I'm just going to let dear Miss Durbin (looking uncharacteristically sultry - she is rocking that Vera West gown) sing us into the new season. Which started, this morning, with snow. Bother.
One thing about having a little more time on my hands than usual is that I'm feeling terribly au courant. I'm all caught up on the news, from the downfall of dear Princess Sparkle Pony's beloved Gay Aaron Schock to whatever it is exactly that involves the appalling Robert Durst. Heck, I'm even keeping half an eye on Bruce Jenner and his currently rather inscrutable personal journey. And that's on top of actual World Events, of the kind that once upon a time would have been narrated to us by Walter Cronkite, whose calm assurance I do miss even in the presence of BBC World (having utterly given up on all American news sources, not least because of their fascination with, um... the likes of Bruce Jenner and Robert Durst. Oh, well).
I'm in the midst of a pleasant entertainment blitz, too, luxuriating in the good fortune that this is Ann Sothern month on TCM and basking in amusing Netflix discoveries. For example, the idea that I can now watch all of Pee-Wee's Playhouse anytime I want to feels like the height of luxury, not least because each episode is exactly the length of the exercise routine prescribed for me by Physical Therapist Rick (who may not be quite as beguiling as Tito the Lifeguard or Cowboy Curtis, but is nonetheless not without a sturdy kind of charm), which I'm required to do twice daily.
I've also been working my way through The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, which is highly amusing if not perhaps quite as clever as it thinks it is, but which benefits enormously from the presence of Tituss Burgess (I've you've never seen his astonishing hommage to Jennifer Holliday, in which he takes on the theatrical Everest that is "And I am Telling You," stop right now and go. You'll thank me. But do come back...). On top of that, Mr. Muscato and I are enjoying evenings with Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries and, at last, we've put our toes into the vast lake of Downton Abbey - good fun so far, even it does feel a tad like a slightly angstier Upstairs, Downstairs (forever for me the gold standard of BritSoaps, having been raised at Grandmother Muscato's with a steady diet of Mrs. Bridges, Rose, Georgina and James, and my very favorite, Lady Prudence Fairfax, whom in a sort of way I still aspire to be when I grow up).
So what with one thing and another, I'm keeping busy. Another month or so and I'll be, if not quite right as rain, at least ready to wean myself from the television. I'll just have to presume that the weather cooperates more than it has today.
Not, mind you, that I'm itching to return to the more-than-intermittently vexing world of Gold Handcuffs Consulting International Amalgamated, but too much longer and I'll have turned into one of those people who can actually distinguish among the Kardashians, and that seems very far from being a good idea, don't you think?