a dead pig. Tonight. A casualty of war, unfortunately.

My war, yes.

And I will win. It's just a matter of time and the clock is ticking. Because, you see, there is a rat in my garage. Oh, I'm not talking about a hypothetical rat, such as my sniper-neighbor Larry sneaking in and borrowing my hedge trimmer. And I'm not talking about Rob, the Socialite Sheriff across the street who occasionally finds himself on car-alarm-turning-off duty when the Aging SUV's alarm goes off unexpectedly.

Note: Unexpectedly is an understatement because the darn thing doesn't have an alarm. Go figure.

I'm talking real, live rat. But not for long.

My very own Templeton has been chowing down on the rat poison. He's eaten two bowlfuls already and I imagine he's invited all of his rat friends to come along for the picnic.

Note: What's the matter, Templeton? Got a bellyache?

So, unfortunately for 'Some Pig' out there in a pen hoping for a rat to save the day, the ax is going to fall. Yup. Sorry, Dude. But ...

this is War.

Heck, yes!

Don't Mess With Grandma.

It happened. Again.

I am just minding my own business--well, as much as I ever really mind my own business--and the comment is made. Again. In a somewhat gushing manner, yes. By someone who has just learned that I have recently become a Grandmother.

Oh, you look too young to be a Grandma!

Now, before you get all up in the heezy regarding my braggadocio, it's not what you think.

Note: No, I am not Italian, but I am prone to braggadocio anyhow.

I blush, appropriately, and answer, appropriately, in a charming manner. Oh, thank you, but I'm definitely old enough to be a Grandma, I say. I turn my eyes downward, of course, so no one sees the delight. Or the fine lines and wrinkles.

Note: I may be exaggerating my delight, but it makes for a far better story. Unfortunately, I am not exaggerating the fine lines and wrinkles.

Now, here comes the comment to which I refer: Wow, I hope that I can look as good as you when I'm in my fifties or sixties.

Fifties? Or sixties? Are you kidding me?

Note: I, too, hope that I look as good as me in my fifties and sixties.

Oh well. At least I've got a darn cute Grand Boy.

Heck, yes!

Thanks Old Girl.

A milestone.

I pull my car over. To pause. And reflect.

We've been through a lot together I say. Rubi looks at me and cocks her head. She thinks I'm talking to her. But I'm talking to the Aging SUV.

In the span of 100,000 miles, one could drive around the earth four times.

Note: But that's only if you have a car that actually turns into a boat or something cool like that.

In the span of 100,000 miles, one could drive nearly halfway to the moon.

Note: But that's only if you have a car that actually turns into a rocketship or something cool like that.

My Aging SUV has seen me through more important things than traveling around the world or traveling through outer space. My Aging SUV has seen me through the last ten years of my life.

She has taken both kids to college more than once, overflowing with pots and pans and computers and bedspreads and tears, yes.

She has endured family road trips when our family was still all living under the same roof. She has survived her windows decorated with green and gold paint as we traversed to the Oakland Coliseum. She has parked in three different garages in three different homes and although she is now resigned to parking in the driveway, she still sparkles under the layer of dust. She has a comfy spot for everyone, especially the dog, who enjoys her perch between the front seats.

That Old Girl lived in Utah with the kids for a semester when the weather was treacherous and I couldn't bear to see them drive Sis' tiny little car over the Sierra Nevada. She has hauled bricks and bark and garbage, lots of it, and lumber and plants, yes, many, many plants and tomatoes from Dad's garden, big juicy tomatoes, as big as your head, almost.

And that Aging SUV saw me safely through the most difficult days of my life as I made the grueling six-hour round trip, repeatedly, while my Mom was hospitalized before dying on a blustery, wet December night.

I raise my fuel nozzle to you, Old Girl! Here's to the next 100,000!

Heck, yes!

The. Thrilling. Conclusion. Yes.

Note: This is Part Three of the Trophy Wife Trilogy. If you have not read the first two installments, please scroll down. It's worth it. I'm telling you.

Dianne stares at the WOD, the Worldwide Ogre of Discouragement, a mass of tangled wires and keyboards and monitors and mice and mouses and mooses, even, standing ominously in a wasteland of tangled wires and keyboards and monitors and mice and mouses and mooses.

Welcome to the Worldwide Web, he says and laughs a giant laugh, his belly jiggling like a bowl full of jello. Sugar-free, yes.

Then Dianne notices that under the crook of his great arm, the WOD holds a goose, who begins to flap and squawk in an effort to pull herself out of the crook and the wires and the mooses, but to no avail.

Dianne and the Goose are both trapped. Prisoners, yes, of the Worldwide Web.

Note: Oops. The Goose is not trapped, apparently. She is simply in the middle of laying a large goose egg.

The Great WOD laughs. I see you've met my Golden Goose, he says, who lays the goose eggs.

Dianne shakes her head, her $200 golden hair billows, sort of. She thinks she'd remember meeting a golden goose.

The WOD is gleeful. The Goose has been laying big goose eggs in your blog's comment box for weeks now. Big, fat zeroes!

The WOD looks at her, square in the eye. No one cares about your blog or your silly little mission. The Goose eggs prove it. And right on cue, an egg drops to the floor, rolling to a crazy stop in front of Dianne.

Dianne reaches for the goose egg and deftly fashions a sling from her scarf. She swings the egg-sling round and round over her head and the great WOD laughs. She lets it go and the goose egg sails through the air and with a resounding smack, a smack so loud that it is heard throughout the worldwide web, the Goose Egg lands squarely on the Giant's forehead and the great WOD falls to the ground, amid a giant cloud of dust.

Dianne grabs the Goose and begins to run. The Goose squawks, Aflac, Aflac.

Note: Wait, that is not right.

The Goose squawks, Google, Google.

And then it is clear to Dianne. The great WOD cannot discourage her. Yes, her blog lays Giant Goose eggs in the comment section. But then our Trophy Wife heroine remembers her Google Analytics, which assure her that the blog is reaching a thousand potential Trophy Wives every month in 38 countries and 32 states, around the world, yes.

She will not be deterred from her mission.

All those Goose Eggs will not stop her from babbling and blogging about nothing in particular. Oh no.

Note: But a comment now and again from the 'stalk'ers, and they know who they are, wouldn't hurt.

Dianne and that darn BeinStalk.

Heck, yes!

Dianne. And the Beinstalk. Part Two. Don't Miss It.

Please take note: This post is Part Two. Please read Part One first. Do not complain about this request, please. It's just the natural order of things.

So, Dianne straps on her sassy heels and decides it's time to tackle the Beinstalk.

Up, up, up she climbs.

Her own little world seems smaller and smaller. But she is brave. And sassy. And appropriately-outfitted for the grand adventure. And so she continues.

She finds her head in the clouds, which is a happy place to be, yes. But even a Trophy Wife who lives in a small castle, yes, needs more than just a head in the clouds.

She finds herself in a large, strange land. Alone, apparently, Very, very alone. And then she hears a voice. A great big, booming voice. It is bouncing around in her head, like a poorly hit golf ball, yes.

Fi, Fie, Fo, Fum

I smell the blood of a Trophy Woman

Be her hair blonde or her hair red

I'll make sure that her Blog is never read!

Dianne realizes she is in the presence of the Giantest Giant of all.

Note: No, not Al Gore.

She is in the presence of the big, nasty WOD. The Worldwide Ogre of Discouragement, whose primary purpose in its sad little life is to entangle those who dare enter the kingdom in a web of failure and hopelessness and apathy and irritation and isolation.

And now Dianne sees the WOD, face-to-face. Let the battle begin.

To be continued ...

The Fairy's Tale. Part One.

In a magical land filled with grapes and flowers and liberals there lives a quirky little blogger named Dianne. She fills her day with cooking and cleaning and laughing and writing and pilating and eating sugar-free jello with whipped cream, yes. She lives in a castle which is quite small by castle standards with her handsome Hub and royal subject, Rubi. From her balcony she hears the sound of cascading water from the pool and the tinkling sounds of golf balls being whacked and the occasional swear word of the disgruntled golfer, yes.

But something is amiss. And it's very, very near.

Something is growing.

Taller and taller. Silently, yes. But it seems that the giant thing is developing a life of its own and with its tendrils, it is slowly choking the living daylights out of our delightsome heroine.

The living daylights.

Dianne and the 'Bean Stalked'.

Yes, she is 'Bein-Stalked'.

More to follow. Oh yes, there's more.

Sports. Success. Sniffing Dogs. Oh Yeah.

Venus Williams is funny. Inadvertently, yes. But still.

Venus is talking to Julie Chen on The Morning Show, although I believe Julie should be more broadly recognized for her incredibly voyeuristic role on Big Brother as the 'Voice'.

So anyway, Venus is discussing her new book which is something about how sports opportunities make folks more successful in business ventures or life or blah-blah-blah. She has interviewed 50 important and successful people about their t-ball experiences and whatnot and how these events have framed the outcome of their very lives, yes.

Note: This is not a book I am likely to purchase, no.

Julie: I see that one of the chapters is about Bill Clinton. He played rugby in college?

Venus: Yes and his story is so inspiring. I wrote "Wow!" in the margins of my notes after talking to him.

Julie: Why is that?

Venus: He was playing rugby and got hit in the head and got a severe concussion but kept playing anyway and he says that experience really helped him get through difficult times in the White House.

Note: I am thinking that his concussion actually explains some of his difficult times in the White House.

Additional Note: I didn't realize that the White House employed concussion-sniffing dogs.

Another Additional Note: My bad. I am thinking that's where Mr. Clinton's concussion-ridden 'brain' iss located.

Heck, yes!

A Happy Ending

I am reminded of 'Happily Ever After'. Like when the handsome prince scoops the beautiful princess in his arms and puts her on a white horse and gives her a double cheeseburger and fries and off they go.

Note: My fairy tales end more deliciously than the standard Grimm Brothers variety. The Grimm Boys served up curds and whey and bread made with ground up bones. Of Englishmen, no less.

Note: Perhaps the whole Fie Fi Fo Fum thing was simply an honest attempt by The Giant to produce gluten-free bread for his somewhat delicate constitution.

Anyhow, off the prince and princess go. Into the sunset, yes.








Note: This is an actual photograph taken with my phone's camera in flight as our aircraft enters the San Francisco Bay Area. Simmer down, everyone. The phone is in 'airplane mode' thus ensuring the safety of the passengers, the crew, and potentially, our very nation, yes.

And that is exactly what I've been doing this evening in a Boeing 737 at about 38,000 feet. Chasing the elusive sunset across the sky, which hovers for hours on both the edge of day and the edge of night.

Me and the Hub. And Paddy. Riding off into the sunset. In a 737. With peanuts, yes.

There is something deep and meaningful about the situation. But I can't think about that right now. Because I'm thinking about other things.

Like, what if Bachelor Jake is our pilot? And how do really large folks pee in those little bathroom cubicles on an aircraft? And does your pee really get sucked out into the atmosphere when you flush and turn into little sterile droplets drizzling on someone's car on Interstate 80?

I'm sorry. What was I talking about?

Heck, yes!


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad, Paddy. Or Paddington, if you prefer the more formal approach.

Location:Highway 101, Penngrove, United States

Tray Table Up. Seatback Locked. I. Don't. Think. So.

The pilot has advised us to prepare for landing.

Note: I dig that he calls himself The Captain. I'm wondering about Tenille. I'm wondering about The Crunch.

The Captain says our trays need to be closed and locked.

Check.

Carryon items stored.

Check.

Seatbacks upright.

Not exactly.

Photographic evidence that sometimes safety standards can get a little slack, yes.

Note: This is an actual photograph of a fellow passenger taken surreptitiously during landing.




Sweet. Holy. Moses.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad, Paddy. Or Paddington, if you prefer the more formal approach.

Location:W Evening Side Dr,Herriman,United States

Pandemics. Prayers. Paddies, yes.

I may be the first to report regarding this emerging situation. Later, when this information hits the fan, and it will, please remember that you read it here first.

A major pandemic, yes, is set to sweep this country before escalating to all major population centers.

Note: The definition of a major population center is 'an area with Internet access'.

A potentially devastating illness has been identified. And yes, I am one of the victims. To give my dear readers a greater sense of the gravity of this situation and to serve as a voice of warning, please consider the following:

The swine flu affected 271,000 people. This new pandemic could affect three million people and the numbers will only increase.

Watch for the symptoms of Spiny-neckus-iPaddyatosis.

The symptoms may be mild at first, with a dull headache and a slight cramping in the lumbar spine. The illness escalates rapidly to a stiff neck (hence the spiny neckus) and dull aching through the shoulders and head. Victims may try to put down their iPads or they may attempt more adequate neck support while using said product, but there is little that can be done. There is no treatment. Giving up the iPad is not an option.

Please pray for me. Pray for all of us.

Heck, yes!






- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad, Paddy. Or Paddington, if you prefer the more formal approach.

Location:Highway 101, College Avenue, Santa Rosa, CA, United States

Foiled. Again. And the Troll.

It's a long story, so I will try to be succinct.

I am at the hair salon, processing.

Note: Processing, for the uninitiated, is a process of looking ridiculous with aluminum foil-wrapped hair. And waiting. As I said, it is a process.

Hub walks in. With Rubi, the dog. Rubi sees me and begins to 'swim' in midair as a symbol of her excitement. Of seeing me.

Note: Contrary to popular belief, Rubi was not doing the 'dog paddle'. She was splayed out in airplane mode in her 'swimming' position. This position more appropriately resembles the 'breaststroke'.

Because I am trying to be succinct, I will not explain why the Hub was walking into the hair salon with my dog. But I now need to put her in the Aging SUV and find a shady parking place for her comfort and well-being, yes.

Because I am dressed in two black smocks with about 8000 foils flapping around, I am pleased to find a shady parking area on the end of the building. I settle Rubi in, give her a drink, roll down the windows a bit, glance at the clock and see that luckily, I still have a few minutes to spare until my hair is over-processed.

Note: Processing is very finicky, yes.

Across the parking lot, I am being watched by a Dude. Standing by a garbage can. With a broom. And a blue shirt clinging a bit to his big belly. His hair is graying and receding. I know what you're thinking: This guy is digging the Trophy Wife.

Him: Hey! Are you in the salon?

Note: I wonder if his first clue was the double-smocks with the salon name emblazoned across the front or the 8000 foils flapping around?

Me: Yes.

Him: You can't park here. Can't you read?

Me, pointing to sign: It says Customer Parking. I look down at my smock and shake my head alluringly, kind of. I'm a customer.

Him: I'm sick of you people thinking you can park here. And then you get all rude. This is for customers of this building only.

Me: I'm confused. And processing. And not caring for his tone, at all. The parking lot is nearly empty. He is reminding me of the troll under the bridge, yelling at the Billy Goats overhead. Well, I say, I have my dog and do you think I could ...

Troll: He has dropped the broom. And steps toward me, menacing. Look, Lady. He does not say Lady as if I were a princess and he is my handsome prince. He says Look, Lady in a condescending growl, emphasizing the 'Lady' part in a most unpleasant fashion. Not my problem, he is saying, you need to get the h*$! out of here.

Me: I am mad now, and I am feeling fiery. I think the my hackles are rising, whatever that means, and perhaps the electrical impulse of the hackling has caused the 8000 foils to flap more emphatically. Back off, Troll, I am saying. I have a core and I know how to use it.

Note: Oh wait. I think maybe I was just thinking about saying that.

Me: Actually, I say I am sorry, I didn't know. You don't need to be rude, Sir.

Troll: His voice is rising, both in pitch and fervor. He is saying ugly things about me and my dog and my Aging SUV and he thinks I am lying, which is very upsetting and I'm trying to get in my car and he's still shaking his broom.

To be succinct: The Troll is an Idiot. He makes Wild Turkeys look like Einstein. I end up parking way down the street and running full speed in my flying foils where the assistant was running up and down the street trying to find me, because the processing timer is ringing ringing ringing.

My hair turned out great.

Moral: A Trophy Wife never bows to the lowliness of a Troll.

The End.