I’m in hour 14 of (what seems to be) my quarterly bout of gastrointestinal distress. Can’t. Stop. Pooping.
While it might be a bug, it probably isn’t. I blame the Girl Scout Cookies. All six boxes. Gone. I think my lack of gallbladder might cause my innards to revolt. Be revolting. Whatever.
Speaking of revolting…I will never, ever get all wrapped up in a reality show ever again thanks to The Bachelor finale. I’m so disgusted that I probably gave myself the shits over it. And I think I got all roped in because who, in my position, wouldn’t be intrigued by single parent, hot daddy Jason? Poor fella got his heart ripped out on TV before. You want him to do well.
And then you find out he’s a pig. That he’s been all wrapped up in his fantasy land of 20 young, naive, beautiful girls. And he gets to choose and do whatever he wants. (And, yes, I understand that the tables are turned on The Bachelorette but I have never watched that so that’s not the point!) He was babied and pandered to by the girls and by the producers. Dates in New Zealand? Yacht tours at sunset? Whatever happened to dinner at Olive Garden and a movie? Did he have to find a babysitter for his kid on his own?
This? Is why my TV is getting taken out of the living room for the summer. Just as soon as the Grey’s season finale is over. Maybe.
And then I have days like today. Where I want to curl up into a ball and bury myself in a pile of fleece blankets. And the littles are perched next to each other, engrossed in Noggin. Again. And I thank the gods of the digital cable.
So here’s hoping that Jason gets what he deserves. And here’s hoping that my guts settle down so I can get on with my week.