I've been starting this blog in my head for WEEKS. It's been a whole month since my last blog, which is horrible, because that blog wasn't even that good. Unlike pizza, even if it's bad, it's still...pretty bad.
On my way into work this morning the radio DJ announced the name of the chick who will be the next contestant on the 13th season of The Bachelorette. I almost drove over a bus stop curb packed with kids. Thirteenth?? Whaaa? Really?!?
I'll excuse the fact that everyone and their mother has a reality TV show. Okay-no-I-won't. What is that all about? "Rock of Love." "Daisy of Love." "Homeless Love." Even rip off's have spin-offs. The Real World bore Road Rules then VH1 stole it and set up I Love Money but that wasn't good enough, so now we've got I Love Money, Two.
Which brings me back to The Bachelorette. We're inching into the 13th season? Like the rip-off to that show, "The Cougar," couldn't nip that in the bud? And the Cougar...sweet Christ. Where do I begin?
A 45-year-old hot, single mom is thrown into a house with a bunch of meathead 21-27 year old guys, most of whom are younger than her own daughter (who I'm sure is mortified that her mom is on this show). Instead of handing out a rose to the 'chosen ones,' each episode ends with a kiss-thing. She says, "Kiss me." If she gives her cheek, he's off. If she puts her mouth on him, he gets to stay. The catch is, (aside from spreading oral herpes), if you're not the first chosen dude in line, you get sloppy thirds, fourths, fifths, etc.
I don't get these shows at all. There are thousands of fathers out there who deserve a good smack in the face. Would it have killed them to hug their kids just a few more times? Maybe say a quick "Congrats" when they graduated 8th grade? Even just poke their heads into the first 10 minutes on one dance recital. Just one. Ten minutes!! That's all. It doesn't take much to keep your kid from being a loser, and it only takes a little bit more to keep them from advertising it on national TV.
So to all you parents out there, here's some sage advice from a gal without kids:
HUG THEM. Remember their names. Don't talk to them only when you need them to run downstairs to grab your reading glasses. And for Christ's sake, when your 16-year-old daughter starts dressing like a hooker or your 15-year-old son starts wearing black nail polish, DO SOMETHING... Preferably, an ass-kicking, but with the law as it reads, try going back to that hugging thing. The cancelled reality show you could create may be your own.
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