If you are new around here, there is something you should know about me. I like to watch TV. More specifically, reality TV. Not the political, societal or economical type of reality that is broadcast on the nightly news. But more of the singing/cooking/dating/sewing/weight loss/modeling/survival/dancing competition type of reality that is programmed on my DVR.
Democrats vs. Republicans? Boring.
Local murder, kidnap, and robbery? Too sad.
Dow Jones? Who cares.
I really don’t have any time for something as silly as current events when there are rose ceremonies, battle rounds, three part housewife reunions, and tribal councils to catch up on. Over the last year, however, the precious DVR storage that was once reserved for all things Andy Cohen has slowly been replaced by a blue dog, kiddie pirates, a curious monkey and a big ass talking cat.
Now that, is a news worthy tragedy.
I may be a rookie stay at home mom, but don’t count me out just yet. The learning curve is pretty flat when it comes to knowing how much TV a toddler should watch.
Answer? As much as possible.
The pride I once took in allowing my children to only watch a half hour of TV everyday wore off around day two on the job. The key to my parenting success revolves solely around how many different cartoon characters can keep them preoccupied long enough for me to complete important social media tasks.
Tell the truth. Do your children watch too much TV? Come on, I promise not to tell anyone. Consider this a safe place…it is just you, me and the internet.
My relationship with TV has made me the cynic I am today. Without it, who knows what I would have become. A philanthropist? A member of the laity? A vegan?
For years, TV has been a loyal friend to me. It has been with me through thick and thin, always offering a remote control to cry on and never once judging me for secretly watching Jerry Springer against strict orders from my parents.
We’ve been through a lot together.
The rise and fall of the Dillon Panthers, twenty-two broken Bachelor and Bachelorette engagements, Meg Pryor’s debut on Bandstand, Christopher and Paulie fighting over a ketchup packet ,my crush on Jordan Catalano, and the Felicity/Ben/Noel love triangle.
Who am I to stand in the way of my children creating the same long lasting memories? Plus, TV costs significantly less than a babysitter.
Humans as child care providers are totally overrated.
As a mother, it is my duty to foster diversity within my children’s lives. Some parents encourage this through community service, athletics, or books. Not me. Everything my children will ever need to know, they can learn from Nick Jr.
See that? I’m not totally reckless.
I am responsible enough to know that regular old Nickelodeon is TOTALLY not age appropriate. If my children’s brains are going to turn into mush, you better believe that I am going to have a say in it.
And now, some deep thoughts on these DVR consuming criminals:
Now this is what you call a low budget piece of shit. Poor Steve, the host, wears the same damn green toned rugby shirt, braided leather belt and pleated khakis every episode. In this half human half cartoon production, Steve can be found prancing around in front of poorly drawn backdrops while chasing a blue dog named (get this) Blue, drawing shitty pictures in his Handy Dandy Notebook, talking to various pieces of furniture or breaking into an occasional song and dance. I don’t need a f*cking Thinking Chair to think this show sucks.
Jake And The Neverland Pirates
Yo Ho! Did someone say treasure? A deserted island inhabited by only kiddie pirates is indeed a treasure. How many Goldablooms will three one way tickets cost me? Instead of using pixie dust to defeat Captain Hook, those little idiots should use it to refill my wine glass instead. Because I am going to need a few more rounds if I have to watch another waterfall magically start and stop to reveal a supped up pirate ship or listen to another Aye-Aye-Matey jingle performed by two middle aged wanna be pirates with bad accents.
Parents, lock your doors. There is a creeper on the loose. Any single well groomed man wearing a yellow hat, a yellow shirt, a yellow tie, and yellow pants that refers to himself in nickname only MAY (or may not be) a pedophile.
Or, suffer from OCPD.
Or, all of the above.
I once saw an episode where the Man With The Yellow Hat returned previously worn yellow shorts to the store because they turned “saffron” after just one wash. He pulled the I-have-an-important-presentation-to-give-and-I-have-to-know-my-shorts-are-yellow excuse on the store employee.
Really, that works?
Good to know.
It’s about time I replaced the my-son-ripped-the-tag-off-before-I-could-stop-him excuse.
Cat In The Hat
I hate cats. The talking and singing kind are the worst. I wouldn’t want my young boys go, go, go on an adventure with this cat and his thingamajigger. See, it sounds creepy!
The economy might be in the shitter but you won’t find this red and white hat wearing cat in the unemployment line. As if hearing his crazed voice every morning wasn’t torture enough, now my regularly scheduled evenings in front of the TV are ruined too.
Just when I thought Old Navy commercials couldn’t get any worse, they did.
I couldn’t take it anymore, I had to identify the man behind the voice. The horrifying truth is that his pale skin and red hair may haunt my dreams more than his voice.
God Save The Gingers.