The Rest of Us Don’t Stand a Chance

Okay, I lost forty-three brain cells just doing the research for this post. Supposedly, there’s a scandal afoot in which one of the stars of the Twilight franchise cheated on the other star of the Twilight franchise, whom she’s secretly been dating. For now, we’ll ignore the rumors that he’s so far in the closet, he can see Narnia.

She allegedly cheated with the married director of her last film, thus proving that men are pigs and starlets still sleep their way to a starring role.

Here’s where I finally started caring about this whole story: the director is married to a supermodel. Oops, no wait, still don’t care. Okay, yes I do.

If he will cheat on a woman who is paid lots of money to literally stand still and look pretty, I don’t stand a chance. Yes, I realize that my husband is a lumber salesman, not a famous movie director. But I need to admit to you that no, I’m no supermodel. I barely muster the energy for makeup most days, let alone take the time and energy to resemble anything close to gorgeous.

So basically, if we are to learn anything from this tabloid tale of love gone car-crashingly wrong, it’s that there’s no point in even trying. If I were, in fact, a supermodel and my skin was literally insured against damage, and if I used $800-a-jar beauty products on my genetically-predisposed-to-stunningness face, I would still lose my husband and the father of my kids to something shinier when he got bored. Why try?

Oh yeah, I remember now. Because I didn’t pick my husband because he sparkles. (Literally, dear readers…two of the parties in this sad tale met on the set of yet a different movie where she played a brain-dead teenager who falls down a lot even though she does not have epilepsy and he played a vampire who can’t go out in the sun because it makes him glittery-looking.) Perhaps if we all agree to stop basing our relationships on how cute we’re gonna look standing next to each other at a movie premiere, they would last a little longer.

I tried to play out this whole saga by superimposing it on my own life. It didn’t go well.

ME: Honey, are you gonna cheat on me with a co-worker?

HUSBAND: (blank stare, pause in mid-chew)

ME: Okay, I realize all six of your co-workers have a combined total of nineteen teeth and they all have beer guts and they aren’t the greatest at personal hygiene…

HUSBAND: …and they’re all men.

ME: Stranger things have happened. Just answer the question, pretending that your boss hired a woman tomorrow.

HUSBAND: Does she get to have teeth?

ME: You’re stalling.

HUSBAND: You’re damn skippy I’m stalling! I can’t figure out where this one is going. I’m pleading the fifth.

ME: So you admit there’s something that you don’t want to incriminate yourself with? OMG! My marriage is falling apart!

HUSBAND: Trust me. I have you. There’s no way in hell I’m bringing another female into my life. If she was a fraction of your level of crazy, one of you would knife me in my sleep.

ME: Awwww, I love you too!

Yes, this is the scorned supermodel. I’m toast.
Advertisements

The Idiot Box, Recycled

 

While all of America has had the best time laughing at Netflix over the “We’re-a-disc-service-now-we’re-a-streaming-service-no-wait!-now-we’re-either-one-SURPRISE!-it-was-all-a-dream-we’re-kidding,” debacle, the movie service has had one unwavering devotee…my child.

Once the magic of having programming instantly appear on your TV screen happened (you know, like TV has done for years now), she literally spent about two weeks simply scrolling through the viewing options on the Netflix streaming pages. Sadly, there are a lot of shows on Netflix that no one wants to watch.

Unless you’re the only eleven-year-old girl in the Northern Hemisphere who isn’t allowed to watch Twilight yet. Then there are TONS of shows on Netflix that you can enjoy.

I suffered in silence while my daughter watched every episode of Monk ever made, including the school holidays where she would stage a MONKathon, complete with snacks and a chalk outline of a body on the living room carpet. I even tolerated old episodes of The Golden Girls with very little right-eye-twitching, mostly because Betty White is enjoying a pop-culture comeback and her Twitter user name is @BettyFckinWhite. What’s not to love?

But then my daughter discovered The Cosby Show. You know, that completely believable television show about a family living in New York where the mom is a lawyer and the dad is a doctor and they have five kids but miraculously not a single one of them ever snuck out with the car and got pulled over for DUI with three ounces of weed and an unregistered gun under the seat. The worst thing about that show was not the completely fake family with the laugh track and adorable jumping-the-shark add-on characters (uh, hello? Raven-Symone, anyone?). The worst part of the show was Bill Cosby’s sweaters.

We tried really hard to help her over this obsession by trying to convince her that the actress who played Rudy is actually a Greyhound bus driver now, or that Theo’s character became a cross dresser in episode 165. We started to tell her that the actress who played Denise ended up in drug rehab, but that actually happened so that joke is off limits.

Towards the end of this non-stop Huxtable spree, a new character came along. Some convoluted storyline involving a streetwise smart-mouthed cousin appeared in order to breathe new life into the show. Or as my daughter put it, to “reach a different demographic than the show had already been working with.” Weird, I don’t remember sending her to private school.

At last, tonight we reached the final episode. The family gathered in the living room (Cosby’s family, not mine…I couldn’t pay my husband to watch it and I was only there to make sure we saw it through to its end of days) and reminisced before Theo graduated from college. The trip down memory lane took two episodes. I tried to convince my daughter that the whole series ended with a tragic house fire with all the cast members present (except Denise, who was still in drug rehab), but she didn’t believe me.

Now that the series has ended—AGAIN, I hesitate to point out—she has found a new show to love. Storage Wars. Yes, a reality show about people who root through the discarded contents of other people’s abandoned mini-storage units. Where’s a sparkly vampire movie when you need one?