"Are you going to write about how you had to call me to come to your rescue because you drove the car into a pole?"

"I didn't technically drive it 'into' a pole. I'd prefer to call it 'scraping.' I scraped a pole."

"Doesn't matter. I just find it funny that the nagger in this relationship is the one who ended up hurting the car."

"What do you mean nagger?"

"You know exactly what I mean. You're always yelling at me because I'm not driving fast enough."

"BECAUSE YOU AREN'T."

"That's called nagging."

"IT DRIVES ME CRAZY."

"I drive that way to be safe, you know, TO AVOID HURTING THE CAR."

"I wasn't driving fast when I scraped that pole. It had nothing to do with speed. So you do not have a point."

"My point is, how many times have I had to call you because I hurt the car?"

"I AM CARRYING YOUR UNBORN CHILD INSIDE MY BODY. LET'S TALK ABOUT KEEPING SCORE."

My friend Sarah turns He's Just Not That Into You into a drinking game and hits upon this fantastic insight into what it means to be American:

There was this one great scene, though, when Jennifer Aniston had to walk a dog down the aisle in a coral satin bridesmaid dress, smirking and hurting, head held high. Man but America sure does like Jennifer Aniston to do our hurting for us, don’t we? Nick said she’s like our Princess Di, which makes sense to me, because America seems to love her best when she’s all fragile and dumped and blonde and brave facing it on a beach somewhere. There was a time about a year ago when we were still in dark days as a nation, no hope or end in sight, when I remember thinking that maybe the one thing that could cure America’s pain was for Jennifer Aniston to give birth to a fat blonde baby. Maaaan wouldn’t that have been some ointment for our national wounds! But God forbid she display any sarcasm; I read some article recently where she namechecked some of Brad and Angelina’s litter when one reporter too many asked her about them, and then you could feel America be like okay whoa whoa WHOA, Aniston, don’t be a freaky stalker who knows Shiloh’s name. Even though everyone else knows Shiloh’s name. In your place, missy. Which is apparently walking a dog down the aisle while crying on the inside. That’s where we like you.

I'm sure it has everything to do with the amount of tabloid television that I watch, but I probably care way too much about Jennifer Aniston and her well being than is healthy. Someone today asked offhandedly if she was dating anyone, not really expecting a reply, and I was all, JOHN MAYER. SHE'S DATING JOHN MAYER. HE WROTE HER A SONG FOR HER BIRTHDAY. And I would have quoted a line from the song he wrote her, except that would have been creepy, and I draw the line at knowing that she likes tilapia and walks around in her sleep. OK. STOPPING NOW.

I know it's no maniacal fairy princess, but come on. How fucking precious is this? Only thing that would make this photo more heartwarming was if a koala bear was giving birth to kittens on Leta's head:

I think maybe it's because I'm on this side of the halfway point, but I'm finding it much easier to enjoy pregnancy now that I can see the finish line in the distance. I'm pausing to enjoy it more, taking more time for myself and relishing it when the baby kicks. Most nights Jon and I settle down by climbing into bed a bit early, and while I watch a couple hours of television he'll browse the Internet on his laptop. It's the quietest, calmest time of the day, and I feel like I'm deliberately trying to slow things down so that my memories of this time are distinct. Which means I should probably stop watching syndicated episodes of "48 Hours Mystery," because oh my god, men sure do like to kill their pregnant wives.

I cannot count the number of times that show has featured an investigation of a pregnant woman who was killed by her good-for-nothing, lying, cheating, needs-a-damn-haircut-already husband. Jon likes to say I'm watching the Murder Channel, and he's always predicting the ending, as if we didn't already know THE HUSBAND DID IT. Look guys, we know it's difficult. She's hormonal and grumpy and wearing tomato-stained T-shirts to bed because her humongous boobs are catching stray crumbs like a major league shortstop. But maybe instead of killing her you should just head to the bathroom with some organic Aveeno body lotion and the memory of your eighth grade history teacher who never wore a bra to class. YOU'LL DO LESS TIME.