I'm not sure what it is exactly. Maybe the moon. Maybe my moon. Maybe it's just the universe conspiring against me to work that last nerve I have right up into a tizzy fit.
For some dumb ass reason, I seem to be taking everything very very personally lately.
Not just personally. But personally in a way that makes me question my very own sanity in the face of what can only be described as the most stupidest stuff on the planet for which to get one's proverbial underpants in such a wad.
It all began with my big mistake at the Targets. Aunt Chrissy and I ran over there for some provisions, like toilet paper and socks, and after I batted eyelashes at the handsome pharmacist and got my flu shot, we headed over to the electronic section to look at the TeeVees. We do that, don't you know...look at the Target TeeVees. I think it has something to do with the fact that we both presently own TeeVees that are circa 1947 and are both in desperate need of replacing. So we go to the Targets and we stand there in front of these new fangled TeeVees that they have there and we gasp and gawp and say "So THIS is what TeeVee is supposed to look like".
As we were leaving that general area, I spied the DVD rack of all of the latest releases, and before I knew it, the Sex and The City 2 disc was in my little shopping cart. (I also bought a new pair of spanky sweater knit slippers, but that's another post for another day.)
The first time I watched the movie (with a full bowl of popcorn and a dietCoke that I had been saving all damn day), I paused the DVD player thingie about 10 minutes in and said "Huh?". I picked up the box to read if I had mistakenly picked up some kind of wacko SATC blooper reel, or perhaps the nice people over there at the National Lampoon had decided to get a jump on the holidays and release their version early and I had picked it up by mistake.
Nope. I was watching the real live actual movie as it was shown in the theaters, and I have to tell you that after viewing it a full three times now I am miffed beyond the capacity for rational thought. Let's just say that I think that Michael Patrick King and SJP not only owe me a refund, they owe me and every other person who actually watched the freakin show on HBO from the get go and got somewhat invested in the characters a heartfelt and profound apology.
Damn! Just sitting here typing this I'm getting mad as hell again over the fact that I was not only dumb enough to buy a movie that everybody and their brother said was awful, I was colossally dumb enough to watch it a FULL THREE TIMES just to make sure that I wasn't just in a bad mood the first time and that I was giving it a fair shake.
Bad doesn't describe it, kids. They took that franchise and drive it right off the cliff. Shame shame shame on them and on me for falling for it.
(Oh, and by the way, Mr. King, if you're reading this and would like...oh, I don't know...about FIFTY different ways that movie could have been good (if not great), then come on over to Hoosierville and Aunt Chrissy and I will share with you all of the plot twists, character points, and story lines that we came up with in the fifteen minutes after we got done cussing about the two and a half hours we wasted on Saturday night watching the damn thing.)
See? All worked up again, and all over some stupid movie!
This, of course, prompted me to go off my nut over the new Toyota commercials with the cute little blonde-haired kid who bitches about the fact that he has a low "geek tolerance", or something to that effect. His basic message is that he's just too damn cool for the room and that he would rather be caught dead than be carted about in a wood paneled station wagon. Apparently only a well appointed SUV is good enough to take him to wherever it is he has to go.
We can all be very very thankful to God Himself that a) I don't work for Toyota or b) I don't own a six-year old who thinks it fully appropriate to tell the world what "works for him". If this kid were mine, the conversation would be more of a "Listen, you little #@&(@, I make the car payment around here and unless you want to hoof it to Gymboree or to your Wednesday play date, you better put your little ass in the car, buckle up, and keep the lip zipped. Got it?"
This would be accompanied by a stern look and then turnips for dinner just to hammer home the point. Stupid little prat.
My last straw was the toilet paper commercial with the cartoon bears that can't seem to keep the "pieces" from sticking to their heiney fur. Now I really have to wonder what the heck it is about this ad that sends me right into orbit, but I can tell you that I don't buy Charmin because of it, and I somehow find the whole premise of it more offensive than hard core pornography. Tiger Woods mistress wants to put her hoo-ha all over some men's magazine? Go for it. I could care the hell less. But you show me a bear with toilet tissue stuck to his butt and I'm calling for war.
Stewey is hiding under the bed and I suspect that he will be dialing up the pharmacy first thing in the morning for some heavy duty sedatives. All I know in the meantime is that he's unplugged the DVD player, I can't find the remote control to anything around here, and he's got soft music playing next to my reading chair in the bedroom in hopes that I'll calm down and just go in there and finish the novel I'm reading. (Lovely book, actually....Bridge of Sighs by Richard Russo.)
So that's the early Tuesday report from Chez Spinster. Don't worry about me, Argentina. All will be well and back to normal unless Sarah Jessica Parker decides to pull up in my driveway with a Toyota loaded with Charmin. If that happens, all I can say is "Stay tuned for film at 11".