Hauntings season is (basically) over, which means Husband and I are spending quality time having weird-ass conversations for your benefit.
I mean, we’d have them whether I had a blog or not, obviously… but you do benefit from reading about them so here’s a thing that happened yesterday—enjoy!
One of our favorite things—which you’d probably never guess unless you really know us—is stupid people and the shit they do for our entertainment.
Specifically, we will mockwatch* conspiracy shows,** documentaries about epic failure… whatever Netflix generously provides for our consumption. (And it’s a lot. Someone go thank them for all the good work they do—I’m busy drunk watching some bridezilla bitches scream about sequins)
Against everyone’s better judgment and Husband’s clearly expressed wishes, I’ve been watching that Netflix series Killer Women. Piers Morgan goes and interviews inmates (ladies, titularly*) convicted of murder as well as all other concerned parties who will agree to at least five or six words, profanity excluded.
I have a bone to pick with whomever recommended The Great British Baking Show as soothing, low-stakes programming. So basically, the entire internet.
It probably didn’t help that I started my binge during a particularly vicious migraine, being—for once—in no mood for the brooding glances of Colin Sodding Firth, or my beloved Audrey Hepburn’s struggle to find herself and maybe a name for the cat. Turns out when I’ve got a migraine I need gentle, low-stakes, and familiar.
Otherwise I end up on the couch—in full noodle mode from a combination of Percocet and migraine meds—talking to the bakers. Like they can hear me.
It is an established fact here at ACWMH Inc LLC ©Trademark Limited that Husband™ is the expert on comic books and comic book movies, while I am a person who had sex in high school and can’t keep straight which characters are “real” superheroes and which ones were invented by Disney.
Summer has officially arrived.
That magical time of year when I finally stop bitching about the cold… to bitch about the humidity.
I know this because my son is home all day now, which means daytime sex with my dreamy husband is but a memory. It also means that we don’t have to deal with all his school shit, but I’m thinking now that I’d trade all that to not have him kicking around the house all summer.
Long-time readers may have noticed that I don’t consume shows on the same timeline as the rest of the world. Basically, people have to nag me for at least a year for it to even get on my watchlist, then I need another two to three years of prodding before I’ll sample the first episode. If that fails to grab me, it’s over. Sorry.
