Unreal Reality TV

By day, my “real” friend Jane is a sharp corporate professional; by night, she’s a reality TV groupie. Sad but true. As her imaginary friend, I’ve told her and told her she should be ashamed of her Neanderthal taste in programming. With all of the wonderful channels for intelligent viewing, I say--Masterpiece Theatre, National Geographic, Animal Planet, Investigative Discovery and some thoughtful news analysis to name a few.

“I want entertainment,” she snaps rather testily one night. “I wanna watch someone else feel pain and humiliation. I wanna escape. Besides there are some really talented people on these shows. Stop being so stuck up. It’s fun and you know it.”

Jane, girl, they’re cheating you, I say. Most of this stuff is fake, scripted. You’re being sucked into a vortex of unreality.

Despite her eye-rolling, I read my research on the topic aloud. “According to a Time.com article, ‘How Reality TV Fakes It’ by James Poniewozik, even savvy viewers who realize that their favorite reality shows are cast, contrived and edited to be dramatic may have no idea how brazen the fudging can be. Quotes are manufactured, crushes and feuds constructed out of whole cloth, episodes planned in multiact “storyboards” before taping, scenes stitched together out of footage shot days apart.”

By this time, however, American Idol is blaring forth. Jane’s TV tray holds chips, a zapped frozen dinner, a vodka tonic, and I’d better shut up or she’ll tune me out altogether. Like that time her parents called while Simon Cowell was berating some poor schmuck, and Jane hung up on them. I know. I was there hoping that her father wasn’t having a heart attack.

So, what’s up with this viewing phenomenon? Forget the networks and advertisers; they’re raking in the shekels. What about the just plain folks? Are people who guzzle this fictional mush living vicariously? Is life so dull that they can only survive by Keeping up with the Kardashians? Is mediocrity so rampant that one must be a Survivor, so deadened that Fear Factor is the only solution, so bored that one must be Lost?

But then again, imaginary friends only have so much pull, so I drop the subject and drift into the next room where the little television flickers in the dark. As I settle at the kitchen bar, I feel so righteous, hoping that this sinking into the quicksand of worthless television will end and…wait a minute!

Don’t tell me she’s chosen that bimbo as her new bestie, her new BFF! No way. What was Paris thinking anyway?

The Art of Awfulizing

How Bad Can It Get?

My friend Jane takes awfulizing to the absolute max.

When her college student daughter calls to say she’s coming home for the weekend, Jane’s imagination usually accelerates into the following wildly unreasonable and negative chain reaction:

1. “What if she runs out of gas on the interstate or has a flat tire and a serial killer stops to help her? Must renew her pepper spray keychain. Now where did I buy that last time, the gun shop?
2. “It’ll be dark before she gets home and there might be drunks on the highway. Hope she isn’t one of them. Oh dear God, she’s not drinking this early in the day, is she?
3. “What if she’s on her cell phone and rams the back of a car? She purely flies down that passing lane and follows too closely. I’ve told her to leave one car length for every 10 mph, but does she ever listen to me? Hmph, drives like her father.
4. “What if she gets a speeding ticket and causes our exorbitant insurance rate to skyrocket? Must nag husband to comparison shop insurance companies. Oh yeah, must also find out where he was the other night as the poker game got canceled and he still stayed gone for hours and never a word of explanation. But that means I’d have to start speaking to him again. What if he’s seeing another woman? I’ll kill him. Spending money on some bimbo when he’s tight as a tick with me. I’ll take him to the cleaners, by golly, and then I’ll pay off my credit cards.
5. “Why am I worrying about him when it’s my child I need to focus on? Maybe I’ll call now to see how far she’s gotten down the road. No. Wait. She’ll wreck when she’s digging for her phone.
6. “Yikes, I better get online and make sure she has money on her check card for gas. I can’t believe how these freaking oil companies jack up prices and still close down their pumps. Soon we won’t have any gas at all. I’ll have to start taking the bus to work and there isn’t one that even goes by the house. What’ll I do then?
7. “I can’t live like this.”

And on and on… (see YouTube video of Loretta LaRoche: Catastrophizing and Awfulizing).

Negative vs. Positive Thinking
Some definitions from positive thinking and behavioral psychology articles and Web sites include 1) imagining something to be as bad as it can possibly be; 2) taking a situation or a problem and turning it into a terrible, intolerable situation; 3) complaining and characterizing a mundane issue as some horrible, catastrophic occurrence; 4) exaggerating the severity of an event; and 5) projecting horrible outcomes that have not yet occurred (click here at mindset for performance.com and here at innerself.ca to read more about awfulizing and how to rechannel that negative energy into positive thinking and results).

According to a Reuters Health article, pessimism can up the risk of death in heart patients. A Duke University Medical Center study has found that people with heart disease who have a pessimistic outlook are much more likely to die early compared to those who are more optimistic about their situation.

“The take-home message” for heart patients “is that having positive expectations can not only make you feel better but also potentially live longer,” said Dr. John Barefoot, who presented the findings at the American Psychosomatic Society Annual Meeting in March.

In my view, this doesn't bode well for awfulizers, who draw pessimistic thoughts out to the nth degree.

A similar article, “Positive Thinking as a Habit” from ithinketh.com, states that “when we think of things we want, we should think of them and how to acquire them in a positive way.” So, don’t say “I will not eat junk food, or I have to go on a diet.” Say “I will eat healthy food consistent with the body weight I want to attain.”

Jane read this article and said, “I will eat healthy food consistent with the body weight I want to attain…tomorrow” at the Wendy’s drive-in just before supersizing her order. She’s halfway there, I guess.

Stop Awfulizing
In her article “How to Stop Awfulizing,” Christine Cadena lists the following tips to improve overactive thoughts of negativity (to which I comment in the parentheses):
1) Exercise (Raise those pesky endorphins)
2) Journal (Write down the positive; get in control of events, for heaven’s sake)
3) Paint with music to give visual expression to negative emotions (Aha! Take a look at some Jackson Pollock. And what’s up with Picasso’s synthetic cubism and the woman in an armchair? Could these guys have perfected the art of awfulizing?)
4) Interact with social network (Engage positive thinkers and motivators. Unfortunately, Jane’s hubby is as much as gloom-and-doomer as she is. Two weeks ago, he upset Jane by predicting that Hurricane Hanna would tear through the state and wreak the same havoc as Hugo in the 1980s. It didn’t come close, but Jane’s husband now has plenty of batteries, bottled water and a shelf full of Beanie Weenies just in case)

A Fair Weather Outlook
As her imaginary friend (IF), I try to help Jane, but she’s stubborn about taking my advice. I get annoyed, so I turn to satisfying pursuits such as color-coordinating my life and finding designer shoes at fabulous prices. There is something to be said for shallow; if I were real, I’d live longer than Jane. I shouldn’t put her down too much though. She does occasionally break out of her pessimistic shell with sporadic tennis games followed by bubble-headed lunches with her girlfriends at the country club.

But perhaps Dorothy Parker, the American writer, poet and critic, practiced the art of awfulizing better than anyone else. It’s said that she always answered her telephone with the greeting, “What fresh hell is this?”

Exercise. Ugh.

Jog/Trudge
Phew! I just finished a 4-mile (well, OK, 3.5-mile) aerobic session through the neighborhood with Jane, my host organism and BFF. I struggled to keep her slogging (slow jogging) for as long as possible, but even imaginary friends (IFs) can motivate only so much. Although Jane slowed to a trudge for the last 2 miles, whining about a bad knee and hurt second toe, she still revved up that metabolism in spite of herself.

Tennis Anyone?

Earlier today, I “guilt-ed” her out of her recliner where she’s been horizontal for the past several days watching U.S. Open tennis (usopen.org). I also accept a smidgen of guilt for suggesting she check out the tournament, thus initiating her lethargy. However, I'd expected her to get fired up and run outside to perspire sexily like the swift gods and goddesses on the small screen.

Wrong. She claimed that after observing the excellent conditioning of the players, she was too depressed to move. Thereafter, she only jiggled her body mass index (webmd.com) by waggling the remote control or buttering the cinnamon bread her spouse has inconsiderately become obsessed with lately.

Although zoning out on tennis was a bad idea for my couch potato, the Open coverage has surpassed my expectations so far. Tennis legend John McEnroe’s (Wikipedia) witty commentary and insight into the participants’ minds plays like the nostalgic reminiscences at a family reunion. Celebrity sightings plus glimpses of sleek, toned legs, wet hair under headbands, arms cut with gleaming muscles and abs exposed during first serves have kept me happily diverted. What? I might be an IF, but I’m not dead yet.

(Actually, I think Jane and I watched-instead-of-moved during the Beijing Summer Olympics (nbcolympics.com) too but justified this by deciding we could exercise any old time, whereas the Olympics only comes around every four years. You get my point; there’s always an excuse, and butts spread.)

I Hate Exercise

Don’t get me wrong. Unless it’s a mall crawl, I hate exercise (webmd.com). Having slim genes and nice height keep me from stressing about it. But as an IF, I must consider Jane’s lifestyle. "They" say exertion benefits mental and physical health. Heaven knows, Jane could use a boost in both, what with a jolly-but-inattentive husband, diva daughter (see the Kath and Kim video clip at the bottom of this page) and full-time cubicle job in corporate America (see Aug. 26 blog, Cube-Ism Culture).

According to the article, “The Three “E’s”: Exercise, Endorphins and Euphoria” (mens-total-fitness.com), exercise improves your mood and makes you feel better. As I always imagined endorphins to be some special kind of marine mammal, I was surprised to read they were “powerful hormone-like substances produced in the brain that function as the body’s own natural painkillers. During exercise, there is a release of endorphins in the body that are capable of producing feelings of euphoria and a general state of well being.”

Euphoria? Jane? After what she called a “gruesome” workout? No way. But wait. After her shower, she did flash a silly euphoric grin at me as she replanted herself on the sofa and savaged a supersized bag of Cheetos--baked, of course.

IFs often lead frustrating lives.

Cube-ism Culture

A Cramped Mentality
I claim no responsibility for the landfill aesthetics of this cubicle. Even imaginary friends (IFs) have limits when it comes to covering up for their friends.

This travesty in office chic belongs to my real-world host organism, the BFF I call Jane to preserve her anonymity. When this photo was taken, she'd just tidied up for her boss’s visit. You should have seen it an hour earlier.

Over time, I've suggested minimalist décor and a few well-placed objets d’art to no avail, not a surprising thing given Jane’s nouveau-hippie style and obsession with boy-oriented vintage toys (see the huge Bart Simpson Pez dispenser and Rock‘Em Sock‘Em Robots?). I usually just sigh at her choices and secretly gloat over the 50th anniversary Barbie collection I've channeled her to order (it arrives in 2009, so there’s plenty of time to convince her that she wanted it). One must pick one’s battles, after all. However, I believe Jane’s 2,000-hour-per-year existence in a 6’ x 6’ corral keeps her shrink, chiropractor and exercise class in business, which, on the other hand, is good for the economy (see other positive cubicle effects below).

Cube life makes us both cranky—me because IFs crave light and mellow ambiance and Jane because the blood flow to her appendages is constricted, not to mention that two’s a crowd in a small gray box.

More Cubicle Issues
1. Lacks privacy. Jane displays admirable discretion when phoning her credit card companies to whisper about late payments. However, when her daughter calls from college to say her checking account is overdrawn again, she screeches every motherly word and the heads of Cube World’s prairie dogs pop up over the four-foot walls, no doubt wishing for doors.
2. Allows intrusive noise. See No. 1. Unbeknownst to her, Jane has been called “Old Yeller” behind her back.
3. Hampers shop-o-rama. In the layoff world, one must appear productive, which leads to furtiveness when conducting totally necessary, when-else-am-I-going-to-do-it Internet shopping. Time flies when I direct my love of stilettos and bling through Jane, but then she’s prone to cut off my spree without warning if nosy co-workers, or worse, supervisors, clump by and rubberneck at the monitor. Give Jane credit though for great hand-eye coordination in the simultaneous nixing of Nordstrom’s fashion pages while opening the boring Excel report and frowning in spreadsheet-related concentration.
4. Smacks of prison and/or institution. Duh. Monotone cells promote the desire to escape pronto, thereby canceling out potential productivity.
5. Stifles creativity. How can Jane think “out of the box” if she’s in one?

Cartoon title is "There goes a lung" from My Life in a Cube, Daily Reflections from My Work Cubicle by Shane Johnson.

6. Encourages disease. As an IF, I’m immune to sickness, but it’s still tedious to hear the co-workers hack and wheeze through cold and flu season. The minute the misty germs begin to circulate, I steer Jane down the pharmacy aisles.

Even the inventor of the cubicle concept, Robert Propst, regretted his “unwitting contribution of what he called ‘monolithic insanity’”, according to FORTUNE Magazine’s March 22, 2006, article, “Cubicles: The Great Mistake” by Julie Schlosser. As a young designer in the 1960s, Propst designed an economical new system of spacious work surfaces and shelves. Partitions were meant to provide privacy and places to hang projects in progress. But, as the office model evolution ground on, Propst’s vision kept shrinking. Now, cubicles walls are plastered with images such as wedding portraits, baby pix and posters of Russell Crowe in gladiator garb while office life has become a Mad Hatter whoosh into a bolt-hole, getting the job done without accruing overtime.

On the Positive Side
Although positives abound, they reek of quiet desperation, in my view. In the article, “Pros and Cons of Cubicles”, author I. Michael Akbar’s list of tongue-in-cheek pros include the following:

1. Cloth walls. These work great with push pins for wall art.
2. Nostalgia. The enclosure reminds us of the forts we built as children.
3. Eco-friendly. Less construction material and furniture is used.
4. Economy of space. More personnel in smaller areas saves the company money.
5. Projectiles. Throwing spitballs and paper clips at co-workers is simplified by the low walls.

I think the biggest plus has been to pop culture in the form of entertainments such as Dilbert, Office Space and The Office.

Get Over It
Cubes are here to stay, so flinging oneself over the battlements (the partitions, in this case) and moaning about corporate fate would serve no purpose. From their marble and glass offices, CEOs and operations managers strive to ensure user-friendly workspace. Jane is lucky enough to have a window nearby and, if she stands on tiptoe, can see treetops on the horizon.

Sometimes on the early shift, Jane dons John Lennon sunglasses to gaze into the rising sun—a scenario I exploit afterward by guiding her back to her cubicle and online to, hmmm, a designer handbag site I've heard is to die for….

Jane’s fingers softly begin to tap the keyboard...http://www.google.com/

Ah.

The Bitch Is Back

What Is an IF?
Do most children outgrow their imaginary friends (IFs)? I say phooey. Often, IFs take charge of their host organisms when they become adults and speak through them. Someone has to.

(Note: To learn more about IFs, who can be both nurturing and nasty, click on the following link (or copy to your browser.)

http://www.abc.net.au/science/news/stories/s1628324.htm

IFs are in the air as witnessed by James Patterson's new book, Sundays at Tiffany's. Hmmm, I haven't met this IF, and he sounds hot. Story of my life. Oh well, read thestar online review here:

http://thestar.com.my/lifestyle/story.asp?file=/2008/8/1/lifebookshelf/1542694&sec=lifebookshelf

Or check out the movie Drop Dead Fred about the IF from hell (see video clips at bottom of this blog page). This isn't Oscar stuff, but it entertains. I've not met this Fred guy either, for which I'm thankful. He's not my type, and he makes all IFs look like freaks. Whatever. To each his own technique, and his was eventually successful...which leads back to my situation in life. Unlike the power babe protag of Sundays at Tiffany's and the guy-fantasy Phoebe Cates in Drop Dead Fred, my host organism is ho-hum. If left to her own devices, she would read novels, scarf corn chips and chew her nails 24/7. So, I grit my perfect white teeth, shove her off the sofa and put the fear of IF into her. It’s all about dishing out tough love, and she and I go back a long way; we met during her parents’ divorce when she was four years old. Life stresses being what they are, it’s been impossible to leave her since then except for an occasional well-earned holiday in, of course, a tropical locale.

I won’t reveal my host organism's name as she is, I suppose, my BFF and due a certain amount of privacy. For your frame of reference and my gratification, however, I will say that she and I are physical opposites.

She is of medium height, olive complexion and curly hair, with a big tushie and what used to be a small waist. For work or special occasions, she trails dressy hippie garb and two swipes of mascara. For casual, she schleps around in college sweatshirt chic and the odd, lashless look of a rabbit. She’s married to a stock broker, who once wore sexy, pin-striped suits. But these days, he hates the market and, in stained t-shirts and baggy shorts, spends large chunks of time shooing squirrels off his jungle of backyard tomato vines. Somehow, this couple produced a lovely, stylish, high-maintenance daughter, now in college, who swipes her bank card as often as possible.

This is the world in which IFs operate because our technology hasn’t advanced enough to allow us to fully function in reality. Sadly, you might never see that I am 5’8”, slim, with a smooth dark blonde French twist (I often succumb to golden highlights) and a closet full of designer, OCD-aligned frocks and shoes. As is my habit though, I will most likely mention these attributes often, and, when What Not to Wear creates an Imaginary Friend spin-off, the bossy on-air job is mine.

Enough about me for now. In future blogs, I will dish out slice-of-life rants and raves from my POV for your consumption. I hope you like smorgasbord.