I feel the need

I feel the need

Tuesday, April 24, 2018

One Obsession to Rule Them All

This post is brought to you by my dear Hubby, who suggested I share a weird and humbling moment with everyone.  So, yes, dear Rick and Darcy (not their real names) at church, you're about to learn something new about me...again.

Hubby is on vacation this week and spent the last couple days with his mother in a town across the state from home.  He does this from time to time, and it's no biggie. 

Normally I get up at 5, get Peaches out the door to work and then go back to bed for about an hour before I get up and theoretically go for a walk before I start work. Yesterday that routine was thrown out the window because Peaches was ill and didn't go to work, but didn't make that decision until 4:45. She sent me a text, which got me WIDE awake for some reason.  I could not fall back asleep.
So I rolled around, thinking, "I should just get up and go for a walk and get that out of the way and then go get working."

Well I didn't.  Instead, I rolled over and managed to fall back asleep until about 9 minutes before I had to be at my desk. That meant all the niceties of going for a walk, putting on make up, applying deodorant all went out the door.

The one thing that did not get missed, the one thing that DOES NOT GET MISSED...I made the bed.

Admittedly, not my best attempt at making the bed, but for those of you who are regular readers of this blog, you know that I cannot ABIDE an unmade bed.  It's one of those fun little things some would call an obsession...I call a quirk.

One of  my other quirks, for the purpose of this blog, is I hate, hate, hate it when Hubby and the kids don't return a text IMMEDIATELY.  Nothing throws me into a panic faster than sending a simple text like, "When will you be home for dinner?" and not getting an immediate answer. I begin to picture all sorts of horrors have befallen my beloved family members.

An unanswered text from me also results in many, many more texts from me.  

How on EARTH did my mother survive without cell phones?  She had no idea where I was half the time I was growing up.  But I knew if she blew that coaches' whistle out the back door and I wasn't in the house within ten minutes, life as I knew it would be over.  Still, all she knew was that I was ten minutes away. I could have fallen out of a tree and broken my neck.  I could have crashed my bike into a parked car.  (I actually did that, but that's another story) and gotten injured.  As far as I knew, she did not care what COULD happen to me. She just knew what WOULD happen to me if I didn't show up ten minutes after the whistle.

They must have made mothers different back then.  My kids are grown up and fully capable of getting from point A to point B without dying, and yet I'm panic mom if they don't answer a text immediately.  (And no, telling me they might be driving doesn't help.)


So yesterday I made the bed in a hurried manner and then went to the next room to work. Normally I keep my cell on the desk with me so that if any family member needs anything from me, I'm RIGHT THERE with an immediate response.
Much like a made bed, staying in contact with my immediate family is a quirk for me. Call it an obsession, go ahead.


So my day progressed, as Mondays do. Work was a little busy.  Peaches recovered from her illness enough to drag herself to class.  Skippy had a day off so I had no thought that I'd see him before 3 PM.  I moved around the house doing chores, I went for a walk and then I sat down on the couch to each a late lunch...and promptly fell asleep for over an hour.

Why am I telling you all of this?

Simple: This entire time I assumed my phone was sitting on my desk and if anyone needed me I would hear it ring and be able to respond immediately, as is my quirk. (obsession.)

The truth of the matter is...that phone was no where near me at any point during the day once I left the bed.

Yes...it's true.  I'd fallen asleep with my phone next to me on the bed and in the morning when I made the bed because I cannot leave it unmade, I managed to bury the phone under the covers.

I was almost 5 Pm by the time I realized this.  I found my phone and, too my horror, I'd missed (well, nothing from the kids. I mean, it's not like they text me without prompting.) many, many messages from Hubby!

Looking at the list of texts that had come in over the course of the day (and one missed call) I knew if I were on the receiving end of such a complete ignoring, I would be in the middle of a stomach churning fit, certain my lovely spouse was kidnapped, dead, or worse.

Kudos to Hubby.  When I called to apologize he said, "I knew you weren't dead, you checked in on
Face Book."

So, my friends, what have we learned today?

We've learned that Hubby is far more calm than I am when it comes to unanswered texts.

We've learned that my mother had a completely different mind set than I do when it comes to being in contact with our children.

And, finally, we've learned what my #1 Quirk/Obsession is...the one thing that rules over all other obsessions, including being in constant contact with my family:

The unmade bed.  My one Obsession that rules them all.

Friday, April 20, 2018

Fun Fact Friday: Why Sarah Wears Socks to Bed

Hello and Happy Friday!

I'll admit it, I love memes.  I don't post or share many because many of them are offensive or use vulgar language but know this:  90% of all the memes I've seen I think are hilarious.

That said, the one at the top of this post has been making its way around Face Book lately and it's a rare one that actually applies to my life in a wildly personal way.  See, I have worn socks to bed since I was six, and while I tell myself I wear them NOW because I'm old and my feet get cold at night, I feel I have to be honest about why I STARTED wearing socks to bed.

As regular readers of this blog know, I am a HUGE life long fan of the TV show "Emergency."   As a child, Johnny Gage was my personal hero and my imaginary friend.  (Yep, I was the weird kid at school pretending I needed to be rescued and guess who rescued me every time?  Maybe that's how I got my start writing romance...) 

Anyway, one of the episodes of that show that I can say helped shape who I am now was an early one called "Snakebite."   (This ranks as my #1 favorite episode of the series.  So much so, that I own a copy of the original script. Thank you, Ebay.)

The original air date for this episode was October 27, 1973.  That's about two weeks before I turned six.  I was a little, impressionable, and very inventive kid.  So watching my personal hero (and my imaginary bestie) get taken down by a snake...well, I don't recall having a fear of snakes before that moment, but ever since I have been terrified of all things long and scaly.

That night, October 27, 1973, I went to bed, wearing socks and this specific thought:  If I wear these socks to bed the rattle snakes that are OF COURSE lurking at the foot of my bed will not be able to bit through the sock and kill me.

Yes, it's true.  Not only did I develop a crippling fear of snakes that I carry with me even now, decades later, but I thought socks could protect me from the snakes that lived in my bed. 

There was some logical thought behind this.  See, my mother, who watched Emergency with me, explained that rattle snakes liked warm places.  Foot of my bed under the covers, very warm, even in the coldest Michigan winters.


She told me that if you were very, very still the snakes couldn't see you and then you'd be safe.

Even at the age of five  I knew I kicked in my sleep.  Nowadays I consider that my run for the day, but back then I just knew I kicked a lot.  So staying still...nope.


Plus, I knew the likelihood of the guys from Station 51 coming in to protect me from snake venom was pretty slim, so I had to protect myself the best way I could.


Never mind that I take after my paternal grandmother in that most of my life I've run hot rather than cold. Never mind that I don't like the feel of socks in bed.  I braved sweaty feet and the uncomfortable friction between socks and sheets because I HAD TO PROTECT MYSELF AGAINST THE RATTLE SNAKES THAT LIVED AT THE FOOT OF MY BED.

I believe I was in high school before I convinced myself that no, rattle snakes do not hide at the foot of my bed ready to strike.

And yet, even now...I will crawl into bed with fully clothed feet. I tell myself it's because I'm cold. 

But now you know the truth.

Friday, April 13, 2018

And because I'm an idiot, I just figured this out.

When you reach a certain age in the middle years of your life (Why yes, I am pretty optimistic about how long I'll be gracing this earth. I mean, if I can't die until my credit cards are paid off I might just live forever) you start to look back and start to look at stuff with the clarity of age and experience.

Such was my morning yesterday.

In order to explain this 43 year break down in realization, I have to go back and explain my early grade school years.

I went to a tiny parochial grade school in the Flint area of Michigan.  It was a two room school, my father was the principal and the 5th-8th grade teacher.  (Until I was twelve I thought everyone went to schools like mine.)  I attended this school from kindergarten until fourth grade and all those years I had exactly one teacher:  we'll call her Mrs. Smith. (Not even remotely her real name.)

Mrs. Smith wrangled grades k-4 (roughly 30 students or more most years) with no breaks other than 3 short recesses (Which is when we had gym class with my dad.  But that's a story for another day.  I will say we managed, and entire school, to have recess with no supervising adults other than my father, who was generally busy keeping score for some gym related sport inside or outside the school. And no one died.) totaling less than an hour a day, during which time she was expected to eat her lunch, correct papers, and make any parental phone calls she had to. Oh, and also lesson plan for five grades.  

I should also mention the following points:

1) 90% of the time she and my father were the only two adults in the building.
2) There was no teachers' lounge. Teachers had to use the same bathrooms the kids did.
3) It was a far more delicate age when teachers simply did not admit to having personal needs such as bathrooms breaks, (Or coffee. I never ever saw Mrs. Smith drink coffee during the day. I know my father did, but in the privacy of maybe the church office when no one was looking.  If I were still teaching, you can bet I'd have a coffee pot brewing in the classroom all day long.)

There. Now you're caught up.

The rules of the classroom were if Mrs. Smith was called out of the room for any reason, she would appoint someone to be in charge.  This person was generally a fourth grader, but sometimes it could be a younger person. The kid would stand at the front of the room and if anyone talked, they would right that kid's name on the board.

That kind of power can corrupt a kid.  There was a lot of bargaining and graft that went on. A kid in charge could write some one's name on the board for any reason...and blackmail that kid's Twinkies right out of his or her lunch.

The kid in charge could also let other students go use the bathroom.  We didn't have bathroom passes, it was a two room school with one hall. It wasn't like we could wander or get lost.  And with less than 50 students in the building, everyone knew where everyone else belonged.

So on this day that tickled my memory so many years later, Mrs. Smith had left the room for something and left a kid in charge. It's not important who that kid was, because it wasn't me.  This blog is about me.  So the kid in charge is of no consequence to the story other than to say this kid allowed me to go to the restroom while Mrs. Smith was out of the room.

Keep in mind for this next part, I was seven, MAYBE eight years old.

I walk into the bathroom. There are two stalls and one sink in there.  (Did I mention this was a TINY school?)  One of the stall doors is closed. No biggie. I figured it was an upper grade girl or something. 

And then I heard a voice.


This was no girl. This was a grown up in the bathroom. For a moment I looked around, possibly wondering if God was truly a woman.

But no, it was my teacher.


This concept to a little kid is foreign.  Sure, by the age of seven kids know what bathrooms are all about. But very few honestly believe grown ups like teachers and pastors and presidents actually use them.  So to be in there with my teacher...that was startling...and for her to talk to me...

This may have been when I began having issues with people in public restrooms.

"Yes?"  I asked in a tiny voice.

"Will you please go get Mrs. Jones?"

Mrs. Jones was the school secretary who worked maybe six hours a week.  On that day she just happened to be in.

Forgetting why I was in there in the first place, I left the bathroom, went to the office, told Mrs. Jones (Not her real name) that Mrs. Smith needed her in the bathroom and then went back to the classroom.

And this is when my idiocy began.

See, the brain can only process information as it can relate it to its own experience.  For example:  If an alien ship landed on my front yard and Martians walked out my brain would have trouble understanding what was happening and would then define the event in terms related to something I'd already experienced.  But if a space ship landed on the front yard of say, someone who had already been probed by aliens, then he or she would be able to absorb the scene and fully understand what it meant.

Such was the case with my seven year old brain.  I had no idea why one woman would need another woman in a school bathroom.  And so, my brain explained the scene in terms I could grasp.

Clearly, Mrs. Smith was stuck on the toilet.

Not only did this seem plausible to me, this was, in my head, the complete God's honest truth that I felt HAD TO BE SHARED.

Which I did, with my best friend, DJ (sort of his first name.)  DJ pretty much went through life thinking I was a moron, while I was convinced we were best buddies.  So he blew me off.  So I turned my other best friend, Kayla (not her name) who was far more sophisticated than I was, and therefore not at all interested in bathroom stuff.  So, hoping to get a rise out of SOMEONE at this shocking news I had, I told my other sort of best friend who was by far the most gullible person I knew, Debbie.  (Oh yeah...that's her real name.)  And Debbie and I had a good giggle over the FACT that Mrs. Smith was so stuck on the toilet she needed Mrs. Jones to help her up.

But here's the thing:  Almost 42 years later  I was putting on my make up and this scene flashed through my brain and, having now been a WOMAN for quite some time, the facts of the event as they probably really were played out in my head.

Yeah, see, Mrs. Smith wasn't stuck on the toilet.

Nope.  Mrs. Smith most likely had gotten caught needing some punctuation protection and since this was a parochial school in the 70's, there was no dispenser of such and thus she needed Mrs. Jones to come in and help her out.

And because I'm an idiot...it took me more than four decades to realize that.

Friday, March 30, 2018

I went to buy three things from Target...and then this happened.

Good morning!

So for reasons I can't fathom, we have been running through eggs in this house like it's the only food left and we're starving.  I don't know where they all go. I know I had almost four dozen in the fridge last Monday and yesterday I looked and I was down to two.  Who is eating all the eggs?

But it's Easter and I need a couple dozen for Sunday so we can play Tips and Butts (our Easter tradition game...the rules are here from my post on 4-18-14.) so I checked various other departments in the house for things I needed so I could avoid Easter shoppers today and tomorrow.

I came up with three items:  eggs, eyeliner, and a gift card for some one's shoebox from the Naughty Easter Rodent.  (Yeah, we don't do Easter baskets.  Years ago I gave up trying to dig the baskets out of a box in the basement.  And the Naughty Easter Rodent?  Well...it's not a NICE creature that sneaks into your house and hides your Easter Eggs, right?)

So off to Target I go to get three things.

Of course, it's Target, so I wound up with a few more than three things.  I mean, who walks out of Target with only the stuff on their list?  Please. I had enough things in my basket (not cart, I actually kept my over shopping to basket levels) that I didn't want to mess with self checkout.  So I headed to the registers.

Now, I've had some adventures at the Target check outs, so I've learned to avoid a few things:  Like the shortest line. Or lines where someone has a ton of kids with them.  Or lines where the register operator is over the age of 80.  Or the register where the operator has his/her mouth pierced closed.  (I'm all for tattoos and piercings if that's what you're into. But sticking a metal bar in your mouth so that you can't open your face to speak clearly makes the details of any transaction difficult to understand.  It's really a me thing I guess.)

So, armed with my experience, I marched my basket of fun things to the longest line where the register operator was a young man in the lower twenties age range. (No mouth piercings.)  There were three people ahead of me, but Ahmed (That was his name) was moving things quickly.  

Well, at least the first two people went quickly.  

And then we came to a person I'll call Rosetta, as in "apparently she's composing a new Rosetta stone."

Rosetta had four things in her cart: two bed-in-a-bag and two other items I didn't see.  Ahmed ran the four things through quickly and then asked for payment.

That's when everything came to a screaming halt.

Let me just rant for a moment:  In this day and age of debit cards, credit cards, cash, apple pay and one touch shopping, WHO IS STILL PAYING WITH A CHECK AND WHO IS STILL TAKING CHECKS?

I can answer that question:  Rosetta is paying with a check and Target is still taking checks.

As we all pretty much know, writing a check takes a minute or so, but it's not that long.  I mean, it's five, maybe six blanks to fill out:  date, pay to, amount in numbers, amount in letters, signature, and maybe the memo line.  It's not a novel. It's not even a tax form.

Except for Rosetta.

I do not know what that woman was writing.  I watched her get her checkbook out of her purse, find the check blank and start filling it out.  And honestly, I've never seen anyone write more...or TAKE LONGER...with a check than she did. 

We all have internal clocks when it comes to basic activities:  An ATM transaction should take X number of minutes.  A drive thru order at a fast food place should take X minutes.  A trip to the bathroom should take X minutes.  AND WRITING A CHECK SHOULD TAKE ZERO MINUTES.

Not so for Rosetta. Words fail me as to how she was filling this thing out. It was like watching some Middle Ages monk transcribe the Bible with gold plated letters and artwork.  And it went on and on.  She might have been writing out her shopping list. She might have been filling out a home loan application.  She might have been writing a letter to her pen pal.  (Do people have pen pals anymore?  I don't know. But I had time to ponder that.)  My guess:  She was doing all three.

I've never, in my life, seen someone take longer to fill out a check.

FINALLY, FINALLY she was finished. She very deliberately tore the check from her book and handed it to Ahmed.  We were home free.


"I am going to need to see your I.D."

WHO WRITES A PERSONAL CHECK AT TARGET AND DOESN'T HAVE I.D. AT THE READY??????????????????????????????????????????

Answer:  Rosetta.

So then we waited, Ahmed and I while she reached into her purse and slowly, very slowly, drew out her wallet.  Meanwhile, behind me, the half dozen people lined up were being dispersed to other check out counters.  I, on the other hand, was determined to see this through.

You know, when you're waiting in line at a retail store and the person in front of you is being especially difficult, you sort of bond, silently, with the clerk.  Weirdly enough, you do this without more than a quick glance.  No one wants to be caught staring at a clerk in a meaningful way when it's the customer who is being the problem.

If the clerk is the problem, however, I have no trouble giving him or her the death stare.

But in this case I shot a quick look at Ahmed and then spent the rest of my time, when I wasn't mentally taking notes on Rosetta's movements, being VERY interested in the gum rack.

Finally she presented Ahmed with the I.D. and, completing her transaction, she was on her way...sort of. I mean, Ahmed hadn't put her two bed-in-a-bag sets in her cart, so she had to roll around to the end of the register belt to do that.  And yes, even with everything in my basket, it took longer for her to put two things in her cart than it took Ahmed to ring up everything I bought.

Once she was finally out of the way, and I, having had my method of payment in my had from the moment I put my items on the belt (LIKE A NORMAL PERSON) said to Ahmed, "If I said I wanted to pay by personal check, would you lose your mind?"

He smiled at me and said, "Well, it's not like we can turn it down, right?"

Total time for Rosetta's transaction, not counting Ahmed ringing up her four items: seven minutes and fourteen seconds.  Total time for Ahmed ringing up my seventeen items and processing my payment: under two minutes.  And that included our little conversation.

Next time I'll just do self check and yell at the machine when it tells me something foreign is in the bagging area.

Well kids, it's Easter weekend so I want to wish all of you a happy and blessed Easter!  For Christians I rejoice and say, "He is Risen!"

For my secular friends, I say, "no child really wants to sit on a giant bunny's lap."  

For everyone else, I say, "Half price candy on Monday!"

Thursday, March 29, 2018

Reposting a fan fave: Bless the Lord, Oh my Snot.

:Good morning all!

Once again, it's Easter Week, and Monday's choir practice reminded me of this blog from a few years back.  It's an oldie, but a goodie, I think.

I'm working on a fresh new blog, but at the moment I'm in the last week of NO BREAD FOR LENT and I'm a little low on those lovely high energy carbs.

 This is for the front row of my church's senior choir, (including me),  who is fighting to get through Easter this week.

Good evening.

We've established that I am, at best, an uninspiring singer.  The fact that I've been in a church choir almost my entire life doesn't not mean I have any special talent, other than being able to read music and make some sort of sound come out of my face.

Nope, we don't look this good.
For the last several years I've sung in our church's "Senior Choir."  In the last year, we've tried, as an ever shrinking group as members of said choir die or move to Florida, to reinvent ourselves.  We are now the "Adult Choir."

Yeah, we're the old farts of the congregation.

So tonight at a mid week Lenten service  (and I don't expect too many folks out there to understand exactly why my church has Wednesday night church during Lent.  We just do.) the Adult Choir was to sing two songs.

Now, the ladies of the soprano section, of which I am one, tend to get colds...a lot.  And we aren't very good at those really high notes.  We can hit them, but them you better play something loud because the next sound you hear will be every single soprano coughing, gagging, or clearing their throat.  The Hallelujah Chorus sounded like a consumption clinic when we sang it a few years ago.

The two songs we were to sing weren't that hard.  It's Lent.  Stuff is low key and quiet.  We do really well with low key and quiet.  Unfortunately for the sopranos, we once again were all sick.  Oh, my cold just started, which means I'm in the runny nose, random nasal clog phase.

I loaded up on decongestants before the service and figured I would be able to stay clog free for the 56 minute service.  Nope.

Could somebody just make one
of these for me?  Please?
About halfway through the sermon, my right nostril closed.  You know the feeling.  It's closed, nothing's coming in.  But plenty is rolling out.  Oh yes, I was suddenly a drain pipe for that really annoying, completely pointless snot that just runs down your face and you can't suck it back up into your head because your nostril is closed.  And you go through about fifty tissues in a minute because it won't stop running.

Yeah, about four minutes before our second song, that happened to me.  BUT, my good friend...let's call her Alexis, who has sat next to me in choir for almost twenty years, got hit with a sneezing fit a minute before the song.  Next to her, dear, sweet Rosie couldn't stop coughing.  In the back row, well, let's just say those girls were attacked by phlegm in the throat.

We managed to get through the song...watery eyed, runny nosed, and coughing at the end of every phrase.  But we did it.

That's not a puddle.  The sopranos just warmed up
right there.

Tuesday, March 27, 2018

Blame it on Cat Poop, blame it on Walmart, but Tuesday Claims a new Victim.

Good evening!

For those of you who are friends with me on Face Book or who follow me on Twitter, you know Tuesdays are just not my day.  If something is going to go wrong with work, it's on a Tuesday.  If I break something, if an appliance breaks down, chances are, it's a Tuesday.

I have no idea why.  But it's like clockwork.

Today I figured Tuesday struck early.  There was a pile of cat pooh in the room formerly known as the dining room.  (We now call it the place where we keep the cats' dishes and cat tree.)  Of our five, we have one who will announce his displeasure at the state of his food levels, water levels, cleanliness of the cat boxes, whatever, by poohing outside the #1 litter box, which also happens to be right outside our bedroom door.  (This is why I always have the flashlight setting on my phone turned on when I get up in the morning. I never know who or what I'm going to step on when I open the door.)

But it's been a while since he poohed outside the box. I thought he was finally pleased with our collective performance and we no longer had to live in fear.

Until this morning when I noted he'd plopped a present near the top of the basement stairs.

We have a rule here.  Well, I have a rule.  I do not touch cat crap.  I do not clean the litter boxes.  I will feed them, I will water them, I will let them crawl on my desk when I'm trying to work, and I will take them to the vet if need be. And Heaven knows I pay for them.  But I did not want 5 cats in my house and none of said cats are MINE. Therefore, I expect the other three adults in the house to deal with any and all feline fecal matter.

Thus it came to pass that this morning as he was headed out to a long day of driving, I caught Hubby and informed him of the protest plot in the room formerly known as the dining room.  He cleaned it up, expressing, as I did, wonder at the new location of the dump site.

And then, the mess cleaned up, he got in his car and drove away.

A couple short hours later I get this text:

Guess what dummy here forgot this morning?

Sometimes Hubby forgets one of his phones or his notebook, which was my first guess.  His response was this:

Better.  Perfect for a blog.

Now I was intrigued.  Lately Hubby's biggest goal in life is to stay out of the blog.  I made several more guesses on what he could possibly have forgotten that would be wild enough for him to volunteer that it was blog worthy.

I suggested perhaps he'd forgotten what day it was and therefore was going to the wrong appointments.  

It's Tuesday.
Go to work without a shirt day.

Apparently what had happened was this:  Hubby keeps his hanging shirts in his office closet (because my clothes have become so fluffy we can no longer share a closet.)  So while on his way from the bedroom to his office, he realized he was running a few minutes late. It was then that I popped out of my office and informed him of the pooh pile in the room formerly known as the dining room.  He cleaned that up, put on his coat and headed out the door.

Fortunately for him, there was a Walmart near his first stop and he was able to purchase a shirt for work and get on with his day.

And, after a tremendous, and much needed laugh, I got on with mine.

Tuesday, March 20, 2018

Holding out for a (Anti) Hero.

Good morning everyone!

So last night Hubby and I were binge-watching a Showtime TV series on Netflix and I realized something fairly disturbing about our favorite series:  The heroes are actually the villains.

Going all the way back to my childhood I've loved a good hero.  It started with Randy Mantooth, TV's "Johnny Gage" on "Emergency!"  Now, Johnny was hardly perfect...and had 1970's television been a touch more graphic it's doubtful my parents would have allowed me to watch a show featuring a fireman who had a bed in the back of his personal vehicle.  That said, Johnny Gage was my first love, and my first hero.

Over the years I've come to realize I have a type:  Tall, dark, and heroic with just a touch of bad boy.  Tom Selleck, Mark Harmon, Scott Bakula were all my dreamboats through the 80's and into the 90's (and oh yes, I'm all over Mark Harmon and Scott Bakula on their NCIS shows on Tuesday...it's the highlight of my week).  All of this culminated with the ultimate hero (with just a touch of bad boy) David James Elliott as Harmon Rabb on JAG.

With the exception of NCIS, however, I I realize that the "hero ideal" is sort of...non existent in TV today.  Instead, we've replaced the slightly bad boy HERO with a completely decent BAD GUY.

Not sure what I'm talking about? Okay, let's look at just a couple of the biggest TV shows in the last decade:

Don Draper.  Tall, dark, handsome, rich.  Completely amoral.  Smoker-drinker-womanizer-complete jackwagon at work.  Oh, and let's not forget the whole stolen identity thing.

Walter White:  Family man. Endearing father.  Faithful husband.  Dedicated High school teacher.  Meth kingpin and murderer.

Dexter Morgan:  Mild mannered blood expert.  Family guy.  Devoted brother.  Crime fighter.  Serial killer.

Marty Byrde:  Husband, father, all around good guy played by the ultimate all around good guy, Jason Bateman.  Oh, but Marty is a mob money launderer who also, if memory serves, stole a strip club.

These are the TV shows I can't put down. These are the heroes, if you can call them that, that I'm cheering for.  Yes, I wanted Walter White to make the "good meth" and I'm cheering for Dexter to slaughter people because he only kills the really deserving.  And I want Marty to succeed in laundering all the money he's hidden in the walls of the resort he also sort of stole.  And as for Don Draper, well, yes, he must drink all the Scotch and sleep with all the women so he can be brilliant and save the ad campaign.  

Sing it, Bonnie.

What has happened to our heroes?  When did we decide evil criminals were the guys we were going to cheer for?  Does the right motivation truly cover a multitude of sins?  It must, because I fill my TV time with hours up hours of just this kind of material.  

It can't just be about the lead being good looking.  I mean...let's face it, Bob Odenkirk is many things, but good looking he is not. Yet, when I sit down to watch "Better Call Saul" or "Breaking Bad" I'm truly cheering for this sleezeball lawyer to win at all costs.  (The same goes for Brian Cranston of "Breaking Bad".)  The key is that they are compelling and sincere, even at their worst. 

It doesn't hurt the antihero movement if the guy in question is good looking. I mean, Jon Hamm (Mad Men), yes please!  (Although if my husband started acting like Don Draper, I'd show him the door.  So I guess money and ridiculous good looks do count.  I'm not proud that I'm admitting that.  But I know I'm not alone.)

Where are the good guys?  Where is the balance to all of the dark-souled evil we see in so many male characters now?  Where is the 

Oh, wait...maybe we just don't want them....

Are we simply getting what we deserve?  Have we gravitated toward the "bad boy" side of heroes so far that we've lost the "hero" and just gotten the "bad boy?"

I would love to see another pure hero type all around good guy back on TV.  A nice guy who is just out to "put right what once went wrong."  You know, someone I could sort of fall in love with without feeling dirty.

(This one's currently fighting crime in New Orleans on Tuesday nights.)

Maybe I'll mount some kind of protest, you know, demand that TV bring back a true "knight in shining armor" kind of guy.  Demand that we walk away from hot criminal and celebrate the "good guys" who are truly "good."

Wait, what's that?

TABOO season 2 is coming out soon?  

Never mind...

One Obsession to Rule Them All

This post is brought to you by my dear Hubby, who suggested I share a weird and humbling moment with everyone.  So, yes, dear Rick and...