Netflix owns my soul. For real.

I pride myself on being pretty worldly. I read newspapers, I get outraged about injustice, I give to charity. As much as I joke about my hair and my makeup and the ridiculous amounts of money I would spend in H&M if only it were a little bit closer seriously guys, Whitefish Bay is, like, far, I honestly do understand that none of that matters while there are starving children in the world.

I get that.

But yesterday…oh, goodness.

I was all snuggly with my slanket (you know, as you do) watching Babies on my Netflix.

(Oh my gosh, you guys. Do you know about the “documentary” Babies? Because it’s simultaneously the most interesting and absolutely astoundingly ridiculous waste of time you will ever experience. They film four babies- two from rural areas and two from industrialized nations- for a year. And…that’s it. No dialogue. Parents rarely make appearances. Just 78 minutes of babies being…babies. AND IT SUCKS YOU IN. You end up picking your favorite baby and rooting for that baby and hoping that baby walks faster than the other babies…it’s probably the most insane thing I’ve done with my afternoons in quite some time.)

ANYWAY. Halfway through little Hattie’s first mommy and me yoga class, Netflix spazzes out. And won’t come back. And then the whole Blu-Ray player announces (quite haughtily, if I do say so) that they can’t find a valid IP address and maybe you should go find and IP address and STOP YELLING AT ME NETFLIX I DON’T KNOW WHAT AN IP ADDRESS IS REALLY EVEN AND I DON’T KNOW HOW TO FIND OUT WHAT MINE IS I JUST WANT TO KNOW IF THE GOAT IS GOING TO KICK OVER LITTLE MONGOLIAN BABY’S BATH!

I mean, honestly. When I hear IP address all I think of is what the Criminal Minds people use to find out all your dirty little secrets after you disappear.

And I swear, I’m not into anything weird and I haven’t ordered a bride/child/housekeeper from Russia/Mongolia/Czech Republic.


There was some freaking out. Perhaps a few tears. I may have thrown myself dramatically down on the floor in front of the cabinet because maybe then the Blu-Ray player would understand the extent of my emotional investment in this matter.

Then I realized that all you have to do is turn it off and then back on again.

Oh. Look. Valid IP address. There you go. Well, I handled that with aplomb, if I do say so myself. Yep, I am all over this being-an-adult thing.

And I was able to go back to staring at four children I don’t know grow up. Because that’s totally normal.

(The American walked first. I was pulling for the Mongolian.)