Wednesday, July 29, 2009

The Last Acceptable Prejudice

I am an admitted fan of The Bachelorette. I don't watch the show for romance or dreams of happily-ever-after. I watch it for the weekly train wrecks. I yell at the television and act as if the participants can hear me. I critique their clothing, correct their grammar, and express my exasperation at their idiocy. Fun times. I drew S into the madness this season and we watched it together each week. It was our standing phone date each Monday. I feared we'd lose that time together when Jillian picked Ed (coughlyingcheatingbastardcough), but we found an even more infuriating show to watch together. It's another Mike Fleiss creation, the ludicrous More to Love. To put it kindly, I am a curvy woman, and yes, I get tired of watching pencil thin girls who claim to love McDonald's (I'm looking at you, Molly) traipse across my television screen. However, I find it insulting for the show to insinuate that only a heavy man can be attracted to a woman of size. The show further posits that Luke (our non-hunk) is representative of other heavy men. Doubtful. In the premier, the usual "name/hometown/profession" tag was displayed in each candidate's interview. However, the evil geniuses at Fox also included the contestant's weight! Why? This show claims size is an unimportant factor in finding love; anyone watching the show can see that the women are not exactly petite. This monstrosity is supposed to be a dating show, not one designed for weight loss, so is there a purpose to sharing individual weights? Oh, wait. The show is on Fox - the humiliation comes standard.

As a long-time Bachelor viewer, I know a little about the ins and outs of the show. Chris Harrison, host extraordinaire, has revealed in the past that the day of the first cocktail party, production assistants visit each of the ladies to consult on dresses and hairstyles, insuring that the women look their best for the party. On the premier of More to Love, however, women arrived in ill-fitting, unflattering dresses and had obviously styled their own hair. More than one woman had her hair pulled back in a simple elastic band rather than the perfect coifs we've come to expect from The Bachelor. What does it mean that only glamazon women make it to Harrison's inner circle, yet model Emme's is comprised of women who not only can't find love but also don't know how to wield a flat-iron?

S and I have been watching the show for several weeks now, and he says the best part of the show is listening to me scream at the television. I've watched sheltered, insecure Melissa be sent home. I wish I could adopt her, if only to figure out why she went on the show. I'm waiting anxiously for Kristian to go ape-shit on someone - it will happen - or for Tali to be revealed as a transsexual. I think Malissa is the one who's going to surprise viewers with her insanity. Right now, I'm picking Heather and Mandy for the final two, with Mandy taking the win. If you can call a proposal from douchey Luke a win, that is.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Television 1, BlinkBlink 0

And unfortunately, I'm not referring to my Bachelor/Bachelorette addiction. On Saturday afternoon, I decided I wanted to rearrange some of the furniture in my bedroom. I have a five drawer chest in one corner of the room, and I wanted to see what it would look like on the adjacent wall. The chest is heavy and made heavier by the 20-inch television perched atop it. I reached up to pull the tv down, bracing for the weight that would drop into the cradle of my arms. I wasn't prepared. Gravity pulled the front-heavy appliance down fast and the screen solidly struck my left cheekbone. I staggered back, face stinging, and placed the television on the floor. I continued about the business of shifting the chest of drawers 90 degrees. Eh. Not as good as I had hoped, so I centered the chest on the wall. Eh. In total, I moved the chest four times, only to return it and the television to their original positions.

My face stung, then started to ache. I texted S, saying "I dropped a television on my face." After assuring himself I was ok, he very logically inquired if it would have killed me to wait until he was available to help me. Hmm. Interesting. You mean I really don't have to do everything on my own? Huh. I'll have to think some more about this after my face stops throbbing. On Sunday, my face had started to swell and still ached. By Monday, I was in pain. I was swollen from my left eye socket to the corner of my mouth. I could no longer breathe out of my left nostril. The pressure on my eye was so intense, I could not see clearly and my face began to tingle as if parts of it had fallen asleep. Having learned my lesson (HA!) from not seeking treatment for a broken arm for five days, I decided to go to the doctor.

I was poked, prodded, and x-rayed. I didn't break my cheekbone, but I did severely irritate the nerve that runs along it. I also had to explain to three different doctors that I really am that klutzy (mom and dad really should have named me after my grandmother, Grace), and no, no one hit me in the face. Hm. Unfortunate rhyme. Moving on. I'm taking OTC meds (when I remember my face doesn't have to hurt that badly) and icing the cheekbone when the tingly-twitches get too bad. It's feeling better - at least I no longer think the pressure is going to make my eye explode.

This morning while getting ready for work, I turned the television on to check the weather. That was when I saw it. The outline of my left cheek and the side of my nose smudged on the television screen. All right, tv, you may have won the battle, but gloating is very unattractive.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Like Thriller, only not

I am beyond sick of Michael Jackson coverage. I could not be more tired of speculation that his seemingly white children aren't biologically his. I am going to do my best to ignore the coverage of his memorial service today, even as I am bombarded with tales of the insane crowds descending upon the Staples Center. This ends my media coverage of the event.