America's Next Top Couch Potato
I owe some people an apology.
And so begins our tale of how sin creeps in, just like that Baptist minister at youth camp warned me about.
Saturday dawned a dampish gray morning in the Casa de Cystah. The only bright spot was that A and N had went to Nanny & Pop's to help put up their Christmas tree, so thusly C and I were enjoying some lazy time alone. I had grandiose plans to disinfect and sanitize the disaster area formerly known as our master bathroom. But first I slept in. And then C was cranky. And then people wouldn't stop calling me on the phone and asking questions that I couldn't answer. And then I couldn't decide on what to have for lunch. So I turned on the fireplace for some warmth (did I mention it was damp outside?), and then all of a sudden, the bathroom defunk-ifying plans completely fell by wayside. I somehow ended up on the couch wrapped in a blanket, with a full bag of Cheetos by my side, a peacefully sleeping baby on my lap and the remote control in my hand.
I rarely, if ever, have sole custody of the remote control.
Somehow that, in turn, led to VH1 and the America's Next Top Model marathon.
And before I knew what the fuck had happened, it be dark outside, the cheetos bag was empty, and the baby? he be both covered in orange-y cheeto dust and starved, since we'd been all warm and toasty and he'd taken a ginormous nap whilst I had watched the entire goddamned season of America's Next Top Model. It was like crack. Only on TV. And it didn't require smoking. Or a pipe. Or a dealer. And it was so, so good. My God, who knew? Who Knew?
Egads, I shudder to admit that it took me awhile to shake off the stupor and care for my own infant, gentle reader. That demon show had me in its spell, I tell you. Finally, I did manage to pull myself together and had stopped muttering comments like "Fucking know-it-all Yaya, hate her." and "Goddamn you, Ann for mutilating that poor bulimic girl's brownies." before the older two children came home. And I sooooo lied when they asked what happened to the new bag of cheetos (and here I exhibit another shining example of bad motherhood).
And that's not even the worst part!
No!
The worst part is that I don't have UPN! I'm going to miss the season finale! God, please let someone have pity on my poor soul and tell me who the winner is?
So, all you America's Next Top Model fans that I have mocked (both to your face and behind your back) over the past months? I totally take it all back. Totally. You were right, I was wrong.
Now, I've got to go try to salvage some of my dignity by watching I don't know, The History Channel or Discovery Times, or maybe reading the dictionary, or alphabetizing my spices.
And so begins our tale of how sin creeps in, just like that Baptist minister at youth camp warned me about.
Saturday dawned a dampish gray morning in the Casa de Cystah. The only bright spot was that A and N had went to Nanny & Pop's to help put up their Christmas tree, so thusly C and I were enjoying some lazy time alone. I had grandiose plans to disinfect and sanitize the disaster area formerly known as our master bathroom. But first I slept in. And then C was cranky. And then people wouldn't stop calling me on the phone and asking questions that I couldn't answer. And then I couldn't decide on what to have for lunch. So I turned on the fireplace for some warmth (did I mention it was damp outside?), and then all of a sudden, the bathroom defunk-ifying plans completely fell by wayside. I somehow ended up on the couch wrapped in a blanket, with a full bag of Cheetos by my side, a peacefully sleeping baby on my lap and the remote control in my hand.
I rarely, if ever, have sole custody of the remote control.
Somehow that, in turn, led to VH1 and the America's Next Top Model marathon.
And before I knew what the fuck had happened, it be dark outside, the cheetos bag was empty, and the baby? he be both covered in orange-y cheeto dust and starved, since we'd been all warm and toasty and he'd taken a ginormous nap whilst I had watched the entire goddamned season of America's Next Top Model. It was like crack. Only on TV. And it didn't require smoking. Or a pipe. Or a dealer. And it was so, so good. My God, who knew? Who Knew?
Egads, I shudder to admit that it took me awhile to shake off the stupor and care for my own infant, gentle reader. That demon show had me in its spell, I tell you. Finally, I did manage to pull myself together and had stopped muttering comments like "Fucking know-it-all Yaya, hate her." and "Goddamn you, Ann for mutilating that poor bulimic girl's brownies." before the older two children came home. And I sooooo lied when they asked what happened to the new bag of cheetos (and here I exhibit another shining example of bad motherhood).
And that's not even the worst part!
No!
The worst part is that I don't have UPN! I'm going to miss the season finale! God, please let someone have pity on my poor soul and tell me who the winner is?
So, all you America's Next Top Model fans that I have mocked (both to your face and behind your back) over the past months? I totally take it all back. Totally. You were right, I was wrong.
Now, I've got to go try to salvage some of my dignity by watching I don't know, The History Channel or Discovery Times, or maybe reading the dictionary, or alphabetizing my spices.
posted by ~L @ 4:52 PM
1 Comments:
At December 16, 2004 at 11:22 AM,
Anonymous said…
Hey Cystah,
Love your blog, though this is the first time I have posted a message. I too am addicted to America's Next Top Model. I am happy to say that Eva Diva won!! I was praying to the Gods that Yaya wouldn't win, she was such a stuck-up bitch!! Anyhow, glad to hear that you have admittedly joined the dark side and caved to the powers of the reality t.v. gods.
Happy Holidays!!
Lynn
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