And, oh, how I watched it: Letter People, Clyde the Frog, Voyage of the Mimi, and one of my all-time faves, Read All About It.

Even learning, early on, how to convince U.L. that some shows were appropriate—How could they not be; “It was on PBS, right?”—when I knew they probably weren’t. These shows ran the gamut from some particular episodes of Dr. Who all the way to the very chancy, risk-taking, anything-goes Nova.

I’ve also made no little secret to my rather unhealthy and confusing relationship with the television, that began Way Back When.

One that continues to this day.

As a child, for instance, I thought Mr. Rogers asked his very pointed questions because he fully expected an answer. Many are the moments that U.L. walked in on me and the TV.

What appeared, at first glance, to be a young technophile’s attempt at French kissing the television screen was, sadly, my pre-pubescent and misguided effort to scoot as close to the TV as possible and carry on a conversation with Mr. Rogers.

His success rate at “guessing” correctly what any normal child would have said in response to “Won’t you be my neighbor?” did nothing but encourage me.

And yet, I was not tube-glued.

I didn’t have to watch television. It wasn’t an obsession…yet. (I’m not sure that watching the TV ever has been the actual obsessive part of it, anyway.)

I mean, please, let’s not forget: I was the child who asked for a chalkboard for his eighth birthday with the retractable metal chalk holder so I wouldn’t get my fingers dirty. Until I was thirteen, I unofficially educated every stray child and stuffed animal in my neighborhood, using my oldest sister’s discarded college textbooks. I may have struggled in teaching them both long division and the importance of cancelling by nines, but I was adamant that they know front-to-back the first five chapters in The Psychology of Reading.

My pop quizzes were hell.

But, back to the TV.

It began innocently enough, my slow and gradual need for the small screen. As I began to wean myself from educational programming, a feat of daring-do, I discovered that the rest of the world of television was not one bit interested in teaching children…or teaching, period.

They didn’t care who was watching; they just wanted to keep you watching.

It worked on me.

My first venture away from PBS led me to two shows in particular that have scarred me to this day: Dallas and the Golden Girls.

Though I blame the Golden Girls, mostly.

Among many other Things I Misunderstood About TV Programming That Wasn’t Educational, I naively thought that each television show that had a catchy theme song, with lyrics, was sung by a member of the cast, like most of PBS’ children’s shows.

I held this belief firmly until I was easily in my early 20s. Even after I was told that that was preposterous.

 I kept pretending it wasn’t.

It became a game. (I also pointed out that sometimes, it was also the truth—Ja’Net Dubois, of Good Times fame, wrote and sang the theme song to The Jeffersons. And let’s not even get started on the obvious vocals behind All in the Family and Gimme a Break).

But, this theory didn’t hold water for other sitcoms and serials, though, for years, I swore Rue McClanahan sang the opening to Golden Girls, and I gave full, 100% props to Loni Anderson for WKRP in Cincinnati.

And where shows like Knight Rider and Dallas and Knots Landing had no lyrics, I instead envisioned which stars were most likely the ones playing the instruments during the opening credits, sitting in the studio recording the very music that stirred us to the emotional minefields of their respective plots: the dangers of Texas greed, the pitfalls of suburban lust, and the desire to solve crimes while wearing epidermal jeans and a patent-leather jacket.

My results? William Daniels (the voice of KITT) obviously played a mean synthesizer. He was half-robot, anyway. Hands down, Victoria Principal for Dallas. I mean, she looks like she could handle an entire brass section, all by herself, eyes closed. And who else but Michelle Lee? Hm? I mean, really, who else? Although, had I given Michelle a sick-leave day, her stand-in would be, Joan Van Ark.

I think you know why.

Eventually, this game faded…as it didn’t really give you many alternatives.  But not before it planted the seed of obsession.  Because the only way the game could continue was by “acquiring” new TV shows.

By the time that took hold, within me, I was hooked. I was also a teenager, by then, who no longer needed drab and senseless plotlines and games. Instead, I had developed “crushes” and was in search of relatable characters who could “show me the way.” Sadly, I didn’t find many.

Not on rural television in the backwash of Mississippi.

I didn’t start my serious orbit around the sun that is now my Sony 40”, until I was past the embarrassment of high school and feathered hair.

Ah, TV.

I’m not sure if it’s because it was so off-limits during my childhood or if, as I’m perhaps a little more inclined to think, it became a safety, a comfort, to have the noise in the background. I often fall asleep with the TV on, simply because it fills the space, with me. As if I’m at a party, and just…well…I guess I got bored with everyone there and fell asleep, but the point is it makes me feel a little less lonely.

Even when I’m not feeling alone.

And now, you know, I have to admit, at 33, I think I realize the national obsession people have with the small screen. Maybe even why U.L. was so reluctant to let it be so much a part of our daily routine.

It’s why people feel they are “kings (and queens) of their castles.”

The power.

The power of that remote control. The power to choose your entertainment.  The luxury of having broken hearts, murders, crimes, and rumors introduced and resolved in the course of an hour or less.

It’s convenient, fictional, and safe. (Like most Power.)

I can mute them, I can change channels, I can even freeze live TV thanks to Tivo and DVR. 

Which makes me, like, the boss of TV and all the people who live in it.

I’m the freaking boss of TV.

But don’t worry: I still read.

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Because I love desperate people, people who are in dire need of belonging to Something: a group, a party, a conversation. They’re simply fascinating to watch in public because they have no radar for ridicule.

My money's on the guy in the yellow shirt.

Enter: Me. The Radar.

I’m not always “in your face” about things, but it takes all kinds, I know, and I respect those who are. For me, I’m much more like a Dorothy Zbornak; I like to fight with my wit, when I have any.

Like that girl, last night, whom I’m supposing I met thought I don’t recall an introduction. She was one of the beautiful and desperate people I’m referring to. They always make such good stories. And she, you see, had Something To Say.  And she was going to tell whoever was listening, or, as it were, not listening.

But, let me set the scene.

I’d decided to treat myself, yesterday. And I fully intend on doing much, much more of that in the future, as a means to “get through the day.” It’s a nice goal to focus toward, as in, God I hate this job but I’m getting a fried green tomato sandwich and peach mango martini when I’m through and that’s going to be just fine, you know that sort of thing.

Next on my list is a massage.

I get to the restaurant before the rush. It’s practically empty. I love this. I love having a huge restaurant entirely to myself. It makes me feel gauche and worth it.

I sit at the bar and place my order. The bartender looks awful. He’s aware of this and begins to tell me this horrible, god-pitiful story about botulism, that he acquired at an Olive Garden in Florida two weeks ago…he assumed I was going to ask, I guess.

Not your usual entry point into a conversation, I know, but as it just so happened, I, too, had a botulism story to share, and it also involved the Olive Garden, but this one was in Tuscaloosa. I’ve been hedging my bets on going back to the Olive Garden, convinced it was more than likely an isolated event. I do not feel this way anymore.

I will never eat in an Olive Garden, again, ever.

He, the bartender, had been hospitalized, then confined to bed rest, and now, though he was able to be mobile, he was unable to eat. He couldn’t keep anything down, not even crackers.

Not even crackers.

I knew too well that feeling. He’d lost almost twenty pounds, already, he said. (I felt that was just rubbing it in my face, but whatever).

It was at this juncture in our exchange that a body appeared and plopped down right next to me. She was, in fact, too next to me.

“God, dude, you look like sh*t.”

Clearly, she could have sat elsewhere.

Whatever happened to hello? Then, I realized she wasn’t even talking to me. She was talking to the bartender. She was merely sitting almost in my lap for funsies, I guess. To be fair, there were only twelve other empty bar stools available. I should cut her some slack. Though it would also have been fine if I could have just cut her, period.

She launches into such a casual tirade of swear words that I’m fairly certain I blushed. I used to blush all the time when my Grandfather Lee would curse, out of embarrassment for all tri-state listeners. Yet, it was like an art form, how effortlessly he interwove harsh language with typical parentheticals and everyday How Do You Dos. Just like this Wandering Dandy of a Thick-Calfed Girl.

I’m not sure if I blushed out of respect or fear, with her, though.

Still, on she went, stating the very obvious in the most colorful of terms. I excused myself and went to the bathroom; I felt the need to wash my hands.

When I returned, she hadn’t left.

I was determined to enjoy my treat, though, and I wasn’t about to shovel this delectable sandwich down my throat…so, I did what we all do down South. I grinned and bore it, all the while telling myself that I would just blog about it later.

After several PBRs (at least they were in the bottle), she seemed to mellow. Thankfully.

Now, in my own experiences, I’ve discovered that people who “cuss” excessively are either socially awkward geniuses or functionally retarded. Not mentally, and I’m not trying to belabor an ill-conceived joke, I mean they have been slowed down in the state of being able to function, independent of coarse conversational skills, in an effort to hide this truth: they’re mainly idiots. Well-intentioned, perhaps, but nevertheless.

I was eager to discover which category she fell into.

The TV above the bar was, as you can guess, turned to sports, which I’m strangely growing fond of watching (this is more than confusing to me, but I’m open to it, I’m open to it). During a commercial break, a trailer for the newly released (and artistically brilliant, it seems) movie Where The Wild Things Are popped across the screen.

We'll try another time, my dear.

She said, “I can’t f*****g wait to that g*d**n movie.”

I swallowed, “Yes, it looks like a good one.”

“Yeah,” she continued, “I just bought the book. I want to read it first, you know, then go see the movie…but I’m only halfway through it.”

And then, I knew. I’d made my discovery.

I said, “Yeah, page 10 is a real killer.”

She nodded, “But the pictures are nice,” and ordered another PBR, oblivious.

I excused myself, again, to go laugh in the bathroom.

I almost didn’t come back out.

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