An Exercise in Parenthetical Expressions

A few things have been lifting my spirits lately.  First of all, I've been visiting the tanning bed.  

Now before all you judgers can get all crazy and self-righteous on my (tan) ass, just let me say something first. I totally put SPF30 on my face every single morning.  Plus I'm only laying for 5 minutes - with my face lamp off.  So guess what?  I'm NOT going to look like an old leathah hand bag in the face in 30 years.  Oh.  You were worried about cancer?  Psssh.  That shiz ain't real.  Only what you look like is real.

I've also recently acquired what I like to call an "other-life," as interpreted by the cast and crew of NBC's 30ROCK.  Seriously, if you took a tiny pinch of me and several pinches of My Sister That's Closest To Me In Age (that's too long - MSTCTMIA), and then mixed us up, we would come out as Liz Lemon (as played by Tina Fey).  I can't describe Liz Lemon to you.  If you know MSTCTMIA, then you get this description.  If not, Netflix that shiz.  

I can officially use the phrase "Netflix that shiz" now because, you see, I am now a Netflix-er.  You might remember that last Thursday was our official holiday in this house - Coco's birthday.  I'm not sure exactly what happened, but I know I woke up the next morning with the contents of my purse dumped onto my bed, my credit card wrenched from my wallet.  A few hours later I checked my email, only to find several welcoming emails, congratulating me on my new Netflix account. 

I shit you not, dear reader.  I apparently awoke sometime around 3am in a drunken haze, feverishly scouring the internetz for Nicholas Cage movies.  Desperate, I signed up for Netflix, queued up Bangkok Dangerous, and then sat by my mailbox for 48 hours or less.  

Ok, I am shitting you about the mailbox part.  But the rest of the story is true!  Please see exhibit A.  

Not only does this picture confirm my Netflix account, but it also backs up its newness.  As an amateur (as well as a rabid Nick Cage fan), I tore into my first red envelope, damaging both the individual white sleeve and the red return envelope.  

This torn red envelope should also convey to you the depths to which my actual life has sunk.  Hence my refuge in 30ROCK.  I'm not just spending every waking moment Netflix-ing every single episode (two seasons in as many days, baby!!), I'm also integrating into my personal conversations short antecdotes detailing those hilarious highjinks of the characters on the show.

I'm not sure if The Butler has noticed yet, but if he has, he hasn't said anything.