Me and the Tele

I never was too fond of television, until, I became a housewife in a one room basement apartment. Alone, without a child or puppy to console me in this cellar, I wait. Bricked into the tomb of loneliness, I am the chained Fortunato seeking out a casque of misfortune. Yesterday, I casually bumped into an old acquaintance, Montresor, my flat screen.

The cold exterior illuminated at my arrival. Flickered iridescent blues on the whitewashed walls. For the lack of natural light, I welcomed the florescent bulbs to light my room and superficially light up my life. Flashes of blue and green and a delightful ring to signal its awakening, I leapt to my couch to begin the HDTV light show. With rapid fire clicking I felt a muscle spasm in my thumb rebelling against all other motor functions. I saw the sinews vibrantly pulsate mimicking an inflating and deflating throat sack of a Mantella during mating season. Uncomfortable with the muscle rebellion, I switched to my other disposable thumb. My heart raced to the speed of the remote as I surfed the channels for a laugh, a smile, a tear, and a TV infomercial to hate.

I was sorry to hear that the oxy-clean bearded bloak had passed but, was even more distraught to HEAR his replacement. The boisterous incessant demands of “Look here!,” “See the difference?,” “WOW! THIS IS AN INCREDIBLE OFFER!” “BUY ME OR DIE!” yapped from an unknown female voiceover with incredible lung capacity and vocal rasping registry. I had some astute suspicions that she might be in fact my worst aerobic instructor. Steroids blended with protein shakes, and her daily dose of methamphetamine probably tossed her stepping routine to the streets. With jazzercise on the rise, she had to look for some white powder to exploit. Her high energy vocal spasms are set to the keyboard percussion sounds, the rapid zoom in and zoom out, neon lights, and flashing phone numbers to spread within thirty seconds an epileptic epidemic. In what census did the Ad markets find that yelling at their consumers would entice them to buy? I cannot take such verbal abuses. The more they yell, the more I shield my eyes with my target inspired accent pillow as I slide further into my kid-size love seat sofa. And please bionic lady, why would I put Clorox bleach on black jeans? I know it’s a demonstration, but black jeans? Really? (If you own a pair donate them for further research.)

Still, at least oxy-clean doesn’t have a list of potential ER symptoms such as anti-depressants with risk of suicidal depression (but, one can take comfort in knowing one’s death can stop the bill.)
Or grow eyelashes and get a new shade of lid color with one application.

Bleaching teeth for the appearance of healthy smile with the added bonus of stripping enamel for more reasons to paint on that “healthy” smile call 1-800-dentures.
What's more, why do they have to speed through a 500 word essay on malpractice of their product in 3 seconds? All I get out of the monotonous glottal grunts are, “risk of stroke,” “loss of eyesight,” “sudden bleeding may occur,” and other hyphenated medical conditions I’ve never heard before. It’s like reading the ingredients of your child’s cereal box.

Consequently, with every relationship we make sacrifices such as my TV’s lack of listening skills and its ADD programming. However, I have learned to cope with the constant interruption as anyone can see that it has a schedule it must abide by. I focus on the positive which is its ability to continually provide me with multiple personalities that help me to appreciate life without botched boob jobs, toddlers with more makeup than a drag show, seasonal orgies at Dawson’s creek, rich junkies who invest in their criminal record, women whose worth is a chance to be on television and worst of all…crotch dresses. No matter how big your penthouse suite is, how many vacation homes dot the Pacific, or if you are a printed socialite; no title, no amount of plasticity or “cash-money” can buy class. Unemployed, unenthused, and unmotivated I collapsed in front of it hoping. Hoping my “so called friend” would incline me to do something....

TURN IT OFF and be thankful for a husband you dishes out kisses instead of money. TURN IT OFF and be thankful for a home that is small enough to clean in 2 hours and big enough to make memories that last forever. TURN IT OFF and be happy that I have an imperfect body that doesn’t need additions or reductions to make it functional. TURN IT OFF and enjoy my fair skin and patchwork of polka dot freckles that entices my husband to trace. TURN IT OFF and be grateful for scar tissue that reminds me of what not to do. TURN IT OFF and embrace emerging lines whose curves, swirls and swivels brush a walking canvas of happiness. Finally, TURN IT OFF and be thankful for a television to remind you how good you have it.