Today I was folding laundry while watching a trifecta of Gilmore Girls reruns, because I'm glamourous like that, when my dad happened upon me in between the innings/quarters/periods/eras of the Eagles vs. Whoever Beat the Eagles This Time game. I don't know from sports, but I do know that Andy Reid has done the same thing to the team this season as he's done to his cardiovascular system over his lifetime. In fact, I'm fairly certain that there's a secret city statute that forces my parents to watch the game week after frustrating week during the season upon penalty of giving our dog away to Michael Vick. It's the only reason I can ascertain as to why they would force themselves through such miserable disappointment from September (probably?) to January (I think?).
We wouldn't risk Dude for anything.
In any case, my dad wanted to know why I was watching an episode (or three), that I'd already seen, in his estimation, eighty four thousand times before.
He suffers from a mild case of exaggeration.
And the reason I was watching Gilmore Girls for the eighty four thousandth time was that, in addition to the fact that there's precious little available on a Sunday afternoon in December that is both new to me and at all interesting to watch, and isn't the Eagles, is that Gilmore Girls starts when it says it will, ends when it says it will, and reliably, Lorelai will be snarky, Rory will make oblique pop culture references, the boys will be cute if somewhat milquetoast, Sookie will knock something over, and the coffee will be consumed in greater quantities than Starbucks does annually. I get exactly what I want, and I won't be screaming or throwing pillows at the tv at the end of it all.
Suck it, Reid.
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