We don’t have cable. In fact, no one in our family in this state has cable. And on those occasions when we do watch The Tube, it’s always some sort of sitcom or maybe a forensic-anthropologist-and-
FBI-agent-crime fighting drama. But not so long ago, while staying in a hotel, I got sucked into one of those daytime Real Housewives marathons. Oh boy.
First of all, who in the world came up with the name of this show? From what I saw, not a single woman was “real.” One woman was having plastic surgery as part of the show. There were weaves being pulled by acryliced fingernails. Hair dyed. Hair bleached. Ridiculously drawn on eyebrows. The number of faux tans made me wonder if the tv needed the color adjusted because everyone looked like an Oompa Loompa castoff. No, real is not the first thought to come to mind.
Then there’s the “Housewives” part of the title. They have maids and nannies to care for their households, and some aren’t even married. It seems to me that part of the definition of being a wife is to be married to someone… anyone. From my short, highly edited glimpse into these lives I gather that they shop a lot, spend an inordinate amount of time grooming or being groomed, and drink wine while gossiping about each other and planning parties.
I get it. Sensation sells. You can’t have a storyline without conflict and resolution. As far as entertainment goes, reality shows are among the lowest forms. But as a true housewife, a homemaker if you please, I take offense at the title and the ludicrous portrayal. SAHM, WAHM, MOTC… we should all be offended.
So why isn’t there a Real Housewives of the Piedmont Triad? I’ll tell you.
My day began around 4:30 this morning when the 00toddler climbed into bed with us. The next 3 hours were spent in a battle to maintain my place in our king sized bed with enough blanket to keep away hypothermia, all while nudging two snoring males and removing random limbs from my face. Then it was time for the noisy neighbor kids from down the block to rustle me from the bedroom with their unbelievable decibel levels.
Then my schedule followed a typical Thursday plan: work on homemade gift for some upcoming birthday/fundraiser/holiday; make breakfast; clean up said breakfast while assisting with the Thomas the Train puzzle; check emails, facebook, and TMN forums to make sure I am still alive; coloring with 00toddler, reading with 00toddler, making lunch for 00toddler, missing a play date with 00friend because 00hubs has the car today; baking a cake for a friend; baking breakfast bars; wrestling 00toddler for a nap; snack time for 00toddler; fit in a shower somewhere; plan and prepare dinner for the family; scrub a toilet or dust a shelf; more puzzles; more books; answer “What happened to triceratops?” for the millionth time only to be told “No, triceratops go to Costco.” Then there’s a family bike ride or walk, swinging and maybe a game. More books, more puzzles, probably and elephant parade through the house. Then it’s bedtime with prayers, one more book, and some snuggles. On a good day I might balance the checkbook, too.
Not once did I call a friend to discuss the financial struggles of another. I did not look up police records of anyone. I did not consult a psychic, medium, or spiritual guru. I didn’t get my teeth whitened or involve 00teenager in my conflicts with others. Are there people around here that I don’t like? Probably. Am I going to waste my time acting like a teenager because of that for other people’s entertainment? Um, no.
So the short answer to the question is simple. For the real housewives out there, our lives are just too boring for television. And for that, I am eternally grateful.
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