Of Cabbages and Kings

Ah, television-- putting the "pow" and "bif" into mind-numbing entertainment options for over half a century! And me, well, I've spent my share of time plunked down in front of the old boob tube.

But for folks who say television has nothing to teach us, I say they're WRONG!

In fact, I think they're SO wrong, I've pulled together just a few absolutely indispensable things (read: useless mind-clutter pushing out the really important stuff in my brain), all of which I've learned over the years from watching TV:

Only good-looking people find themselves stuck on deserted islands, as members of any elite team, survivors from a plague, or in the medical profession. If you're in one of these situations and you are not terribly attractive? Brace yourself for a poignant death three episodes into the season. Unless you are funny.

The cooler and edgier you are, the more frequently your world will break into unexpected slo-mo, particularly when you're just walking purposefully from here to there. When you feel the slo-mo coming, make sure you've got a long coat handy that can billow in the breeze.

When you have experienced the loss of a loved one, sad music in a two-minute montage will begin, interspersed with flashbacks. This is a perfectly acceptable replacement for actual feelings, discussion or facial expressions.

No one ever really needs to go to the restroom-- thinking we do is a misconception. Jack Bauer, for instance, has been holding it for at least five seasons. The only acceptable reason for entering a restroom is if the serial killer, who's been stalking you, is hiding in there.

You can be a renowned scientist, important professor or highly decorated supercop by age 25. None of your less-alert and middle-aged team members will call you things like "Kid" or "Skippy." And no one will be surprised that you're the one with all the authority at the crime scene. The exception to this is if you are a Rookie Cop who Doesn't Play by the Rules. Then your superiors are obligated to condescend to you. Don't worry; you will humiliate them all later.

If you are a female scientist, you are beautiful, but have bad eyesight and haven't heard of contact lenses. Also, no one will notice how beautiful you are until you remove your glasses during casual discussion. Glasses are the number one protective barrier to anyone noticing you are a supermodel.

When in a tense forensic situation where a body is being examined, and specialized knowledge is critical-- it's important to make a bad pun each time you leave the scene. That shows how hip, savvy and in-control you are. If you aren't currently good at punning, there are classes to help you hone your skills.

If you are a female in a horror situation, and turn to the dark side your hair will look better than it ever has. Being possessed or going evil means suddenly you have your own personal stylist. Yes, the key to ending bad hair days is to get overtaken by a demon and try to destroy the world. End of Life as We Know It? Yes. But super -do!

On any level road, two cars experiencing a simple rear-end collision can defy all laws of physics and the back car will run up over the lead car. The back car will then flip, roll down an embankment, and explode. It’s a little-known fact that in the '70s and early '80s, car airbags were filled with rocket fuel for our safety. This is why our insurance rates are so high today.

It is impossible to build your own armored car or gun arsenal until 15 to 20 minutes before the show concludes. Don't worry. At the appropriate time, you will find yourself in an abandoned warehouse with scraps of metal and a blowtorch. If no scraps of metal are available, one of your teammates will have to offer up his extensive collection of gold chains, to melt down into appropriate bulletproof protection.

All metal is bulletproof. Hide behind any dumpster or self-made tank during a shoot-out, and you will remain unscathed.

If you're a bad guy in a chase scene, there is a high probability you will survive a car crash. If you're an '80s bad guy, you will feel compelled to ask your evil cohorts if they're okay. Hardened criminals are always concerned about each other’s safety.

Also, if you're considering getting into the Bad Guy career field, never stop for cops, no matter what your driving violation. It doesn't matter if you've got a broken tail light, you blew through a stop sign, or you've jaywalked. You are automatically obligated to become the lead car in a high-speed chase.

Well, those are the main things I've learned over the years from watching TV. What invaluable knowledge has television taught you folks? I'd love to hear about it.

PS- Thanks to those of you who already voted for me for "Humor Blogger of the Year." Much appreciated-- I will be able to show my face around the Humorblogger's forum without my compadres spitting in my drink and, um, trying to give me wedgies.

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Stalking. It was roughly seven years ago to this day that I was well into a brand new hobby-- stalking what was my soon-to-be-new house.

About once a week, I would drive out of my way to cruise by it.... slow down... and goggle.

I would take in its gigantic spindled porch.... its cheerful bay window... its happy porch swing... its gently sloping yard. (The yard was "gently sloping" then. Ah, silly ignorant me-- unaware of how many times I, Future Jenn, would tumble down that "gentle slope" with flailing limbs and half-pulled weeds in my fists.)

I found myself daydreaming about the house in quiet times during the day. I'd wonder how it was... whether the current owners were treating it kindly. I'd wonder what it looked like with the fall daylight spilling across its roof. I'd ponder the glow of its stained glass window. I'd diagram its rooms and position my stuff there. I'd write its address in the margins of my notebook with hearts and flowers doodled around it.

Obsession. There was simply no other word for it. If my house had been a person, charges would have been filed.

Worse, I had the urge to buy it presents. Little tokens of affection like this great area rug I'd found on the Internet. One day, I recall, had been all about carpeting. Where could I get this carpet? How much was it here or there? Was it the right shade of red? How soon could I get it? And what size would look best in the living room that was not yet mine?

I knew I needed an intervention, but I was too deeply sick to care.

Coworkers would ask me about the house and I'd be unable hold back the goofy smile. I spoke of the place lovingly, and too often. I recall wishing I had a boyfriend I cared about as much as that darling domicile. But figured the boyfriend would probably want to live inside the house. And I doubted he could love it as much as I did. There’d be a conflict, and then one of them would have to go.

I figured I could convert his closet into some bookshelves.

And then my flatmate’s family came to town, and I even ended up taking them to stalk my new house. But with the current homeowner’s car sitting sentinel in the driveway, it became clear that my acute fear of public humiliation was still somehow stronger than my house lust.

Ah, in two cars we pulled up outside my object of obsession. And thinking back, we probably looked a lot like a targeted, ungraceful bank heist.

"Okay, you can step out of your car," I instructed my friend's family in low tones, "but keep the engine running!"

"Oh, but we want a picture of you in front of the house," said my friend's mom, wide-eyed.

"No time, no time! They're home, someone will see!"

"Pleeeease...?" She looked so excited and sweet there in her plastic rainbonnet, what could I do? Mom-type-people have a way of manipulating the improperly armed.

So "click, click, click" went the camera. And thus went two blurry photos of the house, and one with me pausing hesitantly in front of the "Sold" sign.

"Wooow," cooed my friend’s mom, pointing and starting to go up the front steps, "is that a porch swing?"

I saw a flicker in the window. Was that a curtain moving?

Abort, abort, abort!! Whoop, whoop, whoop, dive, dive!

"No time for that," I said quickly, shepherding her in a fleet-footed U-turn back to the vehicle. "I’ll be happy to answer any and all questions on the way to the apartment. Everyone, back in the cars," and vrrroom!

Of course, I was sure the owners saw me. Saw me for the umpteenth time since I found the place.

"Hey-- that red-haired girl’s out there again. You know, the one that keeps driving really slowly by the house?... Do you think we should have installed a more elaborate security system? I mean, this time it seems she’s brought a gang."

"I don’t know, they look pretty harmless. Fer Pete's sake, look at that plastic rain bonnet. Besides, we’ll be out of here in a few weeks and the new owner will have to deal with her."

I figured the closing was going to be pretty interesting.

Then, two months later, at the moment of truth, I finally met the owners. We made small talk... you know, light chit-chat the way people involved in getting gigantic lumps sums of money, or signing away their first born child, do. I told them how pleased I was to have won the bid, and how I'd always wanted to live in a Victorian.

And one of the owners chuckled and said, "Actually, we were surprised we didn't meet you sooner. I mean, we thought you'd at least stop by to see the place a couple of times. I don't know how you resisted."

Erm, yeah. I smiled, nodded, chuckled noncommitally and I turned my attention quickly to signing away that first born child.

Never get cocky when it comes to home stalking. And always, always keep your triumphs to yourself.

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PS- If anyone cares to vote for me for Humor Blogger of the Year over at Humorbloggers, I'd be mighty beholden if you clicked on the red box in the right sidebar and voted for Of Cabbages and Kings under Personal Blogs. Many graciases!