Daytime TV is Satan

Thanks a million for all your great responses to my questions about school visits. You gave me a lot to think about/work with in terms of what to cover–and what to leave at home. (Throwing yourself against a wall while yelling, “I’m a barnacle!” ???? Well, scratch THAT off my list.)

Seriously, you are the wind beneath my wings.

Which is better than being the wind beneath someone’s shorts. Or so I’m told.

I’ve been felled by a lousy cold which has made me want to do nothing but pad around in my pj’s with serious bedhead while drinking copious amounts of OJ. I have also eaten three-day-old cake. I can’t actually taste the cake because of my nose but it doesn’t matter; I eat it anyway. It is theoretically delicious. Besides, I am sick. It’s medicinal.

I’ve also watched some daytime television. I never do this, and now I know why. Because it is crack. It is shiny, shiny cable crack, and even if you say, “I’ll only watch five minutes,” you end up getting sucked in by Satan’s makeover shows no matter how strong you think you are. To wit, a show on TLC called, “10 Years Younger.”

So here’s the premise: they take some woman (in this case an exhausted mother of three) who hasn’t the time/inclination/money to take care of herself and they promise to spa her from head to toe. Okay, sounds good so far. BUT…first, they put this woman in a glass box (no, I am not making this up) in a public place and ask passersby to comment on her appearance and then they try to guess how old she is. While the woman stands there. Wearing overalls. And flip flops. In a glass box. On display.


Holy Misogyny Disguised as Altruism, Batman! What sadistic programmer thought this one up? This woman looks exhausted BECAUSE SHE HAS THREE YOUNG CHILDREN AND SHE NEVER SLEEPS, PEOPLE! Of course she wears overalls! Of course she has food on her clothes! It’s a wonder she isn’t shooting up heroin and locking herself in a closet to cry all day long! “Mommy can’t take care of you right now. She needs her happy juice and People magazine. But she loves you. Stay away from the hanging blinds cords.”

They take this woman whom they have just subjected to what I can only call a beauty show drive-by and then they pump her face full of Botox and something called ScaryInjectoDerm. Okay, it wasn’t really called that. I can’t remember what it was called. But it was something-Derm and it was a “filler.” I don’t think I want anything that can be confused with packing material put into my face. Ahhhhhh!!!!! They made her blonde and dressed her in pink and she smiled like a Stepford Wife. They gave her eyebrows which, okay, made a huge difference. I can’t lie. But honestly–Botox? At 32? ScaryInjectoDerm? A pink floral skort? (Skorts are a sin and you shouldn’t ever allow anyone to tell you otherwise.)

I was traumatized and had to eat more cake. Which I still did not taste unless I blew my nose. Which I did after every single bite.

But here’s the thing…I couldn’t. stop. watching. OMG. I was totally hooked. Reel me in, ladies, I’m gone! The next one involved a lady getting a full set of dental implants and being coerced into donning a sparkly butterly shirt. Take a minute: Sparkly. Butterfly. Shirt. In powder blue. Like something you buy for camp in third grade. Plus, let’s just process the sartorial metaphor of the butterfly. This demands a Celine Dion soundtrack. Whatever, it looked like twelve kinds of crap and…oh why am I even having to justify it? IT WAS A SEQUINED BUTTERFLY T-SHIRT!!! EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!

But the lady cried when she saw her new mouth and then I cried when I saw her new mouth and that’s when I knew I had to turn off the TV. Because this is how they get you. This is how it works. And suddenly I was looking at my face in the mirror and going, hmmm, maybe I could put some AmazoDermalieLift into my earlobes to make them super foxy! (I will never need “filler” as my cheeks have and always will look like a chipmunk’s as he stores nuts for winter. Hell, I could be a donor for that stuff.) Do I need a sparkly butterfly t-shirt of my own? Is it annoying to refer to an article of clothing as “a pant” as in, “You can totally work that longer pant, girl!” or am I being too sensitive here? If it’s a pant, do you only get one leg? Am I entitled to two?

I immediately emailed Maureen Johnson and she told me to walk away that instant. She wrote in all caps so I knew she was serious. And Maureen went to Catholic school, so I do what she says. Otherwise, she’ll bust some ninja ruler move the nuns taught her right on me and I don’t want that. I want to live. Yes, I want to live.

Daytime TV is Satan. Walk away. Walk away.

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