Once Again, Waiting For The Meteor

 My wife and I have just returned from a road trip around British Columbia. I’ve lived here for ten years and have never been north of Whistler or east of Bridal Falls, well by car at least. We had a great time gallivanting through the Cariboo to Prince George. We had an equally great time scooting through the Okanagan Valley. Especially once we got a designated driver to haul us to different wineries!

 Our hotel room was a bit of a hot mess at first. Eventually, that got sorted out and we got some Denny’s gift cards. And before any of the lost souls known as foodies get all worked up about diner cuisine.  Yes, we did use them. We used the shit out of them, on a surprisingly delicious breakfast slam.  

 So, what the hell is deal with the title? Why am I uncharacteristically positive thus far? What could have possibly happened to turn my warm inebriated smile flip on the dial? What kind of first world problem could do such a thing?

 Everything was going great. Better than great, we had a case of wine in our arms and a bottle in our bellies. We slipped back into the hotel room. Nothing was out of place. We made some food in the tiny kitchenette. We turned on the TV. Then for whatever reason, we stopped on the W Channel.

 What I am going to say next isn’t a blanket statement. Some of the shows aren’t all that bad, hell even the Luke Perry movie wasn’t that bad. However, there were a select few shows about houses nestled between other shows about houses that I didn’t enjoy so much. In fact, they made me lose hope for humanity. As in, we are screwed as a species.     

 These shows have a team of scripted ponces delivering one-liners and zingers that come off sounding like sexual tension in a pressure cooker being shot out of air lock directly into a black hole. I was just waiting for them to clear a table and go to town on one another, but it wasn’t Cinemax. To make matters worse, they typically have some chattering yip-yops complaining about the house they own not having a powder room, music room, or some other superfluous room that only pinky raising ninnies and entitled nitzes find necessary.

 As I watched I just became more and more frustrated. Young people own a freaking detached home in Vancouver! All the house required was a trip to Ikea for some organizational shelving doo-flickies and a trip to Home Depot to buy a new flushing mechanism for the toilet. Of course one of these products of helicopter parenting would have to nut up and install the damn thing, but seriously, it takes an hour if you’re drinking.

 There were other shows, same thing different cities and house flippers. My faith humanity was reduced to zero. The likelihood of us circumventing global calamity looks slim to none. I went to the window, pulled back the blind, and looked to the sky. Not for some divine intervention, but cosmic interruption. Alas, I saw no giant flaming space rock hurtling toward me. So I decided I would sit on the bed and complacently wait. Also, another show was on that wasn’t so bad.

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