Jugs. Gourds. Bouncing Buddhas, Etc.

I am cutting edge, yes. I am always on the lookout for the latest. The greatest. The coolest and yes, the hippest. It's how I roll.

And I'm rolling this new product in your direction.

Click here and watch the first 60 seconds and by golly, you may need a shower, but you won't be disappointed .....

Sweet Holy Moses.

No wonder China is the world's new economic superpower. The United States is sitting on our collective butt attempting to cure cancer and creating biofuels and establishing world peace when we could be shaking our boobies. Literally.

Sheesh.

Handsome. In. Pink.

I am sitting across the table from The Son. Our legs are dangling and swinging because we are sitting at one of those awesome high tables like the kinds at bars or pubs or other dark places without windows or milkshakes.

Note: No, we are not sitting in a bar or pub or other dark place. We are lunching at MacDonald's which boasts both windows and milkshakes, luckily.

Additional Note: Simmer down. Of course I am not having a milkshake. The temperature in hell remains stable.

So, I am sitting across the table from The Son. We are eating and laughing and discussing current events such as The Bachelor and Is it just me or does Giada deLaurentis have an unusually large head? and The Perfection of the Grandboy, oh yes, we are discussing The Perfection of the Grandboy.

And I always forget how handsome The Son is. In real life. And I am always so surprised when I see him. In real life. In my mind I just think he's uglier, I suppose.

Note: Oh, come on. Can't a Mama joke now and then?

But then The Handsome and Funny Son steps it up a notch and pulls out all the stops. I think I may burst with pride.

Note: No, he did not buy lunch. Now you're just getting silly. Please try to Focus.

We prepare to leave. My hands are momentarily full. I need to answer my phone or I need to blow my nose or something important, so I ask The Son to hold my purse. For a moment. It is an enormous, hot pink tote, which he takes without hesitation. And rather than holding the bag at arm's length in obvious manly distaste, The Son throws the enormous hot pink tote over his shoulder, like a continental soldier, yes.

I smile.

I am walking with a giant, confident, handsome and successful man. And he's carrying an enormous hot pink tote bag without a second thought.

That's My Boy.

Heck, yes!




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Location:The Family Room. On the Sectional. With Rubi.

I Can Fly!

The billboard on the side of the highway has captured my attention, however fleeting that span may be.

It advertises a cosmetic dentist and the billboard shows him surrounded by his loving family. Or his loving staff. I cannot really tell. I am driving 65 miles per hour, after all. His hair seems a little long and curly for a dentist, but I imagine he wears one of those awesome shower caps during the dental procedure.

But here's the thing: In big letters that can be easily read at a high rate of speed the sign says PETER PANG.

Peter Pang?

Are you kidding me?

I can just picture that delivery room scene.

Mr. Pang: Oh darling, he is a perfect little boy. God has given us such a gift. What can we name him to be sure that the other children pick on him at recess and steal his school lunch?

Mrs. Pang: William? Matthew? Robert? Peter?

Mr. Pang: Oh yes. Peter Pang. Perfect!

Sweet Holy Moses.


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Location:Interstate 880, Oakland, California

Urinal. Analysis.

I am cleaning a urinal!

Note: I suppose that I can now cross number 47 off my bucket list.

Additional Note: No, of course cleaning a urinal is not on my bucket list, even if I have one, which I don't.

Nevertheless, the cleaning of the urinal is quite an experience.

No, The Trophy Wife has not fallen on times hard enough to justify custodial labor in a men's restroom, of all places. Thankfully.

Note: Not that there's anything wrong with it. I'm just saying.

I am cleaning the urinal at the Church and I am attempting to keep my mind off the task at hand so I am singing Pink's stupid "Raise Your Glass" because I cannot get it out my mind, no matter how hard I try and I am imagining that I am Cinderella preparing for the ball and the pumpkin chariot will be awaiting and I am wondering if it's the same pumpkin that was used to hide Peter Peter's wife? and then I am imagining every man's ding-dong-dilly spraying the walls and causing the paint to peel, yes, peel right off!

Sweet Holy Moses.

Clearly, the urinal was not the brainchild of a woman.

Heck, yes!

Britney Made Me Do It.

Those who do not learn from the past are doomed to repeat it. --George Santayana, American Philosopher

Oops, I did it again. --Britney Spears, American Philosopher

History has repeated itself.

I am standing in front of the mirror, huge white towel wrapped around me, for modesty's sake, and reaching into the cabinet to grab the spray deodorant and inexplicably and quite stickily I grab the hairspray instead.

Note: Jokes about keeping my armpit hair in place are simply not necessary, thank you.

Oops, I did it again.

Fool me once, I'm a fool. Fool me twice, I'm a bigger fool. Or something like that.

But in True Trophy Wife Fashion, I look on the bright side.

It's going to be a great hair day!

Heck, yes!

I Wonder if Mrs. O'Leary Was Ample-Bosomed.

So, the Bachelor.

The dates keep getting grander, the drama keeps getting deeper, and the breasts keep getting larger.

Oh, Bachelor. How I have missed you.

On last night's episode, Ashley and Brad recorded a totally unrecognizable version of Seal's Kiss From a Rose and then were serenaded by Seal in the flesh while Ashley wept and touched Brad's heart with the tragic story of her dad's sudden death and how this song was their favorite and it's like he was here with them. Singing in the studio.

Note: If he were actually there, he too has a lousy singing voice.

Additional Note: Simmer down. I'm just saying.

And Madison, the Vampire-Teeth girl wept and took out her fangs and the ample-bosomed Chantal wept as she recounted her Dad's death before she could forgive him for whatever he did, I forget.

But my favorite part was the date in the wine country when Emily wept and recounted her tragic story of her fiance dying in a plane crash and then the next day she finds out she is pregnant with his child and now she wants to find love again and did I mention she's adorable? Emily, not the child.

But wait, that wasn't my very favorite part. The best part was when Brad and Emily walked from the vineyard into the barn which had been magically transformed for their private dinner date and was aglow with lantern and candlelight.

Yes, that is correct.

Lanterns and candles in a barn filled with straw.

What is going on here? Have none of the producers of this fine program ever heard what happened when Mrs. O'Leary left the lantern in the shed?

Note: Yes, the cow kicked it over and winked her eye and said, There'll be a hot time in the old town tonight.

Fire! Fire! Fire!

Sweet Holy Moses.

What the Turkey Taught Me.

I am driving with Rubi perched on the armrest beside me. We come over a hill and suddenly find ourselves face to face with a flock of wild turkeys. Standing in the middle of the gall-darned street, of course. Because that's how they roll.

Note: The term 'flock' seems ill suited for turkeys. Flocks conjure up images of birds in flight soaring high overhead or, at the very least, a bunch of squawking creatures high in the oak trees in the backyard. Turkeys are never high, unless they've been eating some fermented wild berries, if you know what I mean and I think you do. Honestly, a better term would be a herd of turkeys or maybe a twit of turkeys or possibly an idiot of turkeys, standing in the middle of the gall-darned street.

I brake in time. Just barely. I am this close to a big fella who is standing directly in front of my daunting Honda Civic. He is not impressed. With the Civ.

Note: Wait, perhaps he is impressed. With the Civ. He is attempting to climb up on the hood. One might even say that he is mounting the Civic, apparently.

Eeew.

I begin to inch the car forward and he fluffs up like a Thanksgiving centerpiece. He's dancing and jigging and strutting and I'm inching and eewing at the spectacle.

I manage to move around him and I accelerate slightly, hoping to leave Loverboy in the dust. But he surprises me and begins to run. Alongside my automobile, yes!




And that is how I have come to know for a surety that turkeys can run 9 mph.

At least.

Heck, yes!




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Life with a Neanderthal. It's a Rough Road, Yes.

I am living with a neanderthal, yes.

Oh, silly readers, I am not referring to The Hub, The Great Gem in My Trophy Wife Crown.

Note: That was a good one, indeed.

Oh, silly readers, I am not referring to Rubi the Dog, the most genteel of Whipped Cream Afficionados.

I am referring to my stupid, crappy, irritating, out-dated, lazy, procrastinating, and annoying cell phone.

If cell phones had knuckles, my cell phone would be dragging its knuckles. On the floor, yes.

If cell phones had clothes, my cell phone would be wearing some sort of goat-skin diapery thing to cover its apparent (lack of) manhood.

If cell phones had hair, my cell phone would have wild, crazy, nasty hair, a little like Conan O'Brien, yes.

Oh, I'm not complaining here. I'm just saying.

And I'm just saying it on a stupid, crappy, irritating, out-dated, lazy, procrastinating, and annoying cell phone!

Carry on.

A Trophy Wife Quiz. About Ants, Mostly.

Today, the Trophy Wife tests the knowledge of both of her readers regarding ant life. In the microwave, yes.

The following questions are presented in a True or False format.

True or False: In their desperation, ants will assess the specks of spatter and cooked on gunk in the corner of the microwave as a significant food source and will send out the ant calvary to return with more and more ants who will, in turn, seize the specks of spatter and cooked on gunk in the corner of the microwave and will find more dried bits underneath the rotating microwave tray and near the vent in the top of the appliance.

True. Desperate ants also enjoy used Kleenex, sadly.

True or False: After five minutes in a microwave on 'High Power', ants begin to 'pop' or 'crackle', if you will.

False. But that would be awesome.

True or False: After five minutes in a microwave on 'High Power' with a mug of water, ants retain enough moisture to be killed by the waving micros.

False. But the ants run all around all over the microwave, like the teeny tiny tourists that were attacked by King Kong, which according to my metaphor, is me.

Sweet Holy Moses!

True or False: Scurrying teeny tiny tourist ants succumb to Lysol Anywhere Daily Disinfecting Spray.

True. And False. The ants succumb, yes, but new ones quickly arrive to take their place. Two by two, even. And then they succumb. And then new ants arrive. And then they succumb.

And then they arrive. And then they succumb. And then they arrive. And then they succumb.

Building Walls. And Pharmaceuticals. Where Else Can You Find Both Ideas in One Post?

I am having a conversation with a fellow church member.

Note: In this case, conversation is a very loose use of the word. Mostly I am head-nodding and eye-blinking and wondering what the heck we're talking about.

Additional Note: I am wondering if this is how people generally feel when they are conversing with me.

I seem to be doing a very good job of pretending to follow along. We are discussing walls, metaphorical ones, and the importance of tearing them down, I think. But the Church-goer is standing a wee bit too close to me and I am thinking that building a wall might be a very good idea, yes.

We now seem to be conversing about inclusion and flexibility but I think we are actually talking about touching toes, not flexibility about inclusion and/or walls because the conversation turns to pilates and about having flexibility about the inclusion of the less-flexible and making all welcome, without walls. Of some sort.

And apparently all of this wall-building and body-flexing is causing pain and our conversation, of sorts, turns to the importance of listening to the body and the staggering overuse of pharmaceuticals in today's world. Popping a pill instead of listening to our bodies, the Church-Goer says.

Excuse me?

Pharmaceuticals are the American way.

Have you seen my medicine cabinet? I say, but actually I keep my pharms in the kitchen so when a pill-popping moment arises, I am at the ready.

I'm practically a Licensed Pharmacist in fifteen states, I boast.

The conversation drifts to filling our empty spaces with light instead of drugs but I'm thinking about filling my empty spaces with Advil and building walls with little boxes of decongestant and Excedrin PM and Viactiv calcium chews and nasal spray, oh yes, the nasal spray.

All of this deep conversing seems to be causing a headache.

Good thing I've got Advil in my purse.

Heck, yes!

Terrible. Horrible. No Good. Very Bad. Day.

Note: Judith Viorst is my inspiration for this little rant. If you haven't read her children's book Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, please pick up a copy. It's genius, yes.

Sadly, The Trophy Wife is having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I went to sleep with my purple flannel pajamas on and I woke up naked and feeling feverish and achy and when I got out of bed my hair was stuck to my neck and my nose was unfortunately a little crusty from my stupid cold. I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

At breakfast, my whipped cream bottle was empty and who wants Bob's Mighty Tasty Gluten Free cereal without whipped cream? And then the phone rang and my voice was squeaky and squawky and the man was saying, Are you all right? while my cereal was getting cold and turning into mortar and I'm saying, I'm fine, I'm fine, but I'm not fine. I am miserable. I think I'll move to Australia.

I figured a hot shower would help, but I got shampoo in my eyes and the razor blade was dull and I shaved and shaved and shaved, but I've still got hairy legs and the hot water made my skin so dry that I can't move my lips. I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

And when I came downstairs the dog was sitting by the front door needing a walk and so off we went in my fleece pants and my yellow thermal and my blue Fargo sweatshirt and my hair was wet and I was freezing, so I put on the hood part and when I got home with the dog's poop in a neat little ziploc baggie, my hair was drying into a convoluted mess. I doubt that anyone has a bad hair day in Australia.

And there is a line of ants marching from a teeny hole in the woodwork on the staircase all the way down the stairs and down the wall and through the family room and into the kitchen, where they found some miniscule piece of something delicious and when I spray them with Raid, I have dead ants to clean up and oily spots on the wall. I am having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

And then a real estate agent calls and says Is it convenient to take a look at your house now? and my voice is saying Of course and my mind is singing The Ants Go Marching Song and I wonder if I will ever sell my lovely home and I am wondering if the real estate market is better in Australia.

So I do what any Trophy Wife would do in this situation. I find a piece of dark chocolate and a Diet Coke.

Yes, I'm having a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. But some days are like that. Even in Australia.

Babies. Not to be Organized.

I like The New Year. I like the list-making and the organizing and the resolving, oh yes, the resolving. Lots and lots of resolving.

Note: A passing fancy becomes a resolution when it is written on adorable paper, yes, in a manner requiring frequent review and the creating of little boxes for checking, yes, or in a manner requiring little stickers for placing upon the chart, indicating SUCCESS!

Additional Note: I have never met a sticker chart whose trash I could not kick, no.

So, I like The New Year. It is excellent fun to go to The Walmart and buy storage containers, which come in many handy sizes. There are little teeny ones for storing little teeny things such as mini M&M's, yes. There are big, enormous ones for storing big enormous things like the huge pile of laundry in my closet, yes.

For the novice New Year's storage container organizer, the storage bins themselves come with handy visual instructions, in case reading is not the strong point of the organizer.



Apparently, storage of the baby in the container is not suggested.

Heck, yes!

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He Speaks Out. The Hub, Yes.

The Hub is wrestling with the Christmas tree, the nine-footer, yes. It is large. It is heavy. It is not for the faint of heart. Or biceps.

He is shoving and taping and heaving, a little. And grunting and pushing and smacking the tree into submission. And into the box, yes. I refer, of course, to the teeny, tiny box that miraculously holds the gall-darned thing in the factory but is woefully too small for the tree, after the Christmas fluffage has occurred.

I think, he says, that I will invent a Christmas tree that comes in a box that is actually big enough to hold the gall-darned thing.

And then he adds the statement that makes me go weak in the knees.




Instead of the dumb box that requires the strength of ten husbands, plus two.

The Hub is quoting Christmas Specials. From the Sixties!

Be still my heart.

Heck, yes!

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