I need to write a blog post.
But, people, the office staff at Dunder Mifflin Paper Company is keeping me awake long beyond my normal bedtime, and since Hubs is finally home from his Bible study (by the way, he learned about Jesus; he learned that Jesus saves people; it’s what he learns every week; if you can get him to elaborate on his Bible study, I’ll buy you chocolate), we’re off to continue the fourth season.
I find this all rather hysterical, because I am not, by nature, a person who becomes overly attached to certain television shows.
I mean, other than MacGyver, back in the day. I was convinced that I would one day become Mrs. MacGyver, but that didn’t pan out, so I chose Hubs, instead. For MacGyver, I would end a phone call early so that I wouldn’t miss the show’s beginning, and that’s saying something. We were a one-phone-line family, and personal cell phones hadn’t been invented (which amazes the boy that we survived without them), and my sister and I battled one another for Phone Domination every night. Unless, of course, it was Wednesday nights, and then I simply gave in, because MacGyver was usually making a bomb out of bubble gum and duct tape.
And then there was Lost. I was not a fan of the previews for the first couple of years, and basically refused to watch it, until Hubs rented the first four episodes on DVD one New Year’s Eve. Ohmylands! I was hooked, but I tried to remain in denial about it, because I never have TIME to watch television. Seriously. I can’t seem to just sit down and enjoy a good show, because there’s always a load of laundry that needs to be folded, or Legos that need to be dug out of the sofa cushions, or a cat that needs to be smacked for ripping the leaves off of a prized houseplant. But Lost has done me wrong, because the writers won’t give me answers to the burning questions I have about their show, and because the season premiere doesn’t debut until January. People, by the time January rolls around, I’ve completely forgotten about what happened the previous spring. I like to refer to it as my adult-onset Attention Deficit Disorder, but it’s probably more likely the onset of genuine dementia.
Basically, HGTV is my favorite friend, because every show in their daily line-up is 30 minutes long, and I don’t have to make a long-term commitment. I can watch one show, see how they used orange paint to make the white fireplace pop (just! pop! like firecrackers!), and then I can walk away. And…if I don’t want to return to HGTV until nineteen days later, I won’t have missed a thing. It’ll all be on rerun eventually anyway.
But now, because I have friends who kept yammering in my ear about how I needed to just watch The Office, and yammering in my ear because of all the funny that The Office would bring into my life, I have become an addict.
I plot and plan the hours out until my next hit of a twenty-one minute, commercial-free episode. So far, Hubs and I have been quite content to drag the laptop into bed with us, and we can usually get in two to four episodes before I am forced to call it a night, or suffer bags under my eyes that could see a grown girl off for a two-week vacation at the North Pole. (And that’s saying something, people, because everyone knows that said baggage would be well-stocked with enormous parkas and Uggs and space heaters, which can tend to create a rather large bag.)
And now? Like I said, Hubs is finally home from his Bible study. And the boy is conked out cold in his bed, with one arm thrown over his eyes, and the other arm hanging off the side of his bed. And the dishes are done. And the pile of laundry…
…is about as tall as Mt. Everest. I’ve been getting calls from climbers all night, trying to obtain permits to scale it and reach the summit. But I’ve decided to just shut the closet door and pretend that it doesn’t exist.
Sort of like Monica Geller used to do on Friends. In fact, exactly like Monica Geller used to do.
Okay. Alright. I confess. I used to watch Friends, too.
I’ve got to go see what Dwight Schrute and Michael Gary Scott are up to tonight.
It’s a terrible little addiction, and it doesn’t even come in a paper cup with steam rolling off of it. That’s the surprising part.