A Lot And Not Enough…

I am not really sure how Cheyenne and I paused long enough in our channel flipping last night to have a Wife Swap episode catch our attention, but it happened.  I typically do my level best to avoid shows like that.  They are so predictable.  They are designed to produce uncomfortable conflict and awkward growth.  I know this because I have a watched a few episodes in the past in weak moments.

But last night was something else, it wasn’t a weak moment at all.  Instead it was morbid curiousity about how the super clean and disciplined wife who lives in a pristine house was going to fare in the home of the loud and obnoxious wife with dead rats littered about.  It was, to say the least, an intersting challenge for both of them to live in the antithesis of what they know and cultivate.

While I was watching the show and the things the women and families go through I began to wonder how much these families get paid to have their lifestyles and quirks exploited.  I surmise they get paid a lot. You would have to get paid a lot to subject yourself to that – wouldn’t you?  How much would it have to be?  Would you do it for $20,000…$30,000…$50,000?

I can tell you right now that there is not enough money to entice me to do such a show.  Well, maybe that is not exactly true.  I surmise I might consider many things if my family was suffering a hardship.  Not some minor hardship – it would have to be a serious hardship with no other alternative other than subjecting myself, my life, and family to the unforgiving microscope that is reality television. And even then, I would cringe.

On the episode last night both the wives seemed to have survived the experience and be no worse for the wear.  But I still wonder what happens after the cameras go away and the wives sit with their family members and friends to watch the show.  Do they think it was really all worth it when it is all said and done?  Or do they realize at that point that no matter what they were paid it just wasn’t enough?

Day one thousand three hundred and thirty-two of the new forty – obla di obla da

Ms. C

1 Response

  1. tim haering

    Reality TV is pornographic or should be. I refuse to watch folks wash their stained undies by hand on TV. But one day, fiddling with the broken air conditioner of the most slovenly mother-daughter roommates who ever lived, they happened to turn on the Kardashians. I do not recall the details, but it was embarrassing to me to be leering into their lives at the dinner table, listening to their petty family squabbles, their selfish and venal behaviors. I looked to the right, there was an empty milk carton, a Dorito bag, some Cheesits. On my left, dirty socks and panties, a fork with schmutz on it, a bottle cap. Dog hair everwhere, urine somewhere. And the mother and daughter who lived in this unhygenic dishevelment were arguing about who got to use the DVR. How about who’s gonna clean the disgusting kitchen?!

    Sitting in white trash, watching white trash watch white trash, I decided society has gone too far for me. I will not watch reality TV. As tempting as it may be, like pornography, the lure of voyeur, I will not watch it. I feel like life has begun imitating it. And hopefully, if I don’t watch it long enough, it will turn aside and go away. I’m not looking for life to turn into Pleasantville, but the Partridge Family would be nice at this point.

    Thanks for sharing, Ms. C. I’ll watch it vicariously thru you. Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name, nobody came. Father McKenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave, no one was saved.

    Now a Harold Ramus tribute: After listening to my screed, you should turn to me and say, “Lighten up, Francis.”

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