I Need A Wheelchair: A Series of Haiku About Being Stupid

This is a follow-up to yesterday's post.

I should have known, when
Idris Elba tweeted re:
his music at six.

Nobody at the
racetrack during Derby
would do that. Red flag.

Still, I believed he
would show up at Grand Gala,
honor commitments.

I went. I milled around.
But mostly, sat and waited.
And waited. Waited.

Of course, he did not
come. We left early. We parked
close, one block away.

But it already
had been too much for my bod.
I'm freakin' totaled.

My feet, still throbbing,
are swollen. They tingle up
to my calves. It sucks.

Baby Nick, your mom
is not a trooper. She's dumb.
Over an actor.

I should send him a
bill for my dress, shoes. Along
with middle finger.

But I will settle
for the moment when I see
Idris on Lifetime.

"Obsessed" is surely
bound for that channel sometime
in the next two years.

Normally, this would
not bug me. But it was too
much effort, no reward.

Derby Day feels weird without the stress

Since I moved here six years ago, today is the only Derby day that I haven't been completely exhausted and totally stressed out about the rest of the weekend.

It's kind of nice.

Normally, I spend 7-8 hours going to and/or covering parties on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights -- out until 4 a.m. each time. Then I go into the office the following day to write everything up. I grab a few hours of sleep here and there, but mostly, it's just a cycle of getting all gussied up, celebrity spotting and being around a bunch of drunks, then writing.

But thanks to my growing belly, extreme fatigue and the discomfort of standing up for more than 30 minutes of a time, the bosses have spared me any track or party duty this year.

And baby Nicholas and I would like to thank them for that. I went to a media event and another party on Thursday night with Kyle, Javacia and Edd. I got to sit down at both the whole time at both of them and was home by 11:30 or so. And still, when I went into work on Friday, I felt like I got hit by a truck. Seriously. There's no way I could hack party coverage anyway.

Tonight, though, I'm giving one more feeble attempt at enjoying Derby while 30 weeks pregs. I'm heading to the Grand Gala -- the one party I have covered every, single year without fail -- with Kyle. As a regular person, not a reporter. I will drink water sitting down the whole time, stay only a few hours and be fatigued all day tomorrow.

Since all the celebs are the same this year, I had no interest in going to the Gala until I found out Idris Elba was coming. I'm a huge fan of The Wire. So while I won't interview him, I might get to check him out. I guesss that makes me kind of a loser, but oh well.

Plus, now I can tell Nick that his old-ass mother was a trooper and took him to his first Derby events at -9 weeks old. And I can sleep in tomorrow.

I am Selma and Patty Bouvier

Three days and eight Derby parties later, my tonsils feel as big as kiwi fruits. My voice, scratchy and raw, and I can't breathe because I've got some sinus thing going on too. The verdict: A real bad case of tonsillitis, which I haven't had since I was, like, 12 maybe?

I probably caught the germs from some drunken, non-handwashing ass at one of those parties. Woe is me. Luckily, I've discovered how morbidly fascinating Showtime series, "Dexter" to help pass the time.

I'm watching it On Demand on a loop. I wish Dexter would come kill me right now.