Synchronized sick-ish-ness

I still laugh every time I think about seeing Ratatouille last weekend, when unbeknownst to me, Kayte was seeing it as well. We had originally planned to see it together in August and take Meelyn and Aisling with us (Kayte always needs some pink in her life, she says), but what with one thing and another, it just never happened.

And now come to find out that we were both so grossed out and that neither one of us liked it. Both of us spent our time in front of our separate DVD players, nervously clenching and unclenching the sofa cushions and fighting down that terrible feeling that one gets when one's tongue takes on the texture and consistency of an old army blanket in the mouth.

Imagine what it would have been like if we'd had to watch that nasty little Remy in Linguini's hair and scampering around the restaurant, walking on the countertops and drinking soup out of a ladle -- the same ladle that was being used to stir the soup -- on a huge cinema screen.

I am not prone to anxiety attacks, but I know that would have likely reduced me to a shivering mess, dampening the popcorn with my tears and rendering the Diet Coke undrinkably salty. Not to mention throwing up on everyone in, say, a ten-aisle radius.