When I was a child, my parents would often find me delivering a
monologue to my stuffed animals, the bathroom mirror, a blank wall,
etc. When asked what I was doing, I'd explain that I was “addressing
my home viewing audience.” This was in the late 70s/early 80s, before
the prevalence of both Reality TV and juvenile psychiatric
medications. And, yes, my parents are saints for having put up with
me.





However, as the years have passed and with “Reality TV” now a
reality, I've had to face the fact that I'm much less interesting
than when I was five and that my adult life yields few “must see”
moments. I rarely walk around my house in full makeup and heels. José
Eber has never come over to do my hair. Movie stars and professional
athletes don't drop by to drink and dish. I have no secret
children/spouses/identities. I'd never waste good (or even bad) wine
tossing it in someone's face. I cannot sing and will not eat bugs.



My daily life as Reality TV:


The Real World: Middle Age



Iron Chef Microwave



The Real Housework of Albany



Survivor: Trader Joe's at 5:30PM on a Friday



Dancing with the Swiffer Mop



The Amazing Race For a Parking Spot on Solano Ave.



American Idle: I Catch Every Yellow Light on Van Ness Avenue



The Biggest Loser: Eyeglasses



American Picker-Upper and Puter-Awayer



Keeping Up With the Cat Hair



Dustbusters



What Not To Wear






Today's lesson: I really hope my husband never sets up a “nanny
cam.” (Me: Walking around the house singing the theme song to "Goldfinger," substituting the word "snöflinga.")




Next: It Gets Worse: The Power of Positive Pessimism