The poor Puddinette’s allergies have descended upon her with a vengeance not seen since Ahab tracked the White Whale. I told her the other day that I felt terrible for her and could only imagine what it must be like to feel like you’re breathing through a wet bath towel for four days straight. She gave me a look that suggested I should probably think before speaking and replied that she’d trade me in a heartbeat ten minutes of feeling like she was only breathing through a towel. Apparently it’s a little more like she’s trying to breathe through a cedar plank, salmon included.
Oh, and as an added bonus, her throat constantly feels as if she just swallowed steel wool. But…drier and scratchier.
So she hasn’t exactly been sleeping well. As a rule, my better half doesn’t sleep well in the best of circumstances. Honestly, that really shouldn’t surprise anyone; how would you sleep if you were married to me? Anyway, in an attempt to be a nice guy, I generally try to let her nod off before I turn in for the night. Well, ok, so it’s not all completely altruistic. Sleepy wives tend to occasionally demonstrate minor irritability, especially in the face of as much…puddininess* as I bring to the table. I prefer a happy wife, so I’m a fan of her being well rested.
Why do I need to give her a chance to get to sleep before me? I believe I might have previously mentioned this once or twice, but it probably bears repeating: rumor has it I snore a little. And when I say a little, I mean that on a good night I sound like three dozen Hell’s Angels rolling Harley’s through the bed six inches away.
That, then, is how I found myself in the family room last night, looking for something to watch for half an hour or so. It was late, later than my usual bedtime (which is already probably later than 95% of my readership), but I heard the Puddinette thumping about upstairs, tissues at the ready, and wanted to give her some extra time. Usually I have a food show or something to kill time, but for some reason I was without anything DVR’d. So I picked up my remote and proceeded to follow in the footsteps of my father: I went channel surfing over live TV.
I suspect most of you already know what you can expect to find with 250 channels of crystal clear high definition at your disposal at 2 AM, so I’ll spare you the gory details. I did get a good deal on a brownie pan that makes the brownies pre-cut(!) and found out that Girls Gone Wild is apparently marketed heavily to viewers of Comedy Central, TLC, and The History Channel. Who knew?
I ended up sitting through 40 minutes of a movie called Miss March, which I believe could possibly be the Worst Movie Ever. I’m honestly not sure I can explain why I sat through more than two minutes of it. How many bad you movies/shows have you sat through for no good reason outside of the fact that it was like watching a train wreck?
Maybe next time I’ll watch something the kids have DVR’d. Phineas and Ferb at least are clever, and probably won’t kill nearly as many brain cells. Which is good, because I really don’t have them to spare.
Pud’n
*sure, why not?
Puddintopia 