Now that I spend my whole life on the couch watching TV, I’ve developed relationships with a bunch of commercials, some involving ritualized behavior on my part.

When the DealDash guy boasts about getting suitcases for less than 40 nollars, I have to shout “NOLLARS!” at him. Check him out below.

Then there’s the lady who says smugly, “I don’t add up my regrets…” and I have to shout, “YOU SHOULD!”

Fuck her, you know?

I hate old ladies bragging about how active they are. I especially hate seeing them play with their grandchildren, that’s how bitter I am.

A new  commercial I’m enjoying is the one for the PureWick female catheter. In this one, a woman asks her incontinent mother how she slept. What I like is their diction and decorum. They speak like Shakespearean actresses. It is so comically unlike caring for my 103 year old mother-in-law, who wants to get up and pee a thousand times a night. All her caretakers have begged her to stop doing this and it is driving everyone crazy.

I could watch those two actresses for hours. They should do a Masterpiece Theater series about staying dry at night.

I know it’s no joke to be old. I’m still going to laugh, though.

I don’t think I’d enjoy a life reduced to worrying about peeing. Now that some of us are privileged enough to be under house arrest, we’re learning how to endure a constricted existence and wondering how much we can take. We’re trying to remember why we ever  cared about the things that took up our time and emotional energy.

We’re debating the value of getting dressed in normal clothes versus wearing sweatpants. I’m tired of this discussion because I just wear jeans every day, like every decent person should do. I wear jeans while I watch the news all day, and while I watch Netflix all night.

See my butt-print on the couch? That says it all.

If this ever ends, I hope I remember how to act like a normal, socialized person. Meanwhile, at least I’m not going to shopping malls. I’m saving millions of nollars, right? And I’m keeping track of my regrets.

Last night, I was trying not to think of the things that were bothering me (largely Trump, along with some other stuff) when the word “stigmata” popped into my head. I don’t know why. I’ve always liked the sound of the word and the actual phenomenon too.

Just say it aloud: STIGMATA! It’s a winner every time.

So I googled stigmata and forgot all about my troubles (and yours.)

St. Gemma Galgani, above, was a real pain in the ass, apparently. I guess it’s part of being a saint. She also levitated.

Stigmata can occur in regular people, ahem, and here’s what an expert says:

History has shown that the stigmata can occur in a wide variety of persons, circumstances and conditions. While the vast majority of recipients have been women (90%), and most of them religious nuns, it has occurred numerous times throughout the centuries in a number of lay men and women, single and married. From the 1980’s to today for example it has (allegedly) occurred in the young married Catholic woman named Myrna Nazzour of Damascus, Syria and also in a retired married Catholic man from Michigan named Irving “Francis” Houle who died in 2009.

Uh-oh. I don’t like that “stigmatics” are usually women. It sounds suspiciously like fibromyalgia, only messier. But here’s something interesting, from the same expert:

… in regards to the blood that comes forth from the stigmatised wounds, this writer has found that in almost every case that I have researched, there is reported an accompanying sweet, flowery odor that emanates from the blood itself.

Whoa. That is worrisome, if you know what I mean.

Therese Neumann, below, was a total mess. She suffered and suffered and suffered.

I’m beginning to think these “stigmatists” are a teeny bit masochistic. Sister Consolata Betrone wrote “It is my fate to die in little pieces”. Sadly, she died of tuberculosis instead.

Rhoda Wise, below, had the usual hand stigmata but was also blessed with the “crown of thorns” bleeding from the forehead.

I know you’ve probably had enough but just let me sneak in a picture of Teresa Musco:

There is so much to learn, and marvel at, about stigmata. At one point in my research, I couldn’t help but laugh, as Oscar Wilde said about the death of Little Nell.  Laughing is good! We need all the laughs we can get. And in case you’re worried that I’m losing my mind, I wrote about stigmata back in 2007. So there.

I would almost call it a guilty pleasure, but since I’m not Catholic, it’s a guilt-free pleasure. If I go to hell, I’ll let you know.

My cyber-friend and adopted daughter Annemarie has generously pointed me to a treasure trove of pretentious fashion gibberish that reads like a buzzword generator.

In fact, the high-end shopping site Ssense has just launched such a generator and it’s fun to play with. It needs more variables to be top-notch but I like to see a designer fashion site with an actual sense of humor.

The site Annemarie recommended has zero awareness of it’s over-the-top pompousness, and that is its gift to us. Here is Lagarconne‘s tumbler blog expounding on a pair of frumpy black dresses:

With a quirky disposition linked to techie dressing, the mock neck is noted for its scientific past, yet finds new function as a clever tool in the construction of occasionwear. Elegantly revisited, the detail lends analytical air to ultra-sleek fabrics, taking modernity back a step with skilled wit. When cut in silk or satin, the style adds bookish refinement, creating streamlined classics by way of cerebral calculation. From Marni, the neckline gives engineered structure to fluid stretch silk, while The Row further exemplifies the neckline’s transformative powers,lending academic grounding to surfer-influenced attire. From cubicle to catwalk, the mock neck makes new headway as a fool-proof formula for optimum sophistication.

Jesus Christ, right? What are they on over there?

Here’s the prose inspired by a grey sweatshirt and baggy cropped pants:

Baggier shirts and widened trousers often instill an unconscious urge for slimmer pairings. Japanese label, Blue Blue Japan, breaks this habit in considered refusal of the customary approach. By pairing the classic crewneck sweatshirt with cropped culottes in signature indigo denim, an effortless balance arises. In a duplicated slack, each item mirrors the other. Nipped only slightly at the hips, a band of knit ribbing adds no constriction, simply linking the unfettered forms.

‘Considered refusal‘ is killing me. I’m even impressed by ‘slimmer parings.’

I sort of want to master this language, particularly as there are no discernible rules except to string along descriptive words with terms from random academic disciplines like philosophy, architecture and engineering.

So far, I suck at it. I feel like I have no aptitude for it but I’ve been listening to that maniac Joel Osteen on the radio, who insists that a positive attitude is all you need to make your dreams come true, like having a baby when you’re sterile or sending your wife’s cancer into remission.

Never mind about him. Let’s have fun.

Here’s an unremarkable, dowdy-looking pair of shoes from La Garconne. They are priced at $685 but don’t let that determine your reaction. The goal is to create a flowing description that leaves the potential shopper feeling daunted, mystified, slightly shamed but filled with avarice.

I’ll be working on my caption but let’s see yours!

The winner will be will be selected by votes, and the prize will be something either stupid or good, whichever seems most appropriate.

When you’ve been in a relationship for years and years, you need to make an effort to have fun.

Here’s a game I just made up, called The Nose War:

There’s a little rubber nose on my kitchen floor, just to the left of the fridge. It’s been there for around 10 days. I don’t know how it got there, I only know that I bought it in a little packet of rubber body-parts from Borders, at least a year ago. They were creepy but cute, and cost around two bucks.

(I put a quarter next to the nose for size comparison.)

Anyway, the nose is in plain sight, but NO ONE WILL PICK IT UP!

It occurred to me that it would be fun to see how long it stays there. In other words, I’ve decided to leave it there as a test for my husband, who normally hastens to tell me what’s wrong in the kitchen. Then, it occurred to me that my husband must be leaving it there on purpose, too, to test ME! He’s probably thinking, I’ll see how long that slob leaves that nose on the floor, and eventually I’ll draw her attention to it and say “Look what a lazy slob you are, this has been on the floor for — days, bla bla bla!”

I’ve pointed out the nose to my kid, who said “I was wondering why that was there,” and I told him I was conducting a test. But I like how he had no intention of picking it up, either. The apple doesn’t   fall far from the tree, eh?

God, marriage is fun.