A Girl...

High Definition, Low Threshold

Apropos of nothing, a photo by Simon of me getting checked out.

Today is one of those where I surf around and wonder why no one is updating their blogs and how could they be so irresponsible and don't they know I need their words to break up the monotony of those belonging to John Muir and Mary Austen and Rachel Fucking Carson?

Then I realize I haven't updated my own site and I hang my head in shame. Shaaaame.

It seems indignance has become my code of conduct as of late. This morning when I discovered that Simon had eaten the flavor of yogurt I was saving for today especially (pomegranate and raspberry), I was quite honestly a bit of a bitch about the whole thing, especially since he was standing at the kitchen table over the mug of tea which I all but dragged him out of bed and commanded him to make for me, for that is the way of the unbending dictator I have apparently become.

I've also found myself getting ruffled at the audacity of cable channels to run commericals advertising things I already own, particularly the cable service itself. When I saw an ad for high-def and broadband, I was spectacularly annoyed for a full five minutes, huffing and puffing that the cable company would dare waste my precious time hawking their wares when they obviously already know I have their wares because they are the ones I purchased said wares from! Have they no RESPECT?!

Back on earth, of course the commercials don't know that I have high-def and broadband. And of course I may be overreacting a teeny tiny bit. (Either that or my indignance has lived in the shadows too long and from here forward I must start complaining when network tv commercials too advertise for other things I already own, like Windex or Kleenex or spandex, which is probably what Old Navy is prostituting these days, what with the worldwide stretchpants virus infecting the globe.* "Got Milk?" Yes! Now stop interrupting my stories.)

Another thing cable has me doing that I've never done before is talk to the tv. I know a lot of people regularly laugh out loud and cry and try to tell Nicole Ritchie that no, she really, truly doesn't look good, but I'm not one of those people. I might smile at the occasional crotch smack during AFV, but that's about it and even those have lost their lustre after all these years. Even when I'm watching tv with Simon, I don't do a lot of outward emoting, particularly since at this point we already know with 95 percent accuracy what the other person's thinking at any given time, so there's little use in wasting the energy it takes to move all those talky and smiley muscles. Our brains are wired so similarly, it used to be that a series of three notes in a commerical would remind us both of the same completely unrelated tune, and before we could even glance at each other we'd be breaking into simultaneous song.** Now we can just look at each other or squeeze hands; no need to sing the song because we already know the other one's thought of it. It's like we live inside the old tale about the elderly couple who has heard each other's jokes so many times all they have to say is "Number 82" or "The one about the ermine" to earn hearty laugh. Except we don't laugh because we don't need to.***

So I said I've been talking to the tv. Last night it was while watching Letterman (I had a HUGE crush on him in high school, as in my locker was decorated with pictures of him; now that I'm an adult and in love with a person instead of a personality, my crush on The Dave has waned, although I will always love him; he's the lame girl's Jon Stewart, yes?). This was the first time I'd seen The Late Show in high-def and I kept yelling out in an almost Tourettesian fashion things like "Look at his face wrinkles!" "Look at the age spots on his hands!" "The hair! The hair! Growing out of his ears!" (If you haven't experienced HD yet, make sure you have your mommy with you because it can be a little frightening at times. I give it a PG rating on grounds of "unsightly body hair.")

The other time I yelled at the tv this week was while watching In the Womb: Multiples, a Nova-like documentary on the National Geographic channel about multiple births, from conception through delivery. During the only vaginal deliveries (the triplets and quads were C-sectioned), one of the twins came out with his hand tucked up under his chin, his fat little arm adding a good two inches to the circumference of his mass, already much bigger than however many centimeters mama's hoohah was supposedly dilated.

Here's where I screamed at the tv. "Put your arm down! Put your arm down! Oh god, like this, like this, little baby!" I put my arms flat against my sides and sucked my cheeks in for good measure. "Arm! Down! Baby! God! Stand back, she's gonna blow!" The mother, of course, did not blow. She grunted and pushed and the baby slithered out, head and arm and all, and immediately and miraculously looked tiny and frail and completely harmless despite the violence I had just witnessed him inflict upon his poor (home-birthing) mother, not to mention that he was still covered with gore.

Vaginal births. High definition. I may have teared up a little. I don't want to talk about the body hair.

*We're only one step away from stirrup pants at this point. Beware. Bewaaaaare!

**Even though we know what the other's thinking to 95 percent accuracy, there is still that 5 percent of surprise. While watching the Tony Danza version of Twelve Angry Men last weekend, for instance, I burst out with "Hold Me Closer, Tony Danza" to the tune of "Hold Me Closer, Tiny Dancer" and was taken aback when Simon laughed until his sides hurt, telling me he hadn't heard that one before. I have a very funny boyfriend and a very funny brother, so making either of them laugh is a badge of honor I wear proudly.

***A joke: Q: What do old people smell like? A: Depends.

Posted by Leah at January 17, 2007 03:30 PM