Wow, December first already.  A side benefit of this "Just for Today Challenge" is that one day a week, I know what the date is.  But no, knowing what the date is was not my own challenge for this week.  This week, I was going to focus on moisturizing.  You might think, "Moisturizing?  Of all the things you could concentrate on for one day?  Really?  Using lotion?"  Yes, I really don't moisturize enough.  In fact, I have a condition called "contact dermatitis" or in layperson's terms "housewives' eczema."  It is caused by overexposure to...  (Drum roll, please.)  Soap and water.  (See, anything in excess can be harmful.)  My hands are dry and scaly and cracking (yes, they actually bleed) because I wash them (or dishes or counters or clothes) too often and moisturize not enough.

But I didn't actually end up moisturizing at all (surprised?) because I was too busy concentrating on something much more difficult: not watching TV.  Of all the things I do (or don't do) on my spiritual Wednesdays, I never thought that giving up TV would be one of the challenges.  I'm not anti-TV — I enjoy it — but I've gone years without owning a television and months on end without watching one, and have never really missed it.  Yet, last week, I really craved television.  I wanted to sit down and watch a crappy crime drama, something entertaining and relatively mindless, while the kids were at school.  It's a rare treat I give myself whenever I have an especially big pile of laundry to fold, and I was longing for that luxury.

Of course, I had to consider why it was I so desperately wanted to watch TV on that particular day last week, and I realized that I was tired.  I saw that I use the TV and the computer as a way of keeping myself from falling asleep while not overtaxing my brain with any of that difficult thinking stuff.  I wanted to watch TV because I didn't want to go to sleep, but I also couldn't handle do anything harder than digesting an episode of Cold Case.  So, instead of watching TV and folding laundry, I took a nap, which was just what my body needed.  But all that concentrating on not watching TV drove hand lotion right out of my tired brain.  Oh, well, maybe next week.

Did you do anything this week?  Share in the comments or post a link to a blog post in Mister Linky below.  And if you want to join in and change one aspect of your life for one day, click over to my introductory post to get more information and a badge.

The interesting thing about the show from a recovery perspective is that Mark Benford is a recovering alcoholic, sober for seven years and active in AA.  And the show actually gives a better perspective on what 12 Step recovery is like than most.  Mark has a sponsor, goes to meetings regularly and makes phone calls (well, to his sponsor at least).  And he isn't fixed.  He hasn't had a drink in seven years, but he's still working his recovery and still sees, quite literally, the possibility of a slip: he sees himself drinking in his flash forward.

However, his wife, Olivia, is not working an Al-Anon program.  She doesn't go to meetings or have a sponsor, but she does keep tabs on Mark's sobriety, including anxiously questioning his sponsor for details.  In one of my favorite scenes so far, Mark's sponsor, Aaron, is at the Benford's home helping with a repair while Mark is out of town.  Olivia overhears part of the conversation and then stays to listen in as Aaron encourages Mark to make time to find and attend a meeting during his trip.  Mark is stressed out about his work and he's away from home (both triggers for drinking), so a healthy check-in with his sponsor and a reminder to go to a meeting are just perfect; it's one of the most realistic moments in TV recovery I've seen.  But Olivia, like a lot of people outside of 12 Step recovery, sees meeting attendance as something that happens to fix what has already happened, not as positive preventative maintenance, and is scared that this means Mark is drinking again.

For the most part, it seems that she's counting on him not to drink, and as long as he doesn't, everything is fine.  She has sworn she will leave him if he ever drinks again, and the twist is that, while he's drinking in his flash forward, in hers, she's living with another man.  (I suppose we can assume she held to her boundaries.)

What's missing from the show, and is not something I'd expect to see on TV because it's not charged with drama, are the changes that come to all areas of our lives in recovery.  The people I know who have worked a 12 Step program for as long as Mark and his sponsor have become steeped in program language and ideas.  The longer recovery goes on, the more (for the most part, for most people) there seems to be talk of things like God, gratitude and faith, and the less there seems to be of blame and anger.  But serenity is not nearly as much fun to watch as addict drama like throwing chairs or storming out of rooms (which the show has aplenty).  So while Flash Forward may show an accurate picture of some parts of recovery, it still fails to show its heart and soul.

Based on the eponymous biography by William G Borchert, the Hallmark Hall of Fame movie "When Love Is Not Enough: The Lois Wilson Story" is slated to star Winona Ryder as Lois Wilson and scheduled to air on CBS sometime this season.  I have to admit, given how melodramatic and cheesy these made—for—TV movies tend to be, I'm not expecting an accurate portrayal of what addiction and recovery look like, let alone any great insights, but every now and then it can be nice to grab a bowl of popcorn, put personalities before principles, operate on promotion instead of attraction and celebrate the story that formed the foundation of so many of our recoveries.  I've got my DVR all set.

There are times when I am so proud to be an American, it literally brings tears to my eyes. Sometimes that even happens late at night during the commercial breaks when I'm watching reruns on some obscure local channel.

Since the advent of the DVR (and even before it, the VCR), I'll admit, I haven't watched many commercials.  But occasionally, I'm not quick enough with the remote, something catches my eye, and I watch for a moment, enthralled. Like the other night.  I caught a flag waving and heard the distinctive, demanding, urgently enthusiastic tones of a voice-over announcer commanding me to order now...

And oh, what rapture!  I wish I could share it with you in full, but in a way that is both sad and fitting, it is not available on YouTube.  You may not be able share in the heady rush of patriotism directly, but you can temper your disappointment knowing that magical moments like this simply aren't intended to be savored at cold, hard desks, lingering over our shimmering, pixelated screens; they're meant to be experienced ensconced in the plush loving arms of our sofas, recliners and beds, bathed in the glow of our televisions.

On screen, backed by stars and stripes, images of the Statue of Liberty, George Washington, Abraham Lincoln and Barack Obama flashed by, each one crowned in vibrant, living greenery.  A pottery replica of Lady Liberty sprouted lush, green tresses before my eyes.  George Washington's bald pate was replaced in moments by a verdant wig, and eerily similar green afros burst from the heads of both Barack Obama and Abraham Lincoln.  Yes, some of our treasured national icons have been transformed into Chia Pets, decorative busts that grow grass for hair.

When the announcer told me that owning one would make me "proud to be an American," I'm ashamed to admit that I experienced a brief moment of skepticism. (Oh, how jaded I've become!)  But then I thought about it.  What could be more American than a Chia Pet?  Can you imagine a Chia pet of any other national symbol?  A Chia Eiffel Tower?  Hardly!  A Chia Big Ben?  Please!  What about ending the Chia Cold War?  You can't even do a Chia Gorbachev, but a Chia Reagan?  Now we're talking.  Ch-ch-ch-Chia Prez!

And what's more American than television, or still more: television advertising?  Seeing the beloved symbols of our nation transformed into a uniquely American product and featured for patriotic consumption on that haloed relic of American television, the commercial, why it's like wrapping the Statue of Liberty in an American flag and baking her into an apple pie.

And that made me so delighted to be an American, that I really did get tears of joy in my eyes and started to hum (softly, giggly to myself) "God Bless America."  If they could only have made Chia Abe Lincoln grow a beard, I think the ecstasy might have killed me.

That's right, Jack told everyone on the island where they could stick the Hippocratic Oath, because apparently, when we're talking about Ben, "do no harm" means the greater harm would actually be letting him live. What's more, Jack held firm in the face of several different people begging and bullying him to change. My husband and I speculated that Jack must have attended some of those fast acting TV 12 Step meetings around the time he shaved off the alcoholic-Jack beard and went back to clean shaven control-freak-Jack. Yeah, TV isn't always so realistic. But what was realistic was the way other people reacted to his sudden ability to say no (and mean it): they were pissed. And they pushed back.

"For crying out loud, Kate," I mock-yelled at the TV, "It's hard to say no! Respect Jack's boundaries!" Because that part is still the part that trips me up. I'm getting better at the saying no part, at the "this is as far as I'm willing to go and as much as I'm willing to do" part. I'm just not so good at holding to that path as others get angrier and push harder and harder for me to change, to go back to the old me, the one with the friendly and free flowing boundaries. So I was inwardly gleeful that this character on TV (having gone to the imaginary 12 Step meetings my husband and I invented for him) held his ground in the face of angry attempts to get him to change. And I loved what happened after he did. People took care of themselves and figured out other solutions without him. What a beautiful thing!

I strut down the hall,
pull a mint green plastic comb
from my jeans pocket.

Comb whips through hair and...
I fail (completely!) to look
like Farrah Fawcett.

I don't watch Jon and Kate Plus 8 for two reasons (and one of those reasons is not that I'm so above reality TV trash, because back when I used to work in an office, I totally won the office Survivor pool):

Reason 1: Well, obviously, I never heard of the show until recently, but now that I have, I'm too busy blogging about not watching it to spring for fancy channels I can't watch because they cut into my blogging time. And don't tell me the episodes may be available online. Do you want me to finish this post or go googling for answers?

Reason 2: I don't watch shows involving parenting because they piss me off. The last time I watched a parenting related show was when Supernanny was "helping" the parents of an autistic child by berating them and making them cry. Supernanny traumatized me through the screen and triggered my own perfectionism and fears of judgment so much that I wanted to punch her in the nose. I decided I should go pray and meditate until I was so spiritual and confident and accepting of my own imperfections as a parent and well, generally fixed that the thought of Supernanny didn't make me want sneak tacks into her bed. Years later, I'm not there yet. Supernanny is on my resentment list. High up. In all caps. Bold. Italics. Right next to my high school history teacher.

Still, in spite of the fact that I don't watch it and know next to nothing about it, there is something about Jon and Kate Plus 8 that interests me, and it's not my opinion on the show or any of the drama surrounding it. (Opinions? Of course I have opinions, in spite of knowing nothing more than what I've gleaned from my friends' gossip and a google search. There are kids, there's parenting, there's potential infidelity involved. I'm all about opinions on that.) But what interests me is my inability to talk to anyone about it.

You see, if I were to end this post about here and put it out into the wide world even beyond this blog — say, on the New York Times blog Motherlode (um, no that couple is not me) or Salon or anyplace else — I predict that 100% of the commenters (or somewhere close to 100%) would pick a side and tell me why I was right or wrong not to have watched it. (Come on, you thought about it yourself. Admit it. I know I would.)

Included in those comments there would be — spoken or unspoken — judgments about me (good and worthy person for not watching trash TV vs. bad and ignorant person for writing about shows I know nothing about), judgments about Jon and Kate (evil greedy money mongers selling out their family vs. nice folks just trying to give their kids a future in an imperfect way; along with some: they deserve what they get for choosing to be on TV vs. no one deserves to be treated that way regardless of choices), judgments about the other commenters (worthless people who watch inexcusably trashy TV vs. snobby, awful people who don't get why the show is interesting and worthwhile). And implicit in many of those judgments will be the assumption that there is a right way to do, be, look at everything (and my way is the right way, of course).

Six years in to working on my communication skills and my own unhealthy habit toward things like judgment and perfectionism, I find I'm at a loss for how to engage with others on this topic (among others). Because I recognize that getting into what I think about Jon and Kate or the show or their kids or reality TV or TV at all isn't really relevant. The whole thing about Jon and Kate isn't really about Jon and Kate.

In fact, you may have noticed that I already told you (a bit) what it's actually about when I said why I don't watch the show. It's about my own parenting fears and fallibilities. It's about my anxiety around how people judge my life even though it's not on TV and how many more would judge it if it were. It's about the judgments I make about other families and children without knowing or understanding them. It's about the fear and frustration that comes from my inability to control people around me whose actions and decisions and craziness impact my life. For someone else, it may be something different, but that's what it's about for me.

But start a conversation about all that? A conversation where there aren't right answers only our own individual truths? Yikes! I'd be vulnerable and that would be scary. And I'd probably get triggered and annoyed and frustrated.  It's easier to argue about what I think about Jon and Kate. Only I haven't watched the show. That's ok, maybe the episodes are online. Then when I tell you what my opinions are, they'll seem more credible and you'll see how totally right I am about them.

I've heard a lot about the A&E series Intervention, but since I've never wanted to spring for the cost of satellite or an extended cable package, I'd never actually watched it myself until this week: I followed The Discovering Alcoholic's link to streaming video versions of the show on Hulu and watched an episode about a drug addict named Alyson. The majority of the program was focused on Alyson's drug use and unhappiness, as well as the distress of her family. The intervention itself was quite a small part of the show and the only part of recovery we saw was a stated willingness to start rehab, followed a sober and smiling Alyson, crying tears of gratitude as she received her one year chip at the end of the show.

The show was filled with pain and drama. And there was a time when I used to love that kind of thing, in real life as well as on screen. During my daytime TV watching days, my tastes ran more to the Jerry Springer side of things than anything as staid and dull as Oprah. I loved watching crazy people fighting. Wow, look at them. Can you believe the stuff they do? The intensity of emotions and the out-of-control situations were thrilling to me.

Yet what I noticed about the drama this time was that it was boring. Can you believe it? Boring! Yep, terribly, horribly, deadly boring. Sure, I could relate to the pain. I really felt for Alyson and her family. I could see them hurting, and while my experiences, my story, my unmanageablity took a different form, I knew that hurt. But the part of the show that was supposed to keep me on the edge of my seat gasping "I can't believe she would do that!" completely failed to enthrall me. Nothing that happened was surprising or shocking; it was predictable. "Yep, there's that same old addict stuff. There's that same old codependent dance."

I wanted Alyson and those around her to hit bottom and get on to the interesting stuff, the good stuff, the recovery stuff already. Instead, it was an hour of watching the sound and fury that signifies nothing; everyone was spinning madly, screaming wildly, flailing around, in a loud, crazy dance, but no one was going anywhere. When the journey really began — one step, one day at a time — the cameras stopped rolling, the screen went dark, and everyone moved quietly on their way. But perhaps that's just as it should be.

When my son was first born, I actually spent some time doing that thing that we stay-at-home moms supposedly spend our lazy, bon-bon eating days doing: I watched television. Now, I know, folks who haven't actually been stay-at-home parents to a colicky infant -- whose poor little nervous system hated the bright, loud world outside the womb -- have this image of what it means to stay at home and watch TV all day: comfortably clad in pajamas, with feet up and snacks and cool drinks within easy reach, the idle mom flicks through television channels weighing the merits of Oprah vs. Ellen, a rosy baby sleeping peacefully in a bassinet somewhere. So for those folks, let me set you straight right now. That ain't how it goes. And believe me, I wanted that to be how it goes. Why do you think I signed up for this whole Mama gig in the first place?

Those days I spent watching TV have this blurry, disjointed dream quality in my memory. Were there multiple days? Or was it all one long day? I think it's really all a single day, months long, in which I'm never really awake but also never fully asleep...

I doze for an hour here and there and then gaze out at the world through glazed, foggy eyes for a few hours before nodding off again. I'm some weird, ironically life-giving combination of a vampire and those red eyed soldiers in the movies who've been subjected to some experiment that takes away their need to sleep in order to create the perfect killing machine. The curtains are always drawn whether from migraines or because I'm nursing. The baby only consistently stops his piercing screams when I'm nursing, so I'm almost always nursing. Some days I just don't bother to put on a shirt at all; I walk around in huge, industrial nursing bras leaking milk like a giant cow.

When I put him in the bassinet, he screams like he's on fire. I haven't showered in days. I'm too exhausted to get anything to eat or drink, and besides, if I move, the baby will wake up and scream. It's like sitting with a live grenade on my lap. I haven't slept more than two hours at a stretch in weeks, maybe months. The TV is my constant companion, full of adult human voices that distract me without demanding any mental energy. I long for the day when I can stop watching reruns of Law and Order (every last incarnation of it) and what? Grocery shop? Vacuum? Do dishes? It's all a treat. Really.

Now that the kids are older, I rarely watch TV. When they are around and awake, I don't want to watch the kind of awful crime dramas I like to watch. And when they are asleep or off at school, I have, well, all those years of things to do that didn't get done when the kids were smaller. Just the other day I was cleaning out my closet and found half-written thank you notes for baby gifts. My son is eight now, people, and my daughter is five. I'm a little behind. But I would like to live out that fantasy of just kicking back and watching TV. I don't know. Maybe today. While I'm folding laundry. And finishing those thank you notes.

Yesterday I wrote about the possibility that Karen Maezen Miller could be a serial killer. (In case you're wondering, the chances are small.) To be honest, I was much more concerned with the more real and terrifying possibility that she or Shawn somehow knew my mother and would, upon learning my name, call her and say, "Hey, do you know that your daughter is writing a secret blog about being married to a sex addict?" But I left that part out because it's not as entertaining as the thought of a Zen priest Unibomber. However, while that was a bit tongue in cheek, the thought really did occur to me.

It occurred to me because I think about serial murder, hm, rather more than I should. My husband and I recently rented DVDs of Dexter (a TV series about a serial killer). Halfway through the second episode, I began blathering excitedly about the serial killer subgenre of crime dramas, when my husband paused the show and said, half teasing and half genuinely exasperated, "What is your deal with serial killers?"

What is my deal with serial killers?

Well, it's true. I do have a deal with serial killers; in fact I have a longstanding morbid fascination with murder in general and both mass murder and serial murder in particular. When my son was born, I would record true crime shows and watch them, holding him through the long, lonely hours of his infanthood. He was breastfed to documentaries about the Night Stalker and Ted Bundy the Son of Sam and John Wayne Gacy. And well before he was born I'd voraciously devour books and newspaper articles, studying each case. Always I wanted to know the same things: Why do they do it? How do I tell the difference between serial killers and the billions of other non-serial killers on Earth? How do I know who to trust? What makes their mind different from my mind? How does their mind work? How does my mind work?

At the time I found out about my husband's sex addiction, when my son was a few years old, the story of Laci Peterson's murder was all over the news. She had been pregnant, her husband had an affair and he'd killed her along with their unborn son. I was pregnant at the time too and my husband had also been unfaithful. When I thought about how much I had trusted Mark and how much he had hidden from me, I didn't know what was real anymore. I felt an aching connection to Laci and the parallels were strong enough that I wondered, in all earnestness: What made me different from her or my husband different from Scott? Why was I alive while she wasn't? Who was to say my husband wouldn't murder me? After all, I wouldn't have thought he could cause such unimaginable hurt he did. I remember how Laci's family supported Scott, until they learned of the affair. They changed their minds in an instant, thinking (as I did), "Well, if he could do this first horrible wrong I thought him incapable of, what is to keep him from doing another?"

Murder is the most extreme form of violation and betrayal. The ultimate trust we place in one another as humans is the trust that we will not kill each other. Murderers break that trust, and serial killers break that trust again and again. When my husband betrayed me, I asked why. When someone is murdered (or murders themselves) I ask why. There is no rational reason for either, yet my mind pursues it, trying to make sense and form understandable patterns from the irrational ones.

When Mark asked me what my deal is with serial killers, I paused before saying, "Well, I suspect it's the same reason I'm drawn to addicts. I think there's something there that resonates with my own life, there's something in the stories I relate to, there's something about me that I need to figure out. And I think you," I said, tickling him under the chin, "are sort of like my own serial killer." He frowned, rolled his eyes and went back to watching the show, not at all pleased with the analogy.