I Have Germs. And I Am Not Afraid To Use Them.

I am entering another OPEN House and I see it. Again, yes. I feel my hackles begin to rise. And one thing you don't want to see is a Trophy Wife with raised hackles.

Note: Don't press the issue, folks. Just take my word for it.

There is a sign just inside the front door of the OPEN House. An incredibly annoying sign that says 'Please Remove Shoes'. And I am continually amazed by the complacency of the Open House Population as a whole that immediately peels off its collective shoes and tiptoes around the OPEN House as if it is the Museum of Natural Fibers or something.

I mean, really. If the owners of the OPEN House do not wish for people to walk around and look at the home then why in the heck is there a big sign out front inviting the whole neighborhood to come on in?

You are going to take off your boots? she says, but she doesn't really use the question mark.

The Young Real Estate Agent watches me as I consider my options. She is fit, but I think I could take her.

The Hub mutters under his breath something like Here we go again and makes a beeline for the kitchen in his complacent, stockinged feet.

Note: He is a patient man, The Hub.

The Young and Fit Agent waits. You about ready to take off those boots? she says, eyebrows in the raised and hackled position.

Oh dear. I feel my hackles again.

My home is also on the market I am saying and it is OPEN today, too. I would never dream of asking guests to take off their shoes. It's a floor, for Pete's sake. People walk on them all the time.

Note: I may not have said the Pete's Sake part. But next time I will.

The Young and Fit and Hackled Agent explains that it's not really about getting the floors dirty. The Homeowners are concerned about germs getting tracked through the house.

Germs? I am thinking. Has she smelled the Hub's socks lately?

I pull off my boots to reveal my bare feet. I smile a little.

Germs, really? I say to the Young and Fit Agent as I head up the stairs. I will try not to stand in the shower.

Heck, yes!


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Not So Great Expectations.

I am attending a Literature Night sponsored by the Ladies Auxiliary at my church.

And although the Trophy Wife highly favors the reading of the written word, books about vampires do not qualify. As literature, no.

Note: I am, however, quite fond of the concept of a Ladies Auxiliary. I imagine us ladies sitting around in dresses and hats, yes, extraordinary hats. And probably we are fanning ourselves on account of the vapors or the gators or something Southern like that.





So, the ladies are listening to book reviews of literature, yes, and nodding and smiling and chuckling as it seems fit. And my mind is wandering, of course, on account of my admittedly short attention span and a sudden craving for grits.

So I'm thinking about creamy grits with whipped cream, of course, and how awesome my iPad is and how my eyelashes are now 30% fuller than before I started using that eyelash-growing stuff which has not changed the color of my eyeballs, no.

And I'm thinking about how the men at church never get together for a Literature Night and why is that? They could sit around and eat pizza and talk about Sports Illustrated and Motor Trend and Gamepro and they could burp and fart and have poor manners all in the name of higher learning.

Holy Moly.

Every once in awhile, however brief, I think it would be awesome to be a man.

Heck, yes!

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Scrambled Or Over Easy?

What came first, the chicken or Lady Gaga?





Really?

Heaven help us.

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Beware the Citizens of Pavlov.

So, I am entering the restroom at Kmart.

Note: That sentence is wrong on so many levels, yes.

But there seems to be something about Kmart that stimulates the bladder. Or the bowels, unfortunately. I have long surmised that the fluorescent lighting has some effect on the whole elimination process.

Note: I apologize for the plethora of bathroom posts, as of late. What am I? A seven year old boy?

So, I am entering the restroom at Kmart but I am nearly bowled over by a somewhat frantic, lanky woman in army boots, her fried blonde hair piled haphazardly on her head. She is dancing a bit on the tippy toes of her boots, holding herself, if you will, in a manner that makes it obvious that she's got to go. Real bad.

But the bathroom is busy.

Note: Darned fluorescent lighting.

Sorry, sorry she is saying in a distinctly heavy accent. German? Latvian? Pavlovian? I am hurry, she apologizes and darts into an open stall without bothering to close the door. She drops her pants which puddle at her army boots as she hovers over the toilet, sort of. Dude, I am thinking, are there no stall doors in Pavlov?

As I smash myself against a wall to avoid the spectacle, another patron walks in and aghast, smashes herself against a wall directly across from me. We make eye contact. Big, round freaked out eye contact. It is not smelling so great in here.

I can hear the clunk clunk clunk of the toilet roll spinning. Clunk, clunk, clunk.

How much of that stuff is she using? I wonder.

Then she speaks. Cud dey make dis toilet paper any theener?

Freaked Out Girl looks at me. In panic. Is the Pooping European in the Open Stall engaging us in conversation? Is she cracking jokes while sitting on the toilet? Really?

No, I am saying. Kmart has it specially made, just for them.

Why am I speaking? What is wrong with me? But The Pooping European laughs. Freaked Out Girl laughs. This is an easy audience, yes.

I finally dash into the next open stall and pee as fast as humanly possible while the Pooping European's toilet roll is clunk clunk clunking still and I am getting faint on account of holding my breath.

Nothing prepares me for what happens next. I emerge from the stall to wash my hands and run run run, as fast as the wind, yes.

The Pooping European is now standing near the sink, pants still puddled, somewhat. She is splashing water in her nether parts, somewhat and patting said area with more of that cheap toilet paper and I'm thinking Dude, this is a sink, not a bidet. Then The European looks up and sees me and proceeds to hold the tissue in such a manner as to be discreet, somewhat.

Oh, sorry, sorry she is saying in her heavy accent and I am probably looking like Freaked Out Girl and then several things become clear to me. Crystal clear, yes.

First, I will never use this bathroom again. Second, I need a shower. And my upcoming European travel plans will not include an excursion to Pavlov.

Sweet Holy Moses.



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To Pee. Or Not to Pee.

Disclaimer: This post contains references to pee pee and euphemisms for the male anatomy that The Trophy Wife believes to be scientifically accurate. Reader discretion is advised.

I cannot help myself. It is not a question that I want to ask, but I must. I have to know, yes.

The Hub and I are driving home from a splendid church service. In the convertible, yes. The sun is warm on my face and the scent of early blooms is in the air. Ah, spring.

But I cannot help myself. I have to know. About the condition. Of the church's urinal, yes.

Note: If the reader finds this statement baffling, perhaps a quick CLICK HERE is warranted.

The question is somewhat awkward. As a Trophy Wife, and a genteel one at that, I wish to maintain an air of dignity with my inquiry. About the condition. Of the urinal.

How was the pee hole today? I ask The Hub.

Note: The business of gentility needs a little work, apparently.

The Hub relates chatting with a Fellow Member in the sparkling men's room while The Fellow's adorable and precocious four year old lifts up his thing to aim it into the urinal. As the men chat, yes.

Note: I am grateful for female anatomy, my friends.

So The Kid is aiming his ding-a-ling and saying Daddy! Daddy! But Daddy and The Hub are discussing deep spiritual concepts, probably, and ignoring the fact that The Kid is high on his tippy toes, teetering and peeing in the urinal, yes, but there is some sort of ricochet problem. With the pee pee.

Daddy! It's splashing on my face!

Oops.

The urinal wins again.

Carry on!







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Super Mazeltov!

So, the Super Bowl half-time show.

Note: How does one get cast as a dancer with a box on his head?

Casting Agent: You are a good dancer, yes. Unfortunately, you have a face that not even a dog would lick. Here is your box. Place it on your head. Next!

Dancer: Thank you, Sir.

Admittedly, I am not real savvy with the whole Pop Culture thing. Maybe it is because I grew up in a small town that boasts very little pop and even less culture, sadly. Or maybe it is because instead of reading teen magazines, I chose to spend my spare time feeding the hungry and caring for the needy.

Note: Or stealing my neighbors peaches, yes.

The Hub, on the other hand, watches a guitar player emerge on stage during Super Bowl halftime and says stuff like, Slash? Really? And I'm thinking Slash? Really? because if my life depends on it, no wait, If the lives of all Pop Culture Icons depend on it, there is no way in heck that I will ever pull that name out of my (admittedly flat) behind.

And then there's Fergie. She's certainly new and improved. The last time I checked she was the redheaded Duchess of York and married to Prince Andrew, the cute one.

Note: When your brother is Prince Charles, it is not hard to be the cute one.

But now Fergie has long blonde hair and long legs and short lingerie and sings with the Black Eyed Peas, who seem to be Jewish in some fashion because of the whole Mazeltov and L'chaim business but I've Gotta Feeling that the Hebrew connection has nothing to do with will.i.am.

I'm just saying.

Note: Okay, I admit that I know Fergie divorced Prince Andrew and is now apparently hot and much, much younger and married to Josh Duhamel. But I know this fact because Josh is not simply a Pop Culture Icon. He's practically a legend. In his own time. Well, he's super cute, anyhow.

Note: Maybe if Slash were cute, I would recognize him.

I'm just saying.

So I am watching the Super Bowl and hoping that Green Bay wins on account of the fact that they make a mighty fine cheese.

Mazeltov, yes!



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Location:My Butt

Don't. Call. Me. Blond.

If you meet the Daughter on the street, or say, in a cafe or at the gym you will not know she is my daughter.

Note: The picture to the right is definitely not the Daughter.

Additional Note: The chances of meeting the Daughter in any of these settings is unlikely, indeed, unless one frequents the frigid streets of Fargo, North Dakota, in which case, why are you wandering around town in this weather?

Genetically, we share the same brain, but that is all.

Note: Yes, Daughter has the custody of the brain more often than I do, sadly.

My eyes are green; Daught's eyes are brown. While my bum is a teeny bit on the flat side, Daught's is round and perky. My skin has a somewhat greenish-olive glow; Daught's skin is pearly white. My feet are dainty; Daught's are not-so-much.

But now, through the miracle of modern science, we have revised our DNA and now share a genetic trait: We are both blonde! Well, flaxen-haired with ribbons of caramel, but you get the idea.

Note: It has come to my attention that some people are blond and others are blonde. Why is that?

Additional Note: Of course I know why. I googled it:

The words blond and blonde come from the French and follow somewhat the French pattern. Blond (without the e) is used to describe males, mixed gender, or uncertain gender. Blonde refers to women or female gender.

Hold up. Mixed gender? Uncertain gender?

Sweet Holy Moses.

Whoever said Blonds have more fun is creeping me out, just a little.

Get it right: Blondes have more fun.

Just ask Daught!

Heck, yes!

You Don't Get a Lot More Transparent Than That, Rick.

So, Ricky Martin.

He is on The View. With the ladies. Talking about stuff. And other related things. Talking about stuff and things.

Note: Clearly, I am not paying much attention to the conversation. I am simply enjoying The View. Of Ricky. If you know what I mean, and I think you do.

Note: Oh, simmer down, everyone. He's pretty. That's all.

But then Ricky says something worthy of my attention, however brief, yes.

He folds his hands in his lap. He looks up with big, brown-eyed sincerity. I just want to walk through life with a lot of transparency, he says.

Transparency?

Mission accomplished, Ricky. No one rocks the see-through shirt like you do, Sport.

Mission accomplished indeed.