I just know it. Why else would I be sitting here, derriere glued to the couch, mesmerized by a commercial selling me all 5 (count ’em, 5) videos of the Barbra Streisand television specials, digitally remastered? Beginning in 1965. I hate Barbra Streisand. I always have. Still do. But this commercial is hypnotic.
I’m probably the only person on the planet that literally gagged and had to leave in the middle of Prince of Tides. And isn’t she back again as a shrink in some movie, only this time it’s a comedy? It’s that nasal whiny thing that makes me nuts.
So the only way I can explain the fact that I’m sitting here letting the peanut oil congeal in my arteries, slack-jawed, as Barbra shrieks, "Don’t rain on my parade!" in old black and white TV is that I’ve been poisoned by that damned Cajun fried turkey.
I’ve done nothing today except clean up grease and watch celebrity poker with accompanying commercials on TV. I haven’t showered. I’m still in my pajamas. (Although I heard being in your pajamas was not necessarily a deterrent to Black Friday shopping. Some local women were lined up outside Kohl’s at 4 AM in their pajamas- in 17 degrees and snow. Must be some good bargains, huh?) I watered a few plants, fed the birds, visited a few blogs. Ate some homemade Chex mix.
But, in general, that turkey has destroyed my will to live. Or at least to get clean. I bet Bonnie is not only clean; she probably did a hot yoga class today, too. Maybe Mistress Mary will be back tomorrow and exhort me to exercise. I surely hope so. Or soon, I’ll have a celebrity body like this.