The Artist reckons I watch way too many tv programs dedicated to serial killers, psychos, rapists and FBI agents.
One of my favourite ways to kill time (sorry about all the killing) on a wet and windy weekend afternoon is to hobbit down in my bed, preferably with a box of scorched almonds at my side and watch re-runs of anything Law & Order, Criminal Minds, Without a Trace and I’m fond of a good run of Cold Case. And if you missed Southland and The Shield – have you got a treat of a box set waiting for you!
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head but gets completely engrossed in what I’m watching. And herein lies the problem. As someone who is not dedicated to watching these things on an ongoing basis he has no clue what’s going on and starts asking questions. Now despite the fact that chances are this is the second or third time I’m catching the episode, my memory is not what it used to be and sometimes it’s like a completely new experience each time. And I want to enjoy it. All. Over. Again.
So going back to the questions – they interrupt my viewing pleasure and have potential to make me cranky.
Yesterday afternoon, relishing in a particularly gruesome episode of Criminal Minds, the questions started.
Why are they staying in a hotel? Because they are FBI agents who are part of the Behaviourial Analysis Unit based out of Quantico.
So, I don’t understand, how did they get to Arizona? In their Gulfstream 550 (attention to detail is everything).
But why are they there? Because they go where they are needed.
But I still don’t really get why they are there in the hotel.
At which point I looked at The Artist and growled “It’s FBI business, you wouldn’t understand”.
It perhaps took him a minute to remember that I wasn’t in fact an FBI agent myself. Such is my skill from watching from the sidelines.
Once he had finished laughing he asked if I knew I was not an FBI agent. I told him that if they knew of my skills they would certainly want me in their employ and that my true professional home is at Quantico, wearing those flattering black pants, being able to run like the wind in heels (when necessary) and packing some serious heat. And I would rock that bullet proof vest like nobodies business and in the past, back in the old country I was licensed to carry a decent size 9mm. This surely qualifies me? I’m really just killing time till they call (yes, again with the killing).
I also never see those agents do a load of washing, unload a dishwasher or shop for groceries. Enough said? That FBI gig looks like good stuff to me.
Love and light from my delusional seat here on the couch.