Further Proof That Men Pretend to Listen. Especially When Hair Care Comes Up.

So, mathematics.

And hair care, yes.

Not a fan, really. Of the mathematics, that is. Numbers are just so finite. There's no wiggle room. No romance. Just doggone reality.

Words are a lot more fun. I can be happy or delighted or exhilarated or even exonerated, hopefully.

Note: What was I talking about? Oh yes. Numbers. And hair care.

So, I am telling The Hub about my upcoming High School Reunion. I am planning my hair highlighting schedule to coincide with the date, of course, and I must be speaking out loud about such plans because The Hub is nodding, somewhat numbly, I believe.

But Wait! The Hub speaks!

Note: He is listening after all!

What reunion is it? he is asking.

The question is puzzling. It's the reunion of my High School graduating class I say and although I am thinking duh I do not say it.

No, no, he is saying, I mean how many years? Like 10? Or 15?

Are you kidding me? This is the man that deals with million dollar budgets on a daily basis. He can whip out a spreadsheet faster than I can recite the pledge of allegiance in Spanish, which I can still do, yes, thanks to my High School Spanish teacher who taught me to do so, but not just ten or fifteen years ago, no.

Really? I say. We have been married 28 years. We have a 27 year-old son. Fifteen years? Really?

Oh, it must be your twentieth, he says.

Further proof, yes, that although his head may be bobbing and his lips may be hmmning, he is so not paying attention.

Well, then. Happy Twentieth High School Reunion to me!

Heck, yes!

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.

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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!





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Location:Relevant Elephant.