Happiness is: 5 episodes of Hoarders

I don't think I necessarily have ADD (and I definitely don't have ADHD, fo shizzle... I'm pretty sure if I did, I'd be thinner) but I do worry about the fact that I'm sooooo easily distracted by the most mundane things. For example, if there were a dead body on the side of the road, while everyone else was noticing the actual body, I'd be all, "Dude, seriously... those pants with that shirt? He probably died from embarrassment."

It's not that I'm heartless or insensitive (despite evidence to the contrary)... I just notice the little things. The really little unimportant things.

It's how I roll.

Take, for example, last night.

First, let me explain that I have a mild addiction to the show "Hoarders." I have no idea why... it's sad and tragic and horrible and disgusting (and it pisses me off... seriously, it does. Why do these people never have running water and flushing toilets?? I don't get it. How does never throwing anything away = bad plumbing? Also? Who in their right mind would let rabbits run loose and procreate all over their house and then be shocked by the fact that they leave a mess? Oh, and multiply at an alarming rate???) and yet there I sit, glued to the tv. I'm beyond ecstatic when there's a marathon on. If I can't sit there and watch it, I record it. Sad but true.

Anyway.

So, I had five episodes of Hoarders recorded that I was saving for a special occasion. I've been not feeling well for the past few days (female trouble... TMI? TFB. If I'm suffering from cramps, bloating, headaches, rampant bitchiness, and hormonal pity parties, everybody must suffer along with me. It's a rule) so I decided to treat myself to back-to-back viewings of my favorite show. (It was a comfort thing.) I was all cozy on the couch, snuggled up with my fleece tie-blanket, my fat, snoring pug, my spiked spiced cider and the remote, ready for a Filth Fest. Dan rolled his eyes and left me to it (he can't watch Hoarders with me... it triggers his gag reflex. What a GIRL).

Here are some snippets of the running commentary I had with the tv last night:

"Where the hell do they go to the bathroom?"

"OMG she killed a cactus? How do you kill a cactus?"

"Why is she hanging on to that freaking yellow muumuu? Is she saving it for a special occasion?"

"She has 40 bazillion piles of clothes and she can't find a bra to put on?" (Honestly, what is UP with the bra-less hoarding? It's like the bigger and saggier the tatas, the less likely they are to be tethered.)

"Why do these hoarders all have the same hair-do? Is there like a salon they go to where they say, 'I'll take one hoarders special, please.' Just because their house is a mess doesn't mean they have to have bad hair."

"Newspaper covering the windows? Are you trying to tell me that somewhere, in allll that stuff, you don't have any curtains? Just because you're filthy doesn't mean you have to be tacky."

"Dan! DAN! Come out here!"

Dan: *coming out* "What??"

Me: *rewinding* "That's a freaking Louis Vuitton suitcase under that pile!"

Dan: *giving me a look and leaving the room*

(What? It was a valid reason to drag him out to the living room. If he can interrupt my important television viewing to show me a video on youtube of a gorilla picking it's butt and then *gag* licking it's finger, HE can spend 2 minutes looking for an LV suitcase at the bottom of a hoard pile. It's called marriage. It's give and take.)

I know, I know. It's a sickness. While everyone else is focused on the mountain of dog and cat feces, I'm looking at the craptastic shoe hoard lying under it all and thinking, "Those aren't even cute shoes..."

*Sigh*