What's wrong with the world? I don't know, but I bet reality television has something to do with it.

It's not so much the reality television itself that I loathe. Actually, it's quite natural, tellylogic-wise. The "talent" is pretty much free, there are no scripts to be hashed out, production costs are extremely low -- in short, the so-called "reality show" is the cheapest kind of show to make and yet it gives the highest returns, exposure-and-profit-wise. The telly has always been this way. So it is not reality television itself that so disturbs me, that so makes me want to gouge out my telly-viewing eyeballs with the nearest available spoon. It is the people who make it so profitable by actually watching it and -- dare I venture to critique another's personal preference? you bet your sweet bum I do! -- and at the same time, actually enjoying it.

Far be it from me to cast a heavy-lidded gaze upon the shows in this deathwish of a genre. We have your wealthy idiots who are supposed to be ever so perfect and yet can't seem to find significant others in real life, wealthy idiots who at some point actually must have thought to themselves: "Say, I know! Why don't I find me a shallow silicone-or-steroid-enhanced degenerate who will compete for my affections on national television, because that'll be a match to last for eternity!" Then we have your foreign-locale rat race and your camera-house exhibition, where in pursuit of a lousy buck, Just Plain Folk (patent pending) or models on loan from Truly Sucky Persons Central Casting form teams for the sole purpose of sabotaging them later on. We have your Let's Make Declining Celebrities Eat Nasty Crap, your Untalented Bimbos Sadly Using Up Their Fifteen Minutes Onstage, your Who's Vacuous Enough To Have Sex With A Darkroom Camera, and your basic Brainless Young People On Parade, which pretty much sums up the rest of the shows in this genre and even the shows that have yet to be formed.

And through it all, the more brain-laden among us can only be mystified as to why this genre has been dubbed "reality television" in the first place, since reality is something that cannot be remixed with background music, edited for scintillating content only, and made to bear no trace whatsoever of cameras, sound persons, officials and lions and bears and all the other intrusively necessary technologies that make the shows themselves. Reality is not remixed. Real people aren't peas. Surely normal, more-than-pea people don't want to see The Real Cancun, or as I like to call it, Christa's Seventh Layer of Hell . . .

If this is reality, darling, then I quit.

This place needs some newness. Between test preparations and oversleep, however, newness isn't exactly in great supply. But I'm thinking about newness, so that's a step in the right direction. Or left direction. Or some direction, at any rate.

Anybody else got an attack of too many things to do and yet no motivation to do them? If so, it could be something in the water.

Tell me . . . is the war over? If so, somehow I missed that little tidbit of news. I find this incredibly interesting, because it seems 90% more media time was spent on the war than on the peace. It would seem to me that the whole peace thing ought to be bigger news than the whole war thing, but then, maybe I've just left my rose-coloured glasses over my not-so-rose-coloured eyes. Neither can I recall many of the more web-inclined folk as being so inclined to write about the whole peace thing, whereas several weeks ago there was nothing but railing for one side or the other. (On a completely different hand, I'm starting to loathe the word "blog," which probably makes me a sort of Benedict Arnold. And probably makes my scribbles 90% more susceptible to future Google hits for "Benedict Arnold," too.) Is the war over? Maybe I just missed it. It would seem to be a strange thing to miss. Maybe I tuned the whole situation out because there was nothing to be done about it, and who needs more depressing truths in their life? Still, that would be a pretty wise conclusion to make, even for someone as o so wise and perfect as I.

Or maybe I'm just a student who makes it a point never to watch the news. So thank you, The Daily Show, for your humorously innocuous heads-up. You bring new meaning to the phrase, "If you lose your sense of humor, you yourself are lost." Or something like that. Okay, so I made that up. Sue me, newsies.

Every head of hair is supposed to have a story to tell. That is, if anyone will let you put your ear against their hair, and let's face it, they probably won't, because that's just plain creepy. Of course, hair stories aren't so much personal as they are stereotypical.

I was thinking about hair today, and wondering how these hair stereotypes still persist. Blondes are supposed to be on the dumb side and have more fun, redheads are supposed to be funny and wild, and brunettes . . . do you know what brunettes get? Apparently, according to those ever-so-accurate magazine surveys, brunettes are supposed to be "practical and intelligent." I object to this. Goodness knows my brain could very well beat your brain in a brain streetfight, but I'm not really all that practical. I'm still somewhat romantic and I have this tendency to make lists that go unfinished . . . Then again, when I grow up, I suppose I'll become more practical. I just have a non-hair feeling about that.

In any case, hair stereotypes probably came from the media. (Heck, what hasn't?) Marilyn's Lorelei Lee character from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes coined the whole "not-so-bright blonde" thing, Lucille Ball painted the redhead as both wholesome and crazed, and I can't even begin to name the entire succession of pensive movie star brunettes gazing down from their royal balconies with serious brown eyes . . . So I guess I got stuck with a pretty good pigeonhole. Sure. Just color me squawk.

oogy. adj. ("oog-ee")
1. a sense of general yuckiness.
2. a certain kind of blech in appearance or manner;
"I'd better get some sleep or else I'll wake up all oogy."
3. the state of being hum-drum, run-down, unpoet-beat, and various other blue-sounding hyphenates.

On the oogy scale, one being the least oogy and eleven being the most oogy (ten-point scales are so blase, darling), today is a seven. Or an eight. I haven't decided yet. I only know that the weather is oogy, my senses are oogy, my outlook is oogy . . . the world is oogy. Everyone is wandering around in a seven-level or eight-level oogy day, and they don't even know it because they didn't think to consult The Christa Dictionary. So, voila. Who says ardent fanship doesn't get you anywhere, babycakes?

Ugh, ugh, ugh. Teenagers. Cranky old woman I may sound, but serious ughment do I feel. So many facets of teenagerhood are in serious need of eradication: their bubblegum pop, their reality programming, their MTV (Made-up Trash Vision), their ability to control the media because of their parents' ready cash, their archaic tattoos above their nonexistent bums that allow them to rebel against fads, just like everyone else . . . Is there nothing sacred in this world? No responsibility? No adulthood? No brain activity outside of a bottle and a cheap lay?

Like, I don't know. Ask a teenie question, get a teenie answer.

Scene: Buying a new hot iron at the beauty store counter.
Time: An already-tired afternoon.

Clerk: Oh no!
Me: Oh what?
Clerk: Those hot irons are so bad for your hair!
Me: Everything is bad for your hair.
Clerk: Ceramic irons don't give you split ends.
Me: (Glances at the noticeable split ends on Clerk.)
Clerk: It's true!
Me: Do you take Discover?

Now, if I had the presence of mind to set this scene down in pencil first, I would have scribbled out my last phrase and inserted something like, "What kind of sales philosophy is that?" or "Odd, then, how only one of us has split ends and that one isn't in front of the counter," or even, "Just because I'm dressed casual today doesn't mean I can't lay down the smack on your trendy little non-ass." Honestly. Curls or straight, who cares? We all end up the same way: little old ladies with crysanthemum hair. How truthful. How universal. How realistic. How refreshing.

Almost as refreshing as a laying down of the smack.

Not much to say.

Tiredness abounds. Irritation abounds. College still bites various big ones. Thus, please insert your favorite "who gives a big fat whoop" expression here. I'm rather partial to the nice round "psssssh," the ever-popular eye-roll, and best of all, the eye-roll paired with a severe thumbs-down and a raspberry. That one belongs to me, in fact, but you can borrow it for today. Just make sure you return it to the ol' Monotonous Bin when you're done.

Clutter is a remarkable thing. No matter how many times you think it's beaten, it always comes back. It's like unwanted relatives, I suppose, only less sufferable and more chaotic. I say this about clutter because I know I cleaned the apartment yesterday -- I was there, you know, sweating over the putting away and the vacuum and the Windex and yeah, even the feather duster -- and today, clutter has returned. I don't see how it did this. Perhaps it crept in during the night on its slothful clutter feet. Perhaps it's here to keep company with my usual thank-god-almighty-I'm-home-at-last items: the shoes by the door, the bracelet on the counter, the brush on the desk. O clutter, you do thwart me so.

56 is new. It came sneaking in on me during the night, and I rather like it. Though come to think of it, it might have let clutter in . . .

The Jean Factor is one of the many reasons why I don't like being tall. What is The Jean Factor, you ask? Well, I'll tell you, but only because this would be a pretty sorry writing if I didn't. The Jean Factor is simply this: the woman whose legs are far longer than any given tentpole-shaped twelve-year-old's shall not find any kind, make, model, or brand of jeans that truly fit her.

I don't know who's responsible for The Jean Factor, but I'm not impressed with them. In fact, if I ever meet them on the street, I may very well fling the nearest possible mailbox at their small and wankerly head. I often feel this way when dealing with clothes. (Heck, I don't even really wear jeans anymore, on my still-continuing quest for The Perfect Skirt.) My life and tastes just don't go along with what the market has to offer: I'm not a teenybopper, but I'm not a career woman either, and I like simplicity with a splash of elegance. And I'm tall, and I'm not a tentpole. There are curves on my tentpole, the more my clothing grief. And it's almost swimsuit time, too. Talk about tentpoles.

Sometimes I think the great designer in the sky must be very much against me. If he weren't, I'd have been born a stickbug.

Dear Benjamin Franklin's Ghost,

I know you were once very brilliant and all, what with your keys on kite strings and your bifocals and your strange little potbellied stove, but Daylight-Saving Time was not one of your better ideas. In fact, it might even qualify as one of the most annoying ideas in the history of the world, right alongside math, films made for teenagers, and children's playthings that make noise.

Do you see all the trouble you've caused, Benjamin Franklin? I suppose you aren't really to blame, of course, seeing as Daylight-Saving was never put into actual effect during your day. But can't I blame you anyway? It's much easier to blame somebody who can't fight back, after all, and much more fun. Come to think of it, I believe I'll start doing this on a regular basis. Hey Jane Austen, thanks a lot for your embittering fairy tales of love! Yo Isaac Newton, your stupid apple made all kinds of right-brains explode in physics! Listen Plato, your drivel sure does turn out more than a few unemployed classics majors! Yeah, thanks for all that, ya freakin' ghost people! It's always nice to get more baggage!

Sincerely deprived of an hour,
Christa

"Say Christa, how old are you?"
"I'm twenty-one."
"Gee, you look much older!"

Isn't there some sort of rule that disallows this question if you're in college? I'd really like to know, seeing as people have been on an age-asking binge of late. Do I really look that old? Does this mean I'm going to look fifty when I'm forty? Am I supposed to be flattered by the surprised reaction? I don't think so. That kind of flattery was the property of elementary school, Christafans:

"How old are you, Christa? You look eleven to me!"
"I'm seven! Let's play in the sprinkler for no apparent reason!"

It figures, I guess. Our society (check that: American society) has this thing about women and their getting older. And that thing is, they shouldn't look like they actually are. For example, growing older isn't called growing in the so-called beauty industry -- it's called aging. You're aging! Put some cream on all that aging! It's so utterly ridiculous. In the first and only place, I've always found older women to be the most beautiful women of all: the svelte thirtysomethings, the laughing fortysomethings, the cultured-chic fiftysomethings and sixtysomethings and anysomethings. Pinstripe women. Together women. Women in bangle bracelets and sari fabrics and sandals. Women who know where they're going. Women who know where they've been. Women who know who they are. And even though beauty is a stupid word by which all women are somehow supposed to be measured, I can only think of that word when I think of "older women." They aren't old. They aren't aging. They're beautiful. So should I be offended when the variant yahoos ask me my age and are thus surprised? I suppose not. At any rate, it's certainly more welcome than yesterday's conversation with the repairman:

"You got any kids, miss?"
"Good god no!"

Ladies and gentlemen, the cable is out. This is because I've neglected to wait around for the cable guy to come hook up the new converter. And now? Now, however ashamed I am to admit it, I am really rather missing my idiot box. But it's not really my fault. After all, college is my first time in Happy Zombie Cable Land. I didn't grow up with cable; I grew up with an antenna. Anyone else remember those? They were metal, looked like something you'd hang laundry on, and were soldered onto your roof, waiting to receive the little telly dots from the air at large. You know, like a science fiction movie. That was my childhood.

This is in jest, of course. We did have an antenna, but my childhood was more like a cartoon. KABOOM. Stupid anvils.