Tuesday is my Monday

by tess

Since my first day back from the weekend is Tuesday, it is essentially my Monday. So here are my erstwhile Monday morning thoughts.

Diet Pepsi doesn't taste the same now that it's in silver cans. At first I thought it was a different product - Pepsi Zero or One or whatever - but it's just Diet Pepsi re-marketed to silver-can-lovers and/or blue-can-haters ... apparently. Could this difference in taste be my imagination or did they re-formulate it? I don't know but I'm not happy about it. Those little baby cans are my lunchtime guilty pleasure. Okay, the eight ounces of DP along with a little baby can of Beefaroni. They could be marketed together as All the Sodium and Calories, Half the Pleasure! Now that's marketing that we can all embrace!

If we are to believe what we are told, then network owners only really care about the all-important 18-49 demographic. But if that's true, how then can you explain six painful years of Two and a Half Men? Not that Jon Cryer can't be brilliant, he can! (Might Friends have been a better show had his Chandler Bing audition tape arrived in time? Who knows? Who cares.) One thing is certain - where one finds a Sheen, one hears the distinctive, unpleasant sound of a straw draining an already-empty cup: a vortex of suckage.

I'm paraphrasing another blogger when I tell you that October on General Hospital can best be described thusly: Boring people saying boring stuff while wearing boring clothes. (Note: This isn't entirely unexpected as each month preceding a Sweeps Month focuses on exposition rather than action.) She also commented that the sole bright spot of the show was Liz's sweater. Exposition-laden or not, life is sub-awesome in old Port Chuckles when a gray polka dot sweater is the highlight of the month. But since we're talking about that sweater, I'll take this opportunity to share some thoughts. Admittedly I'm five years and 50 pounds past caring One Tiny Bit about fashion so my opinion matters not at all. Having said that, the aforementioned sweater fell just an inch or so above her shirt which is a peek-a-boo look I quite like - just a flash of a different color at the top and/or bottom of a garment adds visual interest and keeps the eye moving. On the other hand, I'm less than fond of a sweater that falls six or seven inches above a tee shirt when it's stretched across jeans. Not even heroin-chic models can rock that. Seriously, stretching a tight, hip-length tee shirt across jeans is an engraved invitation to a Look-at-my-ass-it's-the-size-of-the-Grand-Canyon! party.

Jori, a self-described biblio-fanatic and card shark who occasionally wastes valuable time reading my blog, recently shared:
"WRT being a spectator at the game of your own life - too true, too true. I'll not only see that metaphor but raise it! I compare living my life (or not!) to a motor coach ride through France (lovely trip, btw). I spent the entire fourteen days with my constant companions, Messrs. Fodor, Frommer, and Steves, nose buried deep in my guide books to ensure that I was quite prepared. As the driver would mention la Place Vendome coming up on the left, I'd check the books and my notes, then look up just in time to realize I'd completely missed it. C'est la vie. Or more accurately: Such is the life we've chosen, you and I."