I got all the articles sent in and approved yesterday morning, and then did a bit of housework. Not a lot, but there’s much to be said for clean counters, freshly washed bed linens, and groceries in the pantry. I put orange blossom scent into the lampe berger, rather than filling the house with the scent of cleaning products as our professional cleaner did, but I think it’s okay. It was hot enough even with the air conditioning on that the scrubbing made me feel hot and sweaty, so I went ahead and did Wii Fit Free Step while watching Numb3rs, too.
My husband got home from work and watched reality TV. I hate reality TV. It was a pleasant Saturday afternoon, I have several nice books on my Kindle, and the TV was blaring out scenes of prison life, teary talent show contestants, and other people whom I’d avoid in real life. They were sharing their hopes and dreams and bad behavior, plus repeated dismal renditions of Whitney Houston songs punctuated by mean comments, right in the middle of my lovely afternoon.
I contemplated taking my knitting and heading back to my office. I have a pretty daybed in here, after all, and lots of nice music, and I could have just read back here. It seemed unfriendly, though. There we were, my husband and I, together on a Saturday afternoon, and I wanted to leave him alone with his obnoxious TV shows? Not the action of a loving wife, right?
Yet I was having to ignore repeated pepper spraying unfolding in my own living room.
I really hate reality TV. I understand that it’s cheaper, and I get that people like it, but I can’t grasp the appeal. I mean, what if these people were in your living room confiding nasty details about their lives and crying as they gossiped about other nasty strangers? Wouldn’t you want them to leave?