On Friday night I collapsed into bed feeling decidedly off. It had been a long day and we’d been out in the heat and I figured I was just hot and tired. But on Saturday morning I dragged myself out of bed and was considering a nap about five minutes later. Basically, I felt like I’d been run over by a truck. There was no denying it: I was sick.
Otto, who was skeptical of my crazy diet plan from the start, was convinced I had somehow poisoned myself with the restrictive eating plan I’d been following. He lectured me about how I had “completely obliterated my immune system” and was now reaping the results. I rolled my eyes and agreed to drop the diet to placate him, although that was an easy thing to do as eating ANYTHING would clearly interfere with SLEEPING, which was the only thing I wanted to do for the next two days.
So I slept for most of the day, and then spent the evening on the couch watching quality television with my family. Read: We watched a Hoarders marathon. I don’t know that any of us consciously chose to watch it, it just sort of happened. And then we made an interesting discovery: The target audience for these shows are apparently women with digestive issues.
This was entertaining on several levels. First, how is it determined that these are the people watching this particular show? Personally, I believe you have to have a pretty strong stomach to watch people living in squalor for hours on end.
[Aside: Have you ever noticed that there seems to be a LOT of people with very few teeth on Hoarders? Actual conversation during our viewing:
Me: Why don’t any of these people have any teeth?
Otto: Oh, they have teeth. They just don’t know which pile they’re in, is all.
Chickadee: Actually, the problem is that they’ve purchased ten thousand toothbrushes, but they can’t find any of them. Then they have to buy more. But in the meantime, all their teeth have rotted.]
Second, who knew there were so many products out there specifically designed to take care of your occasional irregularity? I had no idea. And finally, when the following commercial came on, I declared it the worst one I’d ever seen.
“That’s the WORST?” Otto pressed me. “C’mon, that’s worse than the commercial with the bathtubs??”
“This is WORSE,” I insisted. “First the woman is all, ‘Oh, I haven’t pooped in days,’ and then she decides to eat PROBIOTIC GUMMY BEARS like she’s a toddler, and then at the end she has that big ‘That was a very satisfying dump I just took’ grin. It’s creepy.”
[Chickadee had no contribution to this discourse, as she was too busy laughing and hiding her face from the hilarious agony that is hearing your mother discuss pooping. Monkey—who was busy reading—would later be very sad he missed this fascinating conversation.]
Otto maintains that the notion of any sexual aid resulting in separate bathtubs is a more egregious offense to common sense than a woman needing gummy bears to poop, but I’m not budging.
Clearly we need to put it to a vote. The fate of mockery in our house is depending on you, people.
P.S. I slept all day Sunday, too. No idea what was up. But I seem to be better, now, and I didn’t require any gummy bears to recover or anything.