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The 5 Worst TV Shows I’ve Ever Loved

Television’s a funny thing, isn’t it? It can motivate, inspire, teach, entertain, and infuriate. Trends will come and go, but one thing is certain: We love bad TV.

Now, everyone’s version of bad TV is different. We have our guilty pleasures. We admire train wrecks of all shapes and sizes.  And, I don’t know about you, but I’m shamefully proud of my picks.

 

Days of Our Lives The nearest and dearest unbearably good series for me is Days. Can you believe this show is still on? Growing up with a stay-at-home mom, we, ahem, were both able to keep up with the Bradys, DiMeras, and Kiriakises. Through disappearances, near-drownings, demon possessions, fires, shipwrecks, imprisonments, disguises, real babies, fake babies, kidnapping plots, weddings, affairs, divorces, and reunions, we’ve seen it all. And that’s not to mention the real deaths, fake deaths, live burials, and returns from beyond the grave. And the cast, miraculously, just seems to keep getting younger. You can keep up with the (exhausting) storyline, or play “Guess Who’s Wearing Hair Extensions!”. Either way it’s time well spent (I say, with a nearly straight face). And, remember, even if you have a, say, ten- or fifteen-year hiatus, you can be assured to be caught up within a week. Is it me, or should these people just get jobs?

 

COPS (TV series)

COPS I’m so, so guilty of this one. When Fox TV burst on the scene in the late ’80′s, with unforgettable hits like Married…With Children and The Simpsons, this middle-schooler was in her naughty bliss. Language, cleavage, belching? It was a far cry from The Cosby Show. When COPS debuted in 1989, with its timeless theme song, I was immediately in love. It was a world I’d never seen or experienced, with swearing and running and beer. I couldn’t look away. I’d turn the TV from my room (the one with the rabbit ears, dials, and knobs) towards the kitchen during dinner so I wouldn’t miss it. And, you know what? When I find it on now, I watch it. Yes, sirree. Because what could be better, more uplifting entertainment, than a toothless man in a wifebeater, actually beating his wife? Nothing, my friends. I guarantee it.

 

Image cropped from original on Flickr. Origina...

Family Feud Family Feud’s been on the air forever. And I’m ashamed to say that, just like during my childhood, when I see that it’s on, I stop and watch. Initially, what drew me in was the host, Richard Dawson, that smarmy bastard who tongue-kissed and shamelessly groped all the female contestants. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that they liked it. I loved yelling out answers, and dreamed that someday, my family could be on there as well. I lost interest during the Louie Anderson and Richard Combs years, because, frankly, the former was boring, and the latter was creepy, but, through the addition of the famously mustachioed Steve Harvey, that place ain’t been nothin’ but a party! One afternoon this March, after I had successfully ejected all my children in order to do some spring cleaning, I turned the TV on for some noise. Family Feud, I thought to myself, Mindless. Perfect. I was sweeping the family room floor when I heard Harvey pose this challenge to the contestants during the ‘Double’ round: “Name a furry animal that looks like it crawled up on top of Donald Trump’s head and died.”  And this, folks, is why I can’t quit.

 

Chopped This Food Network classic is designed to test the mettle of even the most decorated chef. And it does. With mystery ingredients like yak’s lungs, pencil shavings, and crocodile tears, advanced cooking skills are pushed to their very limits. And watching the chef-judges taste it all is an equally delectable treat. “You know, the Starlight Mints really give the puréed Bonsai a bright flavor, and the communion wafer-crusted sea urchin was divine, but the Nerf ball gastrique really missed the mark.” I love cooking, don’t get me wrong, and I especially love food, but guys? Get over yourselves.

 

Image Courtesy of Shutterstock

Image Courtesy of Shutterstock

DaVinci’s Demons DaVinci’s Demons on Starz is my newest guilty pleasure. Truth be told, it’s awful, with a capital BAD, historically inaccurate, and full of gratuitous everything, but the guy who plays DaVinci is just so hot, I can’t stop watching. You know, really hot, exactly the way you’d expect a fifteenth-century Renaissance man to look – chiseled features, tightly groomed five o’clock shadow, sparkling white teeth, and a haircut just like Gil’s from the Bubble Guppies. Sure, the first episode had nudity, flying, drug use, pyrotechnics, and rough sex, but, what am I? A prude? I pushed onward throughout the season, through time travel, more bare penises than I’d ever seen at once, torture, impromptu autopsies, and Vlad Dracula himself, and, truth be told, I’m a might sad that the last episode of the season will air this week. I may even shed a tear. And next season? Sign me up! I’m too far in to crawl out now.

 

So, this is my list, my shame. I’ve exorcised my TV demons, though I can’t say I’ll never watch them again. Because of course I will.

But enough about me. Tell me about yours.

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A Tropical Contact High. Or Not.

It all started the day I sent my husband to the warehouse store. Sure, he’d been to the warehouse store alone many times. I was never worried anything would go awry.

When he returned, unbagged and ungainly wares in hand, I thought nothing of it. Mere moments later, everything was put away, and our lives went on as usual.

The next evening at bedtime, I slid my arm over his side to cuddle.

“What is that smell?” I asked him, disgusted. Had he spilled something on his shirt?

“What smell?” he asked. “Oooh,” he remembered, “I bought new deodorant.”

“That’s deodorant? Are you serious?”  I was too tired to hide my disgust. “It smells like a sweaty college kid at a beach bar!”

“It’s Fiji. I thought it smelled nice. Tropical,” he mused.

“Uh, no, THAT’S not tropical. It smells like a dorm room after a weekend of partying. It smells like – “

“I bought a three-pack. It was a three-pack. I have two more containers,” he offered.

“You WHAT? You what? A three-pack! What are you? Crazy? That stuff stinks! You liked that?! What’s the matter with you?” I have an occasional tendency to dive off the deep end.

“You are going to have to get something else! You can’t wear this! You smell like a cheap piña colada! That’s GROSS!”

“I like it,” he said, “It’s tropical,” as he tucked himself comfortably under our blankets.

“Ugh,” I responded. “That’s gross. I’m sleeping over here.”

I woke up the next morning, thinking to myself, I have to get something else. He’s got to get something else. That stuff STINKS.

I went to the store and mentally weighed my disgust. He did  have two other containers of this junk at home. Could I live with him smelling like a bar table at 4am for the next several months? Ultimately, I let it slide. My disdain, I’d calculated, was apparently not worth the price of a new container of deodorant.

I toyed with explaining to him that a thirty-five year old married professional with three children wasn’t the target market for this product. I considered equating his love for me by his choice of deodorant. I fantasized about bringing it all to the recycle bin in the middle of the night.

Every time the aroma wafted into my nostrils, I got twitchy. I had flashbacks of the club I was able to drink at without any ID, of writing my number, with brown-tinged lipstick, on a cocktail napkin and handing it to an artistic-looking, soft-spoken guy with longish hair, and of Peach Schnapps and orange juice spilled and left on my dorm room floor overnight until it got tacky. Besides the fact that it smelled like skunked booze poured all over a rugby player, it was also a pretty potent reminder of late adolescence.

But then I think of my thrifty husband, with all his good shopping sense, and how maybe, just maybe, he did like that smell. He didn’t have half the spirit-soaked initiation into adulthood that I did. So, I tried to let it go.

And I try still, every night, when I snuggle up to his back, taking huge gulps of tiki torch/feet/steel drums/testosterone into my lungs.

And I retch a little. And curse the Procter & Gamble corporation.

And then Harry Belafonte and I drift happily off to sleep.

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Jailbreak: A Guest Post by Colleen of The Family Pants

Colleen of Adventures of the Family PantsColleen Thoele is also known as Mama Pants. She is a child advocate, awesome wife, best mother ever, worst mother ever, greatest sister of all time and lover of sensible clothing.  She tries really hard to not wear sweat pants every single day, which is hard because sweatpants go the best with flip-flops, and flip-flops don’t require socks.  She spends her down time blogging about the awesomeness and not awesomeness of living with the two tiny people that she made. 

[Thanks for reading along. Come hang with me around the webternet. These are my haunts… The Family Pants, Facebook and Twitter]

 

 

I dropped my keys in the parking lot. Shit. Bending down, gym bag on my shoulder and one kid holding each hand, he saw the opportunity to jump on my back and took it. She tried to make a break for it, but my vice grip proved strong enough, so she threw herself to the asphalt and screamed instead. One on my back, one in my arms and a gym bag. Did I mention it was raining? I was sweating before I even got in the door.

Covered in kids and dripping wet, I say an awkward “Heeeey” to the group of hot personal trainers all hanging out at the front desk before I drop the littles at the kiddie room (perk!) and head to the locker room.

That’s when I see her.  You know the girl I am talking about. Her gym clothes are like a second skin that someone painted on. Black gym shorts that stop right under her perfectly gorgeous butt and a hot pink top. Her hair is amazing-ness. Her skin, evenly tanned and kind of shiny. Even her shoes made her feet look sexy. She’s not a pound over weight. She smells like a sugar cookie. That girl.

Standing next to her, I smile to myself. Look at me. Mismatched socks, XXL church camp T-shirt, and a bun in my hair that’s been there since I showered 24 hours ago. I have a zit on my nose that you could see from space. I’ve got 83 pounds to go of the 100 that had slowly, but surely, jailed me.  That’s why I’m here, man. Jailbreak.

I smiled at her as she put her headphones on and floated walked out. She smiled back. And, as I sat down to stretch and focus for a few minutes before hitting the treadmill, it occurred to me that I don’t hate her. Good for her. She’s beautiful.

I laughed to myself like a crazy person, now alone in the locker room. Way to evolve, Colleen. Five years ago, I would have been so jealous of her. I would have tried to boost myself up by assuming she was shallow and dumb. Five years ago I would have been ashamed of my body. It  jiggles when I walk.  There is no mistaking that my belly housed some babies. My thighs rub together. And my chin? Sweet baby Zeus, my damn chins have neck roll friends.

Five years ago, I would have felt a cold sweat on my forehead and palms. A lump would have risen in my throat as I tried not to cry. The cold sweat would trickle down to meet the heat in my cheeks. I would have hidden in the bathroom stall to collect myself so no one would see me cry tears of shame and self-hatred. I would have hidden in order to stop hearing my heartbeat in my ears long enough to slip out of the door unnoticed by the beautiful people. Panicked. Paralyzed.

But not today. Not anymore.

I am beautiful, too. Fuck it, man. I had kids. I can’t hate my body for that.

So, as I lace up my clunky $14.00 Wal-Mart shoes, I make a mental note not only to buy some better freaking shoes, but to get out there and sweat my ass off. To keep going.  To own the shit out of that treadmill. Because I deserve to be healthy. I deserve to be strong. Because, dammit, I am not defined by my Hanes Her Way comfort yoga capris. I am defined by the fact that I am taking a stand for myself. Oh, and that I’m kind of a bad ass.

It’s been five years since my body was just mine.  Five years of growing people or feeding them. Having babies and breastfeeding – it was exactly what I wanted to do. And I did it. My youngest is still nursing. But things are changing.  There will be no more babies. When my girl weans, there will be no more breastfeeding. My body will once again be mine.  All mine. And so I stride on out of that locker room with my chins up and my determination face on. I’m ready.

I don’t need to be that girl in the hot pink top, she gets to be her. And she is clearly rocking it. Me? I get to be me. And I really fucking like me. Stretch marks and all.

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Deeper Than Skin Deep

I sat in the hairdresser’s chair, furtively eyeing the woman to my right. She looked a rather well-preserved fifty. Her lashes hung thickly and heavily over her close-set eyes. I imagined she had to strain to blink. It was too much lash for that much lid. Eyelash extensions? Latisse? What were people doing for eyelashes these days, anyway? Whichever the situation, her baby doll lashes were clearly out of place on her small face.

I noticed a rolling shelf beside her. Her stylist was painstakingly attaching blonde hair extensions to the back of her head.

Sad, I thought to myself. What is stopping her from aging gracefully? Why does she want to look like that? Doesn’t she know how fake that all looks?

I turned my attention back to my own mirror, my own stylist, and was fairly comforted by the fact that malodorous chemicals would be strangling my scalp in a matter of minutes.

InStyle

InStyle (Photo credit: Andreanna Moya Photography)

I listened, as always, to inane salon chatter, the gross majority of which was my own, until I was brought to the dryers to ‘develop’. I grabbed this month’s edition of InStyle from a rack on  the wall. It looked pretty hefty, and the cover was splashed with shades of fuchsia. That was obviously enough for me.

I opened the cover (which is something truly fantastic, isn’t it? The ability to still open a cover of a printed material?) and saw several permutations of a well-defined and perfectly made-up face courtesy of Lancôme. It’s all in how you do it, I convinced myself. I could probably do the same with my Clinique, no problem.

I thumbed enthusiastically further into the tome until I reached an ad for a Tiffany & Co. pendant. Hmm. Tiffany. I like it, I thought. I ran my finger over the pendant’s diamond filigree design, imagined it on my neck, imagined the pleasant blue presentation box in my palm. Yep. Like that, I decided.

The next page - Bam! Matching earrings. A little long for my taste. If someone were to give these to me, though…

Yves St. Laurent. Chanel. Bulgari. Guess. I quickly accepted the realization that were these items gifted to me, I’d snatch them up faster than a starving frog eyeing a fly.

I paused briefly on a two-page H & M spread and quickly concluded that I was neither a) young, b) tall, c) skinny, or d) pouty enough to pull off any of that mess.

Ten minutes passed whilst I pondered women lying on the ground clutching bottles of perfume, smiling for professional-looking photographer-slash-models, and sitting on plastic cubes, awkwardly displaying jewelry normally kept in tamper-safe vaults.

I fingered through two more pages. Louis Vuitton. I attempted to determine mathematically which child I’d have to put into hock in order to bring one of those home. The bag was a less-than-attractive turmeric, but the women holding them were so mesmerizing, one leaning her 6’8″ frame on a taxi. Plus, they were standing on the Brooklyn Bridge. New York chic.

Sandals. Sunglasses. Professional hair care products. More Lancôme. A full forty pages of ads before the actual text began.

And once the text began, I read about what and who people were wearing, their shades-du-jour, their spring highlights.

Alas, it was my turn to be rinsed, and as I leaned back considering the surreal view of steam, fingers, and exposed beams, I fully realized just how one becomes that woman. I realized how I had already enveloped the spirit of that woman, dutifully attending my 6-week appointment to be trimmed and colored.

“You look nice,” the stylist said. “Any plans for today?”

“Not really,” I answered. “Just shopping.”

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My Kind of Bucket List!

I’m not a huge fan of ‘bucket lists’. I’m not a fan of widely-ingested and promptly regurgitated catchphrases in general. Don’t get me wrong; I love Morgan Freeman. Not many elderly male actors can rock a freckle quite like he does, or deliver public service announcements with such eloquence. That said, I don’t need (or care) to know the inner yearnings of every Joe off the street.

I swore to myself I’d never make a ‘bucket list’. I also never had a need or desire to create a Things I’d Like to Do Before I Die list, either. But I did decide that if I ever did, I’d prefer to keep it a Things I’d Like to Do Before I Die list. It sounded more noble.

Last night, however, as I was watching Shaun of the Dead for the third time with my husband, I decided I might create a bucket list after all.

So, without further ado, here’s my (cough) Bucket List:

 

Sell my college degrees on eBay

Park my car in the middle of a busy Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru and walk away

Go into Abercrombie & Fitch and open all the blinds

Be a zombie extra in a movie

Buy a wedding dress and wear it to the supermarket

Unapologetically consume gluten, on an Italian piazza, at dusk, in May, with a glass of Sangiovese

Proposition a cop

Walk into a Korean nail place and yell, “I know you’re talking about me, ASSHOLES!”

Plan and execute a hostile takeover of the E! channel, using Daniel Tosh as my mouthpiece

Dress up like a drag queen (I haven’t really thought this one through yet)

Go back in time and punch Frank Sinatra in the face

Let all my gray grow out

Chop down a tree with a tiny axe

Bring sexy back. And not Nicki Minaj sexy, Donna Reed sexy

Change my name to Wonder Woman

Go to Taco Bell and ask for two free-range beef tacos with non-GMO lettuce, locally-sourced tortillas, and organic Fire sauce

 

What do you think? Doable?

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