Like Sands Through The Hourglass

Sometimes I say things flippantly that I think I mean, but it turns out, given the chance for the heat of the moment to subside, I don't.

For instance:

"I would love to help you out with that!"

"Youwhanthanothershoddajager?"

"Oh man, that sounds horrible. I don't think I understand the backstory, though. Tell me about your relationship with your father."

"I love you."

and

"My life is like a [expletive deleted] soap opera!"

I've been spending a lot of time in good ole Alabaster with my new (and completely perfect, thanks for asking) niece Emily. Which explains my deleted expletives, ever-healing liver, and recent relapse of my thick(er) Alabama accent (again, thanks for asking).

Desperate attempt to show off more
pics of my Doodle Muffin.

Since my old bedroom is still stacked with college textbooks and dustbunnies the size of ***insert thinly-veiled euphamism here***, I'm exiled to the couch and tethered to the torture end of my mother's tee vee habits.

Though I drifted in to town like a technological messiah, deftly pointing out her On-Demand service that she didn't know she had, nodding benevolently through her fit of faux-excitment, all the time feeling as though I had saved a little piece of her soul - she still insists on keeping up with her "stories" while I'm here. No, she's not an 82 year old black woman, but she is in fact referring to the timeless genre of televised trash: the Soap Opera. "General Hospital," specifically.

This is the hospital... duh....

The last time Marsha had the opportunity to watch her stories was the first time she was a stay-at-home [grand]mother. More than 20 years ago, and I'm amazed that the plotline has gone exactly NOWHERE since then. Some of the same characters are working out the same *%@#! that I remember hearing my ma gossip about with the neighborwomen over ketchup sandwiches.

I walked in (horrified) on the last 6 minutes of today's episode and realized immediately that I have been full of s - h - i - t (if you spell it out, they don't know what you're talking about) each time I think my life even approaches the irrationality of a Soap:

1.) There are men groveling at the feet of, and/or professing their undying love for all the women on the show. Especially if said woman is in a coma (22% of all female roles are in a vegetative state at any given point). Seriously, this happened twice. TODAY. In SIX MINUTES. You know how many times this has happened to me in my 31 years? If I had to ballpark it, I would guess somewhere less than ZERO.

2.) The women are portrayed as somewhat sane. (Hey, most of my friends are dudes for a reason.)

Well, maybe I wouldn't go so far as to call them "sane."

3.) There is a rediculous amount of inappropriate sleeping around happening. Quite the incestuous group up in that General Hospital. Oh, wait... I'm listing the incongruities. Right.

4.) The overwhelming prevalence of a coma. If you don't count Sunday Night (remember Black Sunday?), I've never seen anyone in a coma. And maybe it's because this particular "story" revolves around the esteemed medical community - but if I lived there, I would be running scared of the inevitable coma - kind of like syphillis. However, I would find some peace in knowing that if I were to slip into the coma, there's a 68% chance that I would miraculously return from the coma / dead, without any memory loss and with a vengance (vengance is fun!). That's right, I have worked out the statistical facts on the residents of General Hospital. What of it?

5.) Wind blows indoors. I swear, there was a living room scene right at the end, and it looked like a Whitesnake video. While completely unlike my life, this, I wouldn't mind. Who hasn't fantasized about pulling the Tawny Kitaen on the ole dining room table / ottoman? Who hasn't acutally given it a shot while their roommates were at work?

Here we go... again.

While I will be the first to admit my love for the ultimately deluding chick flick, Marsha is threatening to get me "hooked" on The Hospital, and I flat refuse to even have a conversation with her about it. Most of my "shows" happen on The Discovery Channel and involve adolescent fantasies of the men who host them. I don't plan on ever dragging my ass out of bed early enough to be glued to ABC Daytime to find out who's effing who today. I mean, that happens before noon, I'm usually too hungover, and I have at least a little pride left. Jesus, ma.