Warning. This article is taking the long way home.

I’m listening to a book. When this article posts, I’ll have finished it. It expires on the 22^nd, so time is ticking like a sold soul’s watch expiring at midnight. By all accounts, this is a beloved book—this bestseller. Several agents I’ve researched or queried include it on their manuscript wish lists, and like so many books these days, it has been optioned for film or television adaptation. Author goals.

The house rules state: no shoes in the bed, no telling another family member they aren’t allowed to sing, and no shaming another family member for their musical choices. Volume changes can be requested.

Once upon a time, I was in a relationship with a music snob. You know, the kind of person who likes a specific genre or sometimes genres of music, and all else is shit. They were quick to let me know, through overt and covert ways, that liking what they considered shit was wrong. I closeted or even abandoned music I liked. And the shame received for loving music that brought me joy is now why I have a house rule. If my kid wants to floss to video game music, great. Get it, boy.

It’s Taco Tuesday, and Travis Kelce and Taylor Swift announced their engagement. Yeah. Yeah. I know. I’m one of those folks. Admittedly, I’m not a Swiftie superfan. Or even a fair-weather one. I’m somewhere in the middle, liking most of what I hear. Taylor’s talented and writes a damn fine pop tune. I dare anyone not to sing along to “You Need to Calm Down”. And if you do sing, I’ll never tell you you’re being too loud.

And Travis? He’s a hunky footballer with a wicked smile and enough balls to wear a goofy bucket hat. Nuff said.