Do You Have a Cameron?

*Hello from Greece! Today’s post is brought to you by my bestest Besfrinn, who is one of the greatest people on earth. You probably know her from her awesome blog, The Waiting, where she dishes out the humor, the cute baby stories, and the wisdom you’d expect to find from someone who is as generally rad as herself. I asked her to write a guest post for me (how have I not asked her to do this before?!), and I totally cried when I read it. I promise I did not force all these people to write nice things about me. But that makes them all the sweeter to read!*

BesfrinnsI have a thing that is integral to my daily life. It’s not water, although that stuff is important. It’s not a pizza either, although those aren’t too shabby (especially when they have artichokes on them. Don’t like artichokes on your pizza? What’s wrong with you, son?). It’s also not a pair of jeans that look good no matter how frumpy I feel that day. (No offense, Jeans. You know I love you. *Kisses.)

Nope, I have a Cameron. I have had one since I was fifteen. You can read about how I acquired my Cameron here. That was a happy day. Getting my Cameron canceled out having to read The Last of the Mohicans in 48 hours. God knows what would have happened if I had to read Moby Dick. Would a Cameron cancel out that misfortune? Let’s not tempt fate and just back away slowly away.

From the moment I got my Cameron, I knew I was set for life. I had tried Sarahs and Michelles and Natalies before, but they never fit me just right. They rode up a little or gave me a stomachache after too long. I was always misplacing them. That wasn’t really their fault, but when you have a Courtney and can’t remember where you put it, what’s the good of a Courtney at all? Fact: Courtneys are always getting lost in sofa cushions.

So when I got my Cameron, I was a happy camper. I would never need to use deodorant again and that my days of standing in line at the DMV in front of mouth-breathers were over. The fact that I had found my Cameron made me know that the Sun wouldn’t explode while I was still living on Earth. It would hold off a few billion years now that my Cameron had come.

Now, don’t get me wrong, life wasn’t perfect post-Cameron. Camerons aren’t miraculous, even though they are very, very close. Sometimes I had bad days, like days when I woke up to find that I had drooled all over my pillow overnight which meant that I had to do laundry that day even though I had done all the laundry just the day before. Days when I went on walks and waved at the dogs I passed but inadvertently signaled them to come running after me with their giant teeth gleaming. There were days when I went to make hummus to just be healthy for a change, and the cans that I thought were full of garbanzo beans were actually full of creamed corn. Those days were not-so-great.

But at the end of them, do you know what I had? Can you guess it? It’s not that hard.

I had a Cameron.

Cameron made me coffee while I laundered my drool-soaked linens. She reminded that the people with the grumpy dogs don’t have an invisible fence, and that I should keep my arm-flailing to a minimum. She managed to make creamed corn actually taste good. (Maybe she is miraculous.)

My Cameron made things better. She made them the best.

Do you have a Cameron? No? I highly recommend that you get one. But not mine! Your Cameron is out there too.

Maybe you’ll just have to read a cumbersome novel over the weekend to find her.

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