So Husband and I are watching Lost.
And after spending so many hours the past month catching up trying to catch up — hours that really should’ve been spent cleaning toilets, cooking a decent meal for our children or, I don’t know, blogging . . .
We’ve finally made it to Season 3.
What is this drug we’ve gotten hooked on?
Damn you, Lost. Damn you and your smoke monster, your psycho cult leader with the spinal tumor and your freakin’ polar bear.
And why so many episodes per season, why? I want to know what happens next, but am I willing to find out at the expense of my children and reputation as a domestic goddess? (I hope I didn’t cause you to choke on your coffee with that last one.)
Apparently I am.
It’s all I can do to prevent myself from googling “Lost” and just reading the summary of seasons 3, 4, 5, and 6 (to present). And not to mention reading all the commentaries about the Biblical parallels. I find that FAS.CI.NA.TING.
But instead I will dry off with a dirty towel that I plunk from the hamper, throw in a frozen pizza (again) and convince myself that I’ll write that blog post tomorrow.
After I watch just one more episode of Lost.