Lynnette spent all of Tuesday watching Scandal and sending me plot updates via text message. My friend Sean wrote “that show is crack” as a comment on my Instagram pictures of Lynnette’s texts. He’s right. I don’t even like the show, but every time it’s on I find myself watching with a poisonous interest. “That’s ridiculous!” I’ll say. “Of course that’s what happens,” I’ll say. If you haven’t had the pleasure of Scandal, let me break it down for you. Anything is possible in the world of the show – except for the application of the terms protagonist and antagonist. Motives, alliances, and moral alignment shift like sands in the dessert. There’s no point in keeping track.
So when Lynnette cued up the Netflix last night I was a little shocked. “Didn’t you watch this all day?” I asked. She gave me some goat logic line typical of Lynnette’s emotional justification. She watched an episode that ended at 8:45. “Okay, that’s it,” I said. “What?!” Lynnette gasped. “I have to get up at 4:45. I can’t go to sleep if this is on,” I said. We turned off the TV. “Aww, if we watched one more episode, I would have given you a massage the entire time,” Lynnette said. “What??!” I semi-shouted. “Are you for real?” I asked. “Yeah, why?” Lynnette said. “TURN IT BACK ON,” I said. I quickly fumbled for the remotes. In a political deal straight out of Scandal, I compromised an hour of sleep for a massage and hate-watching a show I don’t really care about.
Now, this whole massage-during-the-entire-episode sounded exactly like one of Lynnette’s famous after-the-fact proclamations that drive me insane because: 1) there is never any indication pre-proclamation that such favors were on the table, and 2) she always backs out of it if I try to renegotiate. But damn, she must really love Scandal because she climbed on my back and started massaging away. For 44 minutes, I was in total bliss. My massage could only have been improved if one more specific thing occurred at the end of the episode, but it was a Tuesday night. C’mon, man. I know better than that. Anyway, as I lay there with Lynnette kneading at my achy muscles, the most entertainment came from Lynnette’s commentary on the show. “God, I love her clothes,” she says whenever Kerry Washington appears on-screen in a nice outfit. “I love Scott Foley,” she says whenever the guy shows up on-screen, period. Best of all, though, is the “F*CK YOU, NETFLIX!!!!” whenever the network lags. I was falling asleep when she dropped that hydrogen F-bomb last night. Generally, only one of us screams at the television in anger. Could it be that Scandal is her Cowboys and Mets? Insane.
The massage-for-an-episode deal was amazing and I would absolutely do it again. In fact, I will try for it again tonight. It was the rare win/win trade. Abby, however, wasn’t thrilled about our shameless pact.
She rested on the edge of the bed and would occasionally make sighing noises meant to voice her displeasure with Scandal. I don’t think Abby cares about the show, but she cares about going to sleep. She’s the first one in bed every night – despite the fact that she spends here entire day napping or licking the couch.
They say that dogs take on the personality of their owners. Well, Abby’s passive-aggressive pouting and rooting around in the bed is textbook Lynnette. If Abby could talk and I asked her “What’s wrong?” she would have replied. “Nothing. I’m fine.” Then she would have growled under her breath, trotted out to the computer room, and taken a dump on an article of my clothing. She is her mother’s dogter.