Sheryl Kirby

I spent last week not working away diligently on my book but flat on my ass in front of the television. After successfully avoiding every cold, flu and virus for the past 12 months, something finally caught up with me and it was as if all the cooties that I had avoided for the past year were rolled up in one great dose of coughing, hacking and snot. And because my throat seemed to take the worst of it (I swear, every time I get a cold, my speaking voice drops another half octave, and stays that way. I can live with sounding like Kathleen Turner, but eventually I’m going to sound like Barry White, and that’ll suck.), I downed a gallon of iced green tea (yes really, homemade, plenty of honey and lemon) every single day just to keep the coughing fits at bay. (Dudes, I have ALL the anti-oxidants.)

I couldn’t get my eyes to focus long enough to read a book, so for four days I set up camp on the sofa, much to the chagrin of a cranky dog who is used to having the whole thing to herself.

Of course, timing being everything, my cold had chosen the week after we disconnected our cable to hit me. So I couldn’t just sit there and channel surf, I had to actively decide on something to watch instead of passively choosing the least offensive thing I could come up with. (Actually we still had a connection the first day… holy crap, those daytime housewife shows are terrifying, aren’t they?)

I figured it was time to bite the bullet. A few months ago, a friend had lent me the full series of Gilmore Girls on DVD, and I had been meaning to get around to viewing it. I had adored this show when it aired – not only did I love the dialogue and pop culture references, as someone who also left home as a teenager, I felt a weird bond with the lead character of Lorelai, who leaves the home of very rich parents at the age of 17, along with her newborn daughter, to live on her own and work as a maid, rather than deal with her over-bearing mother.

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