Va-Voom!

There’s an adage that says, “Don’t drink and blog.” …….Or is it, “Don’t think and blog”?? Hmmm…………..Well, I’ve already done the one, so I won’t do the other.

I confess I’ve just had a glass of wine. Okay, two glasses of wine, truthfully. But they were a chianti; very fruity and full-bodied and not cheap. And it was Date Night. Super Hubs and I went out to a new Lou Malnati’s that just opened less than a mile from our home, and we had their wonderful deep dish sausage pizza. And time in the bar beforehand to catch up.

We both process our week on Date Night. It’s like having free therapy. I highly recommend it for every married couple on the planet. Even if I’ve had a crapola seven days; filled with insensitive people and whiny children and acrylic nail breakage, everything comes into a rosy perspective on Date Night. I’ve been listened to by the human being that knows and loves me the best in the world and reassures me that I am a wonderful person. So I leave Date Night feeling that I can conquer anything! And between the glasses of wine and my inner-narcissist that comes out of hibernation every Friday, I am tempted to jump on our table at Lou Malnati’s and sing, ”I am woman, Hear me roar!” But I don’t, because it would take at least one more glass of wine to lose my inhibitions entirely. Instead I come home and blog.

In any case, we must buy a new car. Sadly, our Hyundai is terminally ill. We got the distressing medical report today. We were told, this afternoon, that we can repair our car by spending thousands of dollars more than her book value or something…….I wasn’t really listening beyond that because I began fantasizing about cars I’d love to drive. Call me a traitor.

I am at the age when I am SO ready to ditch the mini-van that fits my family of 5 and their friends so cozily, yet screams, “Middle Class Soccer Mom.” I fantasize about driving a car that says, “Posh Spice.” Or someone equally cool and classy. Nicole Kidman, maybe. Or even Madonna.

So I day-dream about a Jaguar. Or a red Mini-Cooper with white pin-stripes. Or a Mustang. A car that makes people on the road do a double-take, sum me up and decide that, even though I am a middle-aged mother-of-three, I am COOL. Or HOT, even. Because of my car. And my clothes. And my French-manicure. I don’t know. A girl can dream. It’s superficial, I realize, but sometimes you want to know you’ve "still got it.” I want to be sexy, I confess in blog-o-sphere (because I’ve had two glasses of chianti.) I want to be hot and drive a hot car.

And tomorrow, perhaps, Super Hubs and I will head out to an “auto-mart” or “auto-world” or whatever they call those dealerships that are lined up on the highway in our town, and we will compromise and bargain and buy a car that fits our family’s needs. And is possibly a little bit sexy. For me.