Stupid Criminals. Sonoma County Edition.

So, the Hub and I are walking into Big Lots.

Note: Yeah, yeah. I know.

A lady is running out of the door and the alarm is sounding and the lady is running and muttering and gripping her shopping bag for dear life and her eyes are wide and her boobs are jiggling. With fear, yes.

The police place her in handcuffs. She is handcuffed to the turtle that goes round and round when you put a quarter in the slot. Slowly, yes. It is, after all, a turtle.





The police question the lady. In question.

Police: How often do you come here and shoplift?

Lady in Question: I have never come here before.

Police: That's a lie and you know it.

Lady in Question: Sometimes I come on Thursdays, when I'm free.

Huh?


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad, Paddy. Or Paddington, if you prefer the more formal approach.

Location:Nimitz Fwy,San Jose,United States

Applying Makeup. In the Car, Yes.

Look! I got new concealer.


Note: There is a distinct possibility that I over-applied the concealer.

Try not to stare,

Heck, yes!




- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad, Paddy. Or Paddington, if you prefer the more formal approach.

Location:Nimitz Fwy,Union City,United States

Over. Stimu.Lation.

Good news. I am apparently eligible for Government Stimulation, yes.

Today I received my Government Stimulus Notification letter. An urgent notification from Mr. Lawver. With a reference number, so it must be real. I got this letter on account of my fine credit history and eligible property. And all that Mr. Lawver requires of me in order to take advantage of this limited-time offer, is a response to his stimulus.

Yes.

I am cordially invited to visit the Stimulus Servicing Department, which sounds like it should be located in the back of the adult bookstore downtown.

Eeew.

I. Don't. Think. So.

There's Gonna Be a Dead Pig.

Charlotte Cavatica: Templeton, haven't you ever heard that good things come to those who wait?

Templeton: No. Good things come to those who find it and shove it in their mouth!

Note: Not necessarily, Templeton. Not necessarily.

There's going to be a dead pig. Tonight. A casualty of war, unfortunately.

My war, yes.

And I will win. It's just a matter of time and the clock is ticking. Because, you see, there is a rat in my garage. Oh, I'm not talking about a hypothetical rat, such as my sniper-neighbor Larry sneaking in and borrowing my hedge trimmer. And I'm not talking about Rob, the Socialite Sheriff across the street who occasionally finds himself on car-alarm-turning-off duty when the Aging SUV's alarm goes off unexpectedly.

Note: Unexpectedly is an understatement because the darn thing doesn't have an alarm. Go figure.

I'm talking real, live rat. But not for long.

My very own Templeton has been chowing down on the rat poison. He's eaten two bowlfuls already and I imagine he's invited all of his rat friends to come along for the picnic.

Note: What's the matter, Templeton? Got a bellyache?

So, unfortunately for 'Some Pig' out there in a pen hoping for a rat to save the day, the ax is going to fall. Yup. Sorry, Dude. But ...

this is War.

Heck, yes!

Don't Mess With Grandma.

It happened. Again.

I am just minding my own business--well, as much as I ever really mind my own business--and the comment is made. Again. In a somewhat gushing manner, yes. By someone who has just learned that I have recently become a Grandmother.

Oh, you look too young to be a Grandma!

Now, before you get all up in the heezy regarding my braggadocio, it's not what you think.

Note: No, I am not Italian, but I am prone to braggadocio anyhow.

I blush, appropriately, and answer, appropriately, in a charming manner. Oh, thank you, but I'm definitely old enough to be a Grandma, I say. I turn my eyes downward, of course, so no one sees the delight. Or the fine lines and wrinkles.

Note: I may be exaggerating my delight, but it makes for a far better story. Unfortunately, I am not exaggerating the fine lines and wrinkles.

Now, here comes the comment to which I refer: Wow, I hope that I can look as good as you when I'm in my fifties or sixties.

Fifties? Or sixties? Are you kidding me?

Note: I, too, hope that I look as good as me in my fifties and sixties.

Oh well. At least I've got a darn cute Grand Boy.

Heck, yes!

Thanks Old Girl.

A milestone.

I pull my car over. To pause. And reflect.

We've been through a lot together I say. Rubi looks at me and cocks her head. She thinks I'm talking to her. But I'm talking to the Aging SUV.

In the span of 100,000 miles, one could drive around the earth four times.

Note: But that's only if you have a car that actually turns into a boat or something cool like that.

In the span of 100,000 miles, one could drive nearly halfway to the moon.

Note: But that's only if you have a car that actually turns into a rocketship or something cool like that.

My Aging SUV has seen me through more important things than traveling around the world or traveling through outer space. My Aging SUV has seen me through the last ten years of my life.

She has taken both kids to college more than once, overflowing with pots and pans and computers and bedspreads and tears, yes.

She has endured family road trips when our family was still all living under the same roof. She has survived her windows decorated with green and gold paint as we traversed to the Oakland Coliseum. She has parked in three different garages in three different homes and although she is now resigned to parking in the driveway, she still sparkles under the layer of dust. She has a comfy spot for everyone, especially the dog, who enjoys her perch between the front seats.

That Old Girl lived in Utah with the kids for a semester when the weather was treacherous and I couldn't bear to see them drive Sis' tiny little car over the Sierra Nevada. She has hauled bricks and bark and garbage, lots of it, and lumber and plants, yes, many, many plants and tomatoes from Dad's garden, big juicy tomatoes, as big as your head, almost.

And that Aging SUV saw me safely through the most difficult days of my life as I made the grueling six-hour round trip, repeatedly, while my Mom was hospitalized before dying on a blustery, wet December night.

I raise my fuel nozzle to you, Old Girl! Here's to the next 100,000!

Heck, yes!

The. Thrilling. Conclusion. Yes.

Note: This is Part Three of the Trophy Wife Trilogy. If you have not read the first two installments, please scroll down. It's worth it. I'm telling you.

Dianne stares at the WOD, the Worldwide Ogre of Discouragement, a mass of tangled wires and keyboards and monitors and mice and mouses and mooses, even, standing ominously in a wasteland of tangled wires and keyboards and monitors and mice and mouses and mooses.

Welcome to the Worldwide Web, he says and laughs a giant laugh, his belly jiggling like a bowl full of jello. Sugar-free, yes.

Then Dianne notices that under the crook of his great arm, the WOD holds a goose, who begins to flap and squawk in an effort to pull herself out of the crook and the wires and the mooses, but to no avail.

Dianne and the Goose are both trapped. Prisoners, yes, of the Worldwide Web.

Note: Oops. The Goose is not trapped, apparently. She is simply in the middle of laying a large goose egg.

The Great WOD laughs. I see you've met my Golden Goose, he says, who lays the goose eggs.

Dianne shakes her head, her $200 golden hair billows, sort of. She thinks she'd remember meeting a golden goose.

The WOD is gleeful. The Goose has been laying big goose eggs in your blog's comment box for weeks now. Big, fat zeroes!

The WOD looks at her, square in the eye. No one cares about your blog or your silly little mission. The Goose eggs prove it. And right on cue, an egg drops to the floor, rolling to a crazy stop in front of Dianne.

Dianne reaches for the goose egg and deftly fashions a sling from her scarf. She swings the egg-sling round and round over her head and the great WOD laughs. She lets it go and the goose egg sails through the air and with a resounding smack, a smack so loud that it is heard throughout the worldwide web, the Goose Egg lands squarely on the Giant's forehead and the great WOD falls to the ground, amid a giant cloud of dust.

Dianne grabs the Goose and begins to run. The Goose squawks, Aflac, Aflac.

Note: Wait, that is not right.

The Goose squawks, Google, Google.

And then it is clear to Dianne. The great WOD cannot discourage her. Yes, her blog lays Giant Goose eggs in the comment section. But then our Trophy Wife heroine remembers her Google Analytics, which assure her that the blog is reaching a thousand potential Trophy Wives every month in 38 countries and 32 states, around the world, yes.

She will not be deterred from her mission.

All those Goose Eggs will not stop her from babbling and blogging about nothing in particular. Oh no.

Note: But a comment now and again from the 'stalk'ers, and they know who they are, wouldn't hurt.

Dianne and that darn BeinStalk.

Heck, yes!