Early on in my parenting career, watching Daytime Television almost proved to be my total undoing.
To this day, if I ever were to hear the music from UK game show Countdown, I’d consider it to be the theme music for the baby blues. It’d take me right back to a period of my life where 4:45 pm would find me still in my pyjamas, totally unshowered, ever so slightly unhinged, with the dishes undone and the wet washing still in the machine, wondering what the hell had happened to me. Oh, and there was a Baby Justice somewhere in all that as well. Probably feeding, always feeding. Or crying. Or sometimes both at once.
When we moved back to Australia a few months later, I decided that the television should be switched off during daytime hours, except when being used as a babysitter. Noble stuff, eh? And, other than a brief addiction to reruns of “Felicity” on Channel 9, I have kept myself clean. This lady only watches crap television in the evenings, thank you very much.
Then, the other day and for reasons that are too long, boring and irrelevant to this post to explain (yes, I can be self-editing from time to time), I found myself alone in a house in the middle of nowhere for an entire afternoon, without children, laundry, dishes, telephone or internet access.
The house was so empty and silent I started worrying I might end up like a character in “The Quiet Earth”, holding rock concerts for myself and delivering sermons to cardboard cutouts. And so I decided, after a bath and a short nap, to watch TV instead.
Here’s what my afternoon of day-time commercial television taught me:
The merry month of May is “bowel scan” month and to mark this special occasion, The Rotary Club are selling BowelScan kits that give you the chance to mail your faeces to a stranger and not be arrested for it. In fact, they’ll even write back. Gold!
I can jump for joy while still lying down, thanks to the Stamina AeroPilates Pro XP.
Even twenty-some years since I last watched “Bewitched”, I still can’t work out why the hell Samantha was married to Darren.
There are couples who have taken the fur-children thing that step too far and have been kissing and nursing bags of frozen vegetables. Ah, McCain… You’ve done it again….
The very fabric of our society seems to have been built entirely on recycled ink cartridges.
I never had to go through the agonising and potentially marriage-destroying process of naming my children. All I had to do is text my husband’s name and my own name to a certain number and they give me the gender and the name of the baby. Now, that’s a valuable service.
The Lexus annual sales event is known as a “L’Exhibition”. It therefore follows that an in-store promotion of El Paso Taco Kits is a M’Exhibition, all this hooha in the press about the new Star Trek movie is a Tr’Exhibition, any time AFL Player Ben Cousins takes off his shirt is a P’Exhibition and a retrospective on Animated Feature Films voiced by Mike Myers would be called a Shr’Exhibition. And yes, I really did sit down and write that list on my afternoon off.
And so understandably, I’ve decided that the next time I find myself in a similar situation (currently projected some time around July 2012), I’m definitely keeping the television off and opting to give a sermon to cardboard cutouts instead. Either that or I’ll just sit and hug bags of frozen vegetables. Much much healthier.