On my sick day (and over the weekend while Mr. S was working), I watched some of season 2 of Downton Abbey. Love the costumes, love the dialogue, love the imperfect characters, love the recaps that this other Jenny blogger used to do (note: often lewd, always funny).
After immersing myself in a few hours of early 1900s, WWI English countryside and manor-life, I found it a bit hard to disembark from the fantasy.
And Mr. S found himself being scolded for this "decorum" (i.e. slurping his spaghetti).
He rightly saw the turn in manners and verbosity as a direct manifestation of my love for all things Grantham and Crawley. Saying thusly ('round a mouthful of noodles), "You aren't allowed to watch Downton Abbey anymore."
Preposterous!
If I talked like the other shows/movies I liked, he'd have to deal with:
Steel Magnolias-talk
If you dontta stop slurppin' that spaghetti, momma's gonna hog tie you to Miss 'Ouisa after she's had bottle of Wild Turkey.
Golden Girls-talk
Back in St. Olaf, if you got caught chewing with your mouth open, they'd make you eat hot herring for a week. The only thing worse than cold herring is hot herring.
Always Sunny-talk
The next time you hover over that bowl like a *od-*amn trash vac, I'll shove your face in those noodles til you drown. You're giving me visions of drowning you. Like Frank trying to grab a greased watermelon in the community pool.
The last one might be a stretch, but you get the idea.
My advice to you is to let sleeping dogs lie. Specifically, Pharaoh, the yellow lab who lives at Downton.
