And You Think YOUR Holiday Dinner is Rough.

And you think YOU have a crummy shower ...

Okay, so I am watching a well-known Home & Garden Television Network, which I shall not name.

Note: Okay, fine. So I am watching HGTV.

And because I am in the midst of renovating my Ramshackle House on the Hill, I am particularly interested in whole-house renovations.

Note: Okay, so actually I am in the midst of planning the renovations to my Ramshackle House on the Hill. Donations are accepted. Gifts cards. Firstborn. Whatever.

So I am watching HGTV and some Gentleman is talking about how he spent 140 grand renovating his condo and how his new master bath is totally totally fab and and lavish and an exquisite use of materials.

Um, okay.

The Gentleman is showing off the exquisite use of materials and the plushness and the decadence. Of it all, including the bidet.

Um, okay.

Now The Gentleman is referring to THE SHOWER. He is referring to the exquisite use of materials and the spray heads and the waterfalls that grace THE SHOWER.

It is a SHOWER FOR FOUR, he is saying and smiling and gushing. About the exquisite use of materials, I hope.

Oh dear. My heart is happy that The Gentleman loves his renovations. And his materials. And the decadence.

But really? A shower for four? On national television when dear Grandma Ethel, with her pacemaker and all, is watching?

Now, there's a holiday dinner I wouldn't want to miss ...

Heck, yes!

Pick a Peck. Go Ahead. I Dare You.

It's killing me.

Literally, and I am not exaggerating.

Note: Yes, I am.

It's killing me because there is a woodpecker outside my bedroom window. That stupid beast is outside my bedroom window every morning at 6:45 a.m.

Pecking away, yes.

It's not killing me because that danged creature is damaging the house, no. I don't really care. And it's not really killing me that every morning I am awakened, not by a tap-tap-tap but a tap-tap-rat-a-tat-tappity-Mc-Tap-Tap tap-tap-rat-a-tat-tappity-Mc-Tap-Tap.

Note: How does that bird not have a headache?

No, it's killing me because I am sitting on a plethora of Pecker jokes, which, due to my genteel manner and strict upbringing I feel may be inappropriate to share with my readers.

Blast!

I want to say Death to the Pecker or That Pecker is Going Down or That Pecker Has Pecked His Last Wood, but alas, I cannot.

And I cannot observe how Peter Piper Picked a Peck of Pickled Peckers. Oh, wait. That's not right.

Whatever.

But I have to tackle the Pecker problem. I've got a bone to peck with that bird. Pick, I mean.

Sweet Holy Smokes.

Whoopi Calls It African-American Friday, Yes!

I am doing it. I am finally doing it! I am Black Friday-ing!

Note: Cross that puppy off the bucket list, yes!

I am standing in a line. A very, very long line. I am pushing large boxes of items on the floor because there are no carts available. Precariously stacked in a Grinch-like manner on top of the large boxes are smaller boxes and trinkets and stuff. There are no carts available anywhere in Contra Costa County, probably.

It is hot in here. It is hot in here because there are a thousand other shoppers, pressing their bodies this close to mine. I am sweating, but I can not take off my sweatshirt to reveal my turtleneck underneath. I am not wearing a bra, you see.

Note: Wearing a bra while shopping in the middle of the night seemed optional, at the time.

A vendor comes through the line with 5-Hour energy shots. For free. No thank you, I say. The ladies in front of me gulp theirs down. They ask for more.

The guy behind me actually has a cart. He keeps ramming it into my ample bum, accidentally, I think. He is staying this close just in case some unruly shopper tries to cut into our line, I suppose.

The ladies in front of me getting boisterous. I think the Energy Shots are kicking in, yes.

I pass the time by fluffing up the artificial Christmas trees dotting the store. My pet peeve is unfluffed artificial trees. The trees look so much better now, the other shoppers agree. Thank you, I am saying.

Why isn't the line moving? I am so hot. The Hub goes to get another Diet Coke to add to our growing pile of empties, which lies on top of the boxes we are pushing, for which we will pay when we get to the checkout. If we ever get to the checkout.

Our line has not moved for thirty minutes. Shoppers are getting restless. I am selected to investigate. Because of my calm, collected manner and excellent negotiation skills, I suppose.

Note: I am chosen because I am the only shopper with the grim determination to take on the Line Manager.

Additional Note: The Line Manager is a roundish control-freak who is a loud talker who employs a series of walkie-talkies and clipboards and bathroom passes to leave the line for necessary breaks, at her whim. She doesn't scare me, oh no she doesn't.

Additional Additional Note: She might scare me a little.

Quick Observation: My cause would be greatly aided if the Line Manager were a balding fellow in his fifties with a belly hanging over his belt. Just saying.

The Line Manager is explaining to me that the Laptop people got to cut in front of the rest of us regular shoppers.

What! Cutter Cutter, Peanut Butter I am saying and then I am offering to buy a laptop so I can cut in line too. She sends me back to the crowd to deliver the news to my fellow shoppers.

No one is happy about the news. There is rumbling. There is pacing. There is a quiet threat of rebellion.

It's so hot in here. I lift up my sweatshirt and fan myself with it. I am careful to not flash the boobies. But if the Line Manager were a balding fellow in his fifties with a belly hanging over his belt ...

After two and a half hours in line, I am done! I am out! I am free!

I need a cart!

I skim the parking lot with my eagle-like vision. I see one, oh yes! The Lady next to me sees it, too. The Lady sees it after I see it, because I am already jogging to the cart, inhaling the cool air. My boobies are bouncing, but it is refreshing, yes.

The Lady next to me bolts for the cart. Seriously? I can take her. I speed up. My long legs are gliding like a gazelle.

She speeds up.

What am I doing? I hand her the cart. Merry Christmas, I say. After all, there must be one more cart somewhere in Contra Costa County.

Merry Christmas!

Heck, yes!

Power. To the People!

Oh Yah!

The hospitality of my new friends in the Northern Plains is refreshing, dear readers.

I am refreshed, not because it's 21 degrees in Fargo today but because it is so darned refreshing to see that Customer Service is alive and well at the Home Depot, oh yes it is.

I do not know what this sign means, exactly, but odds are high that I am quite pleased about the prospect. Of the Employee. Powering up.

Gives a whole new meaning to power tools, you betcha.

Heck, yes!

Mathematics, Simplified. Grand + Grand = More Grand!

Life just keeps getting Grander.

Grand Boy, The Sequel. Grand Boy2. Grand Boy, Part Deux.

A little piece of heaven dropped into my world on a blustery Fargo day.

Note: Most days are blustery in Fargo, yes.

Grand Boy emerges with a lusty cry. The Dot's head rests on the pillow, a smile crosses her face, strands of damp hair stick to her forehead. The SIL brushes tears from his cheek.

The Trophy Wife is speechless.

Note: Some occasions are just simply beyond words. And this, my friends and readers, is one of them.


Additional Note: Do not worry. Do not fret. The Trophy Wife will not remain speechless for long. Oh, no.

Welcome to the world, Little Will. Welcome to the world!

Just Call Me Wild Thing. Yup.

So, I am in the hardware store buying spray paint. I am in a fancy hardware store in a fancy neighborhood and I note that the aerosol cans are not locked up in spray paint jail. I do not have to ask a bored employee to unlock the prison gates to buy spray paint. I can just select the paint. And then buy the paint. It is a revelation in shopping, yes.

Note: I do not know why spray paint in a fancy hardware store in a fancy neighborhood does not require security guards. Perhaps the adolescents residing in the fancy neighborhood are either lacking in the artistic ability required for vandalism or do not wish to spray their private school logo on the wall  of the local bistro, under cover of darkness, no.

Oh, yes. As an adolescent, I had occasionally urges to stick it to the man, sure, and I definitely caused my fair share of mayhem and whatnot. Oh you'd better believe it.

Note: No you shouldn't. I am a liar.

I carved my name in a bench at The Ice Burgie. Oh, yes I did. And, if I recall correctly, I was taken to the police station for breaking the curfew and blaring my car stereo at all hours of the night.

Note: No, I wasn't. I am a liar.

But the point is ... I am buying adulterated spray paint by my own free will and choice.

I am at the checkout, looking down, digging in my purse for my wallet.

Note: The Trophy Wife has a giant handbag which is sadly disorganized.

The store clerk is ringing up my purchases.

I am still digging.

Are you over the age of 18? she is asking.

I stop digging. Am I on candid camera?

I look up. My golden hair falls back from my 40-something face. We make eye contact, the clerk and I.

Oh, she says.

And that is all.

But for one brief moment, I am a wild adolescent once again, drinking soda pop in the parking lot after dark, cruising the strip, although my car is overheating and that's kinda lame. I am carving my name is benches. I am turning in my homework ... a day late.

Oh, the wildness of youth.

Heck, yes!

Just Roll With It.

Actual USGS Scientists at Work

So, the earth is shaking out here in California, a bit, yes.

I do not care for the earthquakes, no.  Mostly because earthquakes are so darn unpredictable. Earthquakes tend to strike when I'm on the potty or naked in the shower or watching Temptation Island. I do not wish to be found in the ruins with my pants puddled around my ankles or in my birthday suit or lazing around on the couch watching cheesy television.

And then there's all the drama. Not from the residents of my fine state, no, because mostly it's how we roll, pun intended.

It is the drama of the USGS.

Note: United States Geological Survey, yes.

Having emerged from his underground bunker in the wastelands of the Nevada desert, probably, The Earthquake Scientist is on the evening news, standing in front of a map and some gadget that looks like my Grandma's old washtub and is pointing and looking grim, yes. Very grim. In somber tones he delivers the bare facts. No sugar-coating from this guy, nosiree.

There is a 99% probability that California will experience a 6.7 magnitude earthquake ... wait for it ... wait for it ...

... in the next thirty years.

Thirty years? Really?

How much government funding does it take to figure that one out?


Thirty years?

Well, I want a piece of this action. I predict that a major hurricane will make landfall in the state of South Carolina ... in the next thirty years. I predict that Will and Jada will split up ... in the next thirty years. Heck, I'll even go out on a limb and predict that the Lowly Chicaco Cubs will end their century-old World Series drought ... sometime in the next thirty years.

Ooh, I think I kind of have a knack for this thing.

I wonder if there are any job openings at the USGS?

Heck, yes!


Note: This post is not intended to diminish any of the suffering of individuals or countries that may have experienced major earthquakes. I'm just fooling around.

A Wolf. In Scout Clothing.

So, I am a Den Leader.

Note: I know, I know.

But I can't help myself really. Sure I am saying. And I am smiling, even! Sure, I can be a Den Leader.

How hard can it be to corral ten 8 year old boys for an hour once a week? I am thinking. After all, I like boys. I raised a boy. I married a boy, sort of.

Note: I am breaking out in a sweat.

But being a Wolf Den Leader has its perks, yes. I have a spiffy uniform with a necker-cheeef that really ups my street cred. Plus, as a leader, the Wolves refer to me as Akela, which is Native American for Is that Lady Really Wearing a Cub Scout Uniform in Public?

But I am a good sport and with a rocking pair of boots, I can pull off nearly anything, including a scout uniform.

So, I am a Den Leader. Today, we learn about The Buddy System, which can be summarized as this: Get a Buddy. Stay Together. The End.

But Cub Scouts turn The Buddy System into some sort of Lord of the Flies scenario with each Wolf jockeying for position, trying to buddy with the Alpha Male, who by the way, is delineated by his ability to give Turkey Bites to the buttocks of the other Wolves without Akela's detection.

Note: Don't mess with Akela. It has been a long day.

Then one Wolf says to another, We are buddies because we've known each other ever since we were born. Right, Jake? The Other Wolf gives him a Turkey Bite and responds, Dude, my name is Jason.

Ah, another long-lasting friendships made right here. In the Wolf Den.

Good job, Akela.

Heck, yes!

Sweet Holy Amnesia, Batman!

My life is so boring.

Note: Oh, it has not always been this way, no.

Previously my life was filled with amnesiacs who fell off bridges and were nursed back to health by misunderstood ex-prostitutes with hearts of gold. Nowadays, the only amnesiac in my house is The Hub who forgets to take the garbage out.

My life was a tangled mess of love triangles with outrageously beautiful people with outrageously impressive wardrobes. Now the closest thing to a love triangle around here is sneaking in an episode of Sister Wives when no one else is looking.

Note: I know, I know.

Once my life boasted heartless baby swaps, persistent brain tumors and the dead-coming-back-to-life. And everyone had six-packs and perky boobs and private jets and cash oozing out of their pores.

Sweet Holy Moses.

Oh, All My Children. How I miss you.





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True. Grit.

Today, a cooking lesson, sort of.



I am making an orange vinaigrette to top a mixed green salad with roasted beets and pistachios. I am grilling and juicing and emulsifying. I am zesting and tasting and seasoning.

And although the Kosher Salt Box and the Albers Quick Cooking Grits Box are similar in shape and similar in heft and similar in color, they are not, in fact, interchangeable in cooking applications.

Oops.

The Hub hears my lament.

Note: 'Lament' may or may not be a euphemism for a colorful expletive.

He listens sympathetically to my sad Tale of Two Boxes.

Well, he says, look at the bright side. You have discovered a brand new recipe.

Wait for it ...

A brand new recipe, he is saying, for Orange Vinai-Grit.

Sweet Holy Moses. The Hub is a freaking genius.

Be still my heart.








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Reunited And It Feels. So. Good.

So, I am chatting with the Twin Brother.

Twin, yes.

Note: No, we are not identical twins and if one more person asks me that question I am going to threaten to whip out my penis dingaling and say Heck, yes!

Additional Note: Morons.

The Twin and I are discussing our High School Reunion this weekend, which he did not attend. And in an impressive display of the high quality education received at Gridley Union High School and with a particular nod to the mathematics departments, he asks

What reunion was it?

Sigh. My Twin Brother is seriously asking this question?

Sweet Holy Moses!

What Came First, the Chicken or the Pasteur?

So, you know how when the store employee comes up and says Can I help you? and you're thinking There's not a snowball's chance in you-know-where but then you go ahead and take the plunge to ask for help anyway in spite of the fact that previous experience is screaming Stop! Back away!?

Yeah.

Do you have any pasteurized eggs?

The Worker looks at me and he is pursing his lips and pulling them to one side, like that Rugrats kid. Angelica, yes.

Note: The Daught does a mean impression of that kid.

He has longish dark hair and he flips it, a little. When he speaks he has an accent, French I think, and I am suddenly imagining him in a beret.

Pasture eggs? I do not know of such things. He calls to a buddy, a larger dude, hairless to speak of, who is balancing several cartons of eggs on his belly.

Do we have eggs from zee pastures?

Buddy looks confused by The Frenchman's question.

No, I am saying, pasteurized eggs. The Frenchman's hands land on his hips. Are you meaning eggs that come from zee chicken in zee pastures? I do not know of chickens in pastures.

Buddy laughs.

I am thinking about how all American children learn about Louis Pasteur, who, with a name like that has got to be French and how he saves all of our lives from germs and stuff in our food supply through the process of pasteurization but somehow The Frenchman seems oblivious to the greatest achievement of his Fellow Countrymen, so far as I know, except perhaps for the croissant, which is plenty impressive.

Note: Okay, fine. I don't eat croissants.

So, finally I just grab a dozen eggs laid by certified free-range chickens which is very close to a pasture-ized egg, yes.

Heck, yes!

Thank you for calling. My Name is Peggy. What is Problem, Please?

Actual Conversation with a Helpful Customer Service Representative:

Note: I am lying about the helpful part, yes.

Helpful Dude: Thank you for calling. How may I help you?

Me: I subscribed online to your newspaper and I'm trying to figure out why we're not receiving it yet.

Helpful Dude: I see.

A protracted moment of silence follows. I can not bear protracted silence, as you know. So, I speak, obviously.

Me: Well, can you check your database and see if my credit card payment went through and that I am listed as a subscriber?

Helpful Dude: Not really, no. But I can set you up as a new account.

Me: But I don't want a new account because then I may receive two newspapers. I only want one. I just need to know if you have received my payment and activated my service.

Helpful Dude: I guess you will just have to wait awhile and see if you get a newspaper.

Me: What? You can't check?

Helpful Dude: No. I don't have access to that type of information.

Me: What type of information do you have access to?

Helpful Dude: I can start a new account for you, M'am.

Me: I still don't want a new account. Can you just start sending me the paper until someone figures this out?

Helpful Dude: Would you like a trial subscription, M'am?

Me: Sure. I mean, I really want a regular subscription but I guess I'll take a trial subscription for now.

Helpful Dude: Oh, sorry. I can't give you a trial subscription if you want a regular one.

Me: Fine! I changed my mind! I don't want a regular one anymore. Give me a trial subscription.

Helpful Dude: I'm sorry.

Are you kidding me? Am I on Punk'd?

Note: For those readers who need relevancy training, Punk'd is the modern-day equivalent of Candid Camera.

Me: What am I supposed to do to get a newspaper?

Helpful Dude: I have a phone number that you can call. Perhaps they can help you with your problem.

Me: Whatever.

I am wondering if this dude's name is Peggy and he's sitting in Alaska or Fargo in a remote cabin answering the phone.

Helpful Dude: Please call 1-800-555-1111.

Huh?

Me: That's the number I just called to get YOU.

Pause. Another pause. Wait for it ... wait for it ...

Helpful Dude: Oh, well thank you for calling. How may I help you?

Sweet Holy Moses!

Extra-Virgin? Really? Yeah, Right.

So, apparently I am missing out on an important form of self-expression, but I cannot be blamed for the oversight.

I simply did not know.

I simply did not know that I can express myself with olive oil.

Note: I know, I know. So many good and expressive years, lost.

Oh, sure. I have tried the conventional approaches to self-expression, such as but not limited to words, wild gesticulations, dirty looks, teeth-baring and whatnot, particularly upon encountering Stupid Drivers. I have also tried the artistic approaches to self-expression, such as but not limited to writing, poorly-executed arts and crafts, modern dance and cleaning.

Note: Okay, fine. The modern dance part was just to impress the Lovely DIL, who clearly knows better.

Additional Note: Cleaning is so a form of self-expression. Darned Non-Believers.

But olive oil? Never tried it. Just seems too darn slippery, really.

But, I can picture expressing myself by clunking the bottle on the head of one of those Darned Non-Believers and/or Stupid Drivers ...

Heck, yes!

Hello, My Name Is Moron. How May I Help You?

The Clerk is singing along with the music, which is too loud. I am the only customer at this time of night in the national drugstore chain which shall remain unnamed and purposely, I hope, spells its name incorrectly, for what reason, I do not know.

Note: All right, fine. I am in Rite Aid.

I drop my armload of purchases on the counter.

Advil Liqui-Gels, Tums (extra strength berry fusion), Prilosec, Immodium AD, Pepto Bismol. Oh, and mascara, of course, so the reason for my late night pharmacy run isn't too obvious, if one is a moron.

The Clerk peruses the items and begins scanning. She smiles up at me, still grooving a little, yes.

So how you doing tonight, Hon'? She asks.

Really?

How am I doing?

Are you kidding me?

The mascara purchase really works!

Heck, yes!






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Location: Still Extending ...

Heeing And Hawing, Yes.

The Son and I are chatting and I am waxing nostalgic, about the good old days, when kids rode bikes and ate peaches straight off the tree and pulled the tails off pollywogs, accidentally. Maybe. Hopefully, anyhow.

I am considering the best era in which to live. I ask The Son his opinion. He hems. He haws.

Note: Please no Heehaw jokes, if the reader is even old enough to wax nostalgic about Heehaw.

He finishes with the hemming and hawing. The future he says, finally. I couldn't survive without my technology.

Note: What? He is waxing nostalgic about technology?

I demand a better answer. A real answer.

He hems. He haws some more. A time when music was better, he says. The music nowadays is awful.

Note: Nowadays? How old is this kid?

I tell him about my last three purchases on iTunes. Save Me, San Francisco by Train because I love any lyricist who can rhyme 'Oh, hell no' and Rolling in the Deep by Adele and The Lazy Song by Bruno Mars.

Wow, look at you! he is saying and adds Never heard any of them.

Note: This kid needs serious Relevancy Training.

So we wax some more. The Son is also wishing for a simpler time, before texting. When people talked face to face.

Ah, yes I am saying. Simpler times.

The Son has made his time travel decision. A simpler time with great music. And no texting.

The Nineties, he says.

The Nineties? Are you kidding me? The Nineteen-freaking-Nineties? Not the Gay Nineties, whatever the heck that means?

Sweet Holy Moses!





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Location:STILL Extended ....

Gremlins. Chewbacca. And Jacob, Oh My!

Everyone's a comedian, in his own mind.

And it's not like I haven't heard it all a thousand times before. For example, if my last name were, say, synonymous with, say, an activity only performed legally in certain cities across the country, when meeting me for the first time, say, some may find it humorous to make jokes about whether or not I reside in said city, which I don't, and trust me pal: You're not that funny.

Note: And no, my last name is not 'Girls that Want to Meet You Now'.


So, the Front Desk Receptionist in My Extended-Stay-Type-Hotel squeals when I walk through the door. There it is! There it is!

Another Front Desk Type appears.

See? I told you. That dog looks just like a Gremlin!



Note: Like I've never heard that one? But personally, I just don't see it.

Additional Note: Sic 'em, Rube.

The Housekeeper approaches me in the hallway with her hand extended to my dog, who totally ignores her. Wow! He looks just like Chewbacca!


He? I am thinking. Chewbacca? I am thinking. She is a girl. Can't you see her nine nipples hanging to the floor? And Chewbacca? Really. Rubi is far better groomed and so far as I know has never carried an assault weapon.

Note: Personally, I just don't see it.

Additional Note: Sic 'em Rube!

Today some Comedian in the elevator says My, what big eyes you have, my dear in reference, I suppose, to The Big Bad Wolf.



Hmmmn.

She may have a point. There is a family resemblance.

Heck, yes!



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Location:Still Over Extended

I Am Over-Extended.

So, I am homeless. Not technically, I suppose. In technical terms, I am between homes and although The Aging SUV looks like I am living in it, what-with the crumpled sheets and boxes of Bisquick and a Dyson vacuum cleaner tossed in for good measure, I am not.

Instead, I am sitting in the room of my My Extended-Stay-Type Hotel.

This is the life! I am thinking with exclamation points. This is how the fancy folks live!

Note: No, it is not.

Oh, sure. My Extended-Stay-Type Hotel offers some excellent amenities such as shelter, with the added benefit of not being bothered by those darn maids making my bed and cleaning my room and providing fresh linens, for example.

However, as time passes and the glamour of the life in My Extended-Stay-Type Hotel dims, however slightly, I wish to offer a few notes to the management of such facilities to further ensure the comfort of their guests:

1. Thank you for considering the addition of binoculars in the bedside tables to enhance the viewing of the stunning 19" television.

2. Thank you for hiring gentlemen to paint the metal pool fencing all day everyday. The use of the pool by the Ladies is greatly enhanced by said-gentlemen hanging around all day, painting and painting and painting.

3. Thank you for placing all pets on the third floor. The extra exercise required to traipse up and down the stairs to do business at all hours is an added benefit.

Pardon me now Readers, while I shower for as long as I wish with the water as hot as I wish with no concern for increasing my utility bill. Whatsoever.

I may even shower again, immediately after my shower.

Don't be a hater.

Heck, yes!





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Location:My Extended-Stay-Type Hotel, Third Floor

Do Not Name Your Son Earl.

I am watching one of those morning shows, sort of. It's the one with the pert, chipper and Hilarious Blonde and the aging, self-important Old Dude.

They are bantering with some fellow I do not recognize. He is lean with dark hair and those kind of glasses that the hipsters are wearing nowadays.

Note: Yes, that is correct. Hipsters.

Imagine my surprise when the fellow turns out to be Jason Lee, who is the star of 'My Name is Earl,' which I have never watched, no, but being socially relevant, as I am, is someone with whom I am familiar, yes.

Note: I associate My Name is Earl with the Earl that has to die, according to the Dixie Chicks. In short: Do not name your son Earl. That's all I am saying.

No, I am saying more.

So Hilarious Blonde turns to Earl and says I did not even recognize you! You look amazing!

Earl nods in appreciation, I think. Or maybe those hipster glasses are so darn heavy that his head is bobbing.

Hilarious Blonde continues to gush. The transformation is amazing! she says. You look like a male model!

Male model? Really? Is that kind of redundancy necessary?

I am thinking that the transformation would be infinitely more amazing if he looks like a female model.

Heck, yes!

May I Borrow Your Tool Belt?

The Pool Repair Guy is standing at the door.

I am baffled. By the Pool Repair Guy.

He is asking What is wrong with the pool?

I am explaining that the spa keeps emptying into the pool and it freaks me out to see the empty spa and the remote readout for the pool is claiming that the water temperature is 114 degrees farenheit, yes, and if that's true, then the PG&E police are going to be all over me.

Note: Am I alone in thinking that when someone sneezes it would be fun to say Farenheit and see if the sneezing person will just nod and say thank you?

The Pool Repair Guy is still looking at me. And asking the same question again. What is wrong with the pool? Have you checked the valves?

Have I checked the valves? I am thinking. Do I look like a Pool Repair Guy? No, I do not. I am dainty, in a larger sort of way and although I have been tempted to wear a tool belt, from time to time, valve-checking and gadget-prodding is not my forte.

Note: Righty-Tighty. Lefty-Loosey!

But he is asking.

And suddenly it comes to me. Like a blessed bolt of lightning from the blessed Pool Repair Gurus Above.

My best guess, I am saying, is that I need a new Flux Capacitor.

I wish Doc Brown was my Pool Repair Guy.

Nothing like 1.21 gigawatts of power, baby!

Heck, yes!

The Northern California Girls Were Warm, Yes. And Good Kissers.

Do not believe all the hype.

Oh, sure. It is true that California knows how to party. And everybody wishes she was a California girl.

Duh. That's just obvious.

And although California is the world leader in fruit production, smog emissions and silicone implants, it is unfair to assume that all residents are cruising around in polluting convertibles while eating peaches and flashing generously-sized tatas at passing truck drivers.

And now the California mystique has gone too far, again.

I am thumbing through a lifestyle magazine. It is loaded with fashion, home decor and entertaining tips. And then, I see this:


Huh.

Tuna is great on the go? Well, okay. I guess that I can accept that. Tuna the wonderfish? Well, okay. I guess that I can accept that, too. But closer examination reveals the devastating, unacceptable blow:




Tuna California Pizza? Can't somebody give my fine state a break already? Haven't we suffered enough with the revelation of our ex-Governor's love child with his maid? And never mind that we are the only state in the union to prohibit a woman from driving a motor vehicle in a housecoat. Whatever that means.

And now we are taking the rap for putting tuna on an innocent pizza.

Californians do not aspire to fishy pizzas, folks. So, blame Charlie the Tuna. Or the Gorton's Fisherman. But leave California out of it!

Please. Can't someone just stop the madness?

Heck, yes!

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Location:CALIFORNIA!!!

If Bigger is Better, Then Giant Must Be Awesome. Fail.

As my more astute readers may recall, I recently discovered my husband's unfortunate indiscretion.

He has been tempted by the fruit of another, yes.

A BMW 6 series.

Oh, I realize that I am not entirely blameless in the matter. And I can own my responsibility, yes. I've let the Aging SUV go, I'm afraid. She's dusty and smells like a mixture of strawberry vinaigrette and Pilates mats.

But to be honest, the BMW started it, with her lurid offerings of pleasure. And power. And special financing.

Well readers, I have to say The Hub is not the only person in this household receiving tantalizing automotive correspondence. No he is not.

Check out the following note with it's sensual warm hues and curvaceous lettering addressed to me. Yup.






Note: Oh, yes. They want me. Bad.

I open the card, with trembling hands, somewhat.

Note: I should totally be writing cheesy romance novels.

But wait! What is this? How can this be?

I am being courted ...






By a Used car?

And a giant one at that.

Sweet Holy Moses.

Fail.








- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:The Kitchen Island

Further Proof That Men Pretend to Listen. Especially When Hair Care Comes Up.

So, mathematics.

And hair care, yes.

Not a fan, really. Of the mathematics, that is. Numbers are just so finite. There's no wiggle room. No romance. Just doggone reality.

Words are a lot more fun. I can be happy or delighted or exhilarated or even exonerated, hopefully.

Note: What was I talking about? Oh yes. Numbers. And hair care.

So, I am telling The Hub about my upcoming High School Reunion. I am planning my hair highlighting schedule to coincide with the date, of course, and I must be speaking out loud about such plans because The Hub is nodding, somewhat numbly, I believe.

But Wait! The Hub speaks!

Note: He is listening after all!

What reunion is it? he is asking.

The question is puzzling. It's the reunion of my High School graduating class I say and although I am thinking duh I do not say it.

No, no, he is saying, I mean how many years? Like 10? Or 15?

Are you kidding me? This is the man that deals with million dollar budgets on a daily basis. He can whip out a spreadsheet faster than I can recite the pledge of allegiance in Spanish, which I can still do, yes, thanks to my High School Spanish teacher who taught me to do so, but not just ten or fifteen years ago, no.

Really? I say. We have been married 28 years. We have a 27 year-old son. Fifteen years? Really?

Oh, it must be your twentieth, he says.

Further proof, yes, that although his head may be bobbing and his lips may be hmmning, he is so not paying attention.

Well, then. Happy Twentieth High School Reunion to me!

Heck, yes!

If I Have a Choice, Please Allow Birds To Peck Me To Death. Thank You.

So, The Waltons.

For the uninformed and/or the twenty-somethings, which is a bit of a redundancy, yes, The Waltons is a television show produced in the 1970's about a depression era family living in the hills of Virginia. John is the dad and Olivia is the Mom and the children have crazy double-names like John-Boy and Mary-Ellen and Jim-Bob. They walk to church in their bonnets and lace-up boots and go to a schoolhouse which is attacked by crazy birds as a sign of the apocalypse.

Oh, wait. That was in The Birds by Alfred Hitchcock. I get the two confused all the time.

My bad.

Anyway, today's episode of The Waltons is a brilliant piece of work. Olivia (Liv) is showing strange, troubling symptoms which speak of impending doom, the family fears.

And rightfully so.

For example, Liv completely denies complying to sew a dress for her daughter's party. She gets mad at the eight children for making such a racket in their small farmhouse. And then, she refuses to go to church.

Note: I know, I know. And it gets worse.

She completely forgets to put the Sunday dinner in the oven! Imagine those crazy Walton men prowling around the house on empty stomachs.

Then poor Liv suffers from pain in the hands. And terrible, blinding headaches. And sudden changes in temperature. Some might say, a flash of heat.

A hot flash, yes.

Good news, Waltons. Mom is just achieving her Milestone. The Change of Life. Yup. The Menopause.

And based on those symptoms, folks, beware. Sadly, it may not be too many years before The Hub is getting awfully hungry on Sunday evenings.

Sweet Holy Moses!

I think I'd rather be attacked by birds as a Sign of the Apocalypse.

Heck, yes!

Is That Your Package? Or Wilting Zucchini? I Cannot Tell.

I am standing in line at the United States Postal Service. I am standing in line with a fellow with a long gray beard and coveralls. I am wondering if he could be the Son of the Unabomber or perhaps The Unabomber 2 or Unabomber The Sequel. Or something. Then the Postal Worker asks him if his parcel contains anything breakable or perishable or hazardous. He shakes his head.

I guess he is not the Unabomber. That's a relief.

Note: I am wondering if a bad guy, say a Terrorist or a Vegetarian or the Unabomber, of course, is going to tell the Postal Worker that yes, his parcel is filled with explosives or anthrax or quickly-wilting butter lettuce.

Now it is my turn. The Postal Worker gives me options for mailing my small package to a city about a two hours' drive away. You may mail it Express with guaranteed delivery on Thursday for $16.55 she says or you may send it Priority Mail with delivery on Thursday for $5.30.

I am wondering if this is a trick question but no. This is an example of our Government at work, my friends. With our tax dollars, yes.

Bravo!

Sweet Holy Moses.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad, Paddy Also

Play Ball? Um, No Thanks.

I do not understand the business world nowadays.

I am in the parking lot at the local grocery, hurrying in to grab a few important items before the car gets too hot. For the dog to sit in it. In a shady place, of course. I am hurrying and I overhear a Business Dude on his cellphone, speaking entirely too loud, by the way, if I can hear him from seven sunny parking spots away.

We need to get our shi* in a row so she can step right up and be ready to play ball, he is saying.

Wow. Really?

First of all, I cannot recall a Communications 101 class that encourages BusinessPersons to refer to their fecal material in any manner, let alone in a busy parking lot while on a business call with another alleged BusinessPerson. And secondly, what kind of metaphors is Business Dude mixing here anyhow?

I cannot identify a sport in which fecal material plays any significant role whatsoever. Defecation all in a row, besides requiring either excellent aim and/or lots of nasty gathering and storage of such, would definitely make a crappy basepath, pun intended. And although the idea of the BusinessPersons playing hopscotch amid excrement kind of ups the anty, if you know what I mean and I think you do, there is not a ball involved in such sport.

Bumpers for bowling?

And it definitely takes Dodgeball to a whole new level.

I'm glad that I'm just an everyday Trophy Wife because even when life kinda stinks, it doesn't stink that bad.

Heck, yes!

Now You See Her. Now You Don't.

Due to the unexplained disappearance of The Trophy Wife, this blog has been suspended indefinitely.

The Trophy Wife was last seen on Saturday, May 21, 2011 just prior to 6:00 p.m. According to eyewitness reports, one minute she was there, working in the kitchen at the church, and the next moment she was gone.

Poof!

Disappeared!

Wow.





- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Eternal Bliss

Thanks, Little Buddy!

Sometimes a blog post just seems to write itself.

No, really.

Just like a little gift from heaven, A Little Buddy of mine who is an avid follower of this little blog and a Trophy Wife in her own right, indeed, provides the following excerpt from her own Trophy Wife Life with just the teensiest bit of editing from The Trophy Wife because sometimes she just has to. Edit, yes:

I'm sitting with my Precocious Kindergartener working on her schoolwork. We are learning about our community and neighborhood and such in Language Arts. Today's topic is People in our Community and the roles they play. So, of course we are discussing police officers and firefighters and doctors and other scary-to-visit but necessary people.

At this point in the lesson I ask Precocious Kindergartener, aka Pre-K, about people she knows in the community and to discuss his or her role. In the community, yes. She names her car salesman father, of course and the nice pediatric dentist whom we just visited and who subsequently emptied mommy's wallet....but that's another issue entirely.

Note from The Trophy Wife: I detest dentists, especially pediatric ones. I do not need some kid telling me to brush and floss more regularly.

I ask Pre-K who else she knows and she says "Dianne." (Yes, really.... The Trophy Wife is a pillar in her community.)

So I ask, "And what is Dianne's job?" Pre-K smiles and replies, "She's a trophy wife." Now I am really smiling. Apparently she is paying attention when I read your blog.

"And what does a trophy wife do?" I ask her.

"She gives trophies to all the moms that are doing a good job."

Fantastic........

Be Still My Heart!

Clearly, my work is done here. But do not fret; I still have much more to say. See you tomorrow.

Carry on!

Relevancy Elephancy.

I am watching a morning television program, sort of, and the ladies are talking about aging. Relevantly.

No, not reluctantly. I have that concept down pat. And not like an elephant either, although I have that one down, too, unfortunately.

Note: Click Here for visual proof of my Aging Elephantly. Oh come on. You know you want to.

So the lady is talking about staying relevant so our grandchildren do not roll their eyes and protest when it's time to go to Grandma's house.

What? Is that a possibility I must consider?

Note: I have the most adorable grandchildren ever. Photographic evidence follows.

Exhibit Number One:

Exhibit Number Two:

So, the television lady suggests adopting relevant behavior, such as, but not limited to tweeting and Facebooking and listening to popular music and watching Hollywood Insider and reading fashion magazines and dying crazy gray hair and avoiding mom jeans. And whatnot.

And your spouse needs to be relevant, too! she says.

So, The Hub is now in relevancy training. I question him regarding pop culture and current events in rapid-fire succession because nothing makes a woman less relevant than a dottering, suspenders-wearing, glasses-on-the-nose spouse, no offense.

Who is the latest two and a half-man?

Who sings the current number one song, Rolling In The Deep?

What size bra did Dustin Hoffman wear in the movie, Tootsie?

Note: 36C

But The Hub finds a much simpler solution. I will always be relevant, he says, as long as I have this.

He flashes his American Express Card.

The Hub is a freaking genius. And a heck of a timesaver!

Sweet Holy Moses!





- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Relevant Elephant.

You Give Aliens a Bad Name. Seriously.

So, alien sex.

The demure Katy Perry has graduated from kissing a girl and liking it to kissing aliens, aka Kanye West and really, really liking it, apparently.

Note: I am sure that her mother is so proud.

The premise of alien sex may seem unbelievable, but the following photographic evidence may sway the reader's opinion:

Actual Photograph of an Alien

Actual Photograph of Kanye West

Eerie, I know.

So, the Alien, aka Kanye West, tantalizes the "lady" with his sweet talk from Mars or Pluto or His-Anus, maybe:

I got a dirty mind ...
I’m tryna Bathe my Ape in your Milky Way
They calling me an alien
A big headed astronaut
Maybe it’s because your boy Yeezy get *** a lot.

But he's not done with the sweet talking yet, ladies:

Pockets on Shrek, Rockets on deck
Tell me what’s next, alien sex
I’ma disrobe you, than I’mma probe you
See I abducted you, so I tell ya what to do
I tell ya what to do, what to do, what to do

So, Miss Katy responds as any hot-blooded freak of nature:

Kiss me, ki-ki-kiss me
Infect me with your love and
Fill me with your poison

Take me, ta-ta-take me
Wanna be a victim
Ready for abduction

I wanna walk on your wave length
And be there when you vibrate
For you I'll risk it all.

Oh, I can't take it anymore. Please make it stop.

And it'll be a cold day on Mars before I eat a Milky Way again.

Note: I think it's always cold on Mars, but whatever.

Sweet Holy Moses.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:You Give Aliens A Bad Name. Seriously.

My Piggly Is Wiggly, Yes It Is.

I am driving The Mighty Civ. I venture through vineyards and green pastures and rice fields and towns with 267 residents and stores that sell Mexican food and bait in the same shop.

Note: Now, that's convenience.

I see cows getting it on and free-range chickens just ranging about the hillside and bugs smashing against my windshield in golf ball sized proportions.

And now the time has come.

I need to pee, yes.

I pull into a local establishment, take care of my business and buy a giant diet coke. I take a sip. The sheer pleasure on my face must be compelling because I hear a voice commenting behind me.

I guess that really hit the spot.

I turn to see Santa in the off-season, before he is re-fattened by The Missus. The gentleman is older and sports a long scraggly gray beard. He wears overalls and although he seems harmless enough, he is standing a wee bit too close to me.

Santa is joined by his buddy, who reminds me of the hometown boy in the movie that ultimately gets the girl because he's attractive enough to begin with, but lacks the finesse of the cool dude who ultimately turns out to be a jerk anyhow, but we already know that because we've seen the premise in a movie about a hundred times.

Hometown Boy speaks. He seems to direct his comment to Santa, but he is looking at me and my version of a Diet Coke commercial, apparently.

Boy, they sure grow 'em cute around here.

I look around. I mean, sure. I'm wearing my BCBG pants and my cheetah shirt and , my eyelashes are 40% longer and fuller but Hometown Boy is decades younger than me.

On cue, he repeats it.

Boy, they sure grow 'em cute around here

And then something strange happens.

I'm not from around these parts, I am saying.

These parts? Are you kidding me? Why don't I just don a pair of cut-offs and head on over to the Piggly Wiggly?

Sheesh.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:The Middle of Nowhere

Shocking News. Shocking Big News.

I have news.

Big news.

And sometimes the only way to share big news is to do so personally. Face to face, if you will. So now, I present my face, yes.

Please prepare yourself. It isn't pretty.

Allow me to clarify: The news isn't pretty. My face is fine, mainly because I uploaded the video in standard definition. Wrinkles just disappear!

Note: The smeared mascara is a result of the news, of course. A Trophy Wife never wanders about with smeared mascara. Usually a Trophy Wife doesn't even wear mascara, no.

What were we talking about? Oh yes, the VLOG.

CLICK HERE FOR BIG NEWS

I know. Shocking.

Note: Who are the dudes sitting around a table at BMW headquarters getting jiggy about the sedans and sending lurid letters to innocent men?

Eew. I feel dirty.

So, I'm off to take a shower. Or a test drive. I can't decide.

Heck, yes!

I Got It From My Mama.

The Lovely DIL (daughter in law) is on the phone and she sounds excited. She is laughing a happy laugh. Delighted, maybe.

He is cleaning! she says.

Note: No, she is not referring to The Son, unfortunately. But she is referring to The Son of The Son. Ah, The GrandBoy, yes. The GrandBoy with the big brown eyes and his Daddy's fantastic eyebrows and the most infectious laugh in the world.






The Lovely DIL interrupts my GrandBoy reverie. She is speaking quickly, but I am listening just as fast.

I am doing laundry and I folded the towels and washcloths but I didn't put them away yet and he picked up a washcloth and started wiping the bookcase!

So, I am thinking about the adorableness of the ten-month old GrandBoy Janitorial service and laughing because he sure didn't learn it from his father, no offense, and then it hits me.

He learned it from his mother.

My amazing little GrandBoy emulates the person with whom he spends his time. He cleans with a washcloth, he shares his cheerios, he 'reads' his books, he waters the tomato plant, he brushes his hair and he kisses big wet ones.

Note: Okay, so maybe the last example is not the best one of the bunch.

And as he grows, he will learn to say his prayers and to keep his hands to himself at recess and to listen when his teacher is speaking and to always tell the truth, yes, always tell the truth.

Because he will learn it from his mother.

So, go and thank your Mama for loving you and teaching you and sometimes even tolerating you.

Happy Mother's Day, one and all.

And, if I say so myself, I must be a darn good mama. Just look at my kids!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Dale Rd,Modesto,United States

(This) Woman's Suffrage.

Sadly, I am suffering from a back injury.

Oh, do not worry about me, dear readers. The suffrage is mild, as far as suffrage goes, and is unlikely to cause major interruption to my daily schedule of sleeping, stalking Facebook friends, and lounging in the pool.

I wish that I could say that the injury was caused by an incident of Herculean strength and/or courage, such as lifting a car off of a pinned wine country tourist or dragging a St. Bernard, dead weight style, from a burning building.

Sadly, that is not the case, no.

Note: One of The Hub's more hilarious stories of back injury is the dreaded showering injury, caused by reaching over his shoulder with his soapy pouf. Boom! Man down!

I can mock The Hub because my injury is equally ridiculous, involving a bobby pin and a bottle of Suave hairspray, ultra hold.

So, although I'm shuffling like a (really old) granny and easing myself in and out of chairs and taking steps one at a time while gripping the handrails for dear life, my hair looks great.

Heck, yes!

Men Are So Weird.

The Hub reads Road and Track magazine, a very fine publication. It contains flashy photos and reviews of cars he will never own, unless he becomes rich and famous by having a wild raccoon gnaw off his arm but does not allow the tragedy to stop him from scaling Mt Everest. Or something.

So the back of the magazine is filled with ads which appeal to men, apparently, because all the ads either contain images of women in swimwear or eye-catching images of sausage-shaped items including cigars. And there is a scantily-clad redhead on top of a car saying I love a hard brake pedal.

Note: Men are so weird.

My favorite advertisement is for a pheromone mixture which, when added to aftershave, turns the most undesirable man into Hugh Jackman. And creepy losers around the globe are extoling its virtues.

This stuff is like catnip. It is amazing!

Well, you should have seen the look on her face last night. We are more than friends now.

My friend ... is kind of a nerdy guy, you know, but has this GORGEOUS girlfriend. I figure I gotta try it.

Note to Creepy Losers: Maybe the nerdy guy has a hot girlfriend because he a) has a JOB; b) has a personality; and c) does not shop for sausage-shaped items in the back of a car magazine.

Men are so weird.

Heck, yes!

Yes. Leave the Toilet Seat Up. Very Nice.

Warning: There is a crazy world out there, folks, filled with crazy people in crazy situations and those wacky real estate agents lead the pack. Of the crazies.

Or maybe the agents just run in packs, like hungry wolves circling the sparkling vampires or wild turkeys, looking for loose lady turkeys and free food.

Note: As a mildly amusing side note, my cell phone caller ID identifies my real estate professional as Agent Jane Doe and when she calls, for a brief moment, I imagine answering on my shoe phone and donning my x-ray vision glasses.

And those crazy agents speak in a crazy language which is taught to them in real estate school or in used car salesman school or by Satan himself, maybe.

For example, when an agent refers to a home as a cozy charmer she actually means that there is just one bathroom and it's across the street from the power plant. Beware the house in a great commute location unless living next door to the train station seems delightful. And do not be surprised when vintage turns out to mean that the appliances are harvest gold and shag green carpeting covers the entire house.

Note: As a mildly amusing side note, i recently viewed a house described as vintage, and the green shag carpeting extended completely up the sides of the bathtub in the ultra groovy master suite. Oh, if that shag carpeting could speak. The tales it could tell.

But thanks to the new world of Internet marketing, those crazy agents can entice the buyer to view a listing with glorious photos and virtual tours. Because, of course, a picture is worth a thousand words.

Actual photograph from an actual virtual tour:



When an open green toilet (and matching sink) becomes a selling point, you are in trouble, folks.

Sweet Holy Moses.

Actually, I am considering a new career in real estate. As a special agent. I've already got the crazy part down.

And I love talking into my shoes!

Heck, yes!


-Posted using BlogPress from my new iPad, Paddy Also.