Why blog now? is the question running through my mind even as I type this. I have nineteen notebooks full of intellectual property stacked neatly in my office. Not once have I put them out on the coffee table when friends visit or in any other way encouraged people to read my tangential, digressive thoughts.
What’s changed? I’ve gotten myself into a spot of trouble. Several of you already know this. I have become a reality TV subject. Next week a new show will debut on VH1 and at some point during the season there will be a 22 minute episode all about my desolate love life.
I know, you’re thinking I am the least likely person to be on a reality TV show. I haven’t had television reception in my home in more than three years. Reality programming is part of the reason why. Please believe me when I tell you it was all an accident. I went along with it. I take responsibility for it. I simply never would have predicted that anyone would look at me and think, “Now that’s good television.” I am as surprised as anyone.
Are you ready for the best part? Okay, there are three best parts. One: The show is now called Can’t Get a Date. Two: Within the first eight minutes of the episode, I am giving tips on performing oral sex. Three: I am made to play sports and as a result I get into an actual, real live, rolling in the dirt, punching, scratching, biting girl fight.
We will deconstruct later, I promise. For now I just want to go on record, somewhere, about how extraordinary the whole process was (not that this is the only topic up for discussion here). We shot for nearly four months. They had enough footage to make twelve episodes about a dozen different Hillery type characters. I changed a lot of things in my life as a result of this experience. I still don’t date much (okay, at all).
Just before Christmas, the producers had me into the studio for a follow up interview, during which I watched the episode for the first time. It is so strange to see yourself on camera. I do not move or sound anything like I thought I did. I was shocked, shocked to find that indeed I had bitten a stranger. All in all, I came off okay, even charming in a feisty way.
My deal is, I’m always asking myself, “If you just met you, would you like you?” Am I decent and intelligent and funny enough to impress myself? I ruminate. I am a ruminator. I ruminate like crazy! Generally the answer is yes. Certainly, I make an ass of myself often enough. Usually the circumstances make my actions at least somewhat understandable. The girl, the one I bit, ran me down and hurled a water balloon at my head after her whole team had been beaning me with them for 45 minutes. Okay, so she missed. I was mad as Hell and I wasn’t going to take it anymore!
Then something occurred to me that I probably should have considered before the whole thing started: people who don’t know me are going to watch the show and think that’s me. They’re going to have opinions about a tip of the iceberg, collage display of me and I don’t even get to decide what pieces make the cut. I’m going to be the poster girl for blow jobs and sissy fights.
Coming to terms with this took a while. Along with being a ruminator, I am also a control freak and I’m borderline OCD. I took it all very seriously. I made a list. The list was your standard two column pro/con deal. It was, I thought, an objective self assessment of my personality. As if such a thing were possible. Where do I come up with this shit? Really? Now I look at it and I have to laugh. It’s like a cartoon of my neuroses. Actually, it’s kind of adorable.
I am posting it here, yes, to entertain you, but largely to console myself. I don’t mind looking foolish. It’s just that I want to have a say in what foolishness of mine you see and the context it is given. Because I may be an ass, but I’m not an asshole. That’s all I really want people to know about me…for now.