As much as I despise reality shows, I have to admit that, a lot of the time the people appearing on them actually receive something of value in return for being humiliated on national television. The “guests” of How Clean is Your House get someone else to scrub the fifteen-year-old pee stains from around the base of their toilet (both kinds–those that have been there for fifteen years, and those that were made by a fifteen-year-old). Extreme Makeover participants get a new face, a new body, or a new house. And even the spouses on Wife Swap get a break from their (usually) highly annoying mates, if only for a little while. Those considerations aside, however, the byproduct of most reality shows is shame, humiliation, and mockery, which is why I have never been tempted in the least to appear on one of them. After all, I can easily get all the scorn and mocking I ever need (and then some) without ever having to leave the comfort of my own home: I have a preteen daughter. And, as everyone knows, living with an (almost) twelve-year-old girl is, at best, like being on a reality show with a particularly ill-tempered host; at worst it’s like signing up for one of those tough-love self-improvement boot camps–the kind where all of the counselors end up getting arrested for abuse.
In the reality show of my life, the day starts with host Clementine opening the dryer to see if her favorite threadbare pair of jeans (the ones I had to pry out of her sleeping fingers the night before to get them into the washer) are dry yet. When she realizes that even after six minutes of intense drying they are still wet ( we have yet to upgrade to a dryer with the new “thermonuclear” setting) she shuts the door in disgust and announces that “we need to get a new dryer.” Now, if this were, in fact, a genuine reality show, this would be the point where my shame at owning such a substandard appliance would be ameliorated either by looking under my seat to find a certificate for a new dryer from Oprah, or by seeing Ty Pennington wheeling one in on a dolly. Needless to say, neither occurs.
Next up: our host opens up the dishwasher to get a bowl for her cereal and discovers that the cereal stalactites that had fused to the bowl as it sat under her bed for three full days are still attached to the bowl today (again: we have yet to upgrade to the new “hydrojet” model). “We need a new dishwasher.” (Again: Oprah and Ty are notably absent.)
The trend continues throughout the day as the dining room table (too old), the computer (too slow), the car (too dirty), the house (too small) and the weather (too windy) are all held up to scrutiny (and found lacking)–and yet–time after time– no replacement ever appears. Just when I am beginning to think that this must be one of the worst reality shows ever, suddenly the lens is no longer pointing at my house and all my pathetic possessions, but instead is focused firmly on me, and I realize that this is not one of the worst reality shows ever–it is the worst.
Again, host Clementine starts the ball rolling.
“What’s up with the nerd sweater?”
“Boy, your teeth sure are yellow.”
I keep waiting for the commercial break, so we can finally get away from the criticism part and into the helping part when I realize that that half of the show hasn’t been written yet; in fact, given the not-so-benevolent nature of the host, it probably never will be. Just not high enough ratings, I guess.