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.





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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.



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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.

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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!

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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.