Monday, February 2, 2009

To Whom It May Concern

You know that place where exhausted meets anxious meets mourning meets reminiscing meets laughing, crying, yelling and pouting all at the same time?

I am so standing on that red dot. (If you don't have that commercial in your country, then my apologies.)

At any rate, in my world, that place is called "Just Tired." And when you're Just Tired, at least this time, judgmental is the name of the game. And so, I present you with a small sampling of those things that have incurred my wrath over the past week and a half.


I read Emily's post this morning, and while my first response was, "GET OUT OF MY HEAD, WOMAN!" I did consider just wiping out this post. EVERY SENTENCE was one-hundred percent how I feel...and yet, I have to say it all again because it's just that important to me.

It has recently occurred to me that nearly every show I watch on HG is EXACTLY THE SAME. I don't know how this has gone by unnoticed for the past three years of my viewing pleasure, but it has. Until now. It is only now that I realize that whether I'm watching Property Virgins, My First Place, House Hunters, or....well, does it really matter if I know the name or not? Just give me three options and a choice and I've got the rubric for every single half hour of air time. I complain about this every time I watch this channel, and yet I suppose I'm just one of those people who prefers to be miserable, as it has not yet effected any change in my television watching behavior.

Can I say, though, that I have to FORCE MYSELF to be nice inside of my head while watching these shows. It's getting to the point where I think I'm racking up some serious Purgatory time while I'm criticizing all of these innocent people. And yet, are they REALLY that innocent? Anyone who is willing to put their ridiculous selves on national TV is fair game, in my opinion. And thus we get to last night's critique, which goes a little like this:

Dear Guy On The Stagers,
Knee-length man shorts, white oxford shirts, and skinny ties do not a professional look make. Okay? So put on some real clothes, start acting like a professional, and get a blasted haircut. Much obliged.

Do you SEE why I need to go to Confession? Nearly EVERY SINGLE DAY?

Can I also say, while we're on the topic, that the injustice of what I call the HG Situation is becoming more than I can bear. Seriously. Seriously! Am I the only one who feels that the people on those shows have absolutely NO TASTE WHATSOEVER? I'm sorry, but I find it supremely unfair that these people with such ridiculously bad taste own (or are buying) their very own homes while people like myself (who, naturally, have incredibly good taste) are stuck renting apartments with carpet that is so dirty that I am left to wonder why I have a floor at all.
Kipper. Kipper the Dog. (The Dog With The Slipper.)

The other day while my family was lounging in front of the TV (So what. You know you watch a lot of TV too.) Christopher was happily watching one of his favorite shows which, on this day, was featuring a little piggy bank that was floating along on a magic carpet. (Don't ask. I don't know.) My little one, who had recently discovered hippos, was thrilled to see what he thought was a hippo on this happy little carpet. "Hippo! Mommy! Hippo!" The fact that I was lounging along with everyone else should lead the reader to understand that I was too tired to be doing anything else, and thus, severely disinterested in explaining the difference between a hippo and a pig to this little person who could clearly Care Less. As I half-heartedly pondered the value of making clear this distinction, the little piggy fell off of the magic carpet and rolled down a little sandy hill, to be met by an alien who is just popping out of his groundhog hole. (Again. I DON'T KNOW.) Instantly, the jubilant "Mommy! Hippo!" turned into my little boy backing away from the TV, pressing himself into my chest, with TEARS POURING FROM HIS EYES, screaming, "OH NO! MOMMY! HIPPO! NOOOO!" I had no idea that my heart could break over a cartoon. But it did.

Dear Kipper,
I love you. I think you're a cute little hound dog, and I'm especially partial to your British accent. Your theme song is catchy, and I find it precious that you carry around a slobbery little slipper. But, I would ask that in the future you might want to refrain from SCARING SMALL CHILDREN with your magic carpet-riding, alien-meeting hippo shaped piggy banks. Much obliged.

Oh Man. I Was Just Getting Ready To Say Something Nice....

I am incredibly saddened by the disappointment that is rapidly becoming this year's Westminster Dog Show. It was only a few minutes ago, now, that the most beautiful English Bulldog plodded up and down that green carpet. "English Bulldog Number 7." GORGEOUS. But did he win his group? Better yet, has ANY GOOD DOG AT ALL won yet tonight? NO. What a waste of an ice-cream laden evening. If you think me overly dramatic, then clearly you do not know of the joy that Dog Show Night brings to the Troy Family. It really is our favorite night of the year. Christmas? Too crazy. Valentine's Day? Are you kidding? We don't do Valentine's day. Birthdays? Too. Well, okay. It's tied with my birthday, I suppose. Because, you know, I LOVE MY BIRTHDAY. Seriously. We look forward to the Dog Show with the anticipation of a child awaiting the tooth fairy. And thus far, NO BUENO.
Granted, watching the dog show also has the ability to send me to Purgatory faster than nearly all other events, what with the skirt-suits, opaque tights, loafers, and general AWFULNESS that characterizes 99% of the handler's wardrobes. This reminds me - did you ever see the What Not To Wear in which there was actually a real live DOG HANDLER receiving the sage advice of Stacy and Clinton? I was THRILLED at the thought that, perhaps just maybe, they would be able to start a trend. My hopes have been dashed. No one listened to them.
Dear Stacy and Clinton,
The Dog Show World needs you. You can easily get an entire New Year's Day Marathon out of the fashion faux pas that is currently prancing around Madison Square Garden.
Just looked up at the TV.

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