Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Until Death Do Us Part
Here's what I have learned so far this week:
1. As usual, my math is off: For the past seventeen years, I've operated under the assumption that S.B. and I first met on Sunday, November 1, 1994, the day after Halloween. When in actuality, that Sunday was the day after a Halloween PARTY, held Saturday, October 29th, a two full days before the date I've always held in my head.
2. Not that it really matters. I'm jinx-ey about celebrating anniversaries, and S.B. tends to forget stuff unless I Sticky Note it. Birthdays, Christmas, Valentine's, bring it. But I've always tiptoed around the whole until death do us part concept for one thing (what if one of us turns into a serial killer? a wearer of Crocs? a democrat?) and I'm a skeptic about anything institutionalized for another. I figure if I don't look it straight in the eyes, it won't be tempted to attack. So far, it seems to be working.
3. I think that I am actually beginning to hate a show about zombies. And I'll watch zombie anything, but Walking Dead is turning out to be such a clunker, not even a busload of meth addicts could revive it at this point. Speaking of which, anyone see the season finale of Breaking Bad? That was awesome. Also: Homeland. If you haven't seen this, it's worth watching the past episodes online to catch up. Very tense stuff. Also, also: American Horror Story. Scary and funny and sexy (Dylan McDermott is FIFTY? Holy moly. Even S.B. had to comment on that one.).
4. I watch way too much television.
5. I actually made my way through an entire fantasy novel this month, Terry Pratchett's Small Gods (at Troll's rec), and didn't want to throw it against the wall. Au contraire, it was very food for thought-ey, and I loved the whole desert-as-metaphor-for-enlightened-thought bit and also the desert as the purgatory across which the newly dead must make their way to the final place of judgment. When I die, I want to be laid (lain?) out on a flat rock in the New Mexico badlands somewhere, left as food for the coyotes and the vultures. Let that sun soak my bones until they're bleached and scattered. This sends S.B. into a mini conniption fit every time I mention it because most likely he'll be the one who has to carry out my final wishes and most likely this is illegal.
That's all I got. You?