minalisms

I am obsessed with Bridget Jones.

In the past three weeks, Bridget Jones’s Diary has probably aired about nine times on the Oxygen network. In that same timeframe, I think I’ve stopped to watch the movie four times, ecstatic no matter how much I’ve missed or how much of the movie is left.

Today would’ve been a fifth if Ben hadn’t started laughing, thrown his head back in surrender and teased, “Oh, my god! You’ve watched this the same amount of times that I’ve watched ‘Ghostbusters‘!”

For the record, that statement is completely false. Ben has probably watched “Ghostbusters” 40 times.

But, I digress.

Bridget Jones — played flawlessly by Renée Zellweger — is my hero, though she comes in second to Tina Fey.

Jones’s challenging love life, her frequent calamities, her failed resolutions, her boozing and her big butt contribute immensely to her charm. She reminds me of myself and some of the harrowing tribulations I’ve overcome in years past (sans the boozing).

And that comparison, I find, makes me irresistible.

As of late, one of my favorite things about nightfall has been the anticipation over my serving of hot tea just before bedtime.

I find peace in this habit. I delight in the kettle’s squeal, reminding me that a simple pleasure can fit inside a teacup.

And then, with my body engulfed in warmth, I sleep.

My husband is under the impression that if he creates more blogs for me to oversee, I will somehow transform into a dedicated writer who pens something profound and comical and engaging and notable each day.

This is what love does — it instills so much optimism in people. Sheesh. Ben clearly has overlooked my less-than-stellar performance on this site.

Nevertheless, I think you should go here today to peruse the news and views of two and see what ensues in saint lou.

You will not be disappointed. Not yet at least.

I hate trashy reality TV. First, because when I’m flipping through the billion channels of nothing interesting, I always, always land on VH1, where scandal, lies and high-pitched shouting suck me into the vortex of vapid entertainment. But primarily because of regret.

You see, I distinctively recall a night in 2002 or 2003 when Cousin No. 225 and I were discussing The Bachelor.

“You know what would be funny? A ghetto version of The Bachelor,” one of us offered.

Well, there obviously was a mole in the room because, soon after, audiences all over the country were given the following classics, from which skanky teenagers found their heroes, MTV and its sister channel found its fortune, and my cousin and I found ourselves bamboozled: 

Flavor of Love, Rock of Love, A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila, I Love New York, For the Love of Ray J — I swear, there is no end to this humiliating garbage.

Where do these people come from? Why didn’t their parents smack the slutty out of them years ago? When will someone invent a TV that allows me to reach in and choke the person onscreen?

Sure, my cousin and I thought our concept was brilliant, but we never believed that there would be people out there effed up enough to be cast in our series. But we gave humanity too much credit. How silly of us.

OK, this needs to be said:

Everybody, I know that President Obama made some lofty promises during his campaign — more jobs, troops leaving Iraq, improved infrastructure, energy independence, focus on education, etc. — but are some of us really griping about his ineffectiveness just 29 days into his presidency?

Get a grip, America. If you want change, then change your own unreasonable expectations.