The Healing Powers of Violent Television

During many of the more trialing times in my life, there have been 2 constant themes: the television and my mother. While it would be funny to say that these were the culprits of the trials (especially the latter) that's not what I'm saying--a mere presence of both is all.

Two examples:

Exhibit A:

Christmas Break during my sophomore year of college, on a trip to Mammoth with my family: it was a trip that was supposed to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship between me and snowboarding, but ended up with me on the couch of our rented condo for an entire week suffering with something akin to the Bubonic Plague. House would have snatched my case right up. I had about every symptom under the sun and what illness it was exactly, still remains a mystery. His white board would have been completely filled and he would have spent hours just sitting there looking at it and bouncing a rubber ball.

While everyone else in the family besides my Mom (who abhors being cold) was out skiing/snowboarding, I was watching a Behind the Music marathon on VH1, which had always been one of my favorite shows. On that trip, I watched every single episode. Every. Single. One. And who was there in the adjoining kitchen cooking and cleaning? My Mom. She learned everything she ever wanted to know about sex, drugs and rock and roll via the lives of the Spice Girls, the Mamas and the Papas, the Doors, Nirvana, Boy George and the Culture Club, Busta Rhymes, etc.


Exhibit B:

The week after Ruby was born--recovering from her birth/my crazy hormones/her sudden existence/my first experience with insomnia/her refusal to nurse all rocked my world in a really bad way. It was also hard on Go as he and I were at odds concerning the whole nursing issue due to a) his recent Immunology class where they basically taught if you are fed formula instead of breast milk, you will end up being sickly and stupid (for the record I ended up formula-feeding her and she's as smart as a whip and i am convinced formula has nothing whatsoever to do with her having diabetes) and b) we had only been married 2 years and we argued ineffectively like newly weds tend to do, which means he still hadn't figured out yet that in the end, I will always get my way. To say the least, he would have made a very passionate (and very cute) spokesman for La Leche League.
What was on TV for the both of us to drown our "My Spouse is Crazy" sorrows in? An Ultimate Fighting Champion marathon. Hours and hours of gorilla-men beating each other into a bloody pulp inside the octagon ring. (In the words of Jo March played by Wionna Ryder in Little Women, "I rather crave violence.") And who was there in the adjoining kitchen cooking and cleaning? My mom. She learned everything she ever wanted to know which was never anything about mixed martial arts.


Because this baby has been CRAZY WILD inside the womb (and my others were very calm inside and ended up being really happy babies), I am fearing the worst. Colic is the first thing that comes to mind--something I've always wondered if I could actually handle or not. I am fearing another rock-bottom week where I will turn to the television for solice. And my mom will be here, cooking and cleaning and being exposed to all kinds of seedy underbellies. Thanks to the technology of a DVR, I have been preparing for months. I have dozens and dozens of episodes of 48 Hours (everything she ever wanted to know about homicide investigations) and Intervention (everything she ever wanted to know about alcohol and drug addictions) ready to go if needs be.

Because, thanks to the healing powers of Behind the Music and UFC, I've learned it never hurts to watch stuff where people are way worse off then you are.