I have a True Blood problem.
First season was compelling enough for me to watch episodes one after the other on my mother-in-law's On Demand, and then go home and rent the rest. Second season was the reason I signed up for Netflix, and the third season has me pulling up a big soft chair in front of my slow-ass computer to watch probably pirated episodes in pixellated glory. And ignoring my children to read the Jezebel episode recaps.
The real bummer, though, is that Eric Northman is 1) not an actual person, and 2) not going to come to my house. Which might sound ridiculous coming from a married lady in her mid-30s, but something momentous has happened: my period has returned after a 27-month absence (9 months of pregnancy, 18 months of nursing amenorrhea) and, as happened last time, somebody told my glands that they belong to a fourteen-year-old boy and they are responding accordingly. I'm afraid my voice might start changing.
But hey, anybody can get all hot and bothered when supplied with saucy vampire teevee. The truly shocking part of this whole hot mess is that when I settle in to watch an episode, I don't want to eat; in fact, my stomach gets that tense fluttery feeling...you know, like when I was sixteen and some sweet, sarcastic boy aswirl with pheromones and his mother's laundry detergent wrote me an illustrated note with a Flair pen.
That kind of feeling.
It wasn't a feeling I missed, exactly, but it was one I thought I'd said goodbye to forever. That feeling just doesn't keep well, not in relationships that last more than five weeks. But here it is again.
For a goddamned television show. Could I be any more ridiculous?
The thing about being profoundly happy and profoundly settled is that it isn't always very exciting, especially when you have to will yourself not to discuss the school lunch program as part of foreplay. If fifty-four minutes of titillating comic-book horror can shut off the "buy-peanut-butter-oh-shit-we're-out of-cat-food-there-are- no-clean-socks-for- the-kids-need-to-pay-the-gas-bill" faucet for a week, then who am I to deny myself? And if I feed my children cat food so I can moon around the IKEA catalog imagining the beautiful Swedish homeland of one Alexander Skarsgard, if I pick up my college books with the Old Norse and Old English and Old Icelandic so I can replay certain scenes and try to understand them without subtitles -- well, who are you to judge?