I have a quick fix for not having enough time to write or read: do not turn on the television. We’re not bad in my house – we will go days without watching TV and on Sundays, it’s banned until after 5 PM. The rest of the week, we rarely turn it on before 7:00 and then, it’s me who’s the culprit, switching on the BBC to follow the latest 
international calamity. We have effectively bullied M into not watching much boob-tube when we’re home and if she does, it’s set so low, our deaf ears can barely hear it anyway. And canned laughter is forbidden. That works because she mostly watches CSI and medical mystery stuff. She recently pointed out that our favorite programs, John Stewart and Stephen Colbert have the same laughter tracks. No, it’s a live audience, I pointed out. But it sounds the same, she retorts. And it does. But the difference is, we’re laughing too, so it’s not irritating to us. A benefit of the parental role is hypocrisy like this.
Anyway, once the idiot box is on, it’s hard to turn off. Let’s see what Lidia’s cooking tonight, then Jacques Pepin. Because we can record shows, we feel like we are efficient in our viewing – fast-forwarding through commercials cuts down on at least a third of the time. True-confessions: we are American Idol fans. Embarrassing, I know. I’m also addicted to whatever Masterpiece Theater show is out there, although I usually watch that alone and I’m way backed up. The Office is a family favorite and a new favorite is Parks and Rec. That’s about it — but there you have it — the evening is shot, swallowed up by TV-land.
And the worst part is, television is completely soporific for me and I rarely stay awake beyond 9:00 PM. I can if I am reading or writing, but on the couch, in front of the television I just conk out. If Rob is there beside me and holding my feet as he sweetly does, I sleep to The Simpsons or Nova soundtracks (his favorites) until I can force open my eyes just wide enough to stumble upstairs. This image of myself reminds me of my father when I was growing up — always falling asleep on the floor in front of some mystery series or Columbo. “Why don’t you go to bed, Dad?” we’d urge. Probably because we wanted to change the channel. He’d rarely leave, instead rallying for a few more minutes after our harangue before his head would wobble down to the pillow, us kids cracking up at his snores.