It's no secret to the three of you who read this blog that Y & I love to watch bad TV. Especially when we're completely brain dead, sleep deprived or enjoying our (summer) cocktail of choice: St Germain w/ Blood Orange San Pellegrino and a squeeze o' lime. I think back to how we binged on Breaking Bad and Homeland when Callum was a newborn - and I get the shakes. I happily huffed an entire 3-season canister of Walter White, then chased it with a shaky-lipped xanax cocktail of Carrie Mathison and Mandy Patinkin like a strung out junkie. Those were the days. Now we're lucky to squeeze in a few precious moments with Tabatha while she kicks serious arse, takes those filthy hairy keys and takes over, before one of us is passed out, mouth open and slackjawed, drooling on the couch.
It's not easy to squeeze it all in. When you have to choose between sleep or waiting around for the Bachelorette to take a leap of faith off a skyscraper in Dubai, you know times are tough. Which leads me to my latest gripe. Naked & Afraid, the new Discovery Channel reality show, is not worth freebasing. It's neither naked, nor terrifying.
Within a few minutes of landing in their destination and greeting each other with their boobs and bits out, someone has woven a grass skirt, kilt or an argyle ball sweater out of banana leaves. One of the women on the last episode was so adept at making things out of the elements, she was no longer naked after 20 seconds. I'm sure she has a contract with Pottery Barn or Anthropologie to weave hammocks, chandeliers, 800 thread count egyptian cotton sheets and umbrellas at this point.
To the hopeful contestants who are looking to apply for the next season, I issue you a real challenge. Board a domestic flight at least 2 hours in duration from JFK's terminal 2 on Delta (aka, Pinnacle Airlines) with a 20 month-old. Walk down a sweaty maze of tunnels when it's 102 degrees in search of your plane. CLIMB stairs to board your mini plane, sitting on the tarmac, while carrying a 25 pound child, three carry-ons the size of a fire hydrant and one pair of baby-sized Keens so rank they could double as a bottle of ether. You are not allowed to bring an iPad, diapers, benadryl, alcohol, food or toys. You must refuse all offers of pretzels, peanuts or cookies. You cannot accept your coca-cola product, browse the snack box selection or opt for your lukewarm water without ice. I'll happily wipe my ass with your bamboo shavings if you hold my naked squirming toddler for three hours, as you attempt to prevent him from either
a) kicking the seat in front of him
b) pushing all of the call and light buttons overhead
c) opening and closing the tray table
d) opening and closing the window shade
e) harassing your nipples and armpits in an attempt to simultaneously nurse and burrow into your skin.
It's not that tough to survive 21 days on a tropical island, if you're a parent. It sounds heavenly to be shipwrecked. Let me be your island-mate? I'll climb trees with my ripped right arm, crack open coconuts with my thighs and sing you songs from PBS shows like Caillou and Dinosaur Train, all while foraging for bananas, finding water holes and cooking your fish over an open flame. Bring it on.