I was used to watching nothing but The Golden Girls reruns whenever I wandered toward the television. After Friends ended...well, I suppose my TV-watching spirit died a little...but, hey? Who's didn't? I quickly adjusted to minimal TV viewing, and used it more as a distraction than anything, hence why I chose to watch a sitcom whose script I probably know start to finish, season-1 to season-x.

But then came an increased awareness of this thing called High Definition TV. I've become a snob, and have a hard time watching The Golden Girls because they appear so grainy...what is the monstrously-sized blob lording over the left of the screen with the thundering voice? Oh, it's Dorothy. Of course. (I love you, Bea Arthur, I really do!)

But I find it ironic that with the multitude of cable packages that Nick pays for every month, there are but a handful channels that I even consider. The graphics artist in me appreciates the beauty in the flawless picture (yes, I intend to make this sad observation intellectual if not artistic), and fumes even further as another CSI episode clarifies a blurred image by ADDING PIXELS FROM THIN AIR. The life of a graphics artist so belittled. That's totally why I traded it all for an entry level position at the bottom of a totem pole: who's laughing now, huh!?

But it is an excitement when we find some sort of show on at bedtime (around 8:00, sadly) on a network station, and we rush to refold the blankets covering our laps and restore the living room before tackling the steps two, three at a time all while cheering excitedly as we head toward the new bedroom TV, "LET'S WATCH IT IN HD!"

And it is now that I know the interesting phase in my life has passed.

It hasn't been easy, you know. I drink water like it's...water. You know, the substance that covers most of the Earth and fills most of our bodies? I drink so much water that there were a few times under my aunt's gaze wherein she questioned whether I've ever been tested for diabetes. Well, I still haven't, but I'm thinking that with all of the darn blood tests and whatnot they've done, they would have noticed something peculiar.

So it comes to an issue of vessel. My needs are much reduced at work. I require only a straw. I do not like having to sip. It is undignified. And I slurp.

No, I'm a dedicated sucker, and will probably wind up old and gray with smoker's line even though I've never smoked a day in my life nor will I.



So, pretty much any straw-bearing bottle will do in the workplace, and the bigger the better or I'll just have to refill more often. But within reason: a coworker of mine as an 80-ouncer. That's a five pound sloshing trough to have to drag back from the bubbler! I have from from Choose Hope, Inc...for obvious reasons I should hope. I'm all about proceeds going to Cancer research.

What to use at home is a non-issue. I found a lovely specimen last spring, and even had a task force go back to the store to steal a rubber washer from another bottle there when, devastated, I managed to lose my own during the height of my illness last Summer. If you bought that water bottle without the washer, part of me is sorry, but most of me feels that you didn't know what you were missing anyhow and my conscience in clear.

But at the gym, oh boy. I struggle so. Nick has an assortment of those Nalgene bottles, which are great because you can pack like 40 ounces in those suckers if you really smash the water molecules together. This volume is, of course, perfect for those days that I feel like wasting 75 minutes on the treadmill. But I have to drink from them by placing my lips physically on the mouth of the bottle, and drinking. It's uncouth for one, and for the second...well, you try drinking like that, from a brimming 40-oz bottle, while jogging. I NEED STRAWS. I'm convinced I'd have died of thirst by now had they not existed. They say a sucker is born every minute, and I guess I was the one at 9:42p some twenty-five and a half years ago.

But that's not even the worst. The hard plastic clangs against the metal of the cup holder when I display any sort of bounce, vigor, or hitch in my get-along. I find it very distracting and thow darts at the loud thing with my eyes, willing it to shut the heck up. It never does. I look around, realize that everyone else working out can hear my tantrumming bottle, and lord only knows how long it will be before the powers that be throw us both out of the establishment. I turn off my treadmill and cry. This is a big deal. I need a water bottle that will stand up the the challenges I face.

Last week, I found it, THE bottle. It has the look, feel, and singing voice of the Nalgene bottles, BUT WITH A STRAW! I was so giddy that I giggled for a few minutes before stroking the purple one. So, with an adequate water supply and adequate system for delivery, one problem remained. The attention-seeking need to make more noise than the treadmill—I didn't think it was possible either but let me tell you...

Late Sunday night, I ordered sleeves for the bottles (Nick got one too), I'm thinking they will muffle the impact substantially. Until then, I came up with my own little solution, and shortly after my first test run, regretted having ordered anything as the home solution worked fabulously. A sock. Duh. Of course! I wrapped my bottle in the downy insulation I usually only bestow upon my toes, and only sound I could hear over the treadmill was the inner groan of my hips.

Thrilled, I headed home to Nick, who worked late that night and was unable to join me at the gym. Immediately he reached for my bottle, examining my setup. "Jealous, aren't you?" I asked, very full of myself as I recall. He made to answer, but I jumped ahead of him, "Do you want to use the other sock for yours?" He stroked the primary blue sock that I had purchased expecting a long hospital stay last month. It is gaudy and complete with white rubbery marks for traction. "I also have one in pink?" He seemed disincline to accept.

But I'm still content.

My own quirk—mine and his—has not gone unnoticed, and I have wondered at it for many a month. Nick is a hardcore bathroom cleaner, which is not a bad thing. I have known men to stray in quite the opposite direction and it is not pretty. I, myself, reap the benefits of this, but do not clean bathrooms to such a degree. "A lick and a promise," as Mom would say...that's what I give bathrooms. I keep them picked up, but without the lingering aroma of Clorox. It is a failing of mine, I know.

Conversely, I need the kitchen spotless. SPOTLESS. Seriously, those three crumbs on the counter next to the stove are making my eye twitch. My foot begins to wag anxiously while Nick and I watch a movie, and eventually I vault from the couch to silence the fingers-on-chalkboard grating in my mind. Then I can enjoy the movie. Nick is a tidy guy, but he doesn't particularly care about those three crumbs. Or the fingerprint left on the microwave control pad. That dried coffee drip is of no importance because, well, someone will inevitably drip their coffee there again tomorrow.

As I said, quirky...that we should have such different priorities in the caring and keeping of a home. It is lucky, I should say, that we're paired together and, in our combined forces, can keep both areas clean. And unlucky, I have to say, that I have a deeper love and respect for eating than I ever will for digesting. Perhaps if I was so gosh darned good at one of them and so lousy at the other...

It's all over the news, this new study that seems to suggest that having a piece of chocolate in front of a child's eyes will incite them to grab for it and, potentially, proceed to consume the candy bar, cluster, or handful of bite sized morsels. So they say.

So Masterfoods has decided to stop marketing to that age group, perhaps because they care, but more probably because they want the public to think that they care. As the anchor read the story this morning, the last words of the report struck a chord. "M&M's have never been targeted below 12 years of age so there is no change with that marketing. The base brand has never been targeted to that age range."

Duh. I could have told you that. Anybody who's anybody knows that they're targeted to female 20-something bloggers.

When I was in the hospital over the Summer, my appetite was come-and-go...largely due to the fact that I was afraid of needing to use the restroom—and as I was fully decked out in catheter gear, you can guess to what I' am referring. This whole booty-boo-boo situation has been most inconvenient. The evening before I was released, Nick stopped by after work as he did every day (and every day at lunch, too), and with him he brought a bag of Peanut M&M's, knowing they are the deities of my candy world (almost the only ones I'll even think of eating: fond of my teeth, you know).

Let me paint the scene for you. I was on my belly, my backside in no condition for any other position. My left hand was wrapped in tape—the IV was placed there, the IV that took the better part of 10 pokes and three individuals to obtain. Since it was such a hard-won link to my vein, and aging rapidly, they seemed to add a new strip of tape daily...didn't want that sucker to pull out, I guess.

So, I'm on my belly, my right cheek on the pillow, facing away from the door, toward my left IV hand. The IV stand was at my right, so the tubes were stretched across the bed. The catheter bag was latched to the right side of the bed, and Lord only knows how that tube was twisted about. Let's not think about it, shall we?

Essentially, I had one hand, my right, that was free to flop around uselessly should I direct it so. Nick's sparkling smile greeted me and he wagged the bag before my eyes. I smiled and indicated joy while instructing that I only wanted a couple of them. So, knowing that my free hand was limited to flopping, he tore a small opening in the bag and placed three or four of them in the now-still flopping hand.

Let me tell you, as I'm sure this is not recorded elsewhere, if you find yourself with a highish fever, run, don't walk, to the store and get yourself some chocolate...those pieces melted in my mouth almost instantly and one truth emerged: I needed more. By this time, Nick was distracted by the TV, the TV that was no use to me because, uh, I was on my belly. I tried in vain to get his attention, willing him with my full mouth and fever-glistened eyes to pour me more M&M's.

When I gave the practice all the time I could devote in my frenzy, nearly 15 seconds I'd say, the flopping hand swooped across my body to grab the bag, nearly popping my shoulder from its joint. the hole he tore was small, too small for my to access with a flopping hand and a tongue. Viciously, savagely, I sunk my teeth into the shiny yellow paper packaging and ripped off the top. My expression, positively feral, caught Nick's attention, and he's never forgotten the incident.

But, hey! Great of Masterfoods to no longer market to the demographic that it doesn't even market to now, all in effort to save the preteens from obesity...good for them.

So, in case you don't know, the Super Bowl is Sunday. Chili is on the menu, and Nick rejected the healthy version I made last year along with his mother's, even after having her transcribe her memory-stored recipe card. No, he wanted to try a recipe courtesy of the great Emeril Lagasse. He read it off to me last night, ticking the ingredients off as he went. "We have that, we have that, we need to get that, we..."

At long last, he came to a most peculiar ingredient. "Unsweetened chocolate. I think I have some of that sitting around." I snorted most unladylike, still, I supposed, slightly peeved that he was uninterested in an ultra-healthy version. I question the age of his bit of unsweetened chocolate and he questions back, more hypothetically than anything, whether chocolate ever goes bad.

And in the moment, I realized that I didn't know the answer, could never know the answer, for I've never let chocolate sit around for any amount of time greater than or equal to 7.8 minutes. For all I know, at 7.9 minutes, the chocolate shrivels up and dies, screeching like the Wicked Witch of the West.

And we certainly don't want that, now do we?