Given the slightest excuse, I've been known to spend an entire day parked on the couch watching god knows what. I have what I like to believe is a discriminating but wide palate for programming. Most recently, I was totally into Planet Green. I'd sit and drool over World's Greenest Homes, although I have to say that while I endured it, "Living with Ed" really sucks. Sorry, Ed Begley Junior. But I just don't know who you are. Or care. Even though you're living green, which I really, really like. And your wife's a bitch. Sorry 'bout that.
Anyway. Despite my deep love for TV, we've tossed around the idea of GETTING RID OF IT for a while. Not the TV itself. But the shiny and pretty shows that flow into it from outer space. Because for one, it's expensive. And suddenly having two babies in the middle of a recession means getting serious about being frugal. (We all know this is an excuse. Recession, shmession. I'm just frugal. Or cheap. Maybe a little bit cheap. And I say "suddenly" having two babies, like "WHOOPS!" too much wine and here I am knocked up. Now we all know that didn't happen). Anyway.
It also made sense to get rid of the TV because of this:
Well, that's a bit staged. But here's what's not:
That's right. In this picture we have my sweet husband changing a diaper, which is fabulous. Now he's a bit distracted by the TV, and so it's likely that he may not fasten it properly thus leading to some leakage. But leakage I can handle. And do, daily. What I would rather not handle is the smaller human being in that picture - happily watching TV at about 8 weeks of age.
So we sent DirectTV back their little box of magic. Interestingly, they sent us a return kit, including packing tape, a box, and padding. The box was about 16" by 16" and probably 6" tall. What I found interesting were the instructions, that warned us NOT to put the satellite dish in the return box. Phew. Thanks for the warning, DirectTV. Because truly, I was considering climbing onto my roof, dismantling the dish, and cramming it into a box the size of a small suitcase.
And then the magic pictures were gone. I expected to grieve. I braced myself. Waited for it. But it didn't happen. I wholly expected to be bored out of my mind. (Do you hear the insanity here? I have three month old twins. Twins with colic - and reflux - and I expected boredom?)
But instead of grief, instead of boredom, I've found some space, and quiet. Because while I love having Jerry, Elaine, and Kramer (not George. I do not like George. I know you're not supposed to, but I really dislike him. On top of the pre-planned dislike masterminded by the folks at NBC.) keep me company from 7pm-8pm every night while I nurse/rock/cook dinner, eventually they get kind of obnoxious.
Still, I'm no saint. This house hasn't gone completely dry. We've discovered Hulu (hi, Hulu. Kisses and hugs. Please don't go away). Hulu keeps me sane and informed about the important happenings on The Office and 30 Rock. And while I'm super embarrassed and have to say this very quietly, americanidol.com keeps me apprised of the happenings on a show I love and adore and want to kiss, kiss, kiss. And so can I also just mention that Simon Cowell, I love you truly and deeply. Anyway.
I don't need my TV anymore. I feel so free.
But seriously, DirectTV: you advised me not to put it in the box. Soooo. Are you gonna come get this dish?