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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