Anybody Can Do It…

Invent TV programming, that is.

Just watch TLC in the US and you’ll see a parade of freaks. It seems anything just slightly off ‘usual’ is worth documenting these days.

Little people, large families, parents who train their children to be child-porn centerfolds with tiaras. There doesn’t seem to be a limit how low this channel will go.

Somebody once explained the difference between comedy and black comedy to me. When it’s overt comedy your body goes forward, embracing the moment. It’s the opposite with black humour, your body throws back even though you are laughing. It’s an automatic response to horror or fear. I know that I’m married to someone who laughs at other’s calamities. What’s funny to him makes me embarrassed at times, especially if he’s laughing at someone else’s misfortune. Shameless. I recall long tortured moments of being teased so my empathy level is somewhat higher.

But who is watching toddlers get crowns for winking and flirting with judges? The spray tans, make up and hair pieces are gaudy and burlesque-like. The costumes include miniature versions of prom dresses -reflective of the glitzy competition. What parent has such low self esteem to allow their child to be put on display like a freak. They need to prove something and live vicariously through their children. Who are the people who hold these contests where EVERYBODY wins a prize because of they need to give them something for the hundreds of dollars spent to enter the freak show? Never mind the child’s sense of worth. They’re learning to acquire acceptance with applause based on being a trained monkey. There are people making $50 an hour to train them to be flirtatious robots. I’m completely outraged that this is a SERIES on TV. Calling all pedophiles! The former ‘learning channel’ has an hour of porn for you.

Multiple births are raised beyond a freak of nature to fodder for the freak station’s mill. Children and families are scrutinized down to the minutiae of their breakfast flakes. Who are the freaks? The family for allowing the cameras in (somehow Kate seems to get that there is something to be gained by people’s curiosity as did the Dionne family way back when in Quintupleville or whatever it was called). there is money to be made from being a freak. The difference is those who get it and those who don’t. People are unwittingly leaving themselves open for ridicule and that brings joy to people like the husband. I’m more inclined to switch the channel. With one exception. The nine year old watches Jon and Kate Plus 8 constantly because it’s always on. We can tell you the names of the kids and one day there will be a drinking game over Madies’ meltdowns. But it feels wrong and voyeuristic. Kate’s unblinking explanations in her segments with Jon show she gets it. “You want to know about Joel’s constipation? Well you’re the freak not me”, “You want us to appear on Oprah and get a bunch of free stuff for it? Sure, these kids are going to be expensive when college hits”. We’re being played because we’re told this is different, unusual. In fact, it’s monotonous and boring but it’s different so we can watch it. The programmers think it’s special so I guess we should too.

Grrr. We’re such a gullible lot. We have the power to turn the circus off. We should exercise the option. It’s all just gossip, smut and plays into our lowest form of entertainment.

I watched the baby pageant show. I needed to see how bad it was. I noticed how I was sitting after just a few minutes into the show. My arms were crossed, feet tucked in tight, my left hand was covering my mouth and my shoulders were hunched forward. I felt like I was watching a horror movie, waiting for the scary parts to be over but this horror show just kept getting worse and worse with no relief. From child to parent to blubbering grandparent it became more and more shocking. I had to keep turning away when this extremely freaky looking child who was trained to make her smile as big as her entire mouth would grit her teeth at the cameras. Her head looked huge compared to her tiny frame. Her brows were trimmed and drawn to an uncharacteristic length giving her an expression of surprised fear. Freaky. Her mother was whining about how she should have won the Grand Slam prize because she was clearly the most poised. But all I saw was a trained robot with a freaky frightened glazed look who seemed to be going through the motions for adult approval.

I felt like crying for those little souls. The death of one has not mattered in this pageant world. They can justify their existence now even more by citing ratings and viewer numbers. See? People love this stuff.
We have not evolved. There is no evolution if we are still drawn to car wrecks and pageants. We have not grown at all.

Fifty-three hours in…

It started at 3:31PM on Friday.

March Break. It began with a ringing bell, squealing children and several requests for a sleep over.

He dropped off his school backpack in the (now ample) front foyer at 3:36PM.
“I’mgoingovertoChris’sBYEEEEE!” he called out slamming the door behind him.

(Well. This is starting well, I thought to myself).

At 3:39PM He ran back in a moment later to get hockey gloves, his stick and a hat.

“I’mgoingtoplayhockeyuntilitgetsdarkontheroadwithcarspassingbyatgreatspeed” he called out again before the door cut off his run on sentence.

(So many empty days ahead to be filled, I thought)

But already time was Marching by at Breakneck speed.

He came in at 4:39PM “CanChristophersleepovertonight?”

At 4:39:10PM No. Maybe tomorrow. Why cram all the excitement into the first night?

He could do the sleep over Saturday night, be crabby all day Sunday, his aunt will pick him up Monday and bring him back late Tuesday, he’ll spend Wednesday with his grandmother, and complain all day Thursday about how bored he is just in time for a medieval feast on Friday followed by a weekend with his fake cousins.

He turned on Rock Band and banged away on the pseudo drums until 5:49PM

“I’m bored” he said flatly.

That didn’t take long.

After dinner he bounced from the DS to the PS to the Wii to the TV to a movie.

He looked up at the clock. It was 9:00PM.

“sinceitsaholidayI’mgoingtostayupreallateadnsleepin” he announced.

No, no you’re not. Get out of here NOW. He fell asleep at 10PM just in spite.

I left the house early Saturday and returned to an empty house at 2:30PM

He came running into the house after his hockey game (phew dodged another one. score!)

“CanChrissleepovertonightrememberyoupromisedhecouldandIreallyreallyreallywanthimto”

(Crap) Sure.

5:15PM with my very best loser mom tone I asked chris’ Dad if he could stay over, explaining that I ju-

“YES! YES! HE CAN STAY OVER!”

Are you dancing?

“No. We’ll feed them and water them and you can put them to bed.” He sounded way too giddy.

They entered the house at 8:10PM.

They banged on the drums until 10PM

They woke me up from a sound sleep at 1AM when they were milling about the house NOT SLEEPING.

They woke me again at 3:25AM. I told them this was their last warning. I don’t know what I thought I would do at that hour to punish them. I was delirious it was 3:25AM.

The husband got up to ‘tune them in’ at 4:15AM.
I woke up for the day at 5:54AM. Made tea very loudly. Looked over to see they were fast asleep.

At 9:30AM they were quietly playing a video game. Well, one was playing with the Tv the other was on the DS but they were talking incessantly.

Aren’t you guys exhausted? What time did you fall asleep?

“FiveAMbutweweren’ttiredI’mstillnottiredI’mwideawake” the nine year old said through half closed eyes. The ten year old neighbor said, “mmmphgl”.

At 12:30PM Chris the neighbor kid asked to be released from our clutches. I let him go but not before noticing a small bowl of white powder beside his side of the pull out sofa.

WHATTHEHECKISTHAT? I asked in a slightly raised tone.

Sugar the neighbor boy mumbled.

“Yeah! We’vebeeneatingitallnighttokeepusawake!”

Sugar high over, the nine year old is desperately trying to keep awake. It’s 8:45PM.

How many sleeps ‘til school goes back?

“So’s Your Face!”

That’s a shout out to the 20 year old across the pond. Yes, it’s an inside joke. It’s so inside I have no clue about the context but I say it loud in a nyah nyah kind of way so as to look hep and wi-it. Oh yes I di-id. I went there.

Life is just as disorderly and unmanageable as always. One day life is going to say, “G’head, do it, run with it, your way. Go.” I’ll be the boss of life and nothing will happen unless I say so. Nothing. But life has it’s own agenda of a secret kind and we’re in it for the ride. The carrying a big, heavy box while your pants slowly start to slide down kind of ride. Embarrassing and unpredictable.

I’ve been drama-free for a year. (No, the 20 year old I’m not talking about you). I get it. Every week real life slaps me upside the head and says, ‘This. THIS is real life. It’s painful, it’s a struggle, deal with it.’ And I am. With joy, tenacity, idealistic thinking and dedication. I’ve worked at the Food Bank for one year. A year of attitude adjustments, becoming grounded, selfless and practicing the mantra “BE THE CHANGE”. Nothing minimizes petty thoughts and actions quicker than being exposed to critical, life-changing situations. Every week I’m reminded it’s a blessing knowing this.

I embark on a brand new contract in two sleeps. I’m the new producer of an existing TV lifestyle show, the new kid as everyone has already worked together for several seasons . But I’m so excited I can’t stand myself! I love the six month euphoria -I’ve already warned people not to burst my six month bubble yet. Many colleagues are on a forced hiatus due to the economy and there are no guarantees work will continue even in the TV industry. So 26 episodes = almost a full year of employment. Yes I’m relieved and thrilled. It’s also weekdays so I can still boss people around at the food bank (at least that’s what the husband thinks I do).

The 20 year old is in nglnd where vowels have been banned. She gets to find herself while romping in the countryside with a big black Labradoodle and two adorable children. I envy her the time to think thoughts and just be in a place in time unfettered. Fettering will hit her hard eventually but for now her worst fears are all part of imagining. Remember 20? I was so convinced I would be dead before my 20th birthday. Surviving it was shocking, frightening, too much world out there for me to comprehend and what’s this thing about the world not revolving around me? I would try to control everything, knowing I wasn’t in control of anything. She has faith, a relationship she can work on and grow. It’s quite beautiful.

In the meantime I attended a couples dinner with the husband. It was funny for all the wrong reasons and there was a lot of earnest surveys, questionnaires, etc about your spouse. We had to answer a question like, “what about your partner’s personality do you admire?” I truthfully answered, “The husband’s ability to fall asleep anywhere, anytime.” I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the response they were hoping for but it was a perfect answer to me. We laughed a lot and when the guest speaker made a comment about how women should serve their husbands my the husband yelled out “Amen!” I quickly followed by me with “he’s single!”
We cracked each other up which I guess is one of the reasons we’re still a couple. He then went through the list of adjectives to describe your partner and came up with ‘loyal’. Grrrr. I called him ‘creative’ which could also mean ‘nuts’. Touche.

So I guess we’ll continue to be a couple albeit a sarcastic couple but a couple. The 20 year old will grow in her faith and enjoy the life ride she’s on while I get back on the good old on-location roller coaster ride.

L’chaim!