Last night, I'm all cozy in bed, with Mr. Stinky Butt by my side, oh sorry, he doesn't like that nickname, I meant Sir Blakey, and I'm on my iPad, in brief denial about the world at large, watching a very funny Judd Apatow special on Netflix, when a texted image of a TV screen pops up and interrupts my bliss with the following testy alert: "Too many people are using your account!"
It's 10:45 and the eldest son is in crisis mode. I better pause Judd Apatow and get to the bottom of this dire situation. "Ma! Netflix won't let us watch." Dear God in heaven, how dare they deny the newlyweds access to my account? "Oh, no! No! What fresh hell is this? Why are they doing this to you? Who else is watching?"
His brother. Of course. So it's his fault, but somehow, it feels like mine. "They must've changed policy not to allow three viewers at a time," the eldest reports. "Those bastards!" "It's horse sh*t." "Let's sue their asses!" Just between us, all I want to do is go back to Judd Apatow. I mean, whose account is this, anyway? What are my maternal rights, if any? In a shocking, year-end development, I claim a slice of ownership. Aren't you proud of me?
"The show is over soon," I text. "No worries, enjoy, Ma," he says, granting his mother permission to continue watching. Is he a mensch, or what?
No comments:
Post a Comment