Here I go again, about to confess another one of my dirty little secrets. When I started this blog, I thought it was going to be for observations, musings on life and the creation of art, but instead I keep outing myself, confessing that I talk to chickens, see wizards and Jesus on the streets of Tribeca, have terrible OCD and a cat with a poopy butt. I’m starting to think that the name gingerbread crumbs might be better served as Kate’s confessions. It would certainly bump up my readership.

Okay, now I’ve done it. This big build up- makes the “big secret” seem a smidgen small. It has nothing to do with donning underwear of the opposing sex, (wow, Freudian typo, but I like it and am keeping it), stalking George Clooney, or turning the neighborhood bulldogs into ottomans (you know how I feel about George… and taxidermy). It’s so much smaller than that. Have I done a reasonable job of lowering your expectations? Good.

Here it is, my guilty pleasure: Game of Thrones, hereby to be known as Game of Boobs. For good reason. If you have seen it, you know what I’m talking about, if not, then for your edification, in pretty much every scene bosoms are bursting from bodices, de-corseted, or loosed from whatever filmy garment that didn’t conceal them to begin with. And there is not nearly enough reciprocation from the male gender. Very few torsos with fabulous musculature heaving and sweating, especially during those epic battles. So what if chain mail makes it harder to slice a man open from sternum to navel? Show us your pecs! You’re going to die anyway.

Which leads me to my next little confession. Who knew I was going to have a penchant for blood and gore? Medieval jousting, thundering hooves, all that macho crap? Who would ever think, that turn-your-head-away-at-the-slightest-beheading me, would embrace a show that has people getting impaled as often as The Desperate Housewives of Madison Bridges lose their sunglasses. (I do not watch reality television. Ever. This is one secret you couldn’t torture from me, because watching that trash would be torturous enough.) But speaking of such, there is plenty of it in Games. You’d think that would be another sticking point (pun intended) with me, because torture is not my idea of entertainment.

So here we are, blood and guts, boobs sans bodices and I can’t wait for the next episode. It all started because of my teenage son. Clay and I had watched Deadwood on DVD one summer. Talk about bonding over inappropriate entertainment. The word “cocksucker” is repeated 1200 times in those three seasons. Or was it 1200 times in one season? Don’t remember, but not only was the word repeated with alarming frequency, but so was the activity. Before you go calling child services, let me say that I think it was some of the finest writing to ever appear on the screen, large or small. It’s genius. And educational. Not in the way you’re thinking, get your minds out of the gutter people. Educational for writers. Inspirational. We loved it.

As for Game of Thrones, Clay begged me to give it a chance. I was reluctant, but we were searching for another Deadwood experience, a show we could enjoy talking about, even if we didn’t watch it together. (That would be too weird.) So I ended up trying it during two days I was down with the flu. Vomiting and mayhem, a winning combination. I was hooked and binge watched the first two seasons between trips to embrace the toilet.

From the wild west to medieval times. Who knew I’d find blood and guts my favorite way to spend an hour each week?

One last thing, I have a thing for Peter Dinklage. He’s adorable. And completely sexy. Google him.