Daily Journal #2 - Sunday Sunday Sunday

January 3, 2016

Sundays have their rhythm here. At least during football season.

The Electrician mans the living room from the time Fantasy Football pregame stuff comes on until he goes to bed. I create a nest in the bedroom. Laptop, Kindle, remotes for the TV, cable and Roku. Snacks within reach. Two pair of reading glasses. Books. Pillows. Fuzzy socks.

Before The Electrician, I had no idea of how the vagaries of the Fantasy Sports world could cast a glow or a pall over a home. Today I am laying low. Offering snacks and soothing words.

For my part, I've rediscovered the variety of offerings on Hulu Plus. True to my nature, instead of watching something new, I've been watching Cranford.  Everytime a  commercial comes on advertising all the options on Hulu, I think I should watch some of those other shows. I don't get beyond considering.

Cranford though. I blogged about it back in 2008, back when blogging was youngish and freshish and definitely red hot.

Sigh. I so love Imelda Staunton in that role.

Eventually, my time in 19th century England came to a halt. Sophie wanted to use the Hulu account. Like the good martyr mother I am, I relinquished. I needed a shower anyway.

When we weren't talking football, The Electrician and I discussed the merits of drinking water. Tomorrow begins The Electrician's weaning from the Nectar of the Gods. Hold me.

While I think I'm making headway on convincing him that water isn't poison, I think I've lost the battle to engage him in the glories of Downton Abbey. Tonight the first episode of the final season premieres in the U.S. and I'm more than a little excited about it. I want to share the love of all things Downton.

But it is not to be. Football. Duh.

It's a shame really. I had big plans. A pot of tea with all the trimmings. A gown for me and a tuxedo for him. Alas no. He couldn't even be lured with promise of a smoking jacket and ascot. Pity. He'd rock that look.

Oh well. More teacakes for me.

- End - 

Not quite as planned

Sunday night. When the specter of the coming week floats through the wall and buggers you with images of traffic jams, printer jams, pointless meetings, laddered pantyhose, the impossible expectation of being in two places at once and a coffee stain on your right boob?

Last Sunday wasn't like that at all. Instead, I was giddily naming the things I would do with my last week of not working. I had plans.Writing. Reading. Finishing an editing job that I lost when I washed my jump drive. Lolling around, sleeping in, long afternoon naps in between watching Netflix and AcornTV until my eyeballs dried out.

And since my first week on the job means a week of member meetings where I'll be cloistered at a hotel and not be at the beck and call of the America aristocracy who've become all too accustomed to having an entire Downtown downstairs staff rolled into one woman, I'd planned to get things arranged so that MathMan, the kids and cats won't be reduced to making meals out of the remains at the bottom of a jar of olives and some three-year-old cookie mix*.

Then everything went all Robert Burns. Or Steinbeck, if you will. And no one even got laid.

I won't bore you with the details, but holy servants' bells, how did it get to be Friday Saturday already?

I decided there was no point in fighting it. It was best to keep calm and ...... bake challah?

Ingrediments. If you know Jack Benny, you get this joke.

Chloe doing the necessary kneading.

Sophie with her finished braid.

Chloe learning how to braid.

Egg washed, ready to go in the oven.

Fresh from the oven.

Enjoying the fruits of her labor.

What's new with you? What have you in the oven? Favorite bread recipes? Bets on how next week goes?


*Mostly a lie. They'd just eat fast food all week.

Is this an instrument of communication or torture?

Source

Before I became interested in watching IU basketball, I had the good sense to stay out of the room or at least occupy myself with other activities while MathMan sat glued to the television during sporting events. I cannot tell you the number of White Sox baseball games I've ironed through.

In fact, if you were to do a little window peeping while I do domestic duties while MathMan watched sports, you'd think you were looking at Ward and June Cleaver. If Ward and June got handsy with each other in front of Wally and the Beaver and seasoned their conversation with the occasional utterance of the word fuck.

Anyway, MathMan forgot that it's best to make oneself scarce while one's spouse is indulging in a bit of televised pleasure. And thus, that is how I ended up taking notes during the last episode of Season 2 of Downton Abbey. I'm hooked. MathMan was lukewarm, tepid, sorry he'd agreed to let me watch the program in the bedroom where he normally cloisters himself to watch whatever he wants on Sunday nights.

Disclaimer #1 Possible spoilers for the Christmas special aired on Sunday, February 19, 2012 so please don't read unless you want to risk it.


Disclaimer #2 Despite his use of the pejorative puss, MathMan is a relatively evolved man. I mean, it took me only two days to get him to understand the value of putting down the toilet seat. Besides that, I do believe he was sending me subliminal signals. Either he wanted to get some or he thought I should feed the cats. 

MM: I like her, too.
Me: Daisy, the maid? She's cute, isn't she?
MM: Yeah. She cleans, too.

MM: Who gets the ruby in the Christmas pudding? (Remark based on Hercule Poirot's The Theft of the Royal Ruby)

MM:  He's a douchebag. A huge douchebag. And the other guy's a puss.

MM: So what? Does Maggie Smith have a contract so that she's in everything made in England?

MM:  I think someone is going to punch him before it's over. (re: Sir Richard)

MM:  What are you doing?
Me: Taking notes of your commentary.
MM:  Oh, I see how it is.
Me: I don't think you do.

MM:  What's the point of watching this if it's going to be so predictable?

MM:  Which Sybil is pregnant? One, two, three, four, five or seven?

MM:  Is the stuffy guy (Sir Richard)  her fiance?
Me:  Yes.
MM: That's a dumbass move.

MM: Someone's going to get shot for sure.

MM:  She's not going to marry that clown.

MM:  Wasn't he part of some Monty Python skit?

MM:  I feel like this is an episode of Poirot without the murder. You know which one I'm talking about.
Me: The Mystery of Hunter's Lodge
MM:  I guess. Yeah, that's the one.

MM:  The only drama is if the pretty woman marries the dumbass.

MM:  Wasn't that on the Young Ones? Sir Something Old Fart? What was that? That's who Sir Richard is.
Me: Sir Boring Old Fart
MM:  That's it!

MM: He shouldn't have given her that dumb pussy speech in the graveyard because now he's feeling bad because now she's going to marry that dumbass.

MM:  (regarding Matthew) Now he's going to get in trouble with his mom.
Me:  For letting Mary go?
MM:  No. For being a puss.

Lady Mary:  It shall be hard.
MM:  It's not hard. It's easy. Just say,"Shut up and piss off."

MM:  Here's where he gets punched in the face.

MM:  (Re: Matthew) 'Cause he's going to get a punch in the face if he acts like a pussy again.

There's definitely a theme here. Let's unpack it, shall we? No, nevermind. I'm not qualified to delve that deeply into anyone's mind. The funny thing is, he's not a violent man so I don't know why he's so hellbent on predicting violence. It's obvious that he has little patience for melodrama and emotional games. I'm not surprised, of course, because he lives with me. Watching it on TV is a busman's holiday.

When I mentioned I thought there was time for them to declare Mr. Bates innocent, MathMan rolled his eyes. "They're going to leave you hanging on that one."

When the show ended without wrapping the Bates storyline, I whined. "Wah! I've got to wait months to know what happens to Mr. Bates. They have to tell us how Mrs. Bates really died. Was it murder or suicide?"

MathMan simply shook his head.

"But don't you want to know what happens?"

"I want to know if that guy's going to stop being a puss."

Oh, he's hooked.

What do you watch on TV as a compromise? What about Mrs. Bates? Murder or suicide? Who did it? What's going to get in the way of Mary and Matthew's wedding? Have we seen the last of the guy who claimed to be Patrick who allegedly drowned in the sinking of the Titanic? Will the Dowager Countess embrace the Jazz Age? Will Thomas and O'Brien ever stop scheming?