Enough Swedes? Never.

I may have Norse blood, but I still love a good Swede.

Still more evidence that I am a dork

I was at the public library yesterday before my Fun Hour Wait at the Pharmacy, and I spied the complete As Time Goes By sitting on the DVD shelf.

FIST PUMP! I said, and grabbed series one.

I don't know if it's cool yet to like this show, or if it was ever cool, or if it transcends cool, because Judi Dench, obviously. But probably not, if I like it. It definitely doesn't have the same nostalgia factor for people my age as, say, Little House on the Prairie. What it really reminds me and my dad of watching whatever late night British television import was on WCCO (usually Black Adder, but I think there was some Fawlty Towers and others in there) on the big old black-and-white upstairs.

When A. and I lived in Syracuse the local PBS station ran ATGB every Saturday night following an episode of Keeping Up Appearances. (I claimed I watched those shows because they came on right before Classic Movie Night, which, in addition to the library, was our poor man's answer to TCM/AMC/Cable TV in general. We still don't have cable. Go us, what rebels.) But really I just loved them, especially ATGB.

Oh - quick plot summary (if you don't want read the wiki one I linked to) since I'm starting the show from the beginning now instead of catching a random episode every Saturday night:

Lionel Hardcastle is a 50-60 something (I think?) writer editing his new memoir, My Life in Kenya. He hires a secretary from a local service to help, and is flabbergasted in a mildly polite way to discover that the boss of the business is none other than Jean Pargetter, a woman he met nearly 40 years earlier, when she was a nurse and he was a soldier. They had a brief romance, and then he shipped out to Korea and they never spoke each other again...UNTIL NOW. (There was some thing with a letter, but it got lost, okay?) My glee at typing this can somewhat be expressed by this.

It sucks you in and there's no defense. Remember that if you're flipping through the channels some night and you see something like this:



Well, just gird your loins for the awesomeness.

It was not this sharp, ever.

Continued from a previous discussion of Incredibly Awkward Remedies for Crazed Bowel, I bring you one and all, the Rowasa Enema!

If I could play introductory music on here, it'd have to be the Star Trek fight music. You know, the da-da-DA!DA!DA! (etc) tune they trotted out every time Bill Shatner needed to trip somebody, or rip his shirt. (By the way, this is just killing me today.) Ah, Star Trek.
Sadly, I do not have photographic evidence of the RE, so the above montage will have to suffice. The RE has been my companion on a few adventures. I particularly recall some contortions in a bachelor pad bathroom, on a floor wet from showers, my face inches from suspiciously curly hairs...but enough romance, let's get back to basics.

The first time I filled an RE prescription, my CNP made sure I had plenty: I walked out of Walgreens lugging two shopping bags loaded with boxes. I got home and ate some mashed potatoes, sat on the toilet a while and read The Corrections to get myself in the mood for later. I ignored the boxes, which was easy as I'd hidden them in the closet in the bin with scarves and hats. A. would never think to look there in August, I chortled to myself. A. came home, we watched a movie, he ate some pizza, I ate some applesauce, and we went to bed. I waited until I felt him twitch a few times, and then I slipped out to the living room.

"Put a towel on the floor the first time you do this," my CNP had said. "It can stain."
Feeling virginal, I spread a nice red towel on the carpet, dragged out the boxes and slit open the foil packaging. It felt like opening a science project, or maybe some freeze-dried spices.

The bottles were small with little caps. I spread the instructions out and tried to position myself in the least vulnerable way the manufacturers suggested. I gritted my teeth, hiked up my nightgown (oh devious!) and inserted.

"What are you doing?" A. asked.

It may have been obvious.

Mad Hot Bathroom, prequel. Or, diversions of the toliet bound

OH GOOD GOD.

Perhaps the sweepstakes will be geared toward IBD kiddos?

And maybe that Crapcake Hotel Heiress will donate all her money to CCFA research.