Why You Don’t Want Me To Watch TV

Last night, I had a rare girls’ night with  my mom and my sister. We had a great time, but on my way home, I started to feel a little ill. I think the bacon-wrapped pork roulade was a little rich for me, and the venison was rather overdone. Chicken, okay? I ate chicken. With Lima beans and some dressing. Stove top stuffing, to be exact. Not guaciale seared scallops or cassoulet.

Our girls’ night consisted of back-to-back episodes of DVR’d episodes from the Food Network. Three hours of chefs sweating over what to do with the bizarre mystery ingredients unveiled to them in their baskets, and I felt like I had eaten my way across six continents. Television isn’t good for me.

I have a TV, of course. We paid $10 for it at a yard sale about six years ago. It works just fine. Okay, maybe everyone on the screen appears to be four inches tall and pink, and the sound quality is so bad that the television can be heard more clearly upstairs than in the room where it resides, but it’s good enough for me. And it’s obviously all that I can handle.

The set we watched last night was a little bigger than mine, the picture and sound clear as a bell. The people looked like people instead of Oompah Loompahs, and the food looked like food.  Well, most of it did. After a couple of hours, that line between entertainment and reality gets a little blurred, and I start to feel bloated from all that bacon. What is this obsession with bacon, anyway?  I don’t get it. Give me a pork bracioli and  broccoli rabe florets with a touch of raspberry truffle. That was actually not bad. Wait… Did I…? Chicken. That’s right. I ate chicken. I keep forgetting. The lines, how they blur! Maybe I just need new glasses…

I got so lost in my viewing pleasure that I know I will have to choose the shows I watch on a real television very carefully. I couldn’t watch The Bachelor without a divorce attorney present. I’d need to get my shots before I ever turned on The Amazing Race. I’m less worried about The Voice because I don’t even know what it is. Do they speak? Sing? Does the champion screamer win?

I’ve decided that television twice a month is probably all I can handle without gaining a lot of imaginary weight. I’m going back to books, I think. I’m better off with reading anyway. When I start The Hobbit for the millionth time, I don’t have to worry about those lines blurring because I already know it’s real.

 

Totally free-hand. If I were not a writer, I'd have to be an artist, right?

Totally free-hand. If I were not a writer, I’d have to be an artist, right?