It’s been quiet around here since my husband took to the road. Quiet, I mean, in the literal sense. My man is not only a TV addict but hard of hearing, so when he’s at home the house is filled with sound. We have developed a system over the years, in which I get up early in the morning and tuck myself into the sofa with a book or my pages until Drew comes in and turns on the TV, at which time I gather my stuff and move upstairs to the bedroom—or just get on with my day, elsewhere. I am always on the run from that godawful noise.
But last night I had to turn on the debate and see how Obama would do this time around. (Does anyone else want to slap that condescending smirk off Romney’s face? His big claim in support of women’s rights is this apparently dogged hunt for employable women. He found binders full! What a guy!) Anyway, politics aside, after the debate I decided to channel surf and see what else was on. There are so many options, I thought surely there would be something interesting to watch, sandwiched between the talent shows and Lifetime movies.
What I discovered instead of watchable television is that we Americans are obsessed with other people’s jobs. There are shows about truckers, fishermen, auctioneers, hair stylists, miners, pickers, decorators, paramedics, factory workers, chefs, loggers, biologists, ghost hunters, and, my personal favorite, the exterminators. We just can’t get enough.
I could star in a reality show and make a shitload of money. The title could be Bunny Slippers, or maybe Bedroom Nightmares. The production team could save a bundle by running the film on a loop: Me, staring off into space. Me, scratching my ass. Me typing, cursing, deleting. And back to the staring into space bit.
What do you look like at work?