You are currently browsing the daily archive for November 19th, 2008.
I admit it. I asked the question.
This summer I was on a kick about a certain reality show that follows a group of rich women and refers to them as “Real Housewives”. I pulled up my soapbox, perched on top of it with my laptop and created a long, rambling post about “The Real Housewives of Middle America”. Before I got too far into my post (3rd paragraph, last sentance) I, rather bitchely, stated that if the lives those women were living were those of “real” housewives, then where the hell was “Wife Swap” when I needed them. Well, today I got my answer.
Right there, in my little ole “in box” is an e-mail from someone at Wife Swap announcing that they are now casting. WTF? How come I’ve suddenly been invited? I can think of only two reasons: 1) Someone at Wife Swap read my post or 2) Someone who knows me thinks my family is fucked up enough to make for good prime-time television. Either way, I can find a positive slant: 1) Yay! Someone is reading my blog (and they have a tv show!) or 2) we’re good enough for prime-time, baby!!
Just for fun, and let’s admit it, I enjoy being a little bitchy, I will share part of the e-mail with you.
The premise of Wife Swap is that one parent from each household swaps places for a week to experience how another family lives. It is an incredible family experience and opportunity to both learn and teach different family values.
Wife Swap is a fascinating story of what happens when two couples see themselves and their partners in a whole new light. The New York Post says, “It should be called ‘Life Swap’ because it’s not just the wives who learn something here. It’s the families.
Doesn’t that sound like a fascinating experience and interesting study in interpersonal and family dynamics? Yeah–if you haven’t seen the show. There’s no doubt in my mind that I’d end up scrubbing pig testicles in a barn while a toothless charmer named Joe Bob lectured me on “women’s work” from the top of a cheap tractor. The unfortunate thing is that my kids would live the rest of their lives with the image of me handing some chauvinistic douche bag his ass on national television. We could discuss it on visiting days at the penitentiary.
Actually, I think I could handle two weeks with just about anyone. Only the first week would be a nightmare, the second week, we play by my rules, bitches! But, in all honestly, there is no way that I would ever allow Wife Swap into my home. It is the same reason that keeps me from calling Super Nanny: I suck at cleaning my house and I can own that behavior but that doesn’t mean I want it broadcast for the world to see. So, no thank you, Wife Swap, I will not be applying.
Wait, they pay money?
I came across it quite by accident, I assure you. Really, I’m not one of those self-help book, “how can I better myself?” kind of people. If I can’t get better through trial and error, then I’m prone to continue in the same, dysfunctional life patterns that have carried me through this far. It isn’t an honorable way to go through life but the apathy comforts me. In my perception, there is something insincere in most self-help books. First, it isn’t really self-help if someone else is telling you how to do it. Second, if the author of the book or developer of the program were really interested in helping people better themselves, they would just put the information out there instead of making us spend $30 for the hardcover, or wait a year to spend $15 for the paperback.
So, there I stood in my local library looking at the books on CD section. Again, way outside of my normal pattern because I don’t listen to audio books. Primarily because the only place I could listen to one is in the car, and secondly my ADD-ridden mind tends to drift and I lose huge sections of what was being said forcing me to repeatedly rewind. And, if I’m driving a car, and already not paying attention, do I really need one more thing to distract me from the narrow strip of pavement that I’m maneuvering several thousand pounds metal and combustible fuel across?
With a business trip to the pacific northwest coming up, and a bit of a road trip once I got there to look forward to, I decided to try an audio book (I wouldn’t have the kids with me, which removes one of my distractions, so by adding the CD, I’m still at par on the old distraction tally sheet). As I stepped in front of the metal shelves that hold the audio books my eyes rested on one in particular. Do you know that angelic music that accompanies an “a-ha” moment of divine intervention in most movies? I swear it was like that. Faced with a wall of small square CD cases, my eyes settled on one in particular. Scream Free Parenting. Now, this audio book stood out for a number of reasons. While I don’t scream at my kids, I have been known to get a certain kind of pissed off that leads me to yell. It is a kind of yelling that I know all too well from my own childhood. I know the sound of that yell from a position that stands a little closer to the ground, and a little tighter to the wall than most adults stand. And I hate that yell. Swore I’d never use that yell when I had kids. So, as I stood there that morning, with my throat still a little raw from my latest tirade I wondered if I were being guided by a higher power. I wasn’t really looking for a self-help/parenting book. Fiction was what I was really after, but you can’t really argue with the planets when they line up just right, can you? So, I checked out Scream Free Parenting (as well as a fiction audio book, because a business trip is really like a mini-vacation for work-at-home moms, and who wants to focus on self-help when you only have 30 hours to yourself?).
So, I’ve not only listened to the (entire!) CD, I’ve actually been implementing some of the strategies with my kids. Don’t get me wrong–it isn’t easy. In one week I’ve gnawed a hole through my inner cheek and bitten chunks out of more plastic items than the puppy has (sure is handy to have a puppy to blame that on!). To anyone who doesn’t know better, it must seem like I’ve been stricken with some strange affliction that causes me to breathe deeply with closed eyes before every sentence. I’ve also solved the problem of having spare liquor hanging around the house (notice I didn’t say that I’ve quite drinking, only that there’s no spare liquor around!).
I’ve only yelled once in a very stress-filled week, and it was for a very short-lived period, seconds really. And I patted myself on the back for my reserve. Then I surveyed the battle scene. The Oldest and the Middle dutifully picking up every goddamn toy that I’d just tripped over (after having been threatened several times that if they weren’t picked up they’d be in the trash), looking back over their shoulders at me as they did so, eyes wide and glistening with tears as their lower lips quivering in defeat.
And I was 4 1/2 feet tall again, and I remembered the feel of the wall against my back and how the sound of the yelling reverberated in my ears and rattled every bone in my body. And how small I felt. How very, very small and insignificant. And I realized what an asshole I was to be standing there, patting myself on the back because I’d only yelled once this week. This week.
So, now I’m off to the damn library to find that damn audio book again so that I can listen one more damn time and commit it a bit more to my damn memory. And, while I know how important it is, how critically consequential, I have to admit that it pisses me off to have been showed my ass by self-help (audio!) book.
Stumble It!
Stumble It!