WWKD Part II

Welcome to the long-awaited (by my cousin and my best friend. Or at least my best friend) second chapter in my not-so on-going series, What Would Kelly Do?

Kelly Rippa kills me with her ability to keep herself so beautiful, work more than a full-time job, maintain a long-term marriage in a profession where two years is the "new" Golden Anniversary, and do all of this while a mother to three young kids. Amazing, ladies and gentleman (or do I have two male readers?) So when I am in times of crisis, I have to ask myself What Would Kelly Do?

Recently I received an email from one of my few single friends. She's independent, educated, beautiful, and struck out away from friends and family to pursue the career of her dreams. She's my hero. As she described to me the latest in her on-again off-again saga with a man she dates, she asked me, "Should women be the ones to call the guys?"

My dear friend. Reader and cousin: In this, the two-thousandth and eighth year after our lord's death, I tell you nay.

After all, What Would Kelly Do? For those of you who follow her host chat, as I did faithfully until my fourth child was born and then parenting events prevented me from my morning cup of coffee and Rippa, I hung on her every word.

Kelly has never, ever EVER called a man. Gird your loins, because I am about to tell you she hasn't even ever returned a telephone call to her own husband. Now that's playing hard to get. Apparently, this drives her husband nuts, but she maintains her truth and authenticity and only phones her estrogen laden comrades. The men have to be the ones to reach her.

Genius.

Yesterday, while driving my kids home from school, the five of us packed like sardines in my battered Volvo, I drove over a pothole. A big one, probably caused by yet another snow plow.

As my tire popped and the car tilted to the right, my rim dangerously close to warping as I considered my options, I thought, What Would Kelly Do?

I can tell you that Kelly wouldn't drive on the rim of her flat tire to the hospital where her husband works and march upstairs to her husband's office, runny-nosed kids in tow, rumpled workout clothes steaming with post-elliptical sweat while the coiffed secretaries that guard the offices of said spouse shined in their non-snotty, non-sweaty Jones New York work ensembles.

So I heeded the voice of my inner Kelly, and instead prepared to pull over into the nearest parking lot to collect myself in a way that would make Regis proud.

As I neared the strip mall where I intended to pull in, I saw to my great horror a group of white men picketing our local Planned Parenthood. On their enormous signs were technicolor pictures of things that made my children gasp and ask me what on earth happened to those babies?

Dear reader, regardless of your position on this delicate and divisive subject, surely you can agree that children shouldn't be subjected to such horrific images?

So as my car careened to the right on my flat tire, I reached over and rolled down the window next to my daughter, who slumped down in horror as she realized what I was about to do.

Pulling up to these people WITHOUT A UTERUS OF THEIR OWN I laid my hand on the horn of my trusty mom-car and drove dangerously close to the protesters. Narrowly missing the bank of snow on the curb, road slush lapping at my Hilary for President bumper sticker, I screamed out the window, "Noooo! Boo to you! Thumbs DOWN gentlemen!" And then I drove a bit more and parked my car in the nearest grocery lot and waited to be saved by a man.

What Would Kelly Do?

Probably not that.