K-e-l-l-y

Bryan has time and time again reminded me of my precariously close proximity to “the deep end” when I watch A&E- Intervention, in particular, though Hoarders is often thrown in the mix.

Here I am on an average Tuesday night, flipping through the channels too numerous and stupid to count, when I settle on a familiar buddy. I sigh with content as I have noticed that there are several episodes of my favorite substance abuse program on in a row. It’s a good feeling, settling in for a long evening of tears, rampant meth-amphetamine abuse, and reunions.

“My name is Kelly, K-e-l-l-y, and I am a meth addict and an alcoholic.” This opening statement is followed by cute pictures of a happy pig-tailed girl, then of a smiling cheerleader holding her high-school diploma, then of a pregnant anorexic drunk with three teeth. By now I am so involved with Kelly’s upbringing I can only cry out, “What happened? Why? WHY? You looked so happy…”, along with her helpless parents.

The camera follows Kelly throughout her day of prostituting herself for drug money in front of the Pic N’ Save, and subsequent drug usage with some guy named Big T. This horrific, tragic hour culminates in a surprise intervention. This is where my tear ducts become surgically removed through a series of heart-wrenching letters of emotional testimonies and pleas provided by friends and family. Kelly chooses to get clean and off she goes to Celestial Springs Wellness Center. Hugs, tears, and more tears.

Later in the night Bryan steps between me and Ron, a 43 year-old divorcee with a gambling addiction. “My name is Carrie. C-a-r-r-i-e, and I have a problem watching people on TV with problems.”

“I do not. I just…I get so involved. I have to see if they make it…Their hard-knock life…it’s intoxicating.”

Bryan is unfazed by my emotional plea and seems to be staring at my hand. “Is that wine? Are you drinking while watching Intervention?”

“Just a bit. So. Is that wrong?” Don’t judge me. I’m not on a plane to Celestial Springs or anything.

Do-over

Nothing enrages me more in private than the unnecessary repetition of a simple task. People sometimes call this a “pet peeve”, but I just call it an undecipherable slew of curse words. (On a side note, I have often wanted to name a dog Peeve just so I can say, “This is my pet, Peeve.”)

Let me give an example. Here I am in the kitchen going about my business when I notice a Ziploc baggie that has fallen to the ground. The baggie is of no immediate consequence to my current task, but I have noticed it and concluded it should be retrieved. So while in the midst of multi-tasking, I spare a second to bend down and grab it. Only I miss the plastic offender and the small breeze my grabbing hands create causes it to flutter just slightly. My brows furrow a bit, but my good mood sustains as I make for a second grab.

This time I make the exact same mistake. The baggie bounces in delight. Now I realize my blood pressure is sky-rocketing and I mutter something of distain under my breath with the underlying threat of death should this baggie not concede at once. I miss the third time in a row and make a noise comparable to an angry piglet. My hands become possessed with rage as I use both of them to smash into the baggie and surrounding tile floor, bruising my knuckles. The mangled baggie becomes twisted and wretched in my hands, rendering it unusable and making the task a moot point.

But I emphasize my distain to the uncooperative baggie by escorting it, along with a lengthy array of profanities, over to the trash can. This will teach you, I say silently to the baggie as I begin to introduce it to its chrome cylinder grave. You think you’re so smart, well, who’s the smart one now! I get my only sense of relief and superiority within the last 45 seconds as I step on the lid-release of the can. And I miss-my foot slips. Haha! Stupid baggie! You’ll be gone forever! I still muse, undeterred. And my foot slips again, hitting the tile floor and making an uneasy slap! sound. I glare at the lid-release, now it is garnering my full spectrum of uncontrollable rage. Again, I position my foot to step…

Moments later I have thrown the trash can and the baggie onto the lawn and am watching a Magnum, P.I. rerun with a glass of Chardonnay. It takes a village to raise a child, a man to move a mountain, and an impatient lunatic to cuss out a trash can.

Yo Soy

Some people put way to much emphasis on food trends. Like "I just got a fabulous Cous Cous salad at this little bistro downtown. It's all organic." They always say the last part like you were hard of hearing or instead, whisper it while touching your forearm and demanding eye-contact. it's as if they were trying to say, "This could save your life! Pay attention!"

Organic foods are sought after like the poor-mans Botox. People scramble to find alternatives to their once favored average store-bought items.

"I know I'm bleeding profusely from the abdomen, but is your bandage organic?"

"I used to buy generic frozen chicken, now I know to only buy the ones that were hand-fed rose petals and have a time-share in the Hamptons."

"My child can see through walls thanks to the locally made yogurt with no preservatives."

There really is no limit to what easy life-bettering fixes people will apply to the words organic and locally grown. Cancer? Not me, I got a farm-fresh tomato. Dysfunctional relationships? No way, I communicate with Hummus.

There really is nothing wrong, I feel, with purchasing organic or locally grown, I don't mean to say that. Quite the opposite. The organic stores often play better music and have much less public arguing than your average Wal-Mart or H.E.B. It's as if while omitting artificial colors and harmful additives they increased the side effects of civility and progressive thinking. But the emphasis should not be placed too highly on completely renovating your life expectancy.

The very same person who ate the fabulous Cous Cous salad for lunch will still wipe their mouths with soy-based linens, re-apply their mineral SPF 15 makeup, donate a portion of their meal cost to starving farmers in Ghana, get into their mass-produced hybrid vehicle, and proceed to plow through a red light at an intersection....because they were talking on their cell phone about "The cutest little organic bistro downtown."

Oxy-moron

Lots of personal hygiene topics are discussed only at home, where the people who can't leave you are forced to put up with your eccentricities. Mine are no different. Bryan is continually subjected to my non-stop inspection ritual of finding a possible pimple.

Though having a zit is not a desired prospect, popping one is an entirely different monster altogether. You have to admit-or you don't, I suppose-in any case, some people may reluctantly agree that there are few things as satisfying as popping a zit.

I try and speculate why the attraction is so magnetic. If I do find one on poor Bryan, I can't for the life of me turn away. I must pop it. Immediately. It cannot continue to exist in my presence. My hands flex into pinchers and reach out to the offending object with the excitement and anticipation of a scientist discovering a planet. I become vaguely aware of my surroundings and Bryan is forced to tell me if my behavior is appropriate with phrases like, "Stop, that hurts", "I'm sleeping", or "I'm giving a toast, can this wait?"

And so the torture continues. I just don't foresee the draw waning in intensity. Bryan will continue to come home from work, be pummeled in the genitals by two bouncing dogs while juggling his laptop carrier only to get a pinch on the jaw from his ill-adjusted wife.

Celebrity Corner

Of all the celebrity conundrums these days; questionable attire, attractive mugshot photos, "baby bumps"; none is more perplexing to me than the petite celebrity.

You would think these were a rare breed, with the larger-than-life CGI grand-scale epic tales on the silver screen. but the hero/heroine of these films are often no bigger than my 84 year-old grandmother. It occurs to me that perhaps this is a genetic trait, wherein the characteristics that are required in cinema, like a commanding voice or dimples, are produced on a smaller scale. Maybe it's about cost effectiveness. Saving money on fabric for costumes or such. whatever the reason, it never ceases to alarm me to find out that their height is anything less than mythical in proportions.

Even if you don't care about famous people whatsoever, you have to admit, when you watch a movie and the leading man is giving a passionate farewell kiss to the leggy model/actress in front of a burning pyre of airplane wreckage, it is disappointing to find out that he was, in fact, standing on a milk crate. And that in the period piece you caught on TV last week, the pioneer soldier going off to war was actually riding a Shetland pony.

Just something to consider when you are browsing a rag in the grocery check-out aisle and the red-carpet photo of the actress promoting the latest Tarantino flick could be passed by as nothing more than a well-dressed sixth grader.