Quiet

Last night, I had planned on watching 9,000 hours of television, all taped over the past month. (Granted, these shows weren't taped, but isn't taped a snappier word? So are clicker, icebox, and heater, which I continue to use because it takes too much brain power to come up with remote, refrigerator and furnace.)

The Kendall-Jackson was chilling.

A carton of Kung Pao Chicken was calling my name.

After a quick check of my email, it would be a Masterpiece Theater, American Pickers, John Stewart, The Good Wife, Modern Family, Outnumbered, American Idol kind of night.

Except the Internet connection was emblazoned with a skull and crossbones.

A mad dash to reboot various black boxes resulted in nothing.

The upstairs computer was similarly crabby.

Stupid Internet.

I would just have to start my TV bacchanal a little earlier.

But the cable was out, too.

As were the phone lines.

(Cue creepy alien invasion music.)

My out-of-town husband assured me that the Comcast bill had not only been paid but in a timely fashion.

I called the company (from my cell phone, obviously).

We are currently experiencing technical difficulties in your area. We expect to resolve this issue by 12 p.m.

So I went to the movies all by myself. A first, I think.

Charlie made me promise to not laugh at my usual decibel and frighten the audience.

I loved The Artist.

The Jack Russell terrier was my favorite by far.

(And I'm happy to report that no one changed seats.)