The Summer Of Pjs and TV…

When the diagnosis came through, I discussed summer plans with the chickens. The girls named it the greatest summer ever, except for the cancer. “We will take you to treatment and then we’ll watch movies.” Squees abound.
Baby Chicken returned to Bama a few days ago signaling the true end to summer. As Middle Chicken graduated from law school I get to keep her until January when she goes off on an exciting life adventure. So did we fulfill summer predictions?
As chemo and radiation leaves patients with little option but couch sitting and sleeping, we did, indeed fill our brains with tons of television while in our pajamas. The girls wore their jammies in solidarity.

We just finished entourage. I know the rest of the world watched it a million year ago when it was actually an HBO hit. What did we learn from Ari and the gang? Working like a crazy person gets you lots of money but little else. Also, if we could sell this life as a tv pilot we’d make millions of dollars. Hmmm.

We lapped up Orange Is The New Black in a weekend. We even resented when Baby Chicken had to go to work and disrupt the flow. From OITNB we learned that things could indeed be worse. We could be locked up, wearing orange, having to earn mascara with nary a pearl in sight. Egads.

I do my speech therapy exercises mourning the passing of McDreamy on Grey’s and learn to crush pills mixed with water to pour into Gus while gasping at the antics of the Real Housewives. All we learn from them is bad behavior and dancing on tables minus panties.

Did you know there’s a guy named Chrisley, a gazillionaire in Georgia? He’s a Southern Papa with a twang that says things like, “The only things open after midnight are legs and the emergency room.” when his child asks to stay out late. Bahahaha.

Speaking of the The South, a little thing called, Southern Charm accompanied me to chemotherapy. It is the adventures and foibles of a group of friends in Charleston. Not only are we treated to their southern drawls and not so charming behavior but we get Patricia, mother of Whitney. Patricia is old school south, which means a butler creates her crushed ice afternoon martini and presents it on a silver tray, as it should be. When she gets ready to go to a fete, she calls for a dressing drink. She stole that from me.

We were beyond mesmerized with Bloodline, a story anyone with family might recognize, except for the dead guys. Yikes. And besides, Coach from Friday Night Lights is in every scene. Yummy.

Right now, though Baby Chicken is back at Bama, Middle Chicken and I are hooked on The Killing. Suspense, twists and surprises abound and we find ourselves after hours of binging, leaning forward in our chairs, “One more?”

So what have we learned from a summer spent in front of the tube? I try to study what makes great characters, great lines and dialogue and what draws viewers to certain character and away from others. And then there are times I say, “Screw it. I just don’t feel good and I’m sitting on my ass all day.” There has been more than one day the score ends in Cancer-1, Me-0.

No worries, though. In two weeks college football begins again. Bama opens against Wisconsin in neutral territory and all will be right with the world. And anyone who knows anything knows a girl can’t stay in her seat during a Bama game.

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