There's Nothing On

Here is something you should know about me: I love TV. Especially now that my brilliant husband turned one of our forty-seven spare computers into a TiVo-like machine, thereby making it fairly conceivable that I will never have to watch another car commercial again. (Although I recently saw the title "BMW Films" in my list of recorded shows and let me declare that having your commercial directed by Guy Ritchie does not make it a film. Please. And Phillip? Why are you contaminating my Recorded Shows with this dreck?)

My lovely and brilliant husband also acquired a copy of Jeff Buckley's Grace album for me (is the Russian MP3 site really legal?) and as I was listening to "Hallelujah" in the car today, I traveled to a very poignant moment in the Maggie Space Time Continuum- the season finale of The O.C.

As I was quite ready to call off my upcoming wedding and throw myself at Dave Rygalski's feet*, it only made sense that I became an O.C. fanatic this year. Did you try to call me between 8 and 9 pm on Wednesday nights? Right, well, I don't take calls when there are cotillions and Chrismukkah celebrations to attend. I'm somewhere between "writing fan fiction as we speak" and "hoping I won't be a drooling fool when God finally allows me to meet the Oh So Dreamy Adam Brody."

This fall The O.C. is moving to Thursday nights (if you haven't been watching Fox 24/7 like me) and it's a good thing Friends isn't on anymore because there would be Extreme Strife in my household if we were forced to choose. Another Chandler's-insecure-about-his-masculinity joke or Julie Cooper's evil plot-of-the-week? It's a tough decision.

And I'm quite comfortable with the fact that most of my Must See shows are total wastes of any normal person's time. That's fine. Although I do have some standards. I would never, for example, stoop to watching Trading Spouses.

But then I saw Trading Spouses the other night- by accident!- and I'm even farther into the dark dank hole of TV obsession than I thought possible. That rich blond mom with the wardrobe of a 16-year-old? She was SUPER NICE! And the poor country mom? What a meanie! Even her own kids didn't like her! So whatever, poor country mom, I hated the plastic country club friends too, but did you really have to kill Zach's batting-cage-spirit with your shrill and strident and downright snarky "encouragement?" I didn't think so!

But The O.C. , now that's art. What is this rumor about it not starting up again until November? Don't they know we have needs?!

*"If you don't know who Dave Rygalski is, what in the world ARE you watching??? Go tune your TV set to the WB and sit there until I say you can get up. Which won't be until, oh, NEXT WEEK.
**Confidential to The O.C. Powers That Be: Let it be known that I hereby add my name to the list of thousands who are waiting for Marissa to jump off a cliff and die already.