If you’ve been around these here parts long enough, you know I make it a point not to write about politics. It’s just too divisive. People will say the nastiest thing under the cloak of anonymity anyway, and when it comes to parties and their lines, they can be exceptionally ruthless. So, except for saying I was happy for Sir Hal when his candidate won the presidential election, I have not commented on This Major Thing Which Is About to Happen. And I still will not comment except to say, holy crap, today is a really, really good day and it feels a little bit like an entire lifetime of Christmas mornings all rolled into one infectiously giddy celebration. That pony in the backyard? It’s yours! Now, go take care of it.

Another point of glee: my nephew is coming to visit on Monday. Also, my sister and her husband. But you know, mostly my nephew and his thighs. Omm nomm nomm. If you would like to get visually lost in some baby rolls, I refer you to the photo below. Keep scrolling. Yes, there it is. God, so much cuteness.

Speaking of my delicious nephew and politics… What? You don’t see the connection? Yeah, neither did I. But to the commenter who lambasted me for my American Ignorance (apparently not writing about politics and world events is a sure sign I am unaware they even exist) by telling me that my nephew may be sweet and beautiful but do I KNOW how many BABIES are dying in GAZA I say, take it somewhere else. And shame on you. Yes, the world is a difficult, dangerous, brutal place. This blog, however, is pink and silly and about babies and making out and what happens when you forget you’re wearing underwear and pee all over yourself at work. And it might, if you let it, give you a break from some of the harsher realities – even if just for a minute or two. What I’m saying is, the content is purposely light and conspiculously lacking in dead babies and I intend to keep it that way. Capiche?

Now, go take care of your pony.

So, does he like cars?

My boss and I were heading to one of those marketing events where we’d stand around for three hours, drink too much wine, and try very hard not to be perverse in front of potential clients. I was driving. Car time is downtime and downtime with my boss usually means being re-interviewed. This time about The Boy.

“Yes, yes he does. In particular, he likes – no, loves – his car.”

I talked horsepower and engine liters and other things I no clue about, save what The Dork Lord has told me. All I know is that 400 horsepower makes driving ridiculously fun and it guzzles a metric sh!t ton of gas. That’s all the information I need.

“Does he let you drive it?”

“Yep.”

“Then this must be the real thing.”

“I think you’re right.”

Aw, love. Granted, I’d never asked The Boy which he loved more – me or the car – because frankly, I was afraid he might hesitate before answering. But how could I feel anything but secure and happy knowing that my honey digs me enough to trust me with his most prized possession? I gave him a key to my apartment; he handed me the keys to his car. It was all very warm and fuzzy. Until Friday night. Because on Friday night, after the nicest of date nights, I scraped his beloved car while pulling it into the garage.

“Oh my god. Baby.”

Drunk though he was, he leaped from that passenger seat with the agility and speed of an Olympic ribbon dancer. Me, I sat gripping the steering wheel, white-faced with my stomach climbing steadily toward my throat. I found myself wishing I was anything but perfectly sober. Man, I have really got to learn to like whiskey.

“Baby. Baby. Baby. You have to be careful with this garage!”
 
Finally, I climbed out to see for myself. And at the sight of two-foot swirl of gnarly white paint on his otherwise pristine car, I did what came naturally. I burst into tears. He stared at me.

“Noooooo.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Nooooo. Do not cry. I’m sorry. You’re what’s important. Not this. This is just metal. Understand?”

Well, you know me. A little bit of sympathy and the waterworks go from drippy faucet to open fire hydrant. I cried harder. Of course, had I known then that there was not one tiny bit of damage to the car’s paint, that the next morning, a high end car wash complete with buff and wax would take away all my sins, I’d have marched right upstairs and enjoyed (with gusto) the spoils of our 2AM Jack in The Box visit. But as it was, that Oreo shake a total waste.

Sure, it was only one of you. But one voice clamoring for updated baby nephew photos is all the encouragement I need. Two words: sheriff onesie. I’ve been sitting on this one for a couple weeks now and the discipline that took, I just can’t tell you.

What I can tell you is keeping the peace in this one horse town must be exhausting work.

With all due respect for the law, all I want to do is nibble some knees.

I hate commercials having anything to do with over the counter medication for migraines. You know, where the afflicted presses a hand to his temple and grimaces and then Excedrin fixes him right up. It makes me want to punch someone in the throat. Where’s the sobbing and curling up on the bathmat because it’s the darkest room in the house and because if you feel the vibration of the cat walking or hear one. more. sound. you’re going to need to have that toilet handy? Where’s the pale-faced sufferer walking around like a newborn calf for the next several hours because the whole experience has left her wobbly? Excedrin is for hangovers. Mercy killings are for migraines.

All of which is to say, while yes, the Boy is a very nice distraction, he’s not the reason I haven’t been parked in front of my computer telling you funny stories about introducing him to Mike J (it’s coming though, I promise). I’ve been whimpering and leaving mascara stains on my white linens. Ten years of migraines and this one let me off relatively easy, only I’m still jell-o kneed and exhausted. And I look SO pretty. Think a zombie mascara model after watching Steel Magnolias. I know. Hot.

Hey, let’s play a game. If you were going to take a cheap, three-day vacation, where would you go? And I do mean cheap. Mama’s got itchy feet and a slim budget.

Usually, when I need a good cry, I put on my jammies, climb onto the couch and watch Steel Magnolias. Because usually I know when I need a good cry. The culmination of a thousand little injustices and frustrations combined with some out-of-whack hormones and general ennui and I’m sobbing myself into a snotty heap while Sally Field guides a comatose Pretty Woman through her Jane Fonda exercises. Wake up, Shelby. Wake up.

Waaaaaah!

Things have been running at such an even keel lately (with a slight hint of floaty, actually) that I had no idea when we went to the movies last night, I’d be having a Wake Up, Shelby moment… while watching Gran Torino. Clearly my body needed a good sobfest, but I was unaware. And thus, completely unprepared. No tissues. Copious eye make-up. Bemused boyfriend asking, “Are you gonna make it?” For a good hour after the movie let out, I was a sniffly, raccoon-eyed mess.

My eyes are still a little puffy and I have a hunch The Dork Lord will be suggesting comedies from here on out. But damn, that was a good movie.