It’s like watching TV with my dad.

I’ve recently become intimately involved with a BBC show, Orphan Black. Really, this is the the fault of the son of a friend of mine. He said I should watch it, it’s really good. He knows my type of show, and so I took his advice to heart. I found the show and last Saturday, when they were running the entire season back-to-back, I DVRed them.

So now I’ve been watching them late into the night – like until 2:30 in the damn morning, three or four at a time.

I only have two left and I really need to get some writing done, so I stupidly turned the second to last one on while Sassy was still awake.

She wandered into the living room. I paused the show.

“Do not ask me questions,” I warned her. “I’m not answering ANY questions.”

“Jeez.” She threw herself on the couch next to me. “I won’t ask anything.”

I looked at her skeptically but turned the show back on.

“Who’s that?” It took less than 20 seconds for the first question.

“Be quiet.”

“What’s wrong with that girl?”

I huffed out a sigh, but answered quickly so I wouldn’t miss anything. “She got hit by a car.”

“Why?”

With a great deal of ceremony I paused the show again. “What the hell do you mean, ‘why?’ She got hit by a car.”

“Yeah, but why?” I don’t see irony expressed on her face.

I helpfully point down the hall. “Go do something else.”

“No, I’ll be quiet.”

I restarted the show. Important stuff is happening and I’m seriously paying attention.

“Is that a good guy or a bad guy.” Fifteen seconds and counting. I knew it wouldn’t last.

“I don’t know. That’s why I have to pay attention. Be quiet.”

“Oh. How bout that guy? Is he a good guy?”

“SASSY! I’m not explaining this whole show to you. Go do something else.”

She never did leave. She peppered me with a hundred more questions.

Eventually I shot the television in frustration. I’d like it noted to the Nobel committee that I did not strangle the child.