Have I mentioned how much I hate Sunday nights? I probably have. I've probably droned on and on about how much I hate Sunday nights. And that every Sunday afternoon at around 4, my happy, it's-the-weekend attitude crumbles into a pathetic, I've-got-work-tomorrow stupor. (My job isn't even that bad. It's just been stressing me out lately because the sixty thousand ladies who work there all seem to have these crazy scheduling demands that I have to attend to, juggling Ms. Lucky-pants's vacation with Ms. So-in-shape's pilates-or-some-such-thing class, and still remember to do little things...like buy register tape and go to the bank.) And tonight is Sunday night and, boy, does it ever feel like it.

The really sucky part (watch as my verbal skills turn to mush, under "Sunday night fog" and I actually use words like "sucky") is that I used to really like Sunday nights. Because, back when I worked at my previous job at Indie Bookstore #1, I had Mondays and Tuesdays off. Sunday nights were the beginning of happyfuntime. I'd get home from work and John would order a pizza and we'd watch ABC. Here's where that fell apart: 1) I got a new job with a totally different schedule, and 2) ABC Sundays sort of suck now.

Last season, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition slowly turned into "Designers Behaving Badly," in which the so-called Design Team ran around acting like idiots and the actual designs of the rooms in the house get approximately one camera pan each...as the family jumps and screams. And the family should be jumping and screaming. Not the designers, who happen to be playing street hockey with the Mighty Ducks. Listen guys, this is not the kind of behavior that made Britney and Kevin name a kid after one of you! Notice, will you, that their second baby is not named after any of you! Everyone knows that Britney, really, is your target audience and you lost her. And you've lost me.

That's not even going into the Desperate Housewives debacle. Yes, it's true I watch "Desperate Housewives." It was my guilty pleasure. That's sort of the point of the show, actually. But I have issues with the fact that Bree got engaged and married before her daughter even made an appearence in this season. Wait a second. Didn't last season end with Bree hugging Danielle whose murderous boyfriend had just been shot in their house? Yes. Yes, it did. And six months have passed ten minutes into the first episode of the season, so wham-bang all the previous storylines are over! Except, of course, for Mike's coma, which I find strangely boring. Please, please, please, get better and back to being like the first season.

The final blow to Sunday night, obviously, is that Grey's Anatomy has been moved to Thursday. That's okay, really, because the writing is still adorable and it's addictive and I love it. Seriously. I love the "Mc" jokes and the drama and the pretty doctors and the fact that I can't watch it without crying. I'm a big, mushy girlfest. How much does it suck that Sunday mornings still feel a little better than they should because I still feel vaguely like McDreamy is waiting for me on the other end of the day? A LOT! That's how much it sucks!

Labels: tv.

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