Monday, August 9, 2010

I say this with love. Nitpicky, judgmental love.

Over the weekend, after spending an afternoon picking raspberries (which is an awfully WASPy activity for someone who meets none of the criteria) my husband and I settled in for our own personal four-episode Buffy mini-marathon. Now we're in the middle of season three (which is an amazing season) and um...isn't Angel's cemetery-adjacent, semi-derelict death mansion awfully...well-appointed? In episode three the place had nothing but some manacles on a sconce (which, P.S., seriously? You've been locking up a werewolf for half a year, and you thought some decorative iron work was a good place to tether your feral ex?), and an Angel-shaped char mark on the ground.

I let it slide when, in the next episode, he suddenly had pants. Maybe Buffy got them for him. Maybe a crisp pair of trousers is the first step on the path to civilization. Maybe you just can't have David Boreanaz running around ass-out on network television. Whatever the reason, I was okay with the clothes. But then, three episodes after he got dropped out of some mysterious hell-place, the guy has a freaking sectional sofa. And it's nice! It's all nice, and modern, and crisp, with beige cushions that you would think might not be the best idea in a graveyard, but whatever, it's a really nice sofa. My sofa is a hand-me-down from my husband's grandmother, and it looks like a hand-me-down from someone's grandmother. Even friends of mine who have notably nicer furniture than mine don't have a sofa that nice - where did Mr. Broody No-Job get the money for that?

For an evil vampire, I get it. You steal from the people you kill, then invest in companies that rip off old ladies or make cosmetics out of baby seal tears. But when you turn over a new leaf aren't you supposed to give all of your ill-gotten gains to under-privileged school children, leaving you to glance sadly about your spartan hovel and contemplate the torment you've visited on those around you? It kind of harms your broody emo street cred when you're mourning all the terrible deeds lurking in your past on some freshly delivered fine home furnishings.

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