A Sighting.

So, The Trophy Husband.

I am thinking about The Trophy Husband. Not my Trophy Husband, particularly, because it's not Saturday night yet, is it? but Trophy Husbands. In general.

Note: Simmer down, everyone. The Saturday night thing is just a joke. Sometimes it's Friday nights.

I spot one. In Trophy Husband Habitat, to be sure. He stands in a Ladies Clothing Shop. A little awkwardly, yes, but nonetheless he stands, the lone man in the plus-size section. He sees me looking at him and he shifts a bit, raising an eyebrow, because he is mid-fiftiesh with a big belly and receding hairline, and I seem to attract those types, yes.

But, alas, I am not checking him out, no. I am looking at the large pink handbag draped casually over his forearm. Ah, the man who goes shopping with the wife and holds her handbag. A Trophy Husband. Indeed.

Other clues:

•The Trophy Husband is the fellow who fills your car with gas because you hate to do it and runs it through the car wash, while he's at it.

•The Trophy Husband is the fellow who mows the lawns and trims the bushes and wears his muscle shirt while he does so because you ask him to. Wear the muscle shirt, yes.

•The Trophy Husband wakes in the middle of the night and covers you with the blanket to make sure you are comfortable after disposing of a wayward cricket, if necessary.

Let's hear about The Trophy Husband in your lives!

Carry on.

Pancakes, No. More like Tortillas.

Warning: This post contains information about parts of me (two, actually) that may be best left unimagined especially if the reader is, let's say, my son, or potentially, any other dude that may not want to go there.

So, I am standing in my skirt, heels and hospital gown with the opening in the front. As directed.

The lady is looking me over. Head to toe, yes. With a practiced eye. Would you like to show me your breast size? she is saying.

I want to jump and down and say Sure! Heck, yes! I would be most delighted to bare my breasts for you! because the question is just that stupid. But instead I say, probably too jovially because I'm getting the jitters about this lady assessing my breast size and whatnot, Certainly.

I am flashing the lady. She does not contain her look of surprise very well. Oh, she is saying, I need to change out the machine to the small size.

Did she really just say that?

Ah, the joys of the mammogram.

Note: If you're due for one, ladies, go get it!

Trophy Wives take care of themselves. Heck, yes!

It's My Party. And I'll Cry if I Want To.

So, Aarti's Party.

Note: Yes, I am thinking again, which always get me to wondering. And I am wondering about Aarti's Party.

Additional Note: For the Food Network-Deprived, and I pity you, Aarti is the big winner of The Next Food Network Star.

Surprise!

Note: Not!

So, Aarti's Party. The premise is that Aarti (who is Indian, hence the unusual name, I guess) is having a Party.

Note: I hope this concept is not too confusing.

Personally, I think Aarti Farty is much more fun. And although I have the sense of humor of a pre-pubescent boy, farting is hilarious, unless it is happening right next to me. Additionally, I find the Arm Fart to be particularly hilarious. I actually saw someone arm-fart the National Anthem.

Note: Pre-pubescent boy, yes.

So, Aarti is cooking. At the beginning of the show, she describes the upcoming 'Party' and then prepares the food. For the Party.

Today, she is hosting her Accountability Group, whatever that is. Aarti is saying we have a lot of heavy things to discuss, so we need comfort food and I'm thinking where's the streamers? where's the balloons? where's those crazy noisemakers?

Note: This does not sound like a party to me. Heck, my Accountant Group would make a snappier party and that's not saying much.

The food looks delicious. But seriously, Aarti. Grab a Diet Coke and a little umbrella and go a little bit wild.

And maybe no one will even have to cry at your party next time!

Heck, yes!

Mr. Forgetful. Indeed.

Actual Conversation:

Hub: My coworker was telling me about an App for the iPad. You'll love it.

Me: Oh yeah? What's it called?

Hub, with slightly furrowed eyebrows: I don't remember exactly. Like Wiki, or something.

Me: Wikipedia? Why would I need an App for that?

Hub, more convincingly: No, it wasn't Wikipedia. But it was definitely Wiki-Something.

Me: Oh. Well, what does it do?

Hub, eyebrows definitely furrowing, puzzling a bit: I don't really remember.

Me: You don't remember what the App does?

Hub: Not exactly. But I know you'd like it.

Me: So, basically there's an App for my iPad that I 'd definitely like but you don't know what it's called or what it does?

Hub: Yeah.

Sweet Holy Moses.

I am wondering. Do I need to be concerned? Do I need to start feeding the Hub gingko biloba and start hanging him upside down on one of these inversion tables so the blood rushes to his brain and start playing mind-sharpening games like Scrabble or Sudoku or Spin the Bottle, even?

Note: When I was a kid and we played 'Spin the Bottle,' I was petrified that the bottle would spin at me and I'd end up kissing a boy and getting pregnant.

Additional Note: Obviously, I was not well-versed regarding human reproduction.

So, what were we talking about?

Note: Hmmn. Shall I make that gingko biloba and mind-sharpening games for two? Break out the bottle and give it a whirl!

Heck, yes!

Oh, Katy.

So, I'm cruising in the Aging SUV. I'm cruising in the Aging SUV and punching radio buttons like crazy. There is nothing good on the radio. I mean, Phil Collins? Really? And how overplayed is 'Clocks' by Coldplay? Even in the Hall of Fame of Overplayed Music, it's overplayed. And then 'Always and Forever?' Seriously? It's probably been redone by some Hippity Hop artist, but it was crappy even in 1978 with Peaches. And Herb. (The 'H' is not silent, in this case).

Note: C'mon, admit it. The Hippity Hop reference is quite amusing.

So, I'm stuck with Katy Perry, who has graduated from kissing a girl (I'll never wear cherry chapstick again, no) to California Gurls (I'll never enjoy a popsicle again, no) to her latest hormone-driven mess, Teenage Dream.

Note: I'm sorry about this little rant. I just don't get kid's music nowadays.

Additional Note: I have SO always wanted to say that!

Proof, of the Hormone-Driven Mess:

Let's go all the way tonight

No regrets, just love

We can dance, until we die

You and I, will be young forever

I'mma get your heart racing

In my skin tights jeans

Be your teenage dream tonight

Let you put your hands on me

In my skin tight jeans

Be your teenage dream tonight

Note: Ugh.

That is all.

Carry on.

A VERY Happy Garden. VERY.

So, do you think this cherry tomato, fresh-plucked from my garden, has partially-absorbed his parasitic identical twin or do you think that maybe he's just happy to see me?

Really, really happy.

Heck, yes!

Disaster. Epic.

Hmmn.

Does anyone else see the potential for disaster when in a mad rush, The Trophy Wife grabs for her Aussie Mega Hairspray in its purple canister and instead, through no real fault of her own aside from the whole mad rush thing, grabs the Kaboom Foamtastic cleaner in its purple canister instead?

Enough said, yes.

Carry on.