There is now a deep indentation where I sit on the couch, not the shape of my ass but a big amorphous blob, almost a sinkhole. I can sit there for six hours if there’s enough TV to watch. I actually hate to get up and my partner enables this behavior by periodically asking if there’s anything he can get me, like cookies or chips or a hit of weed.

“Use it or lose it” is great advice for somebody else. This inertia or paralysis or whatever we want to call it has a silver lining though: my discovery of Money Heist on Netflix. It’s a Spanish series whose real title is La Casa de Papel, referring to The Royal Mint of Spain, the site of a brazen heist designed by a criminal genius called The Professor.

The Professor and the eight desperadoes he’s recruited for the heist will become your own beloved family as the show goes on for 30 addictive episodes. It’s easily the most addictive series I’ve experienced, topping Breaking Bad, with which it shares a certain perverse sensibility. Each episode ends with a cliffhanger that is fucking unbearable. You have to watch the next one, even if it’s 3 a.m.

Trying to avoid spoilers, I’ll just say that this series has EVERYTHING! Suspense, drama, romance, heartbreak, humor, politics, philosophy, art direction, heroes and villains who morph into their opposites, and plot twists that will thrill and confound you. Don’t watch a dubbed version or you’ll miss the actors’ seductive voices and those beautiful Spanish S’s. Thank god it’s been renewed for season 4!

Just to balance the enthusiasm here, let me complain about Sunday night TV,  which has turned into a wasteland of awfulness with the season finale of Succession. Just when I survived the last dregs of The Affair, which was torture, I’m now stuck with Ray Donovan and Shameless. Both of these shows have outlasted any pretense of being watchable tripe. Everyone involved with them needs to die, asap. While watching them, I feel like I’m doing penance for some obscure crime in a past life, but my husband is committed to seeing them through, so I consider it part of my wifely duties.

Plus I hate to get up.

What about you guys, recommendations or complaints?

Three young women noticed a vacuum in the marketplace for pubic hair grooming products, and voila! They formed a company to right that wrong, called Fur.

Because money.

Wait, I’m so sorry, I meant to say, because why shouldn’t we take care of our pubic hair like we take care of the hair on our heads? That is their thinking, apparently.

If only they had asked me that question, I would’ve answered, “Because our public hair is not scorched by styling tools, dye, sun and wind!” And because public has it’s own texture: that’s why they call it pubic hair.

Anyway, who needs common sense where grooming products are concerned, right? If you can be made to feel insecure or inadequate about any area of your body, you will consider buying a product. Let’s say your heels aren’t baby-smooth. You’ll buy one of those egg-shaped things to scrape away at your heels until they’re ready to diaper.

So, the creators of Fur realized that women are moving away from waxing, although according to Fashionista, that doesn’t mean “going totally 70’s.”

I mean, god no. The 70’s were like the fucking National Geographic, with all that public hair! Ugh, the horror of looking natural. Forget that. We’re talking more about “some hair” in the “nether regions.” Not a whole jungle, okay?

And that hair needs to be silky. It needs to be softened with a special oil that costs $39.

Fur Oil’s unique blend of lightweight oils softens pubic hair and clears pores for fewer ingrowns and healthier skin. The 100% natural formula is gently antiseptic, antimicrobial, and reduces inflammation.  Fur Oil can be used as frequently as desired to enhance pubic hair and skin, and is also suitable for use on the face and body.

Directions: Apply Fur Oil liberally to clean pubic hair and skin.  For best results use as part of a daily regimen.

Are you in? For another $32, you can buy Fur’s other product, Stubble Cream,

a lightweight, natural emulsion [that] smoothes prickly regrowth, clears pores for fewer ingrowns and protects pubic skin.

Obviously, I find this annoying and even depressing. It’s also misogyny pretending to be empowering or something. If you have pubic hair, it’s nice for your partner if you bathe regularly. Then, you’re good to go.

Not only is my pubic hair silky enough, my belly button is fine without any belly button products and so are my knees without knee products. I already have enough body issues and shit to keep myself in line, cosmetically.

Finally there is Fur’s packaging and font. The creators wanted something elegant and “timeless, like Chanel” but with the “shock factor of the words pubic hair.” To me, it looks clinical but kind of scary, with the truncated letter f lending it a German quality that makes me uneasy.

Why not just call it Führer, or even Führer For The Pussy?

Take it away before I get madder.

Okay, great. Nothing is better than a fashion hybrid that makes life more awkward and uncomfortable. Leather legging boots (try saying it three times, really fast) are a “creation” by Tamara Mellon that she describes as  “a thigh boot that pulls right up into a legging. You can wear a sweater over it or a big man’s shirt and there’s no gap.”

What gap?? She seems to think she has solved a problem, instead of causing a new one. The only way this creation could be more tragic would be an open toe.

Why didn’t Tamara Mellon go big and cut off the toe? Maybe the summer version will answer my prayers.

All I know about Tamara Mellon is that she used to own Jimmy Choo and she sued her mother for a billion dollars. But I am bracing myself for a deluge of Tamara Mellon crap, fawned over by it-girls, fashion editors and bloggers who describe their content as “The musings of a bla bla bla.”

$1,995 at Net-a-porter and ten sizes are already sold out.

Shit.

I signed up at Twitter, initially, to follow Mrs. Palin and Amanda Palmer.   I couldn’t handle the former but the latter rewarded me with a free concert last night.

Then, I started tweeting just to annoy people. When that didn’t go anywhere, I forgot about Twitter. Then I came back and tried again.

Now, I have 124 followers but sadly for them I have nothing to say. Nontheless, I go there a couple of times a day and torture myself by scrolling through pointless nonsense tweeted by people I don’t know and mostly wouldn’t want to know.

Why are we tweeting, everyone? Whatever the motives that are driving Twitter, it can’t be good for civilization.

Here are my limited observations so far:

1. People want you to know what they ate.
2. People need to communicate every idle scrap of thought that pops into their heads.
3. People like to LOL at one another.
4. People think they derive status from their Tweeting associations.
5. People use Twitter instead of personal email, in order to have an audience.
6. The more people you follow, the more time-consuming it is to find anything interesting.
7. Kanye West is a big deal.
8. It’s important to follow another rapper and then retweet their illiterate musings.

BUT! On a positive note, Twitter has taught me this:

9. It’s fun to read people’s tweets as they watch “X Factor” especially if you’ve never seen it.
10. Rumi Neely is actually smart, witty and gracious. I like her! I stand corrected.

Twitter is adding to the clutter I’m stuffing my brain with on a daily basis and I know it’s time to be more selective. I’ve unsubscribed to a million mailing lists with ten million more to go.   I’m finding that I know too much about Lanvin for Target and too little about world affairs.   It’s going to be tough to unlearn my bad Internet habits. We’ll see how far I get.

Okay. Now explain Twitter.