The entry that never was

I'm sitting on my couch watching "Crowned: The Mother of all Pageants".

I'm trying to write about how hilarious this show is, and how crazy queeny Carson Kressley is the least flamboyant thing on my TV. I love how the losers are announced by a de-sashing ceremony, complete with bejeweled scissors. I want to write about how this show is going to change my "bad" TV viewing schedule and how it's the show with the highest priority in my DVR. One team named themselves "Silent but Deadly" because they are quiet but totally smart. They totally didn't realize that they are now "Team Fart".

But i can't, because my "delete" key on my keyboard doesn't work. I love my wee macbook, and I am scared to try and mess with the keys. All my goodies are under the keyboard. Airport Card! Extra memory! But Macs only have delete, no backspace. I can only either POUND ON IT with my 4th finger (seriously, WITH PURPOSE) or highlight things I want to delete and then immediately begin typing which is perhaps the most counter-intuitive thing ever.

So I won't. I'll continue to watch with my pint of Ben & Jerry's. I watched America's Next Top Model beforehand.

I've lost 50 brain cells today.

I don't care.

Otherwise entitled "yes, I admit to watching Country Music Television, and it maybe changed my life".

Sunday night sleep is never what you want it to be. You go to bed early in hopes of cashing sleep in or to bed late hoping you can write a check for it later.

In an effort to numb my brain screaming all sorts of Sunday-type worries both old and new, I drowned out the crazy with something even more horrendous: Country Music Television.

...I can explain.

I had gone to Florida Avenue Grill with my friend who had some very exciting news to tell me. She's going to save the world some day, one kid at a time, this friend of mine. She's recently changed her behavior to properly reflect what sort of good she'll do one day, so instead of drowning our dreary Sunday in margaritas, we drowned them in grits.

So, I was battling some serious food coma. I was bacon-induced sludge. I turned on the TV and saw "coyote ugly".

I thought: this is GREAT! This is just what I need, an awesome-terrible movie to keep me company while I food sweat-nap the biscuit out of me.

Except my napping plan was derailed by a SHOW about these gals. A REALITY SHOW.

I'm not exactly their demographic, considering the fact that I have to snort whenever women are consistently referred to as "girls" even though they are well into their child-bearing years. As far as I can tell, "boys" are "guys" the moment they hit 5th grade. You couldn't find a show on Comcast's cable line-up that centered on good looking "boys" handling liquids. You have to pay extra for that shit on Pay-Per-View, and then everyone is actually over 18 and takes monthly tests.

But the premise of the show is hilarious. They were looking for "bartenders" with a talent. It was Miss America for people with a platform of "wooooo!" or "yeeeahhhhh" and they were spokes-girls for their individual boob job funds.

So I spent all lazy afternoon dozing with half an eyelid propped up to watch this glorious train wreck.

Then I cleaned my apartment and winded down my Sunday night as most do: with a Tylenol PM (half a dose) and something to bore me asleep.

Which is right now, since I have two deleted posts and a few lives to stop ruining is: Why Can't you SHUT UP? How We Ruin Relationships-- How Not To by Dr. Anthony E. Wolf. I'm not saying it's not helping, but wallowing in your own shortcomings is not exactly the best way to end up not staring at the ceiling on an idle Sunday night with the 5am news broadcast looming in the near future.

For all my uppity "ew that's so gross" re: the bar booty-shaking that I watched these long-haired, long-legged ladies do, there was something that separated us.

I was awake despite some Tylenol PM, nursing a fragile manic-depressive ego re-adjusted by a life lesson learned that I can't say I'm entirely done processing or feel like anything outside of my own thoughts is going to change; except for the fact that it's no longer a topic of conversation. The green of jealousy is not an attractive color on me and I refuse to say anything about the subject again.

These "girls" were out there on TV embarrassing the hell out of themselves because they thought they could "make it". And perhaps "it" consisting of sharing prize money and getting a cushy bartending job is just about all they wanted. That would make them happy. They knew somewhere in their brains that this show was going to do something for them, whether get them somewhere new or stroke their egos. They liked dancing on bars and fiddling or singing or re-adjusting their bra straps-- whatever their talent may be.

And then there's me. So far in my own head that I can't realize how far in I am that I've become one with my eardrums. There always has to be drama. There always has to be dread. It's like I can't live without a pit in my stomach and making sure someone else know about said pit. Only when I'm drunk and dancing on the living room floor of a house party do I not give two shits about what's going on around me. Or knitting on the subway. Or strutting around the city with my ipod pulling my spine up straight.

I don't walk like that all the time.

Perhaps it's high time I should.

So I am going to try and be more like these ladies on the CMT. I think I need to hit the gym with greater vigor before those short-shorts can enter into the discussion (oh and like my yuppie ennui would even dare let me wear jean shorts). But I think I'm going to try and do something new.

Not worry. Not stress. Not internalize until I can't keep it in me anymore and then spew it out in a force of two years worth of why-did-you-do-this and why-didn't-you-do-that's of fears with no actual basis in reality, but based in the past. In the distant past.

I think trying to relax is going to be the hardest thing I have ever done.

I suppose a nap on an idle Sunday was an OK start.

Selected Haikus on the Oscars

Jennifer Hudson
the new "it" girl for the year,
minus that jacket.

Oh Jessica Biel,
Wearing a belt, but no bra--
I know of your kind.

So, Pan's Labyrinth
You were so brilliant, yet I
still sleep with lights on.

Nicole and Gwenyth,
Have you heard of "Locks for Love?"
Ample for ten kids.

You, Ryan Seacrest--
I'll double what they pay you,
If you just shut up.

Penelope Cruz,
Wrongfully a Mexican
For five full minutes.

Abigail Breslin
Secretly, I wish you won.
Over-achiever.

Ms. DeGeneres,
Infinitely better than,
Yup-- Billy Crystal.

Beyonce, diva--
you want to cut Jennifer,
Shameless fake smile.

Oh my dear Leo,
From under what rock do you
Crawl looking so fine.

Al Gore wins cool points.
You don't see Dan Quayle here,
That couch potato(e).

Shopping day

My lovely place of employment has given us a "shopping day" for christma-kwaanz-ukkah. Today is my day and thus far no shopping has taken place. Only sleeping, lazing, and making my eyes bleed by watching Tyra. Oh and dabbling in some English muffins and coffee.

What a gift today is though, TODAY IS MY OYSTER. TODAY IS FOR ME, and ME TYPE THINGS!

I could shop. I could go to the gym. I could clean my apartment and decorate more. I could drink in the afternoon! I could have lunch with the DK! I had even thought earlier this week that I would metro to PG Plaza to go to the Target there. I could buy yarn and finish up some gifties for various born and unborn-as-of-yet friends. I could go to the hardware store and buy things that I have to buy there. Don't we all have to always buy things at the hardware store? I could buy a Christmas tree! I could buy lights and ornaments!

I could...

But really, so far, these options have not taken me any further than my couch. And the warm, loving glow of TV. Ambition will only get you so far, until you remember that your couch is soft and it's rainy outside.

SSSSShhhhhhhh

I had a good time with my friends last Thursday. We watched Gray's. I made pizza. We had cake. We drank wine. It was nice.

Then, we watched the most glorious thing.

Do you have Comcast? Do you have digital cable? On-Demand?

Have you seen the video personals? In the Get Local section?

They are riotously funny. Get someone who's nervous with some drinks in them talking about what they look for in a partner and how they rate themselves is fascinating. Also, we had drunk copious amounts of two buck chuck.

Dating on-demand was the best thing on TV, and that was a night of some good programming. Though they definitely played safe.

For example: the "Naughty" section? " "No listings available." What about the "one of a kind" section? Same deal. "Beefcakes?" None.

The most uproarious section was entitled "hidden talents".

Our favorite was a sassy lady who did impressions. She had a great sense of humor about herself, and really trumped her techniques. Best impression?

A bus stopping: "Sssshhhhhh".
The doors on Star Trek "Shhh".
Betty Rubble: :::giggles:::

She had us all in stitches. I wish to meet her and tell her to "SHUT UP!" like a graduate of the Stacy London school of outbursts.

Another hidden talent was "sculpting naked cows".

Ooh and karaoke in deep corners of Virginia. Apparently, single Virginians love themselves some off-pitch Bohemian Rhapsody. Some Virginians come see this woman sing it EVERY WEEK.

There was Walter, who's hobbies include "playing tennis, listening to live music and doing some things" and wouldn't date a woman who would "mock him".

There was Diana, who was in search of "whatever" and "spending time with people she likes to spend time with" who dislikes when men say "racy things".

There was Alex, who was looking for a woman who "has a great body, but isn't superficial" and likes it when women look him right in the eye so he can see through them immediately, and understand their souls. Also he's an ass model.

Seriously, watch the personals. Marvel at the brave souls who are putting themselves out there on TV. [Insert perfunctory 'it's hard out here for a pimp' quip here. ] I could never do a personal ad, much less one on TV.

If I'm ever in that position, get me six cats and teach me to needlepoint.

Live blogging cable installation

1:00pm: my Comcast-given "window" begins. Any time now between 1 and 4pm a cable fairy will magically descend and let the food network come to my TV. I drool with anticipation (or was that the Dunkin' Donuts breakfast sandwich?).

1:10pm: I fret. What if the cable guy doesn't know that there's no buzzer. What if I miss him? Should I write a sign? YES! A SIGN!

1:24pm. Write "Hello Comcast, I am so effing thrilled that you are coming so I can watch Paula Dean eat butter. call me! xxx-xxx. thanks!"

1:26pm: Realize that's abhorrently geeky. Change sign to "Comcast: please call xxx-xxxx. Thanks."

1:29pm: Can't find keys to go put sign outside. WHERE ARE THE KEYS? Under the bed? No. In hoodie? No. In door still? NO!?

1:37pm: Finally find keys. On table, in plain sight.

1:45pm: Decide to actually update blog. Write half a post about how I like some tunes and wish they'd be in a movie sometime. Some brief googling settles that. Who knew Grand National was on the Transporter 2 soundtrack? Delete post.

1:54: A CALL!

1:57pm: Charlie, the cable guy arrives. He's a nice enough fellow, calling me ma'am (which is totally freaky) and I try to make idle chatter with him but he'll have none of it. He is here to get in and get out. Knee pads and all.

1:59pm: Charlie realizes there is no cable jack. NONE. That he'll have to drill outside, through a lot of brick, by the window to get cable into my living room. Charlie almost doesn't believe me, he looks around for a cable jack that does not exist. Swears slightly under his breath. Takes apart my window and looks for the sea of other cables on the building. Finds them. Notes how far the box is away from my house.

2:01pm: Charlie sighs. Deeply.

2:05pm: I take Charlie downstairs through the laundry room. He inspects some wiring, and sighs again.

2:07pm: Charlie brings his truck around the back. I realize that the back alley was just repaved, so he cannot park right up against my building. Must park about 15 feet away. He carries heavy things to and fro while I fret about breaking apartment building rules, namely keeping the door open with a piece of wood, and letting him at least U-turn on the macadam.

2:11pm: Charlie starts drilling.

2:15pm: Charlie still drilling.

2:25pm: Sweet Jesus, poor Charlie! He's balanced perilously on a ladder and leaning into the drill with all of his might. He's drilling through a foot and a half of brick. He asks me if I could hand him his bag through the window.

2:26pm: I hand Charlie his bag and inspect the progress. He's halfway there. Apologize profusely to Charlie. Charlie shrugs. Charlie drills some more.

2:28pm: I have visions of my neighbors throwing darts at my picture; of them cursing my name. The noise is unreal. I have visions of Charlie, day dreaming about laying on the couch and watching football.

2:31pm: Charlie abandons drilling for hammering. Swears softly again. Hammering goes SUPER loudly. Take that, STOMPY!

2:34pm: Headache ensues. Embarrassment ensues. I hope no one has a migraine today. Or is home. It's too pretty a day to be inside anyway. Convince self that neighbors are not at home, but rather out in the world!

2:37pm: SUCCESS!!!!!! Sweet success!!!!!

2:41pm: Charlie gets the box and everything installed super fast. I offer him a glass of water and a banana, but he just goes for the water. I wish I had coffee, or a cheeseburger, or like, caviar for him.

2:42pm: Charlie calls up Comcast for the job and asks them to let the cable on through. Let it flow, baby, let it FLOW!

2:47pm: No cable. Charlie calls up Comcast again and is all "There's no juice!". Tina, on the other end of the phone sasses him. He tells her "C'mon boo-boo. Do your job now." I decide I like Charlie. He is sitting on a huge coil of cable sideways in the middle of my living room telling Tina about herself.

2:52pm. I handed Charlie a check, thanked him profusely, and am sitting on my ass watching Project Runway reruns.

There is a god.