Like many of you, I watched both the Republican and Democratic National Conventions on the edge of my bed, and sometimes even next to my favorite empty chair with complete anticipation.
I can't remember the last time I was so excited to watch television night after night, and for hours on end, as I fell asleep to one cable station or another with my remote ending up in very strange places when I awoke.
What was happening to me?
My bedroom quickly became my dining room, office, kitchen, family room, and the only place where I wanted to be.
While I began with popcorn the first night and a newspaper on my lap; by the time Obama spoke I had a pot roast with potatoes and gravy; a dozen American history books and vintage Encyclopedia's strewn about; and the traces of my sanity . . . surely somewhere amongst my blankets and comforters.
As far as my boyfriend, who was he?
Merely a distraction to the hours of television I had planned to watch over the next two weeks.
"Don't you have any friends?" I asked him.
"I suppose there are some old girlfriends I could call," he answered.
"That sounds great," I said, not hearing a word while eating Doritos and listening to some country band singe about Romney.
And as I told my kids, "This is history and I don't want to miss a thing."
At least that's what I kept telling myself.
They looked at me as I am sure all your kids look at you, with a rolling of their eyes, and yet with a disturbed understanding that they should just let mom be.
And of course they were afraid I might make them also watch.
As a lifelong Democrat, I was most shocked and surprised that I was so engrossed in the Republican Convention, which I will admit was the first one I had ever witnessed in any form. Please don't tell my left-wing socialist university professor parents.
And it wasn't just that I wanted to see the GOP flail or make buffoons out of themselves; like Governor Chris Christie if I was forced to pick someone.
Or for that matter, during the Democratic Convention which I looked forward to catching a glimpse of President Bill Clinton who in my mind is still a bigger and hotter rock star than Mick Jagger, politically or otherwise.
Yes, I have clearly lost my mind.
What I have surmised after two of the greatest T.V. extravaganzas I have witnessed since the last season of "Dancing with the Stars" is that is was a genius production and beyond anything else I have ever seen. The Academy Awards has never even come close.
And of course, first . . . there was Clint Eastwood . . .
One of my most favorite Hollywood icons who delivered the most insane, surreal and weird impromptu performance I have ever witnessed as a human being.
Just to let you know, I have been having nightmares about empty chairs and none of them involve Pee Wee Herman who eventually always snuggled on, even though he did have a creepy voice..
As an obviously masochistic person, I even watched the movie "The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly" as it is one of my all-time favorite films, attempting to somehow make "Clint the man" I truly remembered in those classic Spaghetti Westerns, instead of the angry, senile, chrochety and foul-mouthed old man he has become.
And no Mr. Eastwood, "You did not make my day."
During the conventions, I was even thrilled to simply watch strangers in the crowd with their inappropriate reactions, super crazy hats, bored looks and frenzied expressions at exactly the wrong times.
Just who are they hiring to monitor those news cameras today anyway?
But it does make for great television.
Well, now that the Conventions of 2012 have left us to wallow in our own realities, what do they expect us to do?
Are we to simply rush home to CNN, MSNBC, FOX or whatever our drug of choice is to even attempt to get the same adrenaline rush we have had during the last two weeks?
I think not.
I have surmised that the only way to deal with the stress and withdrawals we are feeling at hand is to accept that our lives are actually quite dull, boring and in need of much more excitement and stimulation in any form that's available.
Here is a short list of what I might try as a start:
1) Visiting neighbor by neighbor and asking them if I can watch reruns of both Conventions with them
2) Going to the GoodWill and garage sales and hunting down more empty chairs that I can break apart with an chainsaw to the music of The Foo Fighters
3) Dressing in sexy clothes and pretending I am dancing for Bill, Barack, Biden, and yes, even David Gergen and John King. But not Wolf Blitzer.
As you may have deduced, I can officially be diagnosed with "Post Traumatic Convention Disorder."
But stand in line, I know I am not the only one.
I now await the first big debate in October between two, tall-ish, educated and successful men, although only one of them is bright.
I believe a Porterhouse steak and a bottle of the finest Cabernet is on order to be delivered straight to my bedroom.
See you then.