Equinox
I've hit rock bottom.
They say you'll know it when it happens.
My moment came last night, 10:47 p.m., as I sprawled stupefied in my recliner in front of the TV, staring slack-jawed at a second re-showing of the final episode of "The Real Housewives of Orange County," a Bravo reality series I've followed reluctantly through two seasons, unable to extricate myself from its mind-numbing spell of wanton consumerism, entitlement and boob jobs, more than happy to watch any number of reruns of last week's episode in the lead-up to this week's, a behavior repeated over the course of two seasons, two fucking seasons, all that precious time down the sewer, my life has become unmanageable.
No matter the chasms of faux cleavage, the augmented cascades of faux blonde hair, the trampoline-taut cheekbones and 35 psi lips, I kept coming back for more. With the purchase of every $500 handbag, every $1500 shoe, I snorted with contempt, then nonchalantly checked Target the following day for knockoffs. Everytime someone lifted a cocktail the size of a birdbath with a two-inch French manicure, I convulsed in disgust, then marveled at how they managed to stay so thin given such appetites, not to mention open mayonnaise jars and negotiate toilet paper given such nails.
I found myself dreaming of eyelashes waving like palm branches. I envisioned my basic black wardrobe supplemented with turquoise and gold. I calculated exactly how many months out of a Northern year (one-and-a-half) I could expect to get away with cubic zirconia-studded flip-flops without risking frostbite. If my daughter was lollygagging past her Tuesday night bedtime, I hurriedly popped in a tape so as not to miss one Botox-driven moment.
(Am I alone? Am I the only one? Is my congenital superficiality finally showing its wannabe-surgically-enhanced face? Is there any hope for me?)
Blame it on Bravo. First they get me hooked on "Project Runway," a popular Class A time-killer of choice, and when I'm hopelessly addicted, they pull a fast one with an inferior replacement, thinking I won't notice, a classic bit of druggie legerdemain, i.e., stepping on the product. It was a full six months before I became aware of the tiny voice at my left shoulder intoning Just Say No, Buttonhead! Turn It The Fuck Off!
But still I vacillated in a downward spiral of shame. Still I wavered, a hapless junkie, nodding off during nightly reruns as (Ka-Chunk!) those massive Coto de Caza gates clanged shut and (Ka-Chunk!) my standards fell like my face muscles and (Ka-Chunk!) my IQ sank into a pond of self-aggrandizing conformity, like the rock George gave Lauri when he invited her to join in his quest to rid Southern California of undeveloped real estate once and for all, forever and ever, amen.
When should the Aha! moment have finally occurred? The tiny voice have finally become audible? Was it when The Wives copped to actually never reading a newspaper? To always voting Republican? To being genuinely surprised to discover that every state in the union wasn't red? Was it when Jo didn't know from Pledge? Or from that smarmy record producer? Was it when one of the cadre of teenage offspring said she "deserved" a $100,000 Beemer? Or when another mistook Vietnam for Iraq?
But, Stay Tuned! Don't Touch That Remote!
(Will the polar ice caps continue to melt? The oceans to warm? The rainforests to retreat into extinction? Will the ozone layer hold up, along with Tammy's breast implants? Will Yours Truly ever crawl out from under this avalanche of sanctimonious rationalization and cancel Satellite? Change her life? Carpe Diem? Now there's a concept. All things being equal, how about today! It is, after all, the first day of Spring. Start of a new season.)
One Day At A Time! Watch What Happens!
They say you'll know it when it happens.
My moment came last night, 10:47 p.m., as I sprawled stupefied in my recliner in front of the TV, staring slack-jawed at a second re-showing of the final episode of "The Real Housewives of Orange County," a Bravo reality series I've followed reluctantly through two seasons, unable to extricate myself from its mind-numbing spell of wanton consumerism, entitlement and boob jobs, more than happy to watch any number of reruns of last week's episode in the lead-up to this week's, a behavior repeated over the course of two seasons, two fucking seasons, all that precious time down the sewer, my life has become unmanageable.
No matter the chasms of faux cleavage, the augmented cascades of faux blonde hair, the trampoline-taut cheekbones and 35 psi lips, I kept coming back for more. With the purchase of every $500 handbag, every $1500 shoe, I snorted with contempt, then nonchalantly checked Target the following day for knockoffs. Everytime someone lifted a cocktail the size of a birdbath with a two-inch French manicure, I convulsed in disgust, then marveled at how they managed to stay so thin given such appetites, not to mention open mayonnaise jars and negotiate toilet paper given such nails.
I found myself dreaming of eyelashes waving like palm branches. I envisioned my basic black wardrobe supplemented with turquoise and gold. I calculated exactly how many months out of a Northern year (one-and-a-half) I could expect to get away with cubic zirconia-studded flip-flops without risking frostbite. If my daughter was lollygagging past her Tuesday night bedtime, I hurriedly popped in a tape so as not to miss one Botox-driven moment.
(Am I alone? Am I the only one? Is my congenital superficiality finally showing its wannabe-surgically-enhanced face? Is there any hope for me?)
Blame it on Bravo. First they get me hooked on "Project Runway," a popular Class A time-killer of choice, and when I'm hopelessly addicted, they pull a fast one with an inferior replacement, thinking I won't notice, a classic bit of druggie legerdemain, i.e., stepping on the product. It was a full six months before I became aware of the tiny voice at my left shoulder intoning Just Say No, Buttonhead! Turn It The Fuck Off!
But still I vacillated in a downward spiral of shame. Still I wavered, a hapless junkie, nodding off during nightly reruns as (Ka-Chunk!) those massive Coto de Caza gates clanged shut and (Ka-Chunk!) my standards fell like my face muscles and (Ka-Chunk!) my IQ sank into a pond of self-aggrandizing conformity, like the rock George gave Lauri when he invited her to join in his quest to rid Southern California of undeveloped real estate once and for all, forever and ever, amen.
When should the Aha! moment have finally occurred? The tiny voice have finally become audible? Was it when The Wives copped to actually never reading a newspaper? To always voting Republican? To being genuinely surprised to discover that every state in the union wasn't red? Was it when Jo didn't know from Pledge? Or from that smarmy record producer? Was it when one of the cadre of teenage offspring said she "deserved" a $100,000 Beemer? Or when another mistook Vietnam for Iraq?
But, Stay Tuned! Don't Touch That Remote!
(Will the polar ice caps continue to melt? The oceans to warm? The rainforests to retreat into extinction? Will the ozone layer hold up, along with Tammy's breast implants? Will Yours Truly ever crawl out from under this avalanche of sanctimonious rationalization and cancel Satellite? Change her life? Carpe Diem? Now there's a concept. All things being equal, how about today! It is, after all, the first day of Spring. Start of a new season.)
One Day At A Time! Watch What Happens!
posted by six spruce @ 7:46 AM
1 comments
1 Comments:
I'm waiting for the next installment of your life! What's happened since March 21, 2007. You can't just emote-up like that and then leave me hanging, darling. If nothing else, tell me more about this Russian placenta your sister applauds. Which Russians parted with their placenta? MORE!!
Love you,
Kath
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