An evening blog is more reality driven than its morning counterparts. Perhaps the reality shows of the night are impacting me. Perhaps the realization that I've been watching too many reality shows lately ring the bell that my own reality may be getting pathetic. Tonight, a child and I watched the Sports Illustrated swimwear cover competition. Has my life gone to the dogs? It was bad enough that the prettiest and smartest and most altruistic girl was dropped. I must recover from this weird stupor that's gripped me into watching as many other-people's realities as possible. I had to record "The Biggest Loser" last night at 2 a.m. (the satellite network did the waking up) because the Tigers local game pre-empted.
"Not everyone watches the Tigers lose, you know! I may have built the arena with my taxes, but I sure as hell don't want them primetime on my major network!" I wanted to yell at the local NBC receptionist when I called. But I didn't do anything except passively record, and then Cody and I watched it prior to dropping him off at the circle drive of his elementary school. Can you believe that Gary actually did write Moe's name down on a piece of elimination paper?!
I haven't started watching "Desperate Housewives" yet although a smart, funny housewife friend of mine says that she really likes it. I'm just afraid. When I see the commercials of the women dressing in hardly nothing (especially when in embrace with the gardener/neighbor's man/city utility reader, etc), I'm thinking 'exploitation'. I'm a stay-at-homer who's most comfortable in these Old Navy men's athletic pants that I got six years ago. I don't like to think of men thinking of 'housewives' as being desperate. No, we're just a bit bewildered like everyone else out there. And, mostly, we have lots of layers on while being so. (Yes, I have an old t-shirt and sweatshirt on above those athletic pants.)
Today, I was bewildered by myself because I was pretending to be the perfect housewife of all time (due to the new year resolution of being responsible). I cleaned everything in the living and dining room. I vacuumed. I dusted. I hotwashed blankets and pillowcases. I began a list of a weekly schedule (like a pioneer woman) of tasks that I must do. When my Iowan friend once showed me her lists which made her a perfect housewife/mother woman, I laughed fearlessly in her face. No lists for the liberated woman like me! I'm free, and you're enslaved by duty. Confucianism. I wander around finding my muse (which she admired in me she said). Taoism. I felt so superior to her; fortunately, she stayed my friend. Christianity (that longsuffering forgiving part of it).
Now, I'm writing the lists. One item on tomorrow's to-do is "organize the storage room". Ah, life in its essence. ... I'm scaring myself badly. The reality shows of the evening are legitimately taking me away from my reality of controlled order. When might it stop?! I look now on the refrigerator and my teen daughter has given me a list as well. Yep, dryerase-listed; there'll be congressional hearings on all of this listed wasted-energy efforts later (when my kids get indicted for something, when I reach Peter's pearly gates, when the psychotherapist questions my co-dependency leading to uproarious mental states, leading to divorce, leading to cholic, leading to becoming a unabomber of dandelions).
When I do have free time, I'm reading books on homeschooling, a possibility in the future given the report from Cody's teacher today. Yes, responsibility. To escape or embrace? That is the question.
Bewildered with layers (it's icing outside in the Midwest),
Rescued by Calgon,