Be VERY afraid

I swear I could not invent this stuff.

Today in Journalism, I gave the kids an article to read and some questions to answer. I told them they could work together if they wanted to, so of course they spilt up into little tribes all over the room. The article was about roses; it described the roses by name (Lorena, Maria, Serena), the economics of the industry, the flux of rose imports and exports, and mentioned Columbia and Asia as major exporters.

Here is the good part. One of the questions required that the kids define "domestic" to answer it. One girl suggested an definition, and was quickly shouted down by another girl. "Stupid! The roses from Columbia would be the domestic ones. Domestic is like, the maid ya know. And, like, lookit...all the roses thingy's names are Spanish, like our maid Consuela. So the ones from Columbia are domestic!" Mandatory teen-girl, eye-roll head-toss combination here. And then the coup de grace of logical discourse, "DUH!"

The mind reels.

Hey, NBC, can you hear me?

Where is 'Miss Match'? My friends and I loved that show. It was smart, funny, had a sweet and likeable main character who is a woman. Not much like that on TV, particularly since 'Sex and the City' has now left the air.

Bring back 'Miss Match'. Need room in the schedule? Cut out some of the other mind-numbing trash you make room for, like 'Fear Factor' and 'Average Joe'. Good Lord, I know reality TV is relatively cheap to make, but how much more are we expected to endure. Attention-starved cretins devouring plates of worms and a cheap, shoddy excuse for a beauty and the beast tale. (And by the way, rumors have been swirling that you intend to do an 'Average Jane' sort of show. That is just cruel. Sadly though you will still probably be able to find enough women with small ebnough self esteem that they will jump at the chance to expose themselves to the ridicule of millions.)

Now, all the world knows that NBC is run essentially by a bunch of frat boys from Harvard and Yale, but give the rest of the thinking public (read: female TV viewers) a break please. Get on the stick and bring Miss Match back to the lineup.

I Confess

I have developed an addiction over the last several months. It is a painful and embarrassing thing to confess here, but I feel I must come clean. I only hope my secret will not diminish me too much in the eyes of my friends and family.

I am not even too sure how it began. I never indulged in this sort of thing before. In fact, I was often known to speak out vehemently against it. But somehow I found myself caught up. One small purchase, just for the sake of curiosity. Then another. Suddenly, pieces of my tight budget disappear in service to this new obsession. Yes, the unthinkable has happened. I find I am firmly in the grip of the celebrity gossip magazine.

I blame the breakup of Bennifer. When the two best looking people in the Hollywood firmament can’t get it together in the romance department, there is a certain fascination. If beauty, money and a pink diamond the size of Southeast Asia does not guarantee happily ever after, then what will? Getting the answers might mean getting a clue to fixing your own life. Or at least make you feel like less of a loser. So you buy the first magazine, greedily devouring a heaping helping of rumor, speculation and innuendo with a dollop of publicists’ statement on the side. And with that first magazine, along with the truth you were originally investigating, is served up more gossip about people whose live are infinitely more interesting and less mundane than yours. The hook is set, and you have taken the bait.

I am amazed at the speed with which I fell into the trap. I never saw myself as that kind of person. I mean, my god, I grew up reading Jayne Eyre and Shakespeare. I subscribe to the New Yorker. NPR is one of the presets on my car radio. I have mugs from PBS pledge drives. I work the Sunday Times crossword puzzle at least three times a month. And now to find out, even as I derided my friends for their obsessive interest in Joe Millionaire and E! television, the potential to become a gossip gawker lay dormant within me all along.

I’m down but not out. I know I can lick this thing. I just have to taper off. No more poring over the pages of Us Weekly, looking for a glimpse into Cameron’s shopping bag. No more hunkering down in front of the TV to watch Extra, intently listening for the day’s celeb sightings on Rodeo Drive. I should upgrade to People for a while, or perhaps, Vanity Fair . Some backsliding is to be expected of course. But I implore my friends and loved ones. If you ever see me tucking a copy of the Weekly World News in amongst the groceries, grab the restraints, and find me a 12-step.

A Vision of Hell

On Girls' Night Out recently, the idle conversation produced this vision of what Hell would be like:

"You're driving a Yugo, stuck in traffic, in Florida on the hottest day of the year, with a trunk full of fish. In the car with you are the worst teacher you ever had, the worst boss you ever had, and the worst ex-boyfriend you ever had. The radio is broken, permanently and irrevocably tuned to a Slim Whitman yodeling marathon. In front of you on the road is a truck with a hole in the muffler burning diesel fuel . Next to you is a kid in a rice-rocket with the bass thumping so loudly that you can barely hear the yodeling from the radio.

And you have to pee."

I love my friends. :)

Anything to add? Email me at jayc_33618 at yahoo.com

Much is owed to Amy H., Alison R. (look I spelled it right!), Laura M., and Laura's husband, the Great Randino, who, while not present at girls' night, could still throw in a goodie.