Bright Lights, Big Ass Part 15

"Hmm?" he asks.

"I said I'm worried about Nick and Jessica. They have everything going for them but I'm concerned her father's constant interference in her marriage is going to bite them all in the a.s.s. And what's the deal with Daddy Joe being so proud of the size of her cans? I read that he's always mentioning her cup size to reporters. Gross. Five bucks says my dad doesn't even remember my middle name. Also, having cameras follow them around nonstop isn't going to help them either. No one stays that cute together forever."

"Mmm-hmm." He turns up the volume and moves farther away from me on the couch.

"And you know her little sister Ashlee? With the overbite and the bad haircut? I don't trust her. I bet she's brewing up some stunt to gain Daddy's attention.4 I don't care how close you claim to be to your sister, sibling rivalry's a b.i.t.c.h."

He sets down his coffee cup and turns to look at me. "You mean she's come up with yet another evil new plan after all those you so neatly detailed for me last night when we discussed the topic?"

"We already talked about this?"

"Yes. Twice. And you drew me a chart. This conversation makes it three times."

"What are you saying? That you'd probably like to watch your little show in peace?"

"Hey, that's a novel idea-why don't we give it a whirl to see if it works."

The quiet lasts about five minutes, even though I'm dying to discuss Brad and Jen and how Christina Aguilera is suddenly super glam. I don't know if she changed stylists or colorists but now she's a modern-day Marilyn Monroe and it totally works for her. Regardless, out of respect I keep my piehole closed until the show's host describes how the Mongols perpetrated the first biological weapon attack back in the twelfth century by catapulting plague-ridden bodies into villages, causing me to share my most erudite thoughts.

"Dude! That's f.u.c.ked up!" I squeal.

"I think you might be happier reading your magazine upstairs, Jen."

"Nah, I'm cool." Then I notice the expression on his face. "You mean you might be happier. I just turned into my mom for a second with the running commentary, didn't I?" No one likes watching TV with my mother because of her urge to narrate the whole program, as though you're blind and require blow-by-blow descriptions. Plus, since she's busy telling you what she sees, she isn't paying attention to what's said and then you have to explain what just happened.

Every. Thirty. Seconds.

On the annoyance scale, this is on par with gum snapping and driving thirty-five miles per hour in the fast lane.5 He nods. "Okay, okay, I'm going." Banished from our TV room, I head upstairs, chastened for having lapsed into the Vapid Zone yet again.

When I said I'd been more or less successful in fighting my shallow nature, I guess I meant less. But I fully intend to rectify the situation by picking up my well-thumbed copy of Thomas Friedman's From Beirut to Jerusalem.6 I plan to read quietly and contemplate how thoroughly Israel's victory in the Six-Day War humiliated the Jordanians, Egyptians, and Syrians. Before I do that, I want to go online and order one of those cerebrally bada.s.s T-shirts with the Israeli flag and SIX DAYS, b.i.t.c.h logo on it like I've been meaning to do for so long. Because you know who would appreciate that shirt? Smart people like Fletcher.

Inexplicably, my fingers have a mind of their own, and suddenly I find them typing in the URL for TelevisionWithoutPity, and pulling up the Amish in the City message boards.

As I log my deeply trenchant and thought-provoking opinions about the house,7 the city kids,8 and the Amish,9 I'm filled with self-loathing for yet again getting sucked into the candy-coated, skin-deep programming otherwise known as reality TV.

Post-epiphany, one of the tactics I employed was to eschew television. Granted, I was busy out drinking, but still, I was most certainly not planted in front of the tube. I watched almost nothing from 1991 to 1996 except for glancing at the TV while at the Wabash Yacht Club bar when the Blackhawks were playing. (And that's only because I had a crush on player Chris Chelios.) However, I did make an exception for the show The Real World. The concept was groundbreaking-take seven diverse strangers, stick them in a loft, and watch how their lives unfold. What did happen when people stopped being polite and started getting real? I, for one, wanted to know. Would Heather B. make it as a rapper? And what of Norman and his art career? I was hooked from the very first second sweet, nave Julie from Alabama drawled her way into my voyeuristic little heart. But other than that, TV's sole purpose was to tell me the weather and to display the numbers to dial psychic hotlines when I came home drunk.

However, when I moved to the Chicago suburbs with Fletch after graduation, we made very little money in proportion to our expenses and found ourselves broke and planted in front of the television more often than not. He had a penchant for the highbrow, so we watched a lot of educational programming together, although I found myself switching over to Friends whenever he wasn't around. When our lease expired, we both moved to the city proper-I got a one-bedroom by myself and Fletch took an apartment with friends.10 I started leaving the television on to drown out the street noise and to keep me company. I learned something about myself back then-if the TV's on, I'm going to watch.

At the time I was a contract negotiator for an HMO and was under a lot of pressure, as my job entailed convincing some of the best physicians in the country to accept less money for their services. When I wasn't on appointments, I worked out of my home, and having trashy daytime talk shows on in the background helped alleviate my stress. Sure, doctors still called and screamed at me, but watching toothless people wrestle in a tub of chocolate pudding over a paternity test result somehow gave me perspective. Of course, Doctor, I'd think, yell all you want. But until you throw a chair at me, we don't have a problem we can't resolve.

The higher I rose up the corporate food chain, the less I watched, but once I lost my job, I was right back on the box full-time. Between frantically sending out resumes and calling employers, I took breaks to view TLC's daytime lineup and dreamed of the day they'd feature the same person as he or she progressed from A Makeover Story to A Dating Story to A Wedding Story to A Baby Story, and G.o.d willing, to Trading s.p.a.ces.

I was addicted to the trashiest reality shows-no Amazing Race for me because I might accidentally learn something about geography. Since my life was so chaotic and out of control, it comforted me to see a bunch of people dumber than me willingly subject their relationships to the allure of guilt-free cheating on Temptation Island. I delighted in observing contestants slowly go stir-crazy locked in their multi-pooled mansion at Paradise Hotel, especially as the show's tag line was "Hook Up or Go Home." Disgusted, Fletch would leave me on my own to watch most of this c.r.a.p, holing up in his office with Sun Tzu.

Bob Barker became my ad hoc salvation when things were their darkest when Fletch and I were both out of work. No matter how sad I was or how desperate our situation, I knew for an hour I could tune in to The Price Is Right and see people so happy about winning the prizes that hadn't changed an iota since my childhood. A new Betamax player, woo-hoo! My best days were the ones when the grandma or the person in the military uniform won their showcases.

I finally recognized the extent of my television obsession when I learned the reality show featuring Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie had beaten a live interview with President Bush in the ratings. So, essentially, more Americans chose to watch the antics of a wh.o.r.e and ex-junkie than the leader of the free world.

And why was this problematic?

Because I was one of them.

Granted, I wasn't aware Bush was competing against The Simple Life. But had I known, I still wouldn't have made the appropriate choice.11 There I was-a college graduate with a degree in political science (with an emphasis on the study of terrorism and genocide, mind you)-and I chose to watch a couple of idiots with hair extensions run a kissing booth over a wartime interview with the president.

The worst part was I realized I was far more likely to vote for an American Idol contestant than a government official, as evidenced by my not walking next door to vote in the last local election because it was raining.

After this realization, I was far more conscientious about what I put in my brain-I chose smarter books, read news and information Web sites, and watched a whole lot of PBS, much to Fletcher's delight. Yet the day an Us Weekly accidentally fell into our shopping cart, I started to backslide yet again, especially when I discovered shows like America's Next Top Model, Sorority Life, and My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiance. And at the present moment, I can't think of the last time he and I discussed Kierkegaard. We've been back to the trendy Euro coffeehouse, but I spent the whole time sn.i.g.g.e.ring about the bull ring in our waitress's nose.

I log off the Amish in the City message boards and vow to take action. Maybe if I keep track of what I do with my day tomorrow, I can find areas where I can improve myself.

Jen's Daily Log 8:45 a.m.-Remind self it's brother's birthday, and make mental note to call him later. Shower and do hair to get ready for hair appointment.12 9:50 a.m.-En route for hair appointment.

10:00 a.m.-Get hair cut and highlighted and have extensive conversation about whether or not Renee Zellweger has had Botox in between reading new People magazine.

12:46 p.m.-Admire snappy new haircut in mirror in second-floor bathroom. Turn on TLC and leave on all day.

12:51 p.m.-Scan all friends' Web sites to see if they mentioned me in any of today's posts. n.o.body does. b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

1:25 p.m.-Admire snappy new haircut, only this time in mirror in third-floor bathroom. Want to see hair contrasted against green walls. Congratulate self on scoring a free cut and 15 color job on Training Day at the ultra-hip Art + Science salon in Wicker Park.

1:30 p.m.-Wonder briefly if the $300 per visit spent each time at Molto Bene is worth it, considering that for $285 less, current coif looks exactly the same.

1:31 p.m.-Cease line of thinking immediately for fear that brain may explode.

1:59 p.m.-Admire snappy new haircut in mirror by front door. Is not vain because I had to pa.s.s by this mirror on way in the door.

2:00 p.m.-Remind self to call brother. Watch few minutes of Fox News headlines. Briefly mourn George's vote-off on Idol while on phone with Shayla.

2:43 p.m.-Go to Costco. Vow to never hit Costco midday again due to being only person there not holding some variety of toddler. Renew previous vow to remain child-free as do not like to carry heavy things.

3:59 p.m.-Remind self to call brother. Admire snappy new haircut in rearview mirror. Not vain or shallow because had not yet seen the color in daylight.

4:00 p.m.-Unable to resist siren song of plant department at Home Depot. Feel compelled to spend the $12 skimmed off of household budget by buying cheap dog food at Costco on more flowers.

4:15 p.m.-Unload car and plant purchases. Compulsively scrub dirt from under nails. Since can't keep promise to not buy any more plants, must at least attempt to hide the evidence.

4:30 p.m.-Remind self to call brother.

4:31 p.m.-Pick Fletch up at work. Get busted when he detects smell of fresh soil in backseat. s.h.i.t, what is this, CSI or something?

5:04 p.m.-Notice that while on patio, can see reflection of snappy new haircut and pretty, pretty container garden in gla.s.s doors.

5:05 p.m.-Preen and admire.

5:50 p.m.-Notice Vesuvius-like growth on cheek below eye due to clogged pore created by use of cheap wrinkle cream. Non-comedogenic, my a.s.s. Take ibuprofen to stop throbbing. Remind self to call brother when done poking and prodding pitcher's-mound-sized b.u.mp.

5:58 p.m.-Boil hands and scrub off first two layers of skin.

5:59 p.m.-Create lavish stir-fry dinner with seven kinds of vegetables and the carnivore's version of tofu. (Also known as chicken.) 6:18 p.m.-Eat dinner while watching Cops. Notice central theme in each segment that woman is willing to put up with domestic abuse because "he pays my bills." Decide (a) paying bills is overrated and (b) most women on Cops are big dummies.

6:49 p.m.-Wonder what ever happened to Ione Skye...she was a good actress.

6:50 p.m.-Wonder if "Ione Skye" was her given name, or something she created.

6:51 p.m.-Remembered that when in junior high and wanted to be an actress, decided stage name would be Shea Fields. Now realize would be better name for ballpark. Remind self to call brother.

6:52 p.m. to 10:30 p.m.-Slip into apparent black hole, as cannot remember what happened. Maybe played with cats and dogs? Admired self? Ogled flower boxes? Oh, yes, watched reality TV. Is like catnip to me. Watching strangers yell at each other while competing for mystery prizes? Six beautiful girls stand before me but I only have five photographs? Will you accept this rose? h.e.l.l, yes, I'm there.

10:31 p.m. to 10:59 p.m.-Watch Family Guy. During commercial breaks, try to badger husband into going out to buy me a Hostess Fruit Pie. Unsuccessful. (Prefer apple, but would have accepted cherry or chocolate.) 11:00 p.m.-Kiss husband good night. Dig through basket to find clean nightgown. Prefer yellow nightgown with coffee cups on it, but is dirty. Settle for lavender cotton with puffy clouds and little slivers of moon. Question usefulness of breast pocket, as do not customarily carry pens around in nightgown. Guess is nice to have the option, though.

11:01 p.m. to 11:56 p.m.-Catch up on the latest celebrity news on ten bookmarked sites.

11:57 p.m. to 12:17 a.m.-Record activity log.

I'm having coffee and reviewing my daily activity log and I cringe at the vapidity of the previous day. In addition, I realize I never called my brother to wish him a happy birthday. Now I'm a bad sister and a shallow person.13 I yearn to be a woman of more depth, but I'm not so fond of the path I'd need to follow to get there. Yet I don't want to always be the girl everyone looks at when they can't remember the name of the chick who replaced Suzanne Somers on Three's Company,14 hence my dilemma. Fletch is kind of an intellectual and I often wonder if he deserves to be with someone who's more into the magazine Time and less Time Out. When there's breaking news and I turn on Fox News, my first comment should not be "OMG, I love Juliet Huddy's outfit today!" Given the choice, I'm always going to prefer Cosmopolitan over the Utne Reader, and even though I can discuss the Tax Reform Act of 1986, I'd rather talk about my hair.

As I berate myself I hear Fletch moving around in the living room. He switches on the television, and moments later I hear the theme song to the cartoon show Super Friends. And suddenly I feel better.

To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work From: Subject: keep your laws off my pigment Hey, ladies, First, perhaps y'all can save the "I told you sos" 'til the end of the story.

Setting: My snappy new tanning salon on Clybourn Ave, last week.

Annoyingly Perky Desk Clerk: Hi, your name?

Me: Lancaster-comma-Jen.

APDC: (taps away at the computer, high blonde ponytail swinging back and forth) And...okey-dokey, there you are! Finger, please.

My snappy new tanning salon employs a fingerprint recognition system, nice because it ensures no one else can sneak in on my membership. (BTW? If you own a place on Milwaukee Ave and you decide to cheap out and buy bed management software from your native country Poland? And you tell me my $100 worth of remaining tanning sessions are gone because the computer "makes approximate" and "sometimes she round off" and then when I politely show you tangible, irrefutable proof that I didn't use them, that your software is flawed, and that I should be credited, you point a stubby Slavic finger in my face and declare, "No, ees jewoo who ees wrong!"? Well, don't be surprised when my head f.u.c.king explodes.) (Also, should I be concerned that my snappy new tanning salon provides better fraud protection than my bank?) APDC: Alrighty, which bed?

Me: I want the ergonomic one with the water misters and aromatherapy. (Oh, yeah, it's that kind of nice.) APDC: (tappity, tappity) Whoopsie! It's 8:17!

Me: Um...and?

APDC: Well, I'm super sorry, but you can't tan until 9:01.

Me: What? I have unlimited tanning, so what's with the wait?

APDC: There's an annoying state law that says you have to have twenty-four hours between tanning sessions and- Me: Whoa, hold the phone. Are you trying to tell me that the state is now actively involved with the tanning industry? Are you kidding me? What business do a bunch of pasty bureaucrats have dictating what I do or don't do to my skin?

APDC: I'm sorry, ma'am, but- Me: (growing agitated) You know what? I'm an adult with a college degree and I'm familiar with the dangers of UV rays, so I don't need Big Brother sticking his nose in my personal business in a ham-handed attempt to keep me safe.

APDC: It's just that- Me: Sure, the twenty-four-hour waiting period is okay in theory, but the reality is that it's incredibly inconvenient and inefficient for me to have to either sit here or drive home and back. What difference will forty-three minutes make? As long as it's the next day, what's the big deal?

APDC: Maybe you'd be, like, more comfortable if you- Me: You know, if I want to do something stupid, destructive, and potentially cancer-causing to my body, that's my decision. How dare the government spend time and money orchestrating laws which restrict my freedoms. My body, my choice....

(pause as a lightbulb goes off in my dim little Republican brain) ...oh. Wait a minute. This is why everyone's up in arms about the new Supreme Court nominee, isn't it?

APDC: (c.o.c.ks her head to the side) I don't understand.

Me: Never mind. I'll see you in an hour.

APDC: Bye-bye!

So I thought you guys should be the first to know I get it now.

Finally.

Later, Jen