Streaming Pile of Television

Streaming television is a fantastic thing. I love watching an entire season of a show consecutively without being tied to any kind of schedule. The drawback is that occasionally Dewie will flex her age difference muscle and force me to watch some awful show from her youth. Admittedly, I got into Dark Shadows, mainly because the over the top dramatics cracked me up. We still use the “Barnabas stare” as a punch line. Bewitched is entertaining enough, especially if it’s an episode featuring Endora. Her condescending, snarky attitude makes me feel better about douche-y Darren saying things like, “I forbid you to get involved!” and “I expect you to concentrate you efforts on keeping this house!” The westerns are tolerable on a periodic basis, though I had to develop a song to tell them apart. It is set to the tune of the Bonanza theme song and goes like this, “Little Charles Ingalls on a show as Little Joe it’s called Bonanzaaaaaa! It was on a long time ago, and it’s not in black and white (that’s Gunsmoke).”

However, recently Dewie has been watching this show called Adam 12. The writing and acting is painfully horrible and the plots are predictable within the first 3 minutes of the show. There is only one way to fight these shows. Pick it to pieces. It goes something like this…

“So… why is no one named Adam?”

“The car is called Adam.”

“So the show’s about a car?”

“Ugh. No. The show is about Jim and Pete.”

“Does the car have special powers or something?”

“No! It has nothing to do with the car.”

“Then why are they saying Adam 12 every 30 seconds?”

“It’s the name of the car!”

(Pete wrecks his car and is apparently injured.) “Did he just announce that his spleen is ruptured? How could he possibly know that? Does the car double as an MRI? Is that its special power?”

“No. The car is not an MRI and it does not have special powers.”

“Wow. Jim just told that other coppy guy that they had to find Pete because they were close. Real close. 

This show is pretty homo-tastic. I think they’re like share a shower close.”

“That is funny. I never noticed that as a kid.”

“Yeah, in the last episode they were buying potholders and doilies from an old lady.”

“The pot holders were for Jim’s wife. He’s married.”

“I think he bought them to so he can make breakfast for Pete. After they share a shower.”

Dewie giggles. “Maybe.”

“Look at how close they are. I think Pete is gonna kiss him. Look at him!”

“I think I would remember if he kissed him.”

“Yeah. Probably.” The next episode starts. “Oh. Come on! You’re telling me a 78 year old woman remembers those kinds of details when a burglar is waving a gun in her face. He was on smack? Are you serious? The old granny not only knows what heroine is, but knows its street name in 19 sixty whatever?”

“Maybe she’s just a sharp old lady.”

“Hey! Look! That must be the bad guy. Six feet tall, sandy hair, green button down, gray slacks, brown boots. Just like the old lady said. Wait up… he doesn’t appear to be on smack. It may be a case of mistaken identity…”

Dewie giggles. “Shut it.”

“Look at how he’s wrestling with that guy. I think the ambiguously gay duo was based on these guys. These guys are so Ace and Gary. Well, gracious me! There’s another guy that looks like he could be the bad guy. Six feet tall, sandy hair, green button down, gray slacks, brown boots. Oh and wait a minute…I think he may be on the smack.”

“We don’t have to watch this.”

“No. I love it.”

Part of This Nutritious Breakfast

Ok, so I kept telling myself that it was none of my business, but I’ve been asked to weigh in directly at least 4 times. Here it is. The Time magazine cover with the breast feeding three year old creeps me the hell out. I understand the point. I really do, but in its haste to get people’s attention, they have crossed the border into vigilante mom land and no one but other vigilante moms can tolerate being there for even a miniscule amount of time without breaking into seizures of eye rolling that persist until you spontaneously and repeatedly yell, “Shut the F@#$ up!” like some crazed Tourette’s soaked mental patient.

Now, admittedly, I have to turn on my cerebral brain when I witness anyone breastfeeding an infant. Frankly, my emotional self is just uncomfortable with it. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I don’t have children. Maybe it’s because I have never viewed breasts as meal receptacles. What I do know is that this is my problem and no matter how weirded out I am by it, there’s nothing wrong with it. I do have issues with people that glare at a restaurant full of customers as if they are daring someone to say something as they plop their engorged boobie on the dinner table. I know it’s natural, but if there wasn’t a baby attached to it, that same woman would go to jail.  Have a little class. Throw a blanket over your shoulder. Or better yet, don’t schedule dinner at the same time as your baby’s next feeding. We get it. You’re all maternal and what not.

The specific problem I have with the magazine cover is the age of the child and the pose of the mother. If that very same woman was wearing a hooters uniform, those same vigilante moms would have already organized a posse to hunt the responsible party down like a scared animal. I’m not buying the whole “nutritional value” crap either. That kid probably spent the morning playing Xbox followed by a lunch of Crustables and cheese doodles. If your kids eat three meals a week at McDonald’s you don’t give a rat’s ass about his nutrition. This leaves one of two possible scenarios. Either the mother refuses to admit that the child is no longer an infant (he probably also drinks out of a sippy cup and has a pacifier in his mouth while he stomps hookers to death playing Grand Theft Auto) or she is getting some sort of emotional fulfillment out of it. Either way, it has nothing to do with the kid or what’s best for him. Call me old fashioned or anti-woman or whatever, but a kid shouldn’t have to run in from recess to breastfeed. 

Can You Hear me now?

I walked out of Weezie’s Salon when I’d just had my hair cut. As I was opening my car door, a man in the passenger seat of a car parked two spaces down from me caught my eye. He was looking right at me. His scraggily hair and trucker hat perfectly accessorized his grease stained pocket t-shirt. All of his windows were down and there was a teenaged boy in the back seat. He was also looking at me.

The man yells in my direction, “You know where Weezie’s is?”

The front door of the salon is no more than 30 yards from where he is parked. Confused by his question, I point at the door. “Um… Right there?” The boy in the backseat starts to giggle.

“To the right of it?”

“To the right of what? It’s right there.” I point again. The man pulls his eyebrows together in confused aggravation. He stares at me like I’m an idiot. The boy in the backseat is emitting a full on belly laugh.

“You know where Domino’s is?”

I point to two doors to the right of Weezie’s door. Now I’m getting annoyed. “It’s right there. Is this a test?”

He looks angry now. Maybe I insulted his (ahem) intelligence. He turns around to look at his son who is now having convulsions in the back seat. As he turns, I catch a glimpse of his left ear. He is wearing a bluetooth. It takes me a full 5 seconds to realize that not one word of his conversation was directed at me. I look at his son who is now so hysterically tickled that he is drooling on himself. As he meets my eyes. I grin at him.

“Thanks a lot, buddy.”

He manages to form the words, “My pleasure.” between gasps for breath. Giggling, I get in my car and head home.