“Alex, it’s getting to be an issue.”
“What is?” I asked innocently.
“Your obsession! You make a Roseanne reference to every single thing I say. You”re addicted.”
I refrained from telling her this reminded me of the episode in season eight when Jackie gets hooked on the internet.
“Face it,” she said. “No one actually watches that show anymore. Even Nick @ Nite has stopped showing it.”
“Look,” I said. “I don’t have time for this. You know I have to write my essay for Vegas. Now what should I say when I meet her?”
She grabbed me by the collar and yanked me toward her. “Listen to me. I’m sick of hearing you hum that awful theme song: I’m not interested in what Buck got on his report card: and above all, I don’t care how Roseanne’s hair evolved from the first season to the last.”
Now she had crossed the line.
“You’re sick,” she said with the same scowl Bev had when Red Buttons made a pass at her in season six. I suppose she saw the look on my face because she cried, “You’re doing it again! I can tell even when you don’t say anything!”
“Really?”
“I’m giving you an ultimatum, Alex,” she finally said. “Me or Roseanne.”
I glanced over at my Roseanne DVD collection, organized according to Neilson ratings, for what seemed like just a minute, but when I looked back, she was gone.
I curled up in a chair, covered myself in my afghan (an exact replica of that on the Connor couch), and pressed Play.
I thought this was so clever and original and dark. It made me laugh.
