Taking a Break

I'm overdue.  This weekend, I haven't left the house.  Beyond the yard.  I've gone to bed before 9:00.  The bad thing about that is waking up at 11:53 and being very confused.  That's p.m.  I've had a few complicating factors, including night sweats and bad dreams.  I can't remember the one that woke me last night, but it seems like it involved a villian tackling and clawing me, and wielding some sort of lethal weapon.  I think I've watched too much Damages on my Kindle.  I've switched to Parks and Recreation and Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip.  Neither is violent, but both are inane.  They're wearing thin.  Especially since Newsroom is exactly the same as S60SS.  West Wing, too.  The common denominator is Aaron Sorkin.  Aaron, I'm all about recycling, but seriously...  And then there's his subversive agenda.  Since I love Newsroom (I'm developing a major crush on Jeff Daniels, in spite of his being an asshole in my favorite movie of all time, Terms of Endearment), the other two can't compare.

And I just can't suspend my disbelief when it comes to Bradley Whitford and Matthew Perry hooking up with all those hot, smart women.  Seriously, why would Monica fall for Chandler?  When she could've had Magnum P.I.?  Don't even get me started on Monica and Ross.  Give me George Costanza any day.  Or Kramer.  No, that's just crazy talk.

In case I come across as an idiot, I should mention that I'm caught up on Downton Abbey.  I'd feel cultured if it weren't so formulaic.  (Spoiler alert...)  How convenient that Matthew's fiancee (think Melanie in Gone With the Wind) died right before their wedding, when he really wanted Lady Mary.  Because she dumped Sir Richard.  Then there's the Romeo and Juliet story line.  Well, maybe more Love Story.  Lady Sybil runs off with the chauffer.  Much to her parents' chagrin. 

Then there's the Desperate Housewives story line.  Cora Crawley, the Countess of Grantham, with a change of life pregnancy.  Think Lynette.

I could go on and on.  But I won't.  Reality calls.  Laundry.  Dirty dishes.  Tax returns.  Trying to eradicate dog pee stains on this horrid carpet.  I'm on the verge of ripping it out and walking around on plywood.  I could pour that self-leveling concrete on it.  Wonder it that would look like industrial chic?  Which could be convenient.  I could take a sledge hammer to those awful popcorn ceilings.  Wonder if there's asbestos?  My house was built in 1971.  I think it's suspect.  But Mesothelioma might be the lesser evil.  Especially since, according to the million commercials I hear when I hang with The Daddler, I might get a windfall.  I could also do a reverse mortgage.  While I'm at it, I might as well get a Cash-for-Title loan.  And have my tax return prepared by Mo Money Taxes.

I should stop.  This is  crazy.  I'm just keepin' it real, though.  And reality bites...