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Just a tip: if you notice that Netflix streaming now has the first season of AMC's The Killing, and you remember being a little interested in watching the show when it aired last year, and never actually getting around to it, but you also remember that the hype seemed to die a little and you know that if you asked somebody if it's worth watching right now, you might not get a yes, do not google "what's wrong with The Killing?" and expect to find TV reviews. Google will ignore the "the," and you're left with a million links to places you don't want to go.

Did you say snow day?

It's a snow day here, though I keep second-guessing that. It's coming down pretty hard, and they're calling it an "ice-snow" storm, so the cancellation seems legit, but I'm still paranoid it was just a fantasy, a dream I was having when my alarm went off, so I keep checking: the school web page, the text and email I got from school, the local news web page. But I think I've just now gotten to where I believe it already.

Though the school closings have been scrolling across the TV screen since I woke up. But it's one of those days – which happen occasionally – where TV6 has no sound. This keeps throwing me, since I usually have the Today Show on mute anyway, while I'm checking email, following twitter links, until Vicky Crystal comes on with the local news and weather. Because I really don't want to hear the Today Show details about the latest child-tragedy or how to choose the right purse or what house is on the market in Nebraska or what Star Jones has to say about much of anything. So each time I see VC out of the corner of my eye, I grab the remote and click to unmute, but it does nothing. I'll just assume the weather is really all the news there is around here right now.

I've got tomorrow's school day to plan for, but maybe that can wait a bit. So, ooh, which book to go back to bed with?

 

And the horse you rode in on.

So happy to have The Bachelor back on TV. Sure, Monday Night Football fills the gap in my heart sometimes, but at their best Mondays will be The Bachelor + garbage night forever.

Monday night's premiere made it clear what the show's been missing all along: more bisexual bachelorettes. There's simply no incentive for the women *not* to compete for the man. (Or vice versa, when it's the Bachelorette.) If there were potential love interests inside the house while the Bachelor was out hot-air-ballooning with someone else, well, that'd be fun. Really rooting for ponytail girl and the Maxim model to be roommates.

Have to say my favorite moment was Granny wiping away shy tears in the limo on her way home. I swear they just loop a video of that Sarah McLachlan abandoned-pet ad on some hidden TV back there to make sure everybody who gets in wells up.

Oops, forget that Qwickster idea.

I take it Netflix has no buddy or girlfriend to run business decisions by over dinner? They just (I suspect, drunkenly) send out emails announcing new ideas and then see where the chips fall and what kind of take-back or apology might need sending later? They are spazolina.

Not that I'm giving up on them. I watch way more than my $8/month share of their streaming programming. I just get embarrassed for them every time I see their name in my inbox.

Flutes gone wild.

The best TV to nap to is a sporting event I have no investment in. But the second-best TV to nap to is Matlock. Especially if I'm falling asleep during one of those intense scenes with no dialogue and someone sneaking around, up to no good. Panicky piano, muted trumpets, demanding timpani. It's the orchestra of melodrama, and it puts me right out.

Could you be more specific?

I had a whole long blog post about how I can never tell from the blurbs for Hoaders and Intervention whether I've seen a given episode before or not. ("Man sleeps in car because his house is packed with stuff," "former high school cheerleader turns to meth" – these could describe any number of episodes!) But then I figured, who am I to be critical that these people's stories are all the same. Everybody's stories are all the same. Maybe some of us aren't afraid to throw away garbage and we don't do meth, but otherwise they all go like this: here is how things weren't perfect, and here is how we still managed to survive.

So instead I will tell you about my new love affair with Edy's Creamy Coconut Fruit Bars. I could eat them all day. The only thing missing is maybe a tiny bit of chocolate, and I'm wondering if they still make Magic Shell, because if they do, I think there's going to be some dipping in my future.

You have also won The Glee Project.

How many times can I watch the last five minutes of The Glee Project and cry? And unlimited number, it appears. If some hypnotist ever prompts me to visit my happy place, I think this will be it. (I know, it's actually someone else's happy place, but it'll have to do for now.)

Went shopping today for new earbuds, and thankfully the salesgirl at Target had my exact same small-ear problem, or as somebody put it once: the ears of a nine-year-old. (Though I think I was probably being accused of not listening in the moment.) She recommended some that so far appear to be small enough to not hurt.

Finished my syllabi and had a really good tuna sandwich for lunch and lent a library book to a friend. We'll see if I come to regret that.

And went to the first department meeting of the year. Sure, lots of the same old, but the August meeting is always cheery – lots of clapping for people's good news and the introductions of new people. But at one point, all the applause went too far. The woman hosting this year's welcome party let us know that there's a troubled three-year-old on her street who tends to escape and run wild (it appears the neighborhood is on the same team about capturing him and getting him back home when this happens), and that when we go there tomorrow, we should drive slowly and keep an eye out just in case. And just like we had with everybody else's happy announcements, we all clapped. But real quick the clapping got kind of slow and apologetic, because what were we celebrating exactly? Not running over a child?

Well, I guess. Hurray for safety.

Gr.

Why did Netflix suddenly decide I needed a category called "Mid-Life-Crisis Movies"?

Don’t step in my dirt.

Some of the people on Hoarders clearly have a genuine and particular mental illness that manifests in stockpiling and the inability to let go. It's sad, the way they worry their way through a bag of trash looking for meaning. I buy the hoarding as a thing and see how these professional therapists could possibly do these folks some good. But there seems to be another type on this show that is simply old, and losing it, and couldn't physically carry a garbage bag to the curb even if they remembered it was trash night. I don't like when they show those poor people, who seem to need family more than therapy, but it sure makes me want to make a pact with somebody that down the road, when I need to be taken care of, but before my goats have chewed through the back wall of my house and I freeze to death come December, before I start wearing diapers because I can't remember the word "plumber" to look it up in the phone book, that they let me know it's time to move.

I can’t even explain Flavor of Love.

Just discovered the first flaw with Netflix (besides not having recent seasons of Dexter and Breaking Bad): you can't delete anything off your "recently viewed" list. When you scroll through the menus, everybody in the room gets to see what you've watched. Now, there's nothing on Netflix that's totally shameful, and Little Sweet already knows I watch a lot of really stupid reality TV, but if I had the option, I *would* delete the documentary about the porn industry I started watching from the main screen. (I didn't make it through; it was surprisingly boring.) Reading around online, I find lots of people are demanding this privacy feature – parents who don't want their kids seeing R-rated titles, girlfriends trying to cover up romantic comedy marathons from their boyfriends, people trying to hide Adam Sandler fetishes from their snootier friends who come over to watch Masterpiece Theater or whatever. But it appears there's nothing to be done except watch more movies for just a few minutes – I chose Blue Crush and Bad News Bears – to bump the other titles lower on the list.

Gently down the stream.

Such a fan of Netflix instant streaming. And the thing is, I hardly even need the movies section to be happy. There's so much TV I never even knew about. After Nora got me excited about Doctor Who, I started getting recommended all sorts of British TV, lots of which has been fun: Primeval (a sweetly cheesy drama about a group of science superfriends who battle dinosaurs entering from anomalies to other moments in history), Sherlock (as in Holmes, starring the amazingly named Benedict Cumberbatch and the guy who played the Jim character in the British Office), Survivors (about a superflu that knocks out all but a few people, though it seems weird to see an end-of-the-world story without a shopping mall or zombies). I got to see the first season of Flavor of Love, which I missed because it aired in a time when I only had 29 channels. I tried watching the original Melrose Place, and I can only think that I really liked my friends I used to watch that with, because, man, is that show boring. And a sitcom called The League about a group of friends that play fantasy football. What – made for me. If I could give up The Bachelorette and the local weather (which I can't), I could almost get rid of my cable.

Post recommendations if you've discovered anything good.

Absolutely no help.

Caught an episode of Password the other day. The secret word was "insect." Serena Williams' first clue was "worm." Her second was "spider."

Nip/Tuck has way too many dream sequences.

I can't be the only person to buy a Wii and then use it exclusively to stream Netflix. Can I? Swear, I'm going to check out the tennis soon, but right now I'm too busy updating my instant queue with TV series I need to catch up on. Send on any recommendations. (And has anybody seen Party Down? I find Adam Scott terribly cute on Parks and Rec and I'm thinking of checking it out.)

I love syndication.

Does anybody else ever look around, wherever you are out in the world, and think maybe you're in an opening scene from House? Try it sometime if you never have. It'll freak you right out. You won't know just who's going down, necessarily – it could even be you – but you'll feel your hand on your cell phone, because it always freaks you out how people spend too much time screaming someone's name while they're seizing or bleeding before they call for help.

Monkey shines.

Marquette has this great TV network called "This" that plays crappy old movies all the time. Love it. Last weekend, I caught the 1988 "Monkey Shines," which I didn't think I'd ever seen until an hour and fifteen minutes in when the monkey trainer and the quadriplegic get it on. As soon as she hoisted herself up with his trapeze to lower herself onto his face, I suddenly and painfully remembered having rented this movie with my grandma back in the day. It was almost worse than watching "Clerks" with my mom.

My DVR cut the movie off before the end, so I sure hope everybody lived happily ever after, but that monkey (named "Ella," Ruby!) sure was angry, and possessive, so I doubt it.

Pennies from hell is the episode.

Day One without the little girl survived. Finished an ignored manuscript evaluation and went for a long walk, where I found both blueberries and thimbleberries. Yum. And the rest of the night will be fine, with a puzzle (marked in pencil "completed 4/10/75" on the inside of the box top) and the B-sides of season one of House to catch up on. (Somehow, I rented the first season but missed half the episodes by not flipping over the DVDs.) The episode I've got on now was playing at super-speed at the beginning, but at first I just thought they were making some sort of commentary on doctors talking too fast. I paused it to google the experimental episode (like, there was that one episode of Buffy with no dialogue at all, remember?), but when I unpaused it, the pace was back to normal. It's a little weird not having my girl next to me to consult with about what's crazy and what's funny and what's just me getting it all wrong, but I'll save up my questions for her return on Saturday.

Good things come in threes.

Happy third birthday to my niece, Little Tippy. It’s going to be a good one, sweetheart.

But then tomorrow, I have to do the long sad drive to take Little Sweet to her dad. She’s only gone for a week, fortunately, and then she’s back. During that long sad week I will catch up on two things: 1) work and 2) the reality TV shows I’ve dvr’d but which LS doesn’t really need to see. Jersey Shore. The Real World. Ocho Cinco: The Perfect Catch. Not sure what my own fascination is with such debauchery, but she doesn’t need to see me enjoying it.

Plus a billion boxes I’m going to bonfire tomorrow.

I've been on my couch for ten days doing online work. Tired. But I finally caught an episode of Hoarding: Buried Alive today. Oh my. I know several of you have recommended it, and in a way I see why. Although I'm pretty surprised about just how awfully sad these people made me. Sadder than all the other TV people: Dr. Drew's addicts or Dr. Phil's anorexics or fathers who can't take their children home from Japan. I guess so many other problems people can hide away if they want, at least sometimes, but hoarding leaves all your sickness out in the open for other people to step over, if there even are other people. The show just broke my heart.

And part of it is how I just don't really understand it, the urge. I can wrap my head around food issues and substance abuse issues and depression. And I understand liking stuff and probably have more sneakers than I need, and I don't always put them away tidy in the shoe rack. And that pile of puzzles upstairs probably won't ever make it into a mural. But if I had to climb over garbage to get to my bed, I like to think I'd realize I had a problem.

Nevertheless, I'm messier and lazier than I should be. So I paused the show and logged off my computer and went down into the basement. A quick half hour later I had two bags of clothes for Good Will, three bags of garbage (mostly those air-filled packing thingies I'm always so sure I'm going to use again later), and the discovery that I've got a thousand dead roly-poly bugs in the corners. Gross. But it made me feel better, like I could cross off one way I might be messed up off my list. Because I felt different from the people on the show, since throwing that crap away made me feel good, and the hoarders don't seem to get any pleasure from letting go of anything.

No moxie.

Minor catastrophe in that my DVR box died. This happened before, and the tech who came to install the new one says they break all the time. That, in fact, you can expect a new one to last anywhere from two weeks to maybe a year. So I skipped any troubleshooting and called directly for a replacement. He's coming tomorrow, and whew, because Tuesday is Glee and Lost and now The Hills. Tonight, I'll survive, since when there's no Monday Night Football or Bachelor, there simply is no Monday night TV. Funny how not being able to turn on TV6 got me productive earlier than normal. Already got my hair dyed and dishes cleaned up and some revisions graded.

Sure, I can reroute the cable so it goes directly to the TV, rather than through the DVR, so if it becomes critical I can still watch TV in real time, with commercials and no ability to pause. Think I'll pass though. What am I, a caveman?

Poor other Izzy.

I woke up breathing through my nose, which was a nice change. But today's the same otherwise. I've got both computers open – working on one and watching season 5 of Grey's Anatomy on the other. And now I remember why I stopped watching this show, because it's just too tragic. I tell my students no crying in stories, and try to steer them away from cancer and children dying and melodrama, but if they could write a story that affects me like this show, I'd be so proud of them.

On the wings of love.

I told myself I couldn't watch the new The Bachelor until I finished up my two editorial projects. Done and done. I used the word "plunk" in both of them. Some days, you just get stuck on a word, I guess. Off to check out Jake's choice of ladies…

Show games.

Between a new Top Chef, a new Project Runway, and Lifetime's decision to also let us behind the scenes with PR's models, I feel like I have a lot of new names to learn this week. Plus, on Monday: students!

Oh, give me your answer to this. Shag, marry, kill: Tim Gunn, Tom Colicchio, and… oh dear, who can I put in the third spot who won't be automatically killed? Chris Harrison? Ricky from Daisy of Love? Tyra Banks? They all seem doomed. Even Jeff Probst doesn't stand much of a chance against them. Maybe Tyson Beckford from Make Me a Supermodel?

Fill in the third spot yourselves and then post your answers. Go ahead and include Padma or Heidi Klum if you want. I'm feeling generous this morning.

More is more.

I set my DVR to record Hell's Kitchen and More to Love last night, but you know what my Fox station aired for those two hours? A still shot of some weasely guy in a moustache standing behind a podium, clearly a frozen moment from one of those judge shows. For two hours! What?

I'm not so upset about missing Hell's Kitchen. They cooked something, Ramsay hurled weird insults. Donkey! But More to Love. Plus-sized bachelor, plus-sized bachelorettes. I was interested in that one.

Though I'm worried. What I want is for their size to be merely the starting point, and from there they just date and smooch and whittle down their numbers. But I'm afraid that it's supposed to be a comedy. Like they'll have obstacle course challenges for the girls that we're supposed to laugh at, or they'll put them together on a really tiny moped. Given this is Fox, I shouldn't expect them not to go for the cheap laugh. And the fact that I read the production people referred to it as "The Fatchelor" while they were filming doesn't bode well for its kindness levels.

Did anyone catch it? Did I miss anything?

Chambers.

Cheers reruns are on late at night here. Get this plot:

Diane receives a rejection letter for a poem she submitted to a literary journal. It's clearly a form letter ("while not completely without promise…"), and Sam says so. She insists it is a personalized letter and that they were enamored of her work. Sam tells her that to prove it, he's going to submit a poem too, so that when he gets his rejection letter she can see that it's the same as his.

What? I cannot think of another example of a sitcom that dealt with the perils of publishing poetry.

It gets better though. Because one of the reasons journals don't occupy TV time is that they journal time is glacial, and was even more so pre-internet when you had to type up your stories and send them through the mail. So when Diane comes into the bar and says, "It's been three weeks. *I* got my letter in two weeks," I forgive them, because you can't really expect them to let eight months or a year pass before this story concludes. But when Sam says, "No, I didn't get my letter, but check out the latest issue," which is sitting on the bar, and his poem is included… well, that's funny.

The whole story – just so I don't leave you hanging – is that Diane recognizes the poem and knows it's plagiarized but can't figure from where. Finally, Sam reveals he lifted it from one of her letters to him, and she is happy. She is a published writer after all.

It was all very sitcom, but the thing is, this was the first moment she actually seemed like a likeable character to me. It didn't hurt she had her hair in a ponytail, instead of that weird 80s triangle, and wore a big flannel shirt, rather than something pastel with lace at the neck. She's such a harpy, usually, but I'd rather read most people's love letters over their poems any day.

Glitz.

Is anyone else watching Toddlers and Tiaras? There are pageants for boys? Pageants for two-week old babies? What world is this?

Guilty pleasures.

It's true: I made LS attend an organ recital. We also went to a musical – Nunsense – and tonight we're going to see a string quartet with Grandpa. It's all meant to balance out letting her watch low-culture Harper's Island with me.

And she's so right when she says, "I can't believe John Wakefield isn't dead." Because they billed this stupid show as a kind of Ten Little Indians. A bunch of people on an island with a scary history getting picked off one by one. We were supposed to be able to figure it out: which one of them was the killer? And so it was going along until Saturday, when they brought back to life the guy who made the island scary in the first place, years ago. Kind of not fair. Sure, I'm sure he's got a modern-day accomplice or whatever, but still – cheap.

Boys.

Can anybody tell the difference between the thirty men on the new Bachelorette? I was cleaning up while it was on, but I swear every time I looked up, there was the same guy: sharp jaw, gelled spiky hair. I could only tell the one guy apart because they played the special foot fetish music every time he was on screen.

But I guess there are bigger problems. Somebody just stumbled onto my blog by searching "tampon in sump pump."

And the survey says…

A few weeks ago, a student asked me in class how much TV I watch. I said I had the TV on a lot, but that – and he said, nodding, "For the noise," like it was just what he expected me to say. No, I said, on mute. But it's true. I have the TV on, but on mute, all the time. I'm not sure why. Actually, I think it's mostly a way to know what time it is. If Regis and Kelly come on, it's 10:00. Who cares what they actually talk about. Of course, if suddenly Edward Norton is a guest, I'll turn up the volume and watch.

My favorite show on mute is Family Feud. I get to see the responses without knowing the question. Just now -- curfew, car, money, privacy. The question's got to be, "Name something teenagers argue with their parents about."

How about this one? Name the question if the answers are: parachute jump, retire, exer./lose weight, get divorced.

Okay, that one's not so interesting, but check out this site for some classic bad answers.

Chickpeas getting curried.

I'm watching the ceremonies, but my company is so less fun than Poodle and Betty and their crew. Plus, I'm trying to figure out how to fix my mailbox by mailtime tomorrow. The street plow ripped it right off its post. This happened Friday night, and for Saturday's delivery I just propped it back up. The mailman didn't blink, or at least he still put my National Geographic in it. But the plow blew it right off again, and I suppose I have to actually do something real about it. And I made brownies for the neighbor who has previously brought over his snowplow, but I'm late in saying thank you so now I think they would just say please more than thank you.

I'm writing this during a musical tribute to musicals, which is a little silly. You're busy now, my girls, but do check in and tell me all the details: who wins the pick 'em, your best bingo additions, costume awards. And send pictures.

Grayling.

Swear, it's just coincidence that we pulled into the Super 8 with just enough time for a swim before The Bachelor. But it turned out the motel didn't get ABC. What?

Don't tell me what happened, but do let me know whether DeAnna's visit is worth looking forward to. And maybe why Jason cries in the previews. Little Sweet says it's because Ty dies. That makes me laugh. (I mean, because it's so not Milton Bradley.)

Next: trisexual triplets.

Why is nobody here to watch Double Shot at Love with me! This show is nuts. The twins introduced their two finalists (?) to their family tonight. In private later, the dad actually told them he didn't really think they'd be happy with either the boy or the girl because (as a surfer dude and a single mom bartender) neither one could support his daughters like they really wanted to be supported. That he saw them more as "trophy wives." He said it to their faces.

He didn't act like he wanted them to be trophy wives. He didn't use the phrase lovingly. He just seemed to know that's what they'd be best at. Saddest TV moment ever.

Meanwhile, outside:

How can we not feel singled out, with radar like that? I know it looks crazy colorful from way up high, but from ground level, it's just all white.

Cradle of lies.

Subscribing to cable is so complicated. Like I already told you, my new cable bill was $30 higher, so it was time for my twice-yearly visit. I always go into the offices in person, because when I've tried to renegotiate on the phone, I've tended to get someone not local and crabby and absolutely no help. But the girls who work the counter are ready for me every time. They have a list with the current deals and they just see what'll work. Today wasn't my most successful bid.

Option one was to add phone service. But I don't even have any phone jacks in the house. (I hope they're completely out of style before I decide to move and sell the place.) The other was to add channels and pay $10 more a month (or keep my same channels and pay $30 more a month). So now I get IFC, Sundance, ESPN Classic (??), a bunch of other crap, and THE LIFETIME MOVIE NETWORK. This last makes me nervous. What if they have a Tori Spelling festival and I forget how to ever leave my house? I mean, just check on what's on tonight alone: Confessions of a Go-go Girl, Co-ed Call Girl, and Unfinished Affair. And oh dear, on the Biography network right this second: Sitcom Scandals: The Truth Behind Gilligan's Island.

How can you not love 30 Rock?

Liz: And meeting someone new, ugh, all the nodding and smiling and sibling listing. And what's the upside? It works and you have to have a bunch of sex?

Jack: Lemon, what do you want? Do you want to be alone for the rest of your life?

Liz: No. I just wish I could start a relationship about 12 years in where you don't really have to try anymore and you can just sit around together and goof on TV shows and go to bed without anybody trying any funny business.

Things I don’t want to know about.

I'm busy watching the Steelers, but if anybody wants to turn to TLC and watch the following, please report back with details:

"Pregnant for 46 Years. Follow two amazing stories of pregnancies that occurred outside the womb. The first story details Zahara'a pregnancy that began in 1955. At the age of 75 doctors discovered her unborn, calcified baby that had grown to full term."

Who you know.

Every time I see an article about a reality show announcing its new cast, I click on it. I'm convinced the day will come that I know somebody on the list. I guess my pool of people is pretty small, but hasn't just about everybody in the world been cast someplace or another yet? A friend of mine from grad school worked with a person on Survivor Australia. That's the closest I've gotten so far. And they did cast for The Bachelor in Marquette, but I don't think anybody made it. Aren't any of you looking to marry a farmer or contort your body in front of David Hasselhoff or race with a partner from one airport to another? Aren't any of you Top Model material? Big Brother material? Come on, people.

Press your…

There's this game someone taught me, and it's much more fun than it's going to sound here. But trust me. Just page through the guide on your digital TV (or perhaps just turn on the scrolling TV guide channel). Every time the space is too small to contain the entire show's title and this fact is indicated with an ellipsis, insert the word "pants" in place of the missing words. Boy Meets…. Appraise My…. Hannah and Her…. Don't do this alone; most of the pleasure is in saying the word "pants" out loud to a person next to you on a couch. Who knows, maybe you don't even need the scrolling guide at all.

The precursor to “threw me under the bus.”

I broke my DVD player last night. The tray wouldn't open, and despite what the internet said, there was no manual eject button, though I had my paperclip ready for when I found it. Plus, the text message was stuck on "hello," and it never went to sleep, or scrolled through its other cryptic messages – "title," "ps off," "lord," all spelled out in an upside-down calculator font. And after I unplugged it and plugged it back in, the message got stuck on "Rc_o/l." So I opened it up. Not sure what I was hoping to find, maybe a big ball of dust or an exploded Harry Potter disc. Something physical. But no luck. And now that I've screwed it all back together, it's dead dead. Crap.

Though I just cancelled my Netflix, because my mood when I get a movie in the mail never matches my mood when I put one at the top of my queue, so I'm always disappointed with what I've asked for. And I watched The Savages and I Am Legend just fine on my big laptop. Plus, VH1 is doing a The Bachelor marathon all week, so who needs movies. They're airing the initial season right now, and I think I just heard the very first instance of "I'm not here to make friends." Which always seems silly. The chances of really liking the only guy in the room seem pretty slim, so why the heck not.

Versace makes dresses that big?

I cut my thumb. Just a little nick, but it's on my remote-controlling thumb. No worries, though – I was able to see my Top Model finale. It's a good day for the full-figured size 8s in the world.

Continue to rock my world.

Rock of Love is getting just heart-wrenching. Daisy is being forced to dish her entire history despite her having carved and plumped herself into the perfect shape. Bret is worried Destiny will be a legal liability backstage, kicking shit up. Pretty, sweet Jessica has not yet figured out that she is so lucky to have been dumped. And next week, Amber will be outed as 37 years old. I'm already embarrassed for her.

I want to see a crossover show with the Bachelor, where they swap Bret with the British guy. What would the good girls do when faced with a rock star? And could Destiny get away with not getting any attention from the Bachelor by just bending over? What about the girl with chronic hiccups?

And the next name I’m going to call is.

I'm grateful that Wednesdays are back to being my big TV night: Top Model and Top Chef. Tonight, though, the overlap was a little creepy. The models posed wearing meat underpants, and then, only an hour later, I was supposed to get excited about somebody's steak au poivre?

Pickles of Azkaban.

I watched the Oscars solo last night, and I realized it's not as much fun without prizes (and Poodle and Betty). I was like, I'm watching this, and I'm not even going to get any Barbie magnets or ceramic vegetables out of it? But no, it was a good show, though not having seen a single flick nominated in the big categories, and not competing with my picks stolen mostly from EW, it was hard to be as invested. [Side note: gosh, is Helen Mirren always the most gorgeous woman in a room? Who on earth makes her dresses. What goddess of the three-quarter-length sleeve do I have to kidnap to make me one?]

Tell me how your nights went. Who won what at your house?

It girl.

They do all this work to change the contestants, they narrow them down to sixteen, and they go right back in time to the pageant-present: 1989. The swimsuit competition stage was set for a Bel Biv Devoe video, and they put them in these hi-cut (I'm pretty sure that's how you have to spell it) bikinis and put the camera down low and angled up their legs so our view of the girls was all thigh. Gross. What's new and fresh about Miss Hawaiian Tropic?

I didn't think the pageant proper would be quite able to adjust, crowning a third-generation pageant-girl, though I'm oddly proud because she's from Michigan. Baby steps, I guess.

Big night tonight.

Miss America Reality Check continues to baffle. Last night, they chose their overall top three, awarding them $10,000 scholarships ("I can get my PhD now!" one of them cried) and shopping sprees. Their choices, though, again seemed based on nothing. Miss New Mexico? Because she wore that hat, I think? And I used to be really good at picking a winner for these things, but that was when I understood what they were looking for. My algorithm really only considered height and the hair color of the past three years' winners. But now? I have no idea.

But I guess in order for the reality makeover show to make sense, the winner does have to be one of the girls who was singled out by the reality show judges. So Indiana and Washington, the other two of the top three, seem safe-ish bets. Any of the top ten would. Though if they're really looking for a change, they better not ignore Miss Alaska. She's just the kind of dangerous they should be looking for. Not a train wreck like Miss USA Tara Conner, but Miss America-level good-girl messy.

8:00, TLC. Watch with me.

Sometimes they come back again.

Miss Illinois refused the makeover? That's just stupid. Didn't she see how cute Miss Rhode Island's bangs were? But stupider still is the judges putting her in the top three. For what? The scoring makes no sense. I thought we were trying to get the girls away from the hot rollers. I don't get it. I don't know what I'm supposed to be learning: stick to your guns, don't be afraid of change, be yourself, get a bob. What?

But you know what's a really good show? Like, a show that will make you cry and feel all good and have better posture? How to Look Good Naked. Seriously: you want real and fresh, turn to Lifetime. That show makes me think that everything would be right with the world if I just had a gay BFF like Carson and the right bra.

Reality check.

I suppose you're here for the skinny on Miss America Reality Check, the show that hopes to modernize MA by pretending it's been a reality show for 50 years. No matter what Trivial Pursuit says, and no matter if they air it live, I just can't get on board with the notion of pageants as real, otherwise it just makes me sad about women in general, like I get when I realize people really do strip for a living. I just hope you're not expecting answers, because all I have is questions:

1. Who was in charge of picking the themes for the five teams, monkeys? We've got 1) girls from states which have dominated recent MA pageants, 2) girls from states which have come in second place but haven't won, 3) girls from states which have never won MA. Makes sense, I guess. And then the last two: 4) girls with brown hair and brown eyes, and 5) the oldest girls there. Wow. At least they have different color t-shirts to differentiate the tribes. Too bad they could only think of four, though, and now we have to wrestle with who's blue and who's light blue.
2. What is the scoring system here? At the end of the show, the judges (you know, stylists and pop culture experts and random nobodies) give us their top and bottom three girls. The one judge said Miss Vermont was his "absolute favorite," and yet she was bottom three. How meaningless is his vote, eh? And the chick who couldn't identify her state flag (I'm talking about you, Miss PA), she was on top? Hm.
3. Is Miss Idaho a secret genius? She was put in the bottom three because her hair and makeup were too much, too big and old-school, not fresh and real enough for their Miss New America. "My hair's big," she said. "But I don't think they'd have even noticed Miss Idaho if I didn't have the poof." I think she's got the right idea: establish yourself early and someone who needs especial help transforming. Ooh, when she gets that fresh, new haircut, they're going to think she's a whole new person. As opposed to Miss Utah, who they've singled out in episode #1 as the kind of fresh change they're looking for, with her short hair and her running jacket at the ceremony. Nowhere to go but down for her.
4. Is there really only one girl in the 52 who will speak out in favor of gay marriage? One? (And of course, it's Miss Bottom Three Vermont, so so much for a whole new kind of real pageant girl.) And why on earth is "I just can't wrap my head around homosexuality" an acceptable argument? I can't wrap my head around how airplanes work but I don't think flying should be illegal.
5. Where is Miss Michigan? I don't think I saw her once.

Not to complain, of course. Thumbs way up. Did you see it? You have favorites yet? Talk to me.

So it’s no Shawshank.

I was a little surprised when my girlfriends around here kept raving about Prison Break. Really? I was surprised this was a show they were into. It's about prison, right?, and always looked too colorless and gray to make me curious. (Literally. I know M*A*S*H is classic wonderful and all, but all that green… it gave me vertigo or something.) But now I've rented a couple discs, and I see what they're talking about: Wentworth Miller. He's beautiful enough to suffer all sorts of sloppy storytelling. And I'd tape up a still of the money shot where he reveals the prison blueprints tattooed all over his upper body in my locker if I still had one.

The story really could be interesting: one brother finagling his was into prison to help his brother on death row break out. The logistics of the escape are fun. And that he needs to consult his tattoo every once in a while for the next step is all good, even though I still don't understand if the ink is code or if the blueprints really are embedded like a stereogram to emerge when you cross your eyes at his arm. Because that would be impressive needlework.

But they really blow it with the federal conspiracy that means the brother on death row has been set up. Not necessary. Special agents and evil Vice Presidents ladies and public phone booths ringing with bad news and bombs killing innocent handymen. Why ever leave the prison? And Wentworth is supposedly a structural engineer, but talking to another inmate, he notes that the felony murder rule cubes any sentence, which is why the guy is in for 60 years instead of 20. Eight thousand years would be pretty tough for hitting someone with your car, even if the car was stolen.

But I don't care if the show's not perfect. I'd watch this guy dig a hole though concrete with a spoon for however long it took.

Bodice ripper.

Speaking of porn, I stayed up till three in the morning last night watching the girl kind: TLC's Say Yes to the Dress. Behind the scenes at the Kleinfeld bridal salon in NYC. Brilliant. I loved every bit of it, from the initial consultation where the answer to "How do you imagine yourself on your wedding day?" is necessarily "Like a princess," to the oblivious Romanian flop of a salesgirl, to the cranky brides arguing their dress the wrong shade of white, to the clear favorite dress of the year, sheer in the bodice so the boning shows through. Then there's the sample sale day, where the ragamuffins who can only budget two grand for the dress come in and my discovery that there no such thing as a wedding dress with sleeves unless you're Orthodox Jewish. It's a delightful show: the consultants like car salesmen, the brides, not all of whom are princesses in stature. (I.e., I think some people should wear sleeves.) And while it didn't make me want to wear white myself, it did make me want to go shopping with my mom and my sister, and have some lady in a sleek black suit bring me tons of clothes to try on. Because that's girl porn, right? – that's what the fantasy really is: any situation where you're the complete center of attention.

The one where that girl got sent home.

What are you watching, people? Do you want to talk about The Bachelor's "I choose me" moment, Tila Tequila's final four, the Top Model with Asberger's? Do you have a Project Runway favorite yet? Let's get in sync here.

And a happy birthday to my little sister.

Maybe I need a sports category.

The second annual Rock-Paper-Scissors Championship Tourney was on ESPN2 last night. Phil Gordon was the head ref this year. (He reminded everyone that "vertical paper" is so not allowed. Duh.) I couldn't actually make myself watch it, but mostly because of the way they were presenting. The tone. As if the whole event were a joke. The hosts were making fun of Roshambo itself, of the contestants and the sport's heroes. This seems like the completely wrong tack to me. We, the audience, already think RPS isn't a sport, isn't strategic, isn't something you acronymize. If ESPN is on the same side as us, there's no reason, really, to watch. But if they took it seriously, if they didn't focus on the competitors dressed in funny costumes or make jokes about lifting weights to prepare -- I bet we could be drawn in. Because really, rock-paper-scissors is all about mind-reading, and that's fun stuff. We'd all want to learn how to be better at that.

Remember the opti-grab?

Because American Inventor was a rerun last night, I watched the similar-but-distinctly-Canadian Dragon's Den instead. Instead of 35 crackpot inventors with a glove inverter or therapy buddy pitching their ideas to George Foreman, they had six people with solid, already-tested business ideas in front of a panel of investors with cash at the ready. They even had to know their terms: "I'm looking for $20,000 in exchange for 10% of the business." The investors (aka the Dragons (?)) didn't buy everything, but it looks like the guy with two successful truffle shops might have found himself a partner to help him franchise across Canada.

I'm always to grateful to CBC for a small reminder of how the world could be different, more thoughtful. (While at the same time, I'm happy to be here, where we spotlight kooks like the inventor of The Black Cougar, the only superhero (he claims) with the charge to protect the world's children.) Even the sitcoms CBC reruns are better. At 5:30, they've got Arrested Development, while on ABC it's Home Improvement or some other show with a brow-beaten husband who never remembers to do the dishes.