I had a bad dream the other night that the Rock and Roll Boyfriend and I were trapped on a reality television show about home improvement. Perhaps because I've been watching way, way too much Holmes on Holmes. But, whatever. I don't really watch capital "R", capital "T", Reality Television, with the exception of a bad American Idol audition or two and the last half of the last season of The Amazing Race (congratulations Lynn and Alex!).
But now after seeing commercials for Dancing With The Stars, I am now convinced that television can sink no lower. No, let me rephrase, C-listers, D-listers, and those even further down, can sink no further—this show feels like the ballroom equivalent of the ridiculous Lorenzo Lamas hot show that was on a couple of years ago. I mean, how much humiliation is honestly worth a) a mediocre paycheque and b) tepid and highly tenuous claims to fame?
Why aren't people fighting poverty and the AIDS crisis in Africa? I know, it's a moot point. But I still need to go for the jugular sometimes.
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Um, excuse me, but what the F$%* did the Dr say?
He said my bloodwork is unchanged (which isn't bad, but isn't fabulous either) and that the meds are making me way, way too sick. He reduced the dosage and if that doesn't work, he'll put me on a different drug.
The disease is still "grumbling", but I'm not dead yet, so that's something positive.
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