My most brilliantly horrible ideas come to me in the wee hours of the morning. I’mma start a meetup group, or record “Inhale” on the Oxygen network so I can do yoga again, or “I should really blog about addictions to destructive people because that’s what’s happening on DOOL,” or finally, “I should blog (do we notice a trend here?) about stupid women.”  These are the thoughts that plague me around 4am, when I’m pinned down by at least one child, if not three, all sleeping ON me, knowing I’m too tired to form a syllable, much less order them back to their own beds.

For the record, I love Nicole’s hair wig right now. If you’re a DOOL fan, you know what I mean. Oh, and I love Brady, mostly because he’s me, only with slightly more facial hair. In theory.

So, I started a meetup group over the summer with the promise of my friends and colleagues in the area to get together and share our various crafts (reiki, massage, dance, etc.). They all bailed on me and I’m not good at following through without people whining at me, so the meetup is now closed. I’m ok with that, because, well, I have a lot of shit on my plate that doesn’t include running yet another website. Besides, online advertising is really going in the toilet in terms of payout. So, whatever. They suck, I suck, and now we’re all sucking in our separate directions, only meeting for coffee or childcare once in a while. One day, they will all know my genius and cower at my mad organizationally-talented feet.

I also DVR’d “Inhale” and I made it to the first commercial break yesterday. Today, I cannot move. It seems like a really good show, but ouch. I should remember that its been over a decade since I did yoga regularly, but no, I’m all “I’m gonna be a Yoga SuperStah!” I am not, I repeat, NOT a yoga anything. At least not after 10 minutes of one show. Dammit. Where is my instant gratification? My yoga pants have yet to slap me on the ass in a congratulatory or pervy manner. Instead, I sit here, wincing as I type. Hold me, yoga pants, hold me.

The people addiction thing. Well, as happens with enlightenment, these things come in waves. Much of my personal “ah-ha!” moments lately (taaaaaaake onnnnnn meeeeee!) come from watching DOOL, and while that may be shallow… well, at least it makes a good blog. Did my baby-switching go too far, forcing me to chop off my hair and dye it black? No. Yes! Is Vivian quite possibly the funniest woman you’d never want pouring your drink? No. Yes! Should I have followed my gut feeling about the skeevy motel manager, and checked to see if he was secretly recording Phillip and I “gettin’ busy” so he could post it on the Internet? No. Yes! Is Brady right when he says the only way for him to break away from his addiction to the toxic Nicole to completely stop putting himself in situations where he has to see her? Well, duh. She’s just like cocaine, only whinier. Much, much, much whinier. And narcissistic, and full of shit, and possibly too fabulous for her own daydreams, the same daydreams that sane people are laughing at because they know she’s a fucking lunatic.

So, yes, Brady, cut her off. Seriously. You’re making me yourself look bad.

I suppose “stupid women” is pretty much the same as the DOOL/Nicole/Brady thing (Jeebus, am I really blogging about DOOL? FUCK!) except that the stupid women in real life seem to think that we smart women (yes, like me, the DOOL blogger!) give a fuck about their stupid lives. Shut up, already, you’re fabulous, just like the last 200 times you were fabulous and that all turned out to be a crock of shit.

Stu-fab woman: Hi, remember me? I’m fabulous.

Me: Yes, I remember you. You seem fabulous, but you have toilet paper stuck to your shoe and your glasses are all scratched up.

Stu-fab woman: Yeah, well, I’m still fabulous. Want to see my new purse?

Me: Yes, please, but only if its a designer purse so I can scoff at you later on my blog.

Stu-fab woman: How did you know?

Me: Because you’re fabulous, and that only comes with gloating about your fabulous life/purchase/family so I took a wild guess. Why are you at Target anyway?

Stu-fab woman: Concealing petals.

Me: Gotcha.

Ahem.

Yoga hurts. Yoga pants are awesome. I love DOOL and stupid women are amusing, even when they think that you don’t know they have a crush on you, because that could only explain why they keep turning up in your own realm of nebulousness fabulousness. It may be time for a good, old fashioned rumble. Of course, at 4am, when I’m unable to form a syllable, that “rumble” may be more of a hand gesture than anything, and that hand gesture may be completely hidden by my comforter. But, you know its there.