Tuesday, December 20, 2011

The Route To Nova Scotia

Last night my wife became both her parents at the same time.

My wife is already quite concerned that her daughter will, "soon" be kissing boys and trying to not get pregnant in the worst possible ways. May I remind you that my child is four years old. I'd also like to point out that the incident that spurred on the most recent public display of panic was whilst watching Terra Nova. Which is a insanely cheesy science fiction Fox television show about dinosaurs, time travel and the slowly decaying death of the entire planet. Which means my wife is clearly divorced from reality. Because there isn't much about any of those three things that prompt me to think about the onset of female puberty. Unless she - in the moment - admitted to herself that there is a statistical possibility that come the ensuing nuclear apocalypse that my daughter may be the only surviving woman left to repopulate the Earth.

Actually I'm assuming that at some point when I wasn't paying attention some young people on screen were kissing. This is network TV of the cheesiest prime time quality. It doesn't matter what awfulness is occurring at any given time - network television execs will insist on chucking in 28 year old people pretending to be teenagers fighting against their primal instinct to procreate at every given opportunity. Whilst being chased by dinosaurs and an army of time traveling mercenaries intent on strip mining the Earth. Definitely a good time for a quick finger and a fumble about.

My wife doesn't hold the same reservations about her son. He's never going to sit his mother down and say he's pregnant (unless I put him up to it for a laugh, obviously). But pretty much everyone remembers the girl at school who was up the duff at fifteen. But my wife doesn't think her daughter is going to be that girl. No way! She's jut going to be your average typical teenager. And teenagers seem to try and answer quite a lot of their questions about the world by letting other people touch their naughty bits. And even if that is consensual and my daughter is seventeen at the time and sensible enough to not do anything that would get her pregnant, my wife is horrified at the prospect of that (and she'll read this later and yell, "SEVENTEEN!!!!" as if that was the same as twelve). She has vaguely expressed some dream-fantasy where her daughter has some sort of clinical teenage alternate reality of intense academic focus, excellent work ethic (say at a horse barn before and after all her academic studies are done) and weird emotional selective ability to delay any hormonal impulses until later in college once her first research paper has been published. She'll marry an educated foreigner (I have suggested, "hey like you did!?" and seen my wife give me a disapproving look at that idea, which is a bit odd) and be a pillar of ethics and morality for her entire community.

But that's not why she turned into her parents. I don't know if they have strong emotional concerns about things like that. They usually reserve that for Mexicans and smoking (quick aside -I once sat with them while they watched some horrendous Nicholas Cage movie where - whilst his own head was on fire - he murdered someone with the front wheel of a motorcycle. Then he lit a cigarette and my wife's parents became apoplectic about the glorification of smoking.) My wife turned into her parents because she became very very concerned that the main central character in the television show may be killed at any moment. Whilst panicking for his safety and repeatedly asking me anxiously, "Do you think he's going to make it!?" she also kept asking me to confirm the very clearly thickly laid-on plot-line was going in the direction that it was flat out telling her it was. I've sat around people who shouldn't be allowed to watch the show 24 constantly asking what the hell is going on. It's infuriating. But this isn't 24 - a child could follow this and then offer a better script rewrite.

Oh it was agony. Firstly - it's a television show. You can't become emotionally invested in a character on TV. I've literally seen someone cry whilst persisting to tell me (despite my best Obviously Uninterested Bored Face) about an event that happened on Grey's Anatomy And no - you will never convince me that Terra Nova is any less cheesy than Grey's Anatomy). That's freaking insane. And yet here my wife was worrying about someone on a shit TV show that is probably going to get cancelled (it hasn't been renewed yet and cost $150 million to make these handful of shows. This comes just weeks after my wife expressing her deeply held hope that the writers on NCIS:Los Angeles (possibly the cheesiest flimsiest concept show on television that I genuinely enjoy watching for that very reason) make two of the supporting cast get married, have babies and live happily on a farm.

Secondly - my wife is the smartest person I know. She's ridiculously clever in a multitude of ways. Most people excel in one thing or subject matter. My wife excels at most things she has a pop at. She impresses me very single day. And yet she couldn't see how obvious it was that the main character in a new show wasn't going to die. This isn't Charlie Sheen dying in Young Guns Two in the first ten minutes. This is the Vince Vaughn doppelganger main character (you should Youtube him and hear his real Irish accent) who is way above and beyond the focal point for every single story on this show. It's like those people who watch the trailer for House every week and think, "oh my God House actually dies!!!" every single week every single season. Or - to bring it back to something more relative to my family - it would be like my son thinking that maybe Thomas the Tank Engine has become so stuck in a giant pool of strawberry jam that he'll drown and rot to death and the show will suddenly start focusing on bus travel instead. There was no way in a million years that the Fox network were going to let a new show take a totally different direction than every other show on TV and kill off their budding new star. None.

So the show actually ended with my wife concerned that her daughter might grow up to be a slut, and me concerned that my wife might start laughing at the Prudential commercials and wishing that Mark Harmon would put his hand in their vagina lovingly as well (that would be the show NCIS laying on their middle-aged woman knicker-wetting dreamboat's awesomeness on thickly by having him deliver a female marine's baby to show just a fucking perfect he is).

So maybe my wife will let us all move to a remote part of Nova Scotia after all just to get away from teenage boys. Works for me.

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