I have a complicated relationship with television. It’s the kind you might hash out in public on Oprah or Ricki Lake. When I was growing up one of my neighbors appeared with their family on Ricki Lake or one of the similar shows — these details are fuzzy to a 10-year-old. They had decided to finally reveal a secret daughter that no one knew about. After a few weeks, however, no one said much about it and was almost like it hadn’t happened at all.
Beginning from when I entered college I never really had a TV. Occasionally there would be a television in the house, one usually handed down and thus hardly working or belonging to someone else. Once, for a whole summer, we even had working cable because the previous tenant had mistakingly paid for several months at once. But seeing as it took almost that whole time figure it out it only left us about two weeks to enjoy it. And every time I would visit my parents or fancy friends, it was as if I was rediscovering this new world and my complete obsession with evening news and Law & Order reruns, only to return back and soon forget all about it.
Now I own a television that lives in my apartment (soon to be our apartment). If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s step one of either The American Dream, or Severe Exclusion from the World, because guess who just discovered Friday Night Lights?!
Let’s hope I eventually progress and get to the former of that scenario.
(Want to try out the ratatouille I made? Find it here.)