I am not one who watches a lot of TV, primarily because I never seem to have the time necessary to watch a lot of TV.
I’m the one who currently has the season premiere of Lost, in addition to the second episode of this season, sitting and collecting dust on the DVR, because, for the past ten days, I haven’t been able to get to them. (Naturally, this drives Hubs crazy with the madness of it all, because Hubs thinks that the value of life is counted in how many decent hours’ worth of quality television he gets in each evening. A three-hour hockey game guarantees a golden night at home. He also informed me that if I don’t sit down and watch these two episodes of Lost with him by the end of this weekend, I’m on my own for the entire season, as he will watch the DVR-ed episodes himself and move forward with the island without me.)
My limited TV viewing in the last week may be due to the fact that I’ve had the Black Death (which is called The Common Chest Cold in some areas, but I prefer to call it the Black Death, because it just sounds bad, and bad is exactly how I’ve felt), and having the Black Death means that I’ve been a little tired in the evenings, what with all the time I’ve spent awake in the dark of the night in the past week, coughing up internal organs that fall into the category of vital.
Hello, Lung. What are you doing on the floor?
And really? I think the makers of NyQuil have done some false advertising, because it has turned out to be the Nighttime-Sneezing-Sniffling-Fever-Keep-On-Coughing-And-Don’t-Fall-Asleep-But-Feel-Like-A-Combine-Ran-You-Over-The-Next-Day dose of medication.
Oh, NyQuil. I used to love you, but you apparently have no weapons against the arrows that the Black Death can shoot at you. It may be time for Vicks to reevaluate your list of ingredients and go back to the drawing board in the medicinal lab.
When I do have a little random TV time on my hands, I’ve been known to catch an episode or two or nine of What Not to Wear, even though it brings the hackles up on Hubs’ neck. He insists that the show’s hosts drive him insane, and that they’re mean and nasty, and that every hour he spends in front of that show is another hour that he’ll never get back in his life. I think Hubs has simply underestimated Stacy and Clinton.
Now days, though, Stacy and Clinton are confirming what everyone knows: Scarves are the thing to wear, and not just for an afternoon of sledding on the side of the mountain, but they should be donned for small trips to the grocery store, for a movie out with the girls, and for elegant dining at posh restaurants where none of the food arrives on a plastic tray, wrapped in paper. Scarves are the go-to accessory. Girls can tie them sixty-two different ways. We can color coordinate them with our jackets and our handbags. And they just make you feel sassy when you have one on.
I wore a little scarfy number to my PhotoShop class at the college last night. Stacy and Clinton would have had no grounds to argue with me, as I had on a mustard-yellow denim jacket, paired with blue jeans (because I’ve heard the two fashionistas gripe about blue denim jackets paired with blue denim jeans, so I’ve already filed that bit of useful information away for future references), and a crisp, white T-shirt, and the silky-soft, brown-and-yellow-and-red scarf tied intricately around my neck.
Oh, I was a vision, and even my lip gloss matched my outfit, which is saying something, as I have two colors of lip gloss. Pink and Sand. If I wear a bright orange shirt, I’m doomed, and I have to wear plain chapstick.
After class last night, though, I crawled into Susan’s mini van, while she was chatting away, telling me a grand story. (And what’s with the fact that both of my PhotoShop friends drive mini vans? Who drives a mini van to college? Last week, Missi gave me a ride, but she brought Dave’s truck. Because she’d parked in the Visitor’s Parking the week before, I asked her if she was going to be brave enough to repeat the incident. She replied, “No way. Last week I parked the mini van in the Visitor’s section, and no one in their right mind would believe that a genuine college student was attending class in a mini van. This week, with Dave’s truck, I’d get a ticket, just for the coolness factor of it!”)
With Susan chatting and me crawling in, it took me a couple of seconds to realize that I was suddenly being choked — the kind of blinding choke where your world starts to go dim, stars begin to show up, and you start realizing that maybe there’s some impending doom on your nearby horizon. I began gasping, only to find that no sound would escape my mouth, because my windpipe was effectively closed off. It took me a couple of seconds to realize that I had sat on one end of my scarf, people, and as I jerked my backpack into the mini van and shut the door, I shifted in the seat and pulled one end of the scarf plum tight on myself, and I lost the entire story Susan was relating, as I attempted to fish the end of the scarf out from under my bum and save myself from an untimely expiration.
Turned out, I was my own heroine, as I saved myself, and gasped a couple of times for air afterwards, sucking in the luxury of fresh, February-night oxygen in enormous gulps. Susan’s story ended in the middle of a sentence with a dangling participle, and she just looked at me, with one eyebrow a bit higher than it’s roommate.
I explained what had just happened to ease the poor girl’s confusion, and how I’d almost died in her mini van, while she was talking and backing out of the parking spot and ignoring my desperate fight for life in the seat right beside her.
And people, she hit the brake pedal and howled with laughter. She laughed until she cried. She laughed until her sides hurt. She laughed until she was completely out of air and too weak to laugh any longer.
And I’m pretty sure that she wasn’t just laughing WITH me. Oh, no. She was laughing directly AT me.
When I got home, I told Hubs the entire dramatic tale, and he simply said, “I’m surprised that people like you are actually allowed to get your driver’s licenses renewed.”
Clearly, accidentally choking yourself with a fashionable scarf takes more skill than a lot of folks have.