I know my last two posts might have been somewhat long, but you have to understand that I envision these things as short stories being written by a poor, unpublishable nanny. However, I know a lot of my audience (My Older Man Friend) have the attention span of les bebes, so I'll go easy on ya today.
I worked late last night, which meant dinner, clean up, reading with les bebes, putting les bebes to bed, then watching TV until the big boys went to bed. BUT because I was on duty, I did this all WITHOUT ALCOHOL. Oh, the sacrifices I make for the safety of my chirrens.
Plus, watching TV until the big boys went to bed wasn't as easy as it might seem. First of all, I had to intermittently strain my voice to yell out, "Yo! Keep it down over there! I can't hear my programs!" while also keeping one eye on the pantry so Francois Philippe couldn't yoink all the Doritos. However, one thing that made this insanely difficult task a little less painful was the three episodes of LOST on our Tivo.
One day last year, I was at my friend Nate's house, baking special cookies for my (hot) geology professor, when I accidentally saw an episode of LOST. I was hooked. My friends were hooked. We spent many a weekend holed up with bongs and several seasons of the show (oh, who am I lying to - we did it on weekdays too - it's not like anyone was going to work or class). But you can only watch so fast. I became desperate to catch up in time for the Season 4 premiere and began reading scripts of the show online. This worked perfectly, except by the time I started watching the show on TV again, I didn't recognize any of the characters. I did, however, recognize their stage directions.
When I moved up here, I identified Francois Phillippe as the most susceptible to the charms of a 21-year old girl and convinced him to watch the show with me on the computer every night. Eventually, Coco and the twins caught wind, and, just like my hippie friends in Mississippi, were hooked. Over the course of about 2 months, we watched all four seasons. I would sometimes come into the living room around midnight, and Coco would be up, watching alone, eyes red, hand clenching the remote, bucket of ice cream on the floor.
What can I say? We're a family of addicts.