Baba Wawa and Me

It has been like this for a while now.  I’m watching something on TV or I’m reading a magazine or a book, and before I know it, my mind has taken a side trip to Lord knows where.  My attention span seems to be declining faster than the U.S. dollar lately.

 

Friday night Barbara Walters interviewed      POTUS and FLOTUS, America’s First Couple.  My feelings about the enduring Ms. Walters are already on record here – I can barely stand her simpering interview style.  And, bless their hearts, Barack and Michelle were not saying anything particularly riveting.  The most sensational factoid to come out of the conversation is that the President curses.  Well, damn!  Stop the presses!

My mind had taken a brief hike when I gradually became conscious of Barbara’s lisp addressing itself toward me.

“Madame President, after the shellacking you took in the mid-term elections on November 2, how are you feeling about being so unpopular?”

“Barbara, puh-leeze.  That’s the kind of question you just love to throw out there to trip me up.  Do you really think I’m that stupid?  Being popular might be important to you and your girls on The View, but I have a few what you might call major issues on my plate.  I don’t give a flying fuck about your polls.”

God that felt good.  I have wanted to tell this old hag off since the first time I appeared on that ridiculous bitch-fest she calls a TV show.

“Well…ahem…actually, my next question was going to ask if you curse, Madame President.  Is that something you do on a regular basis?”

“Hell, yeah.  If you had to deal with that cretin Boehner, try to keep Vice President Motor Mouth from swallowing his foot, and listen to David Axelrod drone on and on and on, you’d swear, too.”

Not to mention having to sit here and try to smile while you ask one asinine question after another.  You’d better not ask me what kind of tree I think I am, you silly sycophant!  Yeah, I learned that word at Hah-vahd.  So damn what?

“Ha, ha, ha.  Yes, I imagine I would.  Let me turn to you Mr. Madame President.  Your wife has been taking a great deal of heat recently.  Some people are saying she will be a one-term president.  How does that make you feel?”

“Truthfully?  I hope they’re right.  I had no idea how brutal these assholes over at Fox News were going to be to her.  Even you let that pompous ass Bill O’Reilly come on your show and accuse her of everything short of sleeping with Reverend Jeremiah Wright.  And that pencil-dick Glenn Beck had better hope he doesn’t wander down the wrong dark alley in Chicago one night after we get out of this hell hole.  Nobody calls my wife a Kenyan Muslim and gets away with it except me.   I can’t wait to get out of this drafty old mausoleum, either.”

“Oookay.   Madame President, he really loves you, doesn’t he?”

“Well, I suppose he does.  Frankly we haven’t really discussed it since I announced I was running in 2006.  He was dead set against it – said he didn’t think he could play the subordinate role in public.  He fancies himself the king of the castle, you know.  The kids and I play along to keep the peace, but…  Anyway, here we are. “

Suddenly I am snatched back to reality just in time to see Barbara Walters shaking paws with Bo the Portuguese Water Dog.  Barack and Michelle are holding hands and smiling broadly as Bo rolls over on his back.  I glance down at my dog, Coqui the Bichon Frise.  Now I know I’m dreaming.  There is no way that bitch would ever play the submissive.

ABC News photo

Never Take a 9-Year-Old to a Non-Traditional Thanksgiving

My newly acquired husband and I decided to transfer from Chicago to San Francsico in July 1978.  Our wedding had been on February 18 of the same year.  My 8-year-old, Stephen was already reeling from having another "man" in the house after six years of singing our theme song, “You and Me Against the World.”  Although he was young enough to regard the move as an adventure into the vast unknown, he was very concerned about leaving what he knew.

The move across country was difficult for all of us.  We were leaving our support systems -- my parents, his parents, Stephen's school, his neighborhood buddies -- and dealing with all the stresses that came with making such drastic life changes, all in one year.

After the first few months, we had finally tied up all the loose ends.  We had located suitable housing, doctors, dentists, and after-school care, and we all started making friends outside the family.

T. B.'s work friend, Barry, happened to live in the same Eastbay town we settled in. He and his wife, Candy, had just had their first child, Brett, who was only several months old when the 1978 holidays rolled around.  Barry invited us to their new home for Thanksgiving dinner.  Since I had cooked for my extended family several years in a row prior to the move, I was delighted to accept the invitation to play a more minor role.

Thanksgiving Day in the San Francisco Bay Area falls just after the best weather months of the entire year in Northern California.  Although there was a slight chance that the rainy season would start early, more often than not, the day would be spectacular.  This one was gorgeous.

When taking a just-turned-nine-year-old to someone else's house for dinner, it is wise to have the pre-arrival "talk" several times before the big day.  We went over the table manners, the use of the proper flatware, the placement and frequent use of the napkin.  We reminded Steve of our rule about taking our own dirty dishes to the sink for scraping before putting them into the dishwasher.

Barry's wife Candy answered the doorbell.  We had not met her before, but we weren't surprised to see a very attractive young woman as the door opened.  Barry was quite handsome himself.  She smiled sweetly and made us feel immediately welcome.

As we walked into the house, I noticed little Steve's nose twitching as he looked around the house in confusion.  He began tugging on my shirt, wanting my attention.  "What's that smell, Mommy?"  I clucked at him to keep quiet in our own little code language, but I too detected the distinct odor of...FISH!
Unfortunately, Barry witnessed the mother/son exchange.  "You smell our dinner, Steve.  We're trying something new this year."

My eyes darted to meet my husband's baby blues.  Oh-oh.  

We were guided to our seats at the dinner table, where baby Brett was already pounding on the table of his high chair.  Born bald as a cue, Brett's blond hair was just coming in.  For some reason, though, his hair stood on end as if he had just put his finger in a light socket.  No amount of smoothing -- which his mother kept trying -- would make that hair lay down.

"Candy, what's wrong with your baby's hair?"  That would be young Stephen again.  "He looks like a wild man!"  Ha, ha, ha, h..... Crap.  I pinched him lightly on his elbow; another one of our code elements.

Soon the hosts began to place the dishes on the table.  There was a large platter with a huge fish on it.  The head and eyes were still disturbingly intact.  The scaly skin was, well, pasty.  It didn't look as if it had seen the inside of the oven at all.  I kept my fingers pressed on that little elbow.

Several bowls of vegetables and a basket of hot rolls were added, water was poured into the goblets, and the hostess circled the table to take her seat.  I noticed Stephen's eyes following her.  As long as he wasn't talking...

"Candy, are you expecting?"  T. B.'s face blazed crimson.  I gasped, audibly, I'm pretty sure.
 
"Stephen!  That is not an appropriate question to ask a lady!"  I was talking quietly, but between clenched teeth.  I wanted to snatch him by the shirt collar and flush him down the toilet.

"No, Stevie.  I'm not expecting (I hope); I'm just fat."

Candy might not have been pregnant but the pause that followed this exchange certainly was.  Finally, Barry burst out laughing.  He had the kind of sense of humor that would find this faux pas hilarious.  Candy?  Not so much.  She disappeared into the kitchen for several minutes.  When she returned, her eyes seemed a little puffy.

As we left the disastrous scene of many child-perpetrated crimes, I stared out the car window, unable to believe what had just happened.  Our feeble apologies did nothing at all to make us feel better about our little genius’s performance.  T.B. and Steve broke the silence simultaneously.

"Lezlie/Mommy, will you please...?"

"Yes, I will cook Thanksgiving dinner for tomorrow.  I knew we wouldn't have any leftovers if we went out, so I bought everything anyway.  And, no, we will never accept an invitation for another holiday dinner until you are at least 18.  Got it?"

A Hurst Thanksgiving

My family traditions are grounded in the preferences of my maternal ancestors.  Fathers came and went at such a clip; there was never a chance to really incorporate their family customs into our reality. It wouldn't have mattered, anyway, because variations were simply not entertained.

Holiday headquarters was always my mother's parental residence.  We lived with my maternal grandparents from the time of my birth at the end of World War II.  There were periods, usually associated with one of my mother's marriages, when we would strike out and attempt to live independently; but Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners were celebrated at Granny's.  No exceptions.

My alcoholic grandfather was always made to feel he was the mighty patriarch, but we all knew who ran the show.  So did he.  Granny always prepared the same lavish menu twice a year and claimed it was what Grandpa demanded for "his family."

So, in addition to a twenty-five pound turkey, two kinds of cornbread stuffing/dressing, mashed potatoes with giblet gravy, candied sweet potatoes, fresh string beans, celery stuffed with cream cheese and chives, black and green olives, plain and whole cranberry sauce, dinner rolls, mincemeat pie, sweet potato pie, pecan pie and pumpkin pie, and freshly whipped cream, Granny prepared a large roasted goose.

Mr. Goose would be placed on the table directly in front of Grandpa, ostensibly to balance the table with the huge turkey at the other end.  The truth was that no one else at the table needed to have any proximity to the goose because no one would eat that greasy, dark meat.  It was there because -- well, I'm not sure why it was there.  Maybe it was my grandparents' European roots that dictated the serving of a goose.  Grandpa ate it dutifully while the rest of us watched.

As I write this I can "see" the highly polished table with its lace cloth  covered with food, the good china and the "real" silverware.  I can tell you who sat where, without variance.  Granny at the end near the kitchen.  Grandpa at the "head" end near the living room. My mother at her mother's right hand.  My uncle at his mother's left.  My Czech Great Granny, who lived with her daughter from age 65 on, sat to my mother's right.  Unless my mother was married that year.  If so, her husband sat at her right.  Children graduated from the kitchen table to the “big table” when they turned 13.

The rest of the 12 seats were filled by miscellaneous relatives who traveled from the city (Chicago) for their annual visit.  Before he died when I was around 9 or 10, my grandmother's father would come.

Grandpa Dade was a full-blooded Cherokee who wore his lustrous blue-black hair banded, a la Sitting Bull.   His facial skin was as smooth as a polished ruby, and his aquiline nose created a picture perfect example of the American Indian profile.

Grandpa Dade fascinated me.  I would sit and stare at him until he squirmed under my gaze.  I think I was mildly frightened by the prospect that he could produce a hatchet from his waistband and hurl it between my staring eyes.  I had a limited understanding of Native Americans, all gleaned from shoot-em-up movies.

My Grandpa was one of seven children.  At least one of his siblings was always present for holidays.  My favorite among them was his eldest sister Irene and her husband Will.  They were a study in contrast; ivory and ebony.  Uncle Will was the darkest black person I had ever seen in person.  Only Nat "King" Cole came close, and maybe my mother's friend Luther Sparks, the undertaker.

Uncle Will was often harassed by the cops, truck drivers passing by, and random white men on the streets of Chicago for walking with his white wife. All he had to do was speak, and everything changed.  He was so learned, so charming and disarming, his harassers would just cease and desist.  I thought he hung the moon.

Before my Grandpa stopped drinking when I was around 12, holidays at table were something akin to theater of the absurd.  To his credit, every year Grandpa would vow to refrain from drinking on Thanksgiving and Christmas.  But with 30 years of hard drinking in his history, abstinence was out of the question.  At some point during the meal, seven times out of ten, something would set him off.

One of my mother's husbands was also an alcoholic.  He was not the volatile sort like Grandpa, so most of the time he just sat quietly with a silly smirk on his face.  It would be my mother who would be launched by something stupid he'd say or do.  I cannot recall one of these holiday meals that went without drama of some kind.  Needless to say, wine was not served at Granny's table!

After the drinking stopped, these meals began to take on the tone of a Thanksgiving at June and Ward Cleaver's. It made a huge difference in my ability to eat without anxiety and subsequent gastric distress.  I looked forward to them every year and even invited a boyfriend or two to join us. 

But, it was not to last.  On Thanksgiving of 1971, Grandpa sat in front of his golden goose looking pale and pre-occupied.  Granny was flat and out of sorts, just going through the motions that she could do in her sleep after all those years.

Out of the blue, Grandpa said to me "I want you to take care of her." He nodded toward Granny.  "Okay," I said with a question in my voice.

"I probably won't be here on Christmas, so she's going to need a lot of help with dinner."  I stopped my loaded fork midway between my plate and my gaping mouth.  "What...why won't you..," I stammered, eyes already filling.

He died on Christmas Eve of prostate cancer.  He had forbidden my mother to tell me he was so sick.  He didn't want me to know too soon that we were having our last Hurst family Thanksgiving.  They were never the same.

That's Annoying! or Oprah Drives Me Crazy

The movie Grumpy Old Men (1993) cracked me up.  Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau were at their character-acting best playing codgers with a life-long beef vying for the attentions of a sexy new neighbor.

I was still in my forties (okay, late forties!) when that movie came out, and I thought these two snarky characters were exaggerations, made grouchier than reality for the sake of theater.  Surely, I thought, not everyone gets prickly as they age.  I know I won’t.  

There’s a good chance I was mistaken.

Today, 17 years later, I find myself having my nerves grated by something or someone on a daily basis.  Somebody’s tailgating as I’m driving to the supermarket.  Thoughts of slamming on the brakes cross my mind.  Somebody cuts me off in traffic.  I actually flip them the bird in their rear view mirror.  However, given the recent escalation of gunplay in broad daylight on the recession-addled streets of Atlanta, I have learned to stifle that particular outburst and just swear loudly in the soundproof solitude of my car.

The place where I am most likely to come unglued on any given day, however, is not on the byways of the city at large, but right here on my sofa.  I am not among the majority of the people around here who swear they haven’t turned on their TV since the election returns of 2008.  No, I am not a television snob, so I do watch non-stop a fair amount of the time.  The majority of that time it is simply background noise, to ease my aversion to total silence.  It’s on while I write this, in fact – that cute young Doctor Travis Stork is telling us what to eat to help with that other symptom of advanced age, flatulence.

Lately I have noticed myself grinding my teeth when certain personalities break through my multi-tasking haze.  It is happening so often I have actually created categories of annoying behaviors that can set my eroding molars right on their edges.

Oprah

Yes, the powerful Ms. Winfrey gets a category of her very own.  There is not a personality out there who can hold a candle to the big O’s ability to get on my last nerve.  The other day she was interviewing her childhood heartthrob Jermaine Jackson.  This clearly-beyond-childhood matron made an absolute fool of herself batting her false eyelashes and declaring her undying devotion to this extremely uncomfortable old performer.  I thought she was going to jump into George W. Bush’s lap and kiss him during that recent interview!

And don’t get me started on the way she “sings” the names of her high-profile guests to bring them onstage or when she announces one of her legendary giveaways.

Finally, why does Oprah say everything twice?  “We’ll be right back.  We’ll be right back.”  “Twelve years old.  Twelve years old.”  Arrrrgh.

 Voices

When Elisabeth Hasselbeck (The View) opens her mouth to speak, the hairs on my arms stand at attention.  To my ears, she sounds like a baby bird with a mouthful of worms trying to warble with the volume too loud.  Some might think I have this reaction because of her incessant reciting of the Republican buzz-words of the week or her visible pique whenever anyone even mentions the name Obama.  Nope.  Her voice drove me nuts way back when she was a waif getting waifier (word?) on Survivor: The Australian Outback. 

Other voices that annoy:  Terri Seymour (Simon Cowell’s ex whose voice is seriously and permanently hoarse, unfortunately, from Lupus,) Barbara Walters, Nancy Grace, Gloria Allred, TJ Holmes (CNN) and anyone, anywhere who over- enunciates)

Mannerisms

I don’t even know myself why I continue to watch The View.  Just about everything those women do lately sends me over the edge.  I have been annoyed by Barbara Walters for what seems like my entire life and yet, here I am, 15 minutes from watching today’s show.  I don’t know if she is slowing down even more after her heart surgery, but it takes her half the show just to whisper a point.  And, because she is the boss, the others don’t dare interrupt her or attempt to finish her sentence.   But it’s her hands that get to me most.  They spend most of their time in the air, bent at the wrist in the manner of a crossing guard warning the kiddies to wait until told to go on.

Sherri Shepherd takes hand gesturing to a new level.  I think she is trying to distract us from noticing how utterly inarticulate she still is after all this time on the show.  There are times when I fear (not!) she will slap herself upside the head.

For those unfamiliar with Joy Behar’s endless mannerisms, tune in to Saturday Night Live; Fred Armisen will show you.  “So what?  Who cares?”  And if I ever were to end up on that stage with those women, I would carry a pair of scissors to snip off Whoopi’s front dreadlocks so she can get it the hell out of her eyes!

NOTE:  You are not going to believe this, but The View just came on and they are discussing (wait for it, wait for it) grumpiness as we age!  I kid you not.

Fast Talkers

I’m from up north, so I’m pretty sure I once talked much faster than I do today.  Southerners tend to speak a lot more slowly and I think I’ve probably caught the cadence.  But there are some people who talk so fast I can barely understand them.  My sister’s boyfriend is one.  She actually interprets for him.

 

Among celebrities, though, it is Anderson Cooper who takes the prize for talking faster than the speed of light.  I think very highly of Cooper; I think he is a superior broadcast journalist.  I really want to hear what he has to say, but sometimes I get winded just trying to grab every other word or so.  C’mon, Coop.  Slow down!

Miscellaneous Offenders

Ultra “spiritual” people who talk about energy fields, being “saved”, their essences, being centered, feng shui, etc.

Perky women with gummy grins aka Katie Couric.

The Duggers

Real Housewives of Anywhere on Earth

Billy Ray Cyrus

Repetitious speech habits; e.g., “Do you know what I mean?” (usually not) “You know?” (usually not)  “KnowwhatI’msayin’?” (usually not).

Man!  Now I’m all on edge.  Going out for a walk.

Has Bush Sent a Doppelganger to Today?

I am propped up in bed watching Matt Lauer do a live interview with George W. Bush.  I must be dreaming.  If  I'm honest, which I always try to be, "W" is getting my attention.

Far from the bumbling, stammering dolt I always thought him to be as a public performer,  this guy is on it, doggone it!  He is making coherent responses, without hesitation.  He is funny.   And he is sharper than a tack. 

During this week of Bush's ubiquitous book tour appearances to promote his just-released memoir, Decision Points, President Bush has exhibited a side of his persona that I failed to see the entire time he was playing in the political sandbox.  God bless him, he is even taking responsibility for some of his mistakes!

Following on the heels of a sizzling exchange between CNN's Eliot Spitzer and Senator-elect Rand Paul that I watched at 4 a.m. because I was sleepless in Atlanta -- a veritable training video on no-holds-barred interviewing on Spitzer's part, and flawless filibustering on Paul's part-- watching a relaxed and utterly candid Forty-Three spar effectively with Lauer and dodge his every cagey attempt to "rope me into saying what I'm not going to say" has been absolutely refreshing.

Please don't make me turn in my Open Salon membership!

STOMPED!

DOUGLASVILLE, Ga. --A beautiful young mother is valiantly attempting to stifle her sobs in front of the camera.  A photo of her son, a handsome 18-year-old, is flashed on screen.  His pale green eyes twinkle above a sweet face as he posed for his senior picture.
 
When Bobby Tillman went to a house party last Saturday night (November 6), he was expecting to be one among 10 invited guests.  As so often happens with teen parties, by the time midnight came and went, the number of “guests” had swelled to somewhere near 80.  

At some point a fight outside the house broke out between two girls and two guys. Pandemonium set in.  A woman hit a man. Refusing to hit a woman in response, the man announced to his cohorts that he was going to hit the next male who walked by him.  Tillman, who didn’t even attend the same high school as most of the others at the party, walked by the group at that same moment.  Four male partiers beat Bobby Tillman for no other reason than he was there.  He was not fighting.  He did not know the four lying in wait.  He did nothing but run out of luck.

Bobby Tillman was stomped, kicked and punched to death in the midst of more than 50 people, and no one – no one—came to his aid.

How do we explain this incident to ourselves?  The victim and all four of the 18 and 19-year-olds charged with Bobby’s murder are African American, so there were no racial overtones.  As of Monday police had not determined any kind of gang-related violence as the cause.  The parents of the girl who hosted the party were present; they had asked the uninvited mob to leave earlier, with little response.  And most surprising of all, police found no drugs or alcohol at the middle class suburban Atlanta house. These four near-men simply worked themselves into a frenzy and killed an innocent man because a “female,” as they often refer to young women, hauled off and clocked one of them. 

These kids had what we call home training down here in Georgia.  Obviously, the one who decided to attack the first male he saw had been taught not to hit girls, giving this story a sickening twist of irony.

I have never understood why 18 was ever selected to be the age of majority.  In so many ways, all of these people are children.  Yet, within a matter of less than sixty seconds, the actions of these four man-children destroyed the lives of five entire families, and there is talk of the death penalty.  My heart is breaking.

 AP Source article

Okay. You Win. Now What?

I cannot turn off my thoughts.  God knows I want to.  I need to just accept what’s happened and let it go.  The people have spoken, whoever the hell they are.  Their newly elected officials are gleefully calling for a swift undoing of, not just Obamacare, but of Obama himself.  Job One?  Make sure Obama isn’t re-elected.
 
Okay.  I get it.   You hate the guy, or you hate the guy’s *policies,* as you euphemistically insist.  So go ahead, take him out, take him down, and take him to school.  Wipe out the Healthcare Reform Act, reinstate the tax cuts for the rich – in fact, go ahead and make them permanent; and don’t forget to put a stop to any and all further unemployment benefits.   

Let the banks continue to call all the shots so that nobody can get a small business loan, nobody can get a mortgage loan, and nobody can get a mortgage loan modification. 
Make sure Don’t Ask Don’t Tell is left in place, stop the talk about legal gay marriages once and for all, increase funding for the war in Afghanistan for another 10 years, and outlaw abortion for any woman, for any reason, at any time.

Here’s the thing.  Not one of you, as far as I know, have ever addressed the aftermath of your happy exercises in “taking your country back.”  So, if you have the time; if you can go off your Party-scripted diatribes against President Obama for just a minute, I would appreciate some answers to the following:

• Unemployment numbers came out today, and they are stuck at 9.6%, despite an upward trend in the Dow.  In addition,  mortgage defaults continue to escalate due solely to job loss; the foreclosures that resulted from the unethical banking practices and from citizens making stupid purchases of homes they didn’t have sense enough to know they couldn’t  afford have just about run their course.  Those people are... where now?  Does anybody know?  Does anybody think we need to know?

•   If there are no jobs available for the 6 million of us who have been unemployed for longer than six months, what do you expect to happen? I’m sure you won’t be amenable to approving any kind of relief for people to be fed.  How will you plan to handle the starvation?

• If healthcare insurance becomes impossible for those same 6 million people to afford –never mind the people who never have been able to afford it in the first place – how do you plan to handle the overcrowded emergency rooms or the homeless people dying in droves on the streets of the major cities you don’t give a damn about? 

• With all the tax cuts you will vote through in order to allow the American people to “keep more of their own money in their pockets,” how will you fund the increased need for police and fire protection caused by the ordinarily law-abiding people who are desperate enough to resort to petty crimes in order to survive?

•  What are you going to do when your constituents finally wake up and discover what they’ve done to themselves; when they realize that everything they voted you in to do has resulted in the destruction of the entire middle class to which they all once belonged; when they too become members of The Great Unwashed they once viewed with such contempt and disdain? 

• Since you are hell-bent on preventing LGBT individuals from serving in the military instead of opening the recruitment to any capable American willing to volunteer, where do you plan to get the extra personnel you will need to continue the endless war in Afghanistan and possibly “staff” a conflict with Iran, which some believe is in the cards? 

These are just a few of the questions that bombard my brain as I try to just accept the fact that “America has spoken.”  I would appreciate hearing  your answers ASAP, so I can get a little sleep.

Sister Wives TV Special Makes Me Wonder

.

#2, #3 Kody Brown, #1 and #4

 
World Series Game Number 4 was only periodically interesting to me Sunday night.  If I had my way, I would only tune in for the 9th inning for any baseball game.  It is, after all, the only one that really matters, right?

I wandered over to TLC where I'd heard there was a post-season special of Sister Wives scheduled to air at 10 p.m. EDT.  I didn't  start watching the series' first season until toward the end of the run, so I was curious to see if I could learn more to help me answer the question that has nagged me since I first heard of "plural marriages:"  Why would any woman agree to be one of several wives concurrently?

The last episode of the season featured the wedding reception that resulted after Kody decided to "court" Robin, a divorcee with three or four children.  Turns out that Wife #1, Mary, had met Robin and suggested that she might be wife-material for her husband!  In fact, it seems that Mary was responsible for introducing Wives #2 and #3 to the plurality too.
 
So I guess I was a little surprised when Mary and Kody spent their 20th anniversary dinner at a fancy restaurant discussing Mary's jealousy issues surrounding Kody's courtship of Robin!  Well, not a discussion; it was more of a monologue with Kody muttering a few feeble responses. What I found far more surprising was the civility of that discussion.  It just didn't ring true, somehow.

Sunday night's special consisted of an interview of all five of the Browns by NBC's Natalie Morales, allegedly to discuss the many twists and turns the family have experienced since deciding to participate in a rather risky reality show.  Polygamy or plural marriage is illegal in Utah, where they reside.

Nothing particularly earthshaking was revealed.  The only news to me was that Wife #2 had been married to Mary's brother and quickly divorced before Mary decided to see if Kody might want to add her to the team.  
Once again my gnat-like attention span allowed my mind to wander into a waking dream state wherein I tried to put myself into the role of a Sister Wife.  (Or more likely, Sistah Wife!)

There are so many reasons this scenario is about as likely as the Democrats winning extra seats in Congress Tuesday.  The idea of sharing my mate with another woman is only slightly less ludicrous than the idea of sharing him with three.  In fact, my inability to play well with others in the picture led to two trips to divorce court in my actual life.

And then there's the schedule.  I'm talking about the conjugal visits Kody would make in rotation to each wife's individual living quarters.  I'm sure ole Kody, when not absolutely exhausted, wore a permanent grin on his face, at least in the mornings.  But I'm just not a schedule kind of girl.  What if I wasn't "in the mood" on my night?  I might have been in the mood the night before, gotten pissed off because he was in the next apartment getting it on with whomever, and vowed to never let the louse touch me again

The Browns have a total of 16 children after the Yours, Mine and Ours are counted up.  Only one of the wives has a full-time job, so she and Kody are the major source of income for 21 people.  If I were to be catapulted (kicking and screaming, of course) into that scene, I would have to be the one with the full-time job because she doesn't have any household duties.  The other three are stuck with the joys of child care, laundry, cooking and cleaning.  No thanks.

 Now I'm imaging what a household with 16 children would sound like at dinner time.  They range in age from 18 years to 18 days old.  Do I need to say more?

I don't even want to think about what kind of a Looney Toon Kody Brown must be.  I mean, even if he started out perfectly sane and rational, trying to anticipate the land mines that most husbands have to try to avoid should eventually drive the man starkers.  And we all know how women who live in the same building tend to synch up when it comes to their menstrual cycles.  Four jealous women in the midst of PMS.  Picture that.

My freaked out mind returned to the TV screen just in time to hear the show has been renewed for another year.  If Kody is still alive by the time shooting starts again, I wonder how much of his rapidly dwindling hair he'll have left.

So here's my question:  What the hell is in it for those women?  I can't see it.