Come back, little medusa

Netflix has sucked me in again. I'm sitting here, a bit hungover, listening to light rain fall outside my window, thinking how nice to have a Sunday with no expectations. I can lie on the couch and watch TV all day if I want to. (I can feel my fingers wrapped around the remote as if I'm already there.)

So into my inbox pops a "We want you back" email from Netflix, promising that it will be better this time, that it's changed, that things will work out if I just give it another chance. I quit when I switched to the DVR and my home-viewing options expanded, especially since I was seeing so many movies in the theater that my Netflix queue was pitifully empty of all but the most obscure foreign documentary or ignored indie comedy, none of which even I had the desire to watch. (The other part of it is that I am someone who wants what I want when I want it; the urge to see a film based on a review or even the blurb on the back of the box disappears by the time the red envelope makes its way into my mailbox two days later.)

But I am trying to save money, and $4.99 a month is much less than a full-price movie. So maybe I'll slow down my in theater consumption and sprawl out on that couch more often. I filled my queue with films I missed in the theater (yes, there were some!) and added some I want to see again for good measure.

Now of course, my interest is up and I don't want to wait. Sigh. I should have just walked to the video store and paid my $3.25.