Thursday, April 8, 2010

Addicted to Addiction?

I have a new addiction. It's this reality show I keep catching on t.v. It' s called Intervention, and ironically? It features people with addictions!!!!! (Only theirs are to drugs and alcohol...And we sooooo know I do not have a problem with alcohol......OK, maybe just a bit of a stalker like relationship with my favorite potato product...but it's not the same thing--I can quit any time I want to...I just don't want to).

Anyway, the premise of this show (which incidentally, airs I don't know exactly when or on which channel- hey, this isn't your local TV Guide, ya know)...the premise is that the production crew films the addicted person's struggle with addiction. They actually accompany and film the person buying drugs. Is it just me, but wouldn't you think your local drug dealer might be just a teensy bit unnerved by an addict showing up to score with a f@#king camera crew? And, then, they veryupcloseandpersonal show the addict smoking/snorting/drinking/injecting the actual drugs right up to the point where the person is usually so messed up they go into an incoherent babble and then nod off/pass out. I'm guessing the episode in which someone eventually overdoses and dies right there on t.v. is being saved for sweeps week.

And the reason why on earth this totally shitfaced person allows themselves and their often desperate (not to mention illegal) acts to be filmed? The addict is told he is being filmed as part of a documentary on (wait for it ... )Addiction.......???????!!!!!!!! After half an hour of watching said person degrade himself (peppered in with horror stories provided by key family members who have the pleasure of living with our star of the week), an interventionist corners the addict, along with all their family members, and a tearful plea is issued along with the chance of the addict going off to some very expensive-paid for by the show- rehab versus complete tough love-the addict being cut off by all family members, emotionally and financially.

While I find the concept of helping those in need of help admirable, it all seems a little too Maury Povitch for me ("you're a special little girl with Turrets, aren't you? And I bet it hurts you when people laugh and make fun of you publicly, kind of like how I am exploiting you right now.")

And how is it that although every single show follows the exact same course, these addicts never have any f@#king clue that this ain't no documentary, yo. Do they not watch t.v. in their stoned states? I went to college and there may have been some students (why, no, dear reader, of course not myself!)involoved with certain questionable smoked substances in those early years. Trust me, dude. We, I mean they, they watched a lot of t.v. ( And bonbons. They ate tons of bonbons. But this isn't about me, er, them...this time).

I threw the whole "how could the addict not realize this is that Stop the Addict from Partying Show, and not the "Your addicted life is so fascinating we want to film you, open sores and all" question to the mountain man. (He just loves when I start stimulating, educated conversations!)
After his perfunctionary eye roll that conveys something to the effect of "you went to college, and this is what we talk about?", the mountain man, in his infinite wisdom, explained exactly how this happens, week after week, addict after addict.

"mysustories, he began, " don't you realize that in a world of addiction, the t.v. is probably the first thing you sell to buy more crack?"

Hmmm..... okay. so he had me there.

And one day, should you find mysuestories on that god forsaken show, as my family tries to get between me and my unnatural addiction to bad reality t.v. shows, all while filming one, I will stand up and shout for all reality t.v. show addicts everywhere and say, "HELL NO, I WON'T GO!!!!"

And trust me, I'lll see their little interventionist coming. 'Cause there ain't no way in hell I'm selling my t.v. Not as long as there are train wrecks like Intervention still being aired!

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

The Lament of the Second Born Child

Our three toed sloth turned nineteen this past week, and, yes, dear reader, even at that age a big to - do must be made. Part of our festivities included lunch out on the big day. Over dessert, the sloth inquired,
"mysuestories, what time of day was I born?"
To which I replied without even glancing up, "4:51 p.m.", 'cause I'm quick like that. And when you experience pain like child birth? You tend to remember preciselely!

The converstaion continued with our 13 yr old gamester chiming in with,
" And what time was I born?"

Again, without missing a beat, I said, "Somewhere between six and seven a.m." Apparrently? The hospital was offering better drugs that time around....

So goes the lament of the second born. Hell, if I'd had twins, I probably would have carried around just one photo and said, "I have two of these".


My curiousity now peaked, I hunted for and checked their birth certificates when we got home. (Most parents don't keep track of paperwork like birth certificates, do they? Hey, they were in the third place I looked. Not so bad.) Turns out the gamester? He wasn't even born between six and seven. A.M. or P.M. He was born at 9:50 a.m.

Feeling guilty (to myself...I wasn't about to let the gamester know I was off by THREE hours!!!), I glanced at the sloth's birth certificate. He wasn't born at 4:51 p.m., either. More like 5:09 p.m.

Well, at least I'm an equal opportunity FAIL mother.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

Foreign Policy 101: No Habla Engles!

So I am at work, and I and a few fellow colleagues are discussing current events ('cause yeah, we're rocket scientists, and all the world could benefit from our idle chatter). A discussion ensues regarding border patrol and the increasing violence by illegal immigrants and those that ferry them across the desert (Can one actually ferry across a desert? Hmmmm...) . Anyway, it seems that in a recent news clip, ranchers in a border town somewhere north of Mexico (Err, you may want to turn to CNN if you were expecting accurate details...I may have said we were rocket scientists, but that doesn't make us news hawks!)....these ranchers received threats saying that if they did not vacate their homes (which I ASSume were on the path to America), the ranchers' homes would be burned and their families brutalized.

Thus began conversation number two, wherein my very educated think tank and myself proclaim, "Death to all who enter here," not unlike Al Pacino in just about every movie he made in the eighties. Normally quiet mild mannered secretaries, err, rocket scientists, by day, we quickly digressed into the heathens we apparently really are.

And so, it had been decided that heavily armed "Shoot first, ask questions later" border patrols should be entrenched from sea to shining sea. (Why, yes, we COULD double as the welcoming committee to Ellis Island!)....

And then, as I usually do AFTER I have spoken my mind, I started to think.....The mountain man and I and our lovely unbiased (really, they are!!) children have traveled quite a bit. We have even visited Mexico not that long ago. Mountain Man and I even took unguided horseback rides on the glorious beaches there.

What if.....What if (and I'm not sure we didn't) What if mountain man and I were romantically galloping upon our steeds, and we had veered off course a wee bit. It COULD happen. Hell, it happens damn near every time I attempt to drive anywhere new. Here we would be, eyes filled with nothing but undying (keyword: UNdying) love for one another, and then I'd see men on horseback in the distance.

"Mountain man....Look..I see men on horseback in the distance." I am nothing if not a stickler for following a script.
"Mmmmmhmmmmm." He would respond.
"Why, mountain man, whatever are they carrying?"
"Those, mysuestories, would be rifles. Are you sure you know where we are going?
"Of course, I do. Maybe they are just out hunting. You know...for beach caribou, or something..."
"They are hunting, mysuestories.....They are heading right for us!!!!! And they are shooting RIGHT AT US".

We would then have to very expertly outrun these professional hired gunslingers and hide out in some run down shack somewhere in Texas, where at nightfall, my beloved mountain man and I would have to sneak over the border INTO Mexico........

Yeah. Maybe I should just stay away from making foreign policy and take a nice course in direction telling by the north star instead.


Alternate ending:

Mysuestories is accidentally injured while trying to outrun the American bandoleros with the mountain man....In a strange twist of fate, the mountain man is forced to smuggle mysuestories into Canada to take advantage of their affordable health care....WE have now become the illegal immigrants...and I can only say, "Thank God Canada does not shoot first and ask questions later!"