“Jeff, if I die, please don’t have an affair with Jose.”
That is not a sentence I ever would have said (out loud) if it wasn’t for Downton Abbey, which, is quite possibly ruining my life. We’d just watched the episode where Tom the chauffeur, still grieving Lady Sibyl, slept with one of the house maids. Jose is the man who cleans our house, hence the warning for Jeff not to sleep with him if I die of eclampsia in childbirth.
Jeff and I have watched all four seasons in the past few weeks right before bed. You know what that means, right? It means that I pick up the plot points during my dreams and wake up speaking with an English accent.
Sometimes I wake up a ladies’ maid like Anna, and I spend the morning calling Jeff “Mr. Bates,” periodically asking him where his cane is. Other days, I wake up asking for my valet to come and help me put on my sports bra and skinny jeans. On the best days, I wake up as Lady Mary Crawley and spend the morning scowling, talking shit about my sister Edith, and shooing away suitors with luxurious heads of hair. Those days my actual family members run away when they see me coming.
The other day I wanted a cup of tea (of course) and rooted around the drapes for that bell you can pull to make a footman appear with your cuppa Earl Gray. I didn’t find anything there except a petrified piece of string cheese and a dried out marker.
Life has become a constant set of disappointments now that I believe that I am either a Countess or a high-ranking servant to landed gentry. I looked on Craig’s List for a blonde Labrador retriever that I planned to name Isis. That was alarming because I fucking hate dogs. Then I thought about getting a fish to name Mr. Pamuk, since I work his name into a conversation Every. Single. Day. (“Jeff, can you pick up some bananas at Costco, and OMGdoesn’tthatguylooklikeMr.Pamuk?”)
As of this week, this little “problem” has bled into my work life. Imagine how annoyed my co-workers are that I constantly tell them what Downton character they remind me of? Yesterday I told our deputy that she was being a Miss Patmore for refusing to embrace a new courtroom technology. Having never seen the show, she was amused until someone told her that Miss Patmore is the “short, fat, irascible house cook with bad red hair” on a PBS period drama. Now, she’s not speaking me.
I imagine it could be worse. Come to think of it, this doesn’t bode well for the next binge we have scheduled. Breaking Bad. Does this mean I will wake up craving heroin and acting like a bad ass?