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.
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.)