My Masochistic Tendencies, Revealed

It’s gonna be a short post.

I finished the first edit, sent the kaboodle off to blessed Eric, with instructions that read, loosely, “I think I have a detail muddle in the fourth section, but I need some space. I’ll take care of it when you’re done.”

Then I proceeded to sit down and rework that detail muddle–which wasn’t as bad as I thought, but, really, can’t I even take a vacation during my vacation?

And then, speaking of masochism…

I’ve got this…well, I’d call it an affinity. Mate would call it an obsession. Either way, the show is called Cold Case, and the first time I saw it, I said, “Oh no. Uh-uh. Without a Trace is one thing–that one at LEAST has a possibility for a happy ending. With Cold Case, YOU KNOW THE WORST HAPPENS. And the explanation, you know, the one you sat through the show to see? Well yeah–it usually yanks your heart out with a pair of steel cables and a garden winch.”

And now I’m hooked. Totally hooked. I dvr all of the back episodes and sit in the dark of night and knit and watch the damned show when nobody can interrupt my helpless sobbing. I snap at people who talk to me. Mate will walk in, see me blubbering like an idiot and say, “Rough episode?” *sniff* *sniff* ” YYYYEEEEEEEESSSSSSSS….. “*sob* *sniffle* and then Mate, who, during the episode of ER in which Mark Green died of a brain tumor and they played that hopelessly sentimental Hawaiian version of “Over the Rainbow” was right there with me, fetal on the couch and sobbing his little heart out, will say, “Thank God I missed it–I don’t need that.” He’s been caught a couple of times, looking over my shoulder when he’s supposed to be playing WoW and saying, “That sucked. That sucked large. Damn you and this fucking show, I’m going to bed now where nobody can see me cry and revoke my man card.” (I don’t have the heart to tell him that the testosterone police came by and revoked it after he dragged me to see Sex and the City–let him dream.)

But I think I’ve got the appeal pegged, finally. It’s the MUSIC. I’ve already admitted that I”m a soundtrack junkie, and when they pick the perfect period music to soundtrack these tragic moments…holy bats, crapman, THAT’S MY MILIEU! That’s HOW I THINK.

That, and I actually heard a Gordon Lightfoot song on a major network anything, dated in the 2000ds. Gordon’s my man, folks–my first Canadian crush, my gateway drug to Tanya Huff, Bouchard Gardents, Victoria, the San Juan Islands, and our beloved Harlot. I mean, any show that plays Gordon can’t be all about getting it’s kicks from my pain, can it?

Yeah, yeah, I know. Whatever helps me sleep at night, knowing I get my kicks off of other people’s pain, right? Oh wait… wouldn’t that make me a sadist? Whatever. I’m gonna go knit and cry some more. It’s therapy!