In which I discuss television for lack of better options

I'm pretty sure I just heard a kid ask his friend, "Why do you want to learn about The Bible? Do you want to learn about, like, Hercules?" I hope that she says no. Otherwise she's in for a big disappointment.

People, it's already Wednesday and, despite what I like to think of as my improvements vis a vis actually writing things here, I am behind this week. It's only a matter of time before the blog bully starts scolding me. Why have I written nothing? Mostly because I have nothing much to say. I am grouchy and today has been a cavalcade of petty mishap. Also, I barely left the house all weekend and during the depressive shut-in festival, I ate a great deal of pasta. I enjoyed the pasta (I always enjoy pasta), but I do not enjoy its seemingly immediate roly-poly results. While skulking around feeling sorry for myself and adding to my girth, I watched two whole seasons of an English show called "Skins," which is kind of like "My So-Called Life" only with nearly continual drug use and a great deal more sex. I liked season one more than I ought to publicly admit, but in season two things became absurd. This seems often to be the case with second seasons; all the plausible dramatic territory has already been covered, so you have to move on to kidnapping! and comas! and stalkers! and hallucinations! and lots of death! I know it's uncool to ask this in a show about teenagers but, why doesn't anyone have any parents? I'm struck that parents would have come in handy in many of these situations. For instance, if my roommate suffered some kind of brain hemorrhage and died in front of me, I'd probably call my mom.

I also have watched several Miss Marple mysteries (more have suddenly become available on Netflix, which is excellent news if you are me). In the opening sequence of one, Miss Marple is in a taxi making her way through London. She passes many charming buildings and then the car turns a corner and a massive industrial building heaves into view, rather marring the landscape. "Oh dear." I said aloud. Almost immediately afterward, Miss Marple utters her first line: "Oh dear," she says.

So there you have it. As I have often suspected, nay, feared, I am secretly an elderly English lady in the 1940s. This may bode ill for my romantic future (and yes, I persist in believing I'll have one).