Next on our list of suggested blog topics…
Well, Kristina, you gave me two options, but I’m only going to be able to use one of them. Because, you see, I could not even begin to post about how to do Christmas cards. When I tried to do a card or a letter in the past, I basically used the guest list from my various shower and wedding invites. I figured if we cared enough to invite them, we might care enough to keep them up-to-date on what’s going on with our family. But since I started blogging, and since Facebook, the list dwindled down to those I knew didn’t use the WWW for social networking or family reunions. Now if we make a Christmas card, it gets sent as an attachment, or it’ll be seen in Wall Photos.
That’s kind of sad. I actually like filling up my fridge with pictures sent to us. Maybe I’ll have to work on that. Maybe.
Let me talk about something infinitely sadder, though.
“Those guilty pleasure TV shows that one will rarely admit to watching.”
It all started here for me, in Los Angeles, with seven strangers picked to live in a house and have their lives taped. I didn’t watch the first season, but I did watch after that for a while. OH, THE DRAH-MA. But I’m telling you, it was NOT as nastydirty as it looks like it has become. I think the worst thing that happened in Season 2 was when the comedian guy tried to pull the sheets off the singer girl, and she and another girl felt frightened by him after that. So they called a house meeting to discuss. And he was out of there. And… Was it the third season? With Puck? He got kicked out because he stuck his fingers in the peanut butter. That, and snot rockets. My, how times have changed. I’m not feeling so guilty about that one anymore, considering I stopped watching long before there were threesomes in hot tubs. But then…
Then came The Bachelorette. THE ORIGINAL. I watched the heck out of that show. I thought Trista was adorable, and I’m sorry, but I loved the premise. Twenty men chasing after one woman at one time? In another life, that would have been my ultimate fantasy. I don’t know if I could have even pretended that it was difficult to dismiss some of them. “Psh. You can go home. You are WEIRD.” Okay, maybe I couldn’t be that mean. Actually, just last week I was told I was mean like that to a guy at some point. I have zero recollection of that. Must’ve blocked it. ANYWAY. Yes, I loved The Bachelorette. Trista and her various suitors had me on the edge of my seat to the very end — and I had a viewing party. Oh, yes I did. And I am pretty sure I jumped up and squealed when she picked Ryan. And I watched their wedding. And they are still married, with two kids. And I think a Yorkie. And maybe a bigger dog for Ryan, because he’s all firefighter manly and stuff.
So I kept watching, like on and off. I couldn’t stomach most of The Bachelor shows. As I said in the past, I know that I could’ve been one of the bachelorettes in the first episode of any given season — because that’s the only episode I would’ve made it through. You’d have seen me at the end, wiping a solitary tear from my cheek. “I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.” *sniff* Roll credits.
Lots of people don’t like those shows, and I understand why. One guy kissing maybe a half dozen girls in a span of five minutes, or a girl kissing a half dozen guys in that time, and as the seasons go by, there seems to be more flesh, and waaayyy more uncomfortable-to-watch making out. (They didn’t call Jillian “Hot Tub Harris” for nothing.) But when I watch them, it’s like a train wreck.
No, The Bachelor/Bachelorette shows are like… A fender bender. Where people are kind of frustrated and tense, and maybe talking sternly to one another and you notice it as you drive by.
A train wreck would be…
That’s right. Rock of Love. I have admitted that I watched this show in the past. Granted, both times I saw the show, I was laid up in bed, and one time I was on painkillers. But I have to say, if Bret didn’t find his true rock of love with Taya, and they do another season, and there’s ever a time when I’m in the house alone, without The Husband and without The Girls, VH1 might just come on.
Because really, those ladies are… well, not ladies. I’m sorry. I would like to be kind and give them the benefit of the doubt (and maybe some of them cleaned up their act on Charm School, but I don’t know because I didn’t get sucked into that one), but man. They are all about getting drunk, getting naked, and getting… I’ll stop right there. It’s actually hard to watch, and I’m not sure I ever made it through a full episode, but I did always turn it back. It was… kind of fascinating, really.
And sometimes, Bret Michaels is funny.
But by and large, even if I don’t watch the disgusting parts of any of the shows — because The Husband will tell you that sometimes I cover my eyes during a Rumba or an Argentine Tango on Dancing With The Stars — I know that it’s not quality television that I’m watching.
So, I cannot attempt to make this deep and profound, because it’s crap TV. And if Jesus walked in the room, I would change the channel. Or, I might ask Him what’s under Bret Michael’s bandana. But after that, I would change the channel. I don’t know what I’d watch, probably something with Kirk Cameron in it. Or maybe I’d turn off the TV and talk to Jesus.