So, I'm big into escapism.
Literal, figurative, virtual -- you name it, I'll go there if I'm avoiding things that suck.
Our recent move was a disaster of such magnitude that I was already laughing about it (but in that shrill, hyena-like, possibly-a-serial-killer type of way) while still knee deep in shit, actually and metaphorically.
My husband unexpectedly won a trip to Germany through work and had to leave just a few days after closing. He didn't want to go; I insisted that he must. He said he was worried about getting things done and leaving us alone and I was all, "Please, go, for real," because this was an amazing opportunity and because I like to sleep in the bed by myself, which is also an amazing opportunity.
I'm so strong and so smart and so capable, guys. I don't need help. Ever. I've got it and I want to sleep in the big bed by myself and do all the things alone because I'm fine.
And I was happy for him and a little not happy for him all at the same time because I wanted to go, even if it meant no big bed.
On the first night I texted a friend to tell her that if anything happened to me, it was our movers. I added a P.S. that I had not been watching Forensic Files and that I was being serious because our movers were straight-up thugs, and that I wasn't scared of being home alone or anything, just making it easy to solve my potential murder because I'm considerate. I woke up at every single new sound, making it no fun to sleep in the big bed alone.
I worked so hard, day and night, unpacking and situating by myself.
Mr. Ashley would call and I would ask him about the architecture and the countryside and the food, and he would talk about the bus he was always on. I told him things were great. Things were great with him too, except he didn't like the bus.
It was also spring break so I was full time social director as well as unpacker and utility fighter and low water pressure investigator and pool boy and finder-of-all-things, and people still expected a minimum of three meals a day. Also, my dog kept eating burrs and had to go to the vet.
And I was so tired every night at bed time, but also a little bit scared even if I didn't want to admit that so I started watching Raising Hope on Netflix because it looked happy and mindless.
After a few episodes, I was mad at all of you who have seen this show and didn't tell me how funny and charming it is. It's like if My Name is Earl and Malcolm in the Middle had a baby and that baby was cuter and smarter and wittier than both of its parents.
This sweet, silly sitcom seriously saved my sanity and I watched it every night, willingly putting up with the pauses caused by my infuriating internet situation. Sometimes a day would feel endless and I would look forward to finding out what happened next in that world, because mine was all out of funny.
I told the friend who originally recommended the show that I was annoyed with her for not being more forceful about the whole thing, and she reminded me that she's mentioned it twice. So I'm insisting right here and now that you watch it, and I'm doing it forcefully so you can't blame me when you don't.
It was canceled after four seasons and now I have a whole weird thing going where I don't want to watch because I don't want it to end forever. Like how I get about really good books, when I know I'll miss the characters when it's over.
THIS is a show Netflix should reboot. Let's make that our next project, once I recover from all of this.
Right before Mr. Ashley came home, I had a second burst of energy and some shame about my easy defeat, and again decided that I need to be the person who can do all of the things. Also, how hard could drilling be?
Drilling is harder than it looks. It took me an hour to put up curtains, crooked. It also ruined the drill bit, several screws, and hurt my arms.
It turns out I can do lots of things, I just don't want to.
I told Mr. Ashley that I wasn't having fun. He told me that he wasn't having fun either. We agreed that from now on, we'll just stay home and watch Netflix -- together.
(But if I win a trip out of the country, or state, or city, or house, I'm going. I could sleep in the big bed by myself and binge watch with a faster connection.)
I wrote this post as a member of the Netflix Stream Team, but they let me write whatever I want and probably regret doing so. The opinions expressed here are my own, although I know Netflix would agree that my movers seemed shady and drilling is hard.