I was never one of those girls.
. . .Okay, I was kind of one of those girls. When I was about ten years old I became
obsessed with looking through bridal magazines. My mother, perhaps pleased to see her
daughter taking an interest in something even remotely feminine, would happily oblige me
and regularly drop 5-10 bucks a pop on those inch and a half thick volumes of bridal porn
that you regularly find crowding the shelves of your local Walgreen's. But I refused to
stop there. Oh no, I was in full planning mode, scouring the magazines for those little
cardstock pull outs that advertized OTHER bridal magazines, but the free kind that are
full of engraved champagne flutes and serving sets trimmed in white lace. I would make my
friends come to my house and use their best adult voices to order these free catalogs for
me over the phone, since no operator in their right mind believed that I was a blushing
bride to be. Hell I only sound about 12 years old NOW, at ten I must have sounded like a
little honey bee. When the freebies would come I'd spend hours searching for the absolute
best unity candle holder, or embroidered "Mrs." baseball cap, or whatever, and
then I'd cut it out and stick it in a little box, along with all the pictures of dresses
and cakes and shoes that I'd cut out of the larger magazines already. I've always been a
bit ahead of myself.
But I grew out of that. I realized how silly I was being, and the heaps of wedding porn
were thrown away, along with the contents of my little box. As I got older I was
determined absolutely to not be one of those women I had idolized as a child; brown,
blonde, and buried beneath 40 pounds of satin. If it was ever meant to happen it would,
but marriage was not a necessary nor wanted part of my existence. My boyfriend and I have
been together for a while now and I was pretty content with how things were just floating
along, casually, progressing as they would.
And then I turned 23. And I have absolutely lost my fucking mind. I blame the Learning
Channel.
I wake up every day about 8 a.m. I take the dog out, spend some time
online, wake my boyfriend up at about 10:30, make lunch, and watch "The Price Is
Right." A food service job means my mornings are by and large empty, so my routine is
pretty much always the same. Nothing happens in my world until after lunch. At that time
the boy usually goes to write, or draw, or do any of the other infinite things that
require solo use of the computer. I am left alone with the TV. I would like to pretend I
forgo the TV sometimes in favor of books or something slightly more stimulating, but I
haven't been reading much on account of having some library books that are like, years
overdue. So TV it is.
It's well documented that I spend a large amount of time watching The Food Network. But
to be honest, their noon to 4 p.m. scheduling blocks just haven't been doing it for me
lately. I don't want to watch "The Calorie Commando." I don't want to watch
"Roker on the Road." And frankly, as much as I love Paula Dean, I can only stand
her making pies out of sugar and lard so many times. So I've been forced to seek out new
stimulation.
The Learning Channel (TLC) has become my new mecca.
The problem with this is I'm convinced that the entire channel exists soley to turn me
into Marie Osmond. Despite my childhood love of the bridal industry, as an adult I've
never been insanely desperate to be married by age X. But now I'm searching for dresses on
ebay (fucking EBAY). And I've generally hated/feared children for many years, yet all of
the sudden I want hundreds of babies. It's insane. I'M insane. And I really think it's my
TV habits that are doing it to me. Let's explore the culprit.
First in my lineup is a show called "Second Chance." The gist of this show is
that someone makes the decision that they'd like to meet up with an old flame, and TLC
pays for an extravagent time and films the whole thing. Like, if I wanted to call up the
kid from my Instances post and be all, "hey dude, remember that time in the second
grade? That wacky shit with the drawing of the flower? Yeah, well, I don't feel like we
got the chance to connect the way we should've, let's give it another shot." And then
he'd fly to West Virginia and we'd do all sorts of wacky date stuff that always happens on
shows like this but that I don't believe actual people ever take part in. Like, honestly,
are there really guys out there who make their women picnic lunches and then take them on
boat rides? Really? Are there? 'Cause I'm pretty sure this is just shit that goes down on
"The Dating Game" that we've all misinterpreted as what we're supposed to be
doing in the search for a mate. I mean, I know I love surprises, and romance is nice, but
a matinee movie and a trip to Steak Escape is pretty much par for the course with me and
my man. But I loves me some Steak Escape.
Anyway, the problem with "Second Chance is that this attempt at reuniting lost lovers
ALWAYS WORKS. The episode always ends with the person who organized the date either
apologizing for somethign they'd done wrong in the past or breaking down into tears about
what sort of future they could have had if their paths hadn't strayed from one another.
Then they ask if they can have (naturally) a second chance, and the other person always
caves. Always. I have yet to see an episode in which the damned people weren't agreeing to
see each other again, or flying across the country for another date. Even if they spent
the first 15 minutes of the show all, "I don't think it will matter what he has to
say to me," by the end they're still totally Cavey McCaverson. Just ONCE I'd like to
see a guy be like, "Yo , thanks for the candlelight dinner and the carriage ride and
shit, but if you think I'm moving back to Houston for your stank ass, you've obviously not
taken a good look at said ass in a while. Maybe when you were 20 and hot, but now? Bitch,
please." I think that would be awesome.
But it never happens. So obviously the lesson I'm intended to glean from this is that if
I'm not married by my early thirties it's time to give up on ever finding anyone new and
start desperately combing through my personal archives for a former lover as desperate for
companionship as I am. But it's all good, 'cause all I need to do to bring them back to me
is like, walk down a beach barefoot one time or something. BUT AT LEAST I'LL HAVE MY MAN.
HUZZAH.
After we as the
viewers have been told how imperative it is to find love before all of our shit starts to
sag, it's then time to learn that we're fat and hideous and a secret embarrassment to our
loved ones. All aboard the self esteem train, kiddies! It's time for "A Makeover
Story."
Now, admittedly, compared to a lot of shows like it, "A Makeover Story" is
pretty tame. It's not "What Not to Wear," where a bitchy fag and his even
bitchier hag tell you that you look like ass, give you money to go shopping, then tell you
that you still look like ass and buy clothes for you. And it's the the Finola Hughes
well-past-her-prime vehicle "How Do I look?" where the victim doesn't even get
to pick their own clothes, they just have to stand there while their friends call them an
ugly cown, then tear up said victims clothes in front of them, and then go buy them new
clothes.
No no, "A Makeover Story" isn't really ever mean spirited, but still. I'm quite
horrified by the thought that if I ever decided to throw my hat in the proverbial makeover
ring in an attempt to wrangle some new clothes I'd first have to sit in front of a camera
smiling while all my friends talk about how they secretly always thought I dressed like
shit and wore too much makeup. Furthermore, when we were living in Roanoke there was a
local commercial that I always found hilarious. In it, a very frightening woman with VERY
LARGE EYES and an unfortunate spikey thing happening on her head, looked off camera to
read cue cards about how great her salon is, while standing in front of a wall covered in
hand painted dolphins. The great claim to fame of this particular salong (which was
called, I shit you not, Hair Force One) was that it had been featured in a Roanoke episode
of "A Makeover Story." So it frankly doesn't give me much hope that I'll come
out looking super hot when the best local resource available to me is a lady who not only
appears to have a cripling fear of the camera, but also looks like she cut her hair to
look like one of the hats Mrs. Howell used to wear on "Gilligan's Island."
At this point in the day I'm more than likely sitting on my couch shoveling dill pickle
potato chips into my mouth, craving a cute littel Kate Spade handbag to stuff my poor
shriveled ego into, and convinced that my man can never ever leave me or else my ovaries
will turn to dust and my vagina will start to make whistling sounds when the wind blows.
So, naturally, it's time for TLC to break out the big guns.
"Perfect
Proposal." HMMMM. Let's take a guess as to what this show is about. Oh, right, it's a
showcase for how men choose to propose to their women, and how all ladies crave fucking
fireworks and a diamond ring when Jaws pops out of the water. Now, okay, this is where the
"I was never one of those girls" comes into play. 'Cause I really wasn't. I was
never an "AWWWW" girl. Despite all my pre-teen wedding machinations, I was never
an engagment girl. Any time I saw on TV where a guy would ambush a girl in front of a live
studio audience or on stage at a Van Halen concert or whatever, I'd cringe. I've always
been an introvert, so the idea of some big public proposal where you're obligated to say
yes or else you and your guy will looks like assholes was not for me. Something quiet,
private, with no one else around. That's what I thought. But then I watch some dude pop
the question in the middle of a Disney parade, and I turn to mush. "AWWWWWW. . .
look, Mickey and Pluto are there, nodding in approval. THATS SO SWEET."
So in less than two hours TLC has not only got me feeling hideous and desperate for love,
but it has also turned me from a freewheeling, devil-may-care, sinwagon lady of the new
millenium into a diamond hungry automoton who won't be satisfied unless my boyfriend
charters a plane, writes his proposal across the sky, then parachutes to the ground with a
dozen red roses and a little blue Tiffany's box in hand. I hate myself and I want to die.
But before I die, I want a wedding.
I catch myself, on occasion, reading wedding websites, making little plans, bookmarking
cute little love-themed sonnets I could in theory have printed in my hypothetical wedding
program for the ceremony I'm not really having because I'm not engaged and also I'm a
crazy person. I try my best to curb this sick obsession, because I know that if I ever
actually get engaged that the process of wedding planning should be an intimate and
creative time that the couple shares. Whether B and I ever actually tie the knot is of
course as yet undecided, but if it ever does happen I'm sure the last thing he wants is to
propose to me and then have me pull out and ten pound binder full of catering menus and
fabric swatches. That's not exceptionally romantic. And yet, at this very moment, I'm
looking at the clock and realizing that I'm missing today's episode of "A Wedding
Story."
Obsessively watching
"A Wedding Story" is, naturally, not the best rememdy for my unhealthy need to
plan. If nothing else, it makes it worse, but probably not for the reasons you'd think. I
don't watch it and envision myself as the bride on TV, nothing but taffeta and hairspray.
I try to envision myself as the absolute opposite. Because, despite the fact that I watch
it EVERY DAY, most of the weddings showcased on "A Wedding Story" are absolutely
heinous. There's always that one element that just makes you feel so lucky that you're not
one of the involved parties. Maybe the reception is held in an old gym. Maybe in the
middle of the ceremony the officiant stops everything so someone can play "I
swear" on a boombox while the bride and groom akwardly stare at each other. Or maybe,
just maybe we get a glimpse of the bride as she walks down the isle and she just looks
absolutely frightened. Like maybe she's 35 and her teeth are too big and she tried speed
dating but just wound up nursing her martini all night, and this guy at the end of the
isle is nice enough and will always be good to her but that doesn't change the fact that
she's just settling before things get too out of hand and she just completely fucking
terrified. There's just that one second of crazy eyes that lets you know what you're
watching on TV is a train wreck disguised as a ceremony.
You'd think this would be a turn off to me, but NOOOO. I watch "A Wedding Story"
religiously, but with a critical eye. It's like TLC is saying to me, "Yesss, Emily
you have to get marrrrrieeeeed, but whatever you do, don't do it like thiiiiis." It's
my own personal what not to do guide. Do NOT wear that dress with the big satin bow on the
ass. Do NOT have a wedding party with 30 people in it. Do NOT let a preacher instruct you
to "love, honor, and obey" your husband and do NOT wear a t-shirt that says,
"Mrs. ____" on it. Do not be a robot. Be an alienating, wedding obsessed control
freak, just do it with panache.
Okay, so it's established that I'm in no way a cool or hip woman of independance, but a
very scary lady who feels she must be married to be complete. All of those women's studies
courses in college are really paying off well. Awesome. So, what TLC possibly throw at me
next to make me feel like even more of an inadequate fembot? I know! BABIES. YES OF COURSE
BABIES I LOVE BABIES GIVE ME BABIES NOW ROOOOOOOAAAAAARRRR!!!
Sigh.
Yes after the proposal
and the wedding we have not one but TWO episodes of "A Baby Story." Because when
you're 23, work in a restaurant, and have no health insurance, spawning should definitely
be the top priority for you. Because, you know, only lesbians and frigid chicks wait until
after 30 to start having BABIEEEEES.
The great thing about two episodes of "A Baby Story" is the contrast. The first
episode is always a real yuppie couple. They live in a giant house filled with dried
flowers, maybe they have a kid or two already. The wife is that really awful cute
pregnant, where you know she weighed 115 pounds before pregnancy and is still stick thin
everywhere but her gorgeous round baby belly. These people already have a nursury painted
light green and filled with fluffy sheep or ducks. They know the sex of the baby, and they
have a scheduled C-section already on the books. Her labor will be nothing but laying
there while they cut the baby out. Then they'll name the child Madison. No drama, no
yelling, no miracle of birth, all very clean and procedural. Makes you think that child
birth is as simple as checking into the Ramada and getting hit with some local anisthetic.
The second episode, that's always the fun one. That's the one with the wacky natural
childbirth people. These folks are always having either their first child, or like their
fifth. They're often ethnic, but if they're white they both have at least one large
visible tattoo. She is not cute pregnant, she's pregant all over. Big round glowing face,
chubby fingers, chubby toes, and a BIG belly. Not a cute little bump, but something that
squishes when you touch it. They are having their child at home, in a kiddie pool, with a
midwife and their parents in the room. These are the ones that really get me, 'cause when
that lady pushes that baby out, you know she earned it. She made it happen, not some
doctor. And when they pull that kid out, all gooey and purple, I burst into tears. EVERY
TIME.
I always thought the biological clock was bunk. Women have babies 'cause they think
they're supposed to. If they really don't feel like it, they don't. But no man. You get to
a certain age, about the time that shit starts kicking in, and it's TICK TOCK all day
every day. I'm not insane enough to think I should have a child right now, not when I'm
too lazy to even regularly do my own laundry. But a few weeks ago I was exceptionally
hormonal and I blissfully announced to the Boy that I think we should have six kids. SIX.
Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday and Bill. After Bill. My boyfriend left after
that and he hasn't been back. I really hope he's okay, 'cause hot damn it's baby makin'
time.
But even if he has left me for good, that's okay because we've reached the group therapy
portion of our afternoon. "Starting Over" is a show where women with various
problems in life sit in a fat house on the west coast and work through their problems with
two life coaches. A fun fact is that Frankie Abernathy, of "The Real World San
Diego" fame as well as our own homage,
originally audtioned for "Starting Over" but was thought a better match for
"The Real World." Because a young woman with a terminal illness and obvious
psychological issues (and that damned fear of boats) is definitely well suited for a
drunken skinfest that exploits the problems of it's participants rather than the show that
would help her. That worked out pretty well for everyone involved, I think. Way to go,
Bunim-Murray.
The appealing thing about "Starting Over" is that even though all the women
involved have different problems they're trying to work through (child abuse, dead
parents, famous sibling, etc.), the whole idea behind the show is that "sisters are
doin' it for themselves" vibe where they kind of get off on the idea that women
helping other women can solve any problem, and to hell with actual certified counseling.
Are you an alcoholic? Write in a diary! Boundary issues with men? Let's sit in a circle
and talk about it! And then let's lie around our gigantic problem solving house and bitch
about how much we hate the other women and how they're hindering our growth. Because if
there's one thing "Starting Over" proves, it's that even in a healing
environment, women are still catty bitches who think they're entitled to more than the
girls who are prettier than they are.
I question how useful "Starting Over" is, because I can't seem to figure out
what specifically a "life coach" does. I know they're not actual psychologists,
because I found a site online once where you can get certified to become one. And most of
their advice involves speaking in really vague metaphors about any given woman's
"unwritten story" or "personal journey." And yet, I find it
fascinating. Because they do seem to be helping, and the idea behind "Starting
Over" seems like it should work (though how necessary or helpful the televised
element is is anyone's guess). I've actually sat on the couch while watching the show
trying to think of a unique problem I could use to get onto the show. It just kind of
wound up being like the "poke a badger with a spoon" bit from that Eddie Izzard
special. Though the fact that I would go out of my way to create a problem within myself
so that I could go on a tv show and seek treatment from possibly unqualified experts seems
to me like reason enough for them to pick me.
So, that's my afternoon. I wake up a normal person, and by the time I go to work I'm
incredibly depressed about the fact there's no ring on my finger or seed in my womb. Be
sure to check back next week for when I write about how B really did leave me .05 seconds
after reading this piece. Should be pretty depressing. Maybe they'll put me on TV for it.
