Tide pods and couch potatoes

I asked Alison the other day if her friends were eating Tide Pods.

If you don't know yet, it's a thing. Such a thing that celebrities have been called in to tell people not to do it and the media are reporting that it's, well, a thing.

 So it seemed like a responsible parenting kind of thing to ask. Alison gave me the old over-the-glasses look, issued a statement and went back to watching Netflix on her phone.

"No, Mom. My friends are not idiots," she said.

Good to know.

Not that I was really worried. I do wonder  though:

who are these people taking this stupid challenge? For the record, we use the pods and like 'em just fine. None of us have considered gnawing one open anymore than we'd toss back a gulp from the jug of detergent we used to buy.

Also off the table is sniffing powderized chocolate. Also a thing. Not one I'm asking Ali about for fear she'd commit me. I mean, really. Chocolate? That's even crazier than laundry soap. No one should waste chocolate like that.

After a busy Saturday where we didn't see each other much -- I spent some time with some hilarious friends and then Jeff and I attended the annual Christ the King Trivia Night fundraiser with other, equally fun friends while Alison had a friend over -- Ali and I spent most of yesterday on opposite ends of the living room couch.

I read the paper, read a book, wrote a bit about Claymont's latest goings on, and took a break to go to the gym. Ali, who swims two hours a day during the week, declined my offer for her to visit the gym.

I don't know if she moved while I was gone, but I doubt it. She had her headphones on and was connected to her friends and video via her phone. I refreshed her snack supply and got my own before rejoining her.

 If NatGeo had been observing us in our natural habitat -- probably from a hidden spot in the fireplace -- they might not have noticed how glorious it was. But it was. We didn't talk a lot, but we shared a blanket and nudged each other on occasion. Chatted with Jeff when he stopped by a couple times to report on just how long it had been since we had moved.

At one point, I had checked my laptop on the kitchen counter and got caught up in something. She called from across the way: "Hey, I thought you were coming back."

Alison is five months from the end of her junior year in high school. I have maybe a year left of this kind of lethargic bliss. So I'll be on that couch as long as she wants to share it with me.