"I just want to sit on the couch in my underwear, drink Scotch and watch the Real Houswives of New Jersey."
-Dr. Gregory House
Yeah. That about sums it up.
My guilty pleasures center around my most-favorite deadly sin: sloth. I dig sloth. Really, I do. It's a wonderful treat to shove my brain in neutral, put on my fuzzy jammies, park my feet on the ottoman, and watch train-wreck television with a cat on my lap (the cats dig my fuzzy jammies).
And you know what I mean when I talk about train-wreck television. Pick from any of my favorites:
The Real Housewives (any flavor)
Hoarders
Toddlers and Tiaras
The Soup
Tosh.0
The Millionare Matchmaker
I Didn't Know I was Pregnant
Intervention
Say Yes to the Dress
Sister Wives
You get the picture. My husband will occasionally walk by, mutter "WTF," and walk away. I know a lot of folks who manage to forswear the idiot box entirely. But, hey, it's my harmless little vice.
"Why are you watching this?" my husband will say.
"Heh. It's funny."
"Why is a Botox-addicted man in fishnets making love to a vacuum cleaner funny?"
"Well, actually, that's a woman."
And I'll explain...there are two rules of funny:
1. It has to be true
2. It has to be happening to someone else.
Both conditions are conveniently satisfied by trainwreck television.
I know that most intelligent people don't confess to having television vices. We're all supposed to be too smart for that. We're supposed to be making cappucino and reading Tolstoy in our free time. But a half-hour of sequined white dresses, fire code violations, crazy-ass threats, and nut shots makes me laugh.
