Chilled. To. The. Bone.
I didn’t know it was possible to be this cold, and yet I realize that it really isn’t *that* cold– I know there are people who routinely hang out in weather much colder than the 27 degrees I just came in from. To be exact, they even wear bikini tops and frolic in the arctic water when it’s even colder than this.
Me? Let’s just say that I’m not that athletic. Nor will I get caught squeezing my bosom into a bikini top anytime soon. Not even in summer.
Why did I just share all this vitriol and stream-of-consciousness drivel about my boobs with you? Oh yes. My brain is having problems because the rest of my body is slowly thawing. I am cold.
But today, I am thinking of boys and their toys.
When do boys decide that trucks and cars and balls are way cooler toys than, say, a make-up counter with an eager attendant ready to spritz you, blush you , rouge you and wand your lashes into delicious licorice-like concoctions of fancy?
Today –vile, cold day that it is for the sun is in Aquarius which means that you get to do loads of small talk to help you forget that IT IS COLD– we’re going to be hauling our cold butts over to the Washington Convention Center (place that the hopelessly lost but very nice people I encountered in the street earlier today found thanks to my convoluted directions) because…
…. because, people: THERE. ARE. CARS. THERE.
And my husband, fresh from work and still beset by a nasty case of the sniffles, needs to go drool over cars.
When we first started dating, I thought it was cute that he was into cars: it made Monsieur Meow that much more manly and it was kind of dashing and impressive (and I’d never dated anyone who drove as cool a car as he used to have), especially when he tried his damnedest to make me lose my lunch driving around the Santa Cruz mountains.
Later, when we merged his-and-hers gear as if we were "Just Married Barbie ‘n Ken" and I realized that he came with several full sets of tools –some downright heavy, shiny red and complicated– and heaps of assorted car parts, I still managed to kind of smile, but I did wonder if we’d have enough space. (Thank heavens, Monsieur Meow is he-crafty and manages to create MacGyver-style places to store his stuff with only a couple of planks and his cunning to aid him).
Now I realize that while I like cars and I try to study design lines so I can properly insult the jerk who drove and cut me off where there was no lane on Firth Sterling Road or decided that the "RIGHT TURN ONLY" lane was his private merging lane– so as to know that it was the motherfucker in the S-Class Mercedes and not the C-Class, for instance– I will never stay for hours, devoted to reading the specifications of the 2007 line of Audis; and I will never lament having sold my diesel Jetta of 10 years ago…. though to this day I still regret giving away my t-strap, triple buckle red patent leather shoes that were The Adorable… *sigh*.
I love that he loves his cars and his tools and dreams of being a grease monkey; and further, dreams of the day when Herr Meow will be helping him restore his little beat-up MGB.
But by the same token, and with the same love, I can’t help but shake my head a little. I see Herr Meow obsessed with basketballs and baseballs and cars and anything that moves in those trajectories and I just have to wonder where these things are hard wired.
But I love it and it makes me smile all the same.
Happy weekend and stay warm everyone!