It was all Brenda's fault. She got me hooked on America's Next Top Model, with Tyra Banks and a host of mannequin-like models, who desperately needed to eat a few cheeseburgers with fries, cole slaw and a couple of shakes. Saturday morning, I went to her house because someone was coming to look at mine (remember, it's for sale?) and I wanted to avoid overhearing people's comments. Yes, I know there's some mastiff slobber on the walls and not enough upstairs closet-space. Okay?
Anyway, I fled to Brenda's house, thinking we could sit quietly together and, like, write! We've had writing dates before, the most memorable one being the day we decided to walk the mastiffs around the block, which we figured would clear our heads and make us brilliant. She took Charlie (217 lbs.) and I had Webster (170 lbs.). We left the house in warm, sunshiny weather and walked down the street only to get caught in a torrential downpour that came out of nowhere, complete with lightning, thunder and a small tree to hide under, which was no help whatsoever. My neighbor drove by and offered his dry porch to us, but I was laughing so hard, I was unable to respond, so I waved the car on. When we got back to the house, we had to wrap ourselves in bathrobes and wait for our clothes to come out of the dryer. I guess you could say Brenda's and my writing dates haven't always been that successful.
This was no exception. I parked my car across the street from her house and texted her, asking if I could come up.
“I have so much writing to do,” Brenda said, once we had settled in her living room, across from the tv, which was on. Her laptop sat open on the table in front of her and mine was on my lap.
“Me too. Let's turn off the tv and get to it.”
But no. Brenda had to watch one last rerun of America’s Next Top Model before she would off the tv, which I thought was fine. After all, it was just one. What harm could it do?
Once the show ended, Brenda tried to press the power button on her computer. I'll give her that. She really tried. But these re-runs were running back-to-back all afternoon and I thought it would be fun to watch the next one, just one more, before we settled down to business. That one more ended up being another one more and another, and another, and so on, until we had watched every single show, down to the bitter end. Within hours, the six competing models of the first show I watched were reduced to three, then two. The grand winner: CariDee.
Brenda said she needed to watch America's Next Top Model for deep-seated, psychological reasons. My excuse? I was putting off till tomorrow what I should have been doing that day. I gave in. I chose to be weak and bad. Sometimes it's fun to be weak and bad. Today is Monday and I'm still thinking about America's Next Top Model. What happened to Melrose, Eugena and Anchal, three of the losers? Or the twins? Are they strolling down catwalks or posing in front of cameras somewhere, or are they wasting away (even more) while they sit in front of their tvs, wondering what went wrong? I've lost two nights' sleep over this, so I have to ask: is there a 12-step program for people addicted to dumb reality shows? If so, I have to find a meeting right away. And if I have to go, I'm dragging Brenda along with me. Because, as everyone knows, it was all Brenda's fault.
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