Big Brother is watching.
No, not the conspiracy theory Big Brother, I mean the television show. You know, the one where they send a bunch of dorks who desperately want to have fame and gainful employment for at least two months of the year, so they apply to take part in a “social experiment” on live television, where cameras capture their every betrayal as they back-stab one another in cruel, demeaning ways to win money.
Yep, that’s what the world is coming too.
I confess that I’ve watched the show. I cannot explain why. Voyeurism? It goes along with my embarrassment for having watched episodes of that reality show Hoarders, which I follow up with programs like Antique Hunters and those dudes who buy storage units to resell the crap from the aforementioned Hoarders. Yes, for a monthly fee, you, too, can have your brain sucked dry by mind-numbing reality shows. You will learn to like it. It happens as fast as you can ask, “Where is the remote?”
Maybe I am drawn to those shows because I see myself in them, not figuratively, but I am emotionally invested somehow. I may not be a hoarder, per se, but I am a holder of stuff. My hallway at present has a pile of clothes to be put away, a bag of clothes to be given away, and a pile of clothes to be laundered. It all sits next to the pile of books to be read, books to be given away, and books to finally meet their maker in the recycling bin.
I have stacks for the stacks of stuff to be un-stacked at a later date, and stacks of stuff that I stack just for the sheer joy of stacking it. But I love to toss stuff out too. I love to organize my recyclables, to send things off to sale or charity. Organized chaos: the story of my life.
The Carpenter and I used to have a storage unit, but we let go of that to pay the cable bill. Now we’ll never be on the Storage Wars. And I don’t think Ikea furniture constitutes antiques, so the Antique Hunter won’t be calling us either.
But I have thought of a great pilot for my own version of the Big Brother series. It’s called Big Mistake and it involves having a camera in my home every minute of every day. I think it could be a ratings sweepstake.
Viewers could watch my family do the unthinkable, like casting blame on the old dog for the weird smells in the room. They could watch the lies and manipulations around who forgot to flush, or who left the toilet roll empty, and why nobody will take responsibility for the spilt juice on the floor. High drama would escalate in the frantic search and rescue of Troy the turtle as he escapes his tank. How does that even happen?
Imagine the intrigue of the daily search for the portable phone, remote control, and my glasses. Or the deeply personal reflections I have in the bathroom mirror, whilst attempting to pluck that one long hair out of my chin before standing sideways to contemplate whether a pair of Spanx underwear would actually make me look less pregnant post-kids (’cause gravity is cruel). Or how I sometimes sniff the laundry, only to snap back, horrified by my own stupidity.
Big Mistake, coming soon. Call your cable station to subscribe.