*What do you think of "Stop! Or My Mom Will Poop"? Can Stallone sue me for that?
But back to the things. (You can see why I'm making so much progress. If that sentence isn't the mark of a true wordsmith, then pfffft.)
Number one, it's cold. I know, it's mid-November; this shouldn't surprise me. But it does. Suddenly I have to do things like dry-clean the 1100 balled-up sweaters I've been using as closet carpeting, passive-aggressively shame Jeff into taking out the air conditioner, and begin to harbor delusions that I would be good at making soups from scratch. But the primary effect of our apartment's frigidity, combined with our new 4 pm nightfalls, is for me to lose the precious option of spending most of the day outside. Sam is at the age where he likes to run around and throw things, like some kind of coked-up cyborg who is half Flo Jo and half Naomi Campbell. Outside, where there are fewer things to break and none of them belong to me, is just better for us.
Of course we have our museums and libraries and all that stuff. But since every item of clothing is a battle lately, it often takes us a few hours to leave the house--a time that I used to call "morning," but which I now refer to as "Shining Time." Not after the delightful early 90s PBS show Shining Time Station, but because by 11 o'clock on most days I am halfway to Jack Nicholson going medieval on his door jambs with an axe. So to calm us both down, we usually watch one or two TV shows amidst the chaos.
I've written before about annoying kids' shows, but I was just a dilettante then, not a true connoisseur. It's a whole new world. A trippy, treacly world. Naturally I decided to honor the memory of my wasted brain cells by making a chart. I got a little overexcited with the PhotoShop, so please do not open if you are prone to seizures. Also, there are about 10,000 shows I left out. If none of these appeal to you, I recommend this YouTube video of Jean-Claude van Damme doing a split between two moving trucks, set to the music of Enya.
|Click to enlarge|
If you want to get me a gift, you can write to PBS and tell them that you demand more documentary features about how fudge is made. Or you can pre-order my new YA novel. Both equally appreciated.