I usually don’t get addicted to television shows. It’s not that I don’t appreciate mindless entertainment, because I enjoy brain stagnation as much as the next person; however, I cannot be bothered keeping track of network schedules.
I can’t keep track of when to send cupcakes to school. I can’t keep track of when to return my library books. I can’t keep track of when it’s my turn to work in the church nursery. I can’t keep track of how much laundry detergent I have left. I can’t keep track of TV shows.
It’s like a theme in my life.
I either need a calendar or a brain transplant.
Because of my haphazard scheduling, I tend to watch shows that don’t continue plots from week to week. Let’s face it, as my luck would have it, I’ll never flip the TV on at exactly the right time to catch a story continuation. I need a show that’s done in an hour. My attention span is done in an hour.
Lately I’ve been loving Dr. Oz, because it feeds my internal desire to self-diagnose and pretend that I’m an M.D.; however, there’s another show that always seems to be playing late at night when I settle into my chair with a blanket and the remote-control.
It is clean House. The local garbage dump is cleaner than the houses these people occupy. I am convinced that some of these homes must be staged. Can anyone actually live in a house that requires walking on top of two feet of trash? I saw a bathroom that made McDonald’s restrooms look sterile.
My reasons for watching this program are mixed. I’d like to think that I enjoy witnessing people getting a second chance at their lives. I’m encouraged when men and women are given hope for their futures, furniture for their bedrooms and a new toilet seat for their butts.
The flip side is that these slobs make me feel good about myself. As disorganized as I can be, I look like a cross between Martha Stewart and Mr. Clean compared to this show’s celebrities. Just imagine a bald-headed man with a hoop earring wearing an apron and hot glueing glitter on candles. That’s me.
Despite my arguments that these homes must be prepped for disaster, FringeMan disagrees. He truly believes people can be filthy pigs. See why we wed? I want to see the best in people and he isolates them into a world of roach infested kitchens. It’s all about balance.
My point is…I know you’re begging for a point…that this week, all across blogland, there were home tours filled with trees, glittering decorations, and wreaths that would make Martha green with envy. My only problem is that just about every house was perfect. Do people live in these houses, or are they locked in the basement until after the holidays?
Because in my house, you can’t guarantee the ornaments won’t be re-arranged at least 200 times. For three days baby Jesus was lost from my nativity scene. I found him wrapped in tissue paper and lying in a gift box. I lost my daughter in church the week before last and panicked when I saw her standing near the manger playing with the wise men. Imagine if the church’s creche lost a shepherd or worse, Mary and Joseph!
All I’m saying is that one minute my mantle looks like this…
How did everybody’s houses get so perfect?
Where have all the slobs gone??
Here’s my real question: Do you live in your entire house or do you keep a ‘perfect’ room just for company?