Help me, Dr. Drew...

I’m overwhelmed.

Reality T.V. overload is slowly taking its toll on me. I was already feeling bloated, what with American Idol, Project Runway, Make Me a Supermodel, Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew and American Gladiators. I suppose part of the blame must go to the Wendy’s Chili I had tonight for dinner. So good… so not good two hours later. When you add Big Brother 9, Survivor: Micronesia, and America’s Next Top Model (coming next week), AND new episodes of Lost and Supernatural to attend to… it is safe to say, “Ladies and Gentleman (but mostly Gentleman), my dance card is full.”

All good Catholics know that gluttony is a deadly sin, but I might need to consult a priest to find out if it also applies to T.V… if I believed in that sort of thing. Or ever talked to priests.

It’s probably a good thing I don’t have a Tivo, because if I did, I might find my addiction spiraling out of control. As it is, I’m forced to watch strategically by using all the technology at my disposal, including VHS tapes (how archaic!), the shows available online, and if I’m truly desperate, YouTube. I admit that sometimes I feel like a junkie, considering the lengths I will go to in order to catch my shows. If Dr. Drew were my therapist, and I wasn’t too busy fainting or trying to dry-hump him, I’m sure he would tell me that this “thing” I have going with my T.V. is very unhealthy, and very detrimental to my social life. And he would be totally right. But that, my friends, is why it’s called an addiction.

The problem with addiction is that it hurts the things you love. The true victims of my T.V. obsession are Netflix, the public library, and this massive mound of yarn that is collecting dust in the corner of my bedroom. Netflix might not be complaining, since they get their monthly fees no matter what, but I do feel sorry for those poor souls waiting for their copies of Ricky Martin Live: The Black and White Tour and The Beyonce Experience, both of which have been molding next to my T.V. for almost a month and a half, begging and pleading to be watched and returned to the Netflix mothership. The library, however, is probably out for blood. I’ve had this one Agatha Christie mystery for almost 6 months (don’t yell at me!), and none of their gestapo-esque intimidation tactics will move me, because I know the second I return it, all hopes of finishing it are doomed, and I actually sort of wouldn’t mind finishing it. Anyway, the fine is capped at $10, so… whatever. I do, however, feel bad about the yarn. Sometimes, I stare at all of it during commercials, running the list of projects I mean to start and the projects I should probably finish through my head. Meanwhile, the half-finished afghans, scarves, hats, and vests are strewn about like corpses, the knitting needles thrusting out of them like murder weapons.

It is so hilarious to me that I’m going through this crisis now, because everyone else has been lamenting the loss of their favorite scripted shows due to this writers’ strike. Some people have even gone so far as to pick up a new hobby, or play with their children, or (gasp!) go outside. I shudder at the thought. Meanwhile, I’m so overwhelmed that I actually had to make a chart just to keep everything straight!

Rumor has it the writers’ strike is finally reaching an end, barring some lapse in union protocol. I’m thrilled to hear it, but for entirely different reasons. While everyone else is tuning back in to watch sitcoms and procedurals, I’ll be writing new Netflix Shenanigans posts, knitting a fabulously fashion-forward cashmere sweater, and smoking a peace pipe with the public library.