Cleanliness is next to impossible

Actually, I am the world's worst housewife, and the main reason I work for a living is to have an excuse for not having a spotless house. But it's more than the cleaning that scares me away from domesticity -- it's the television. I took Monday off this week because I knew I'd be putting in extra hours at the Celebration on Saturday, and instead of diving into the Alpine heap of laundry or wading through the weeds that used to be a flower bed, I played a few games on the internet, read a few chapters out of my latest book and watched TV.

Daytime television is ... Undefinable. You've got three channels showing "Roadhouse," the soap operas, half a dozen infomercial channels, the news channels and the psuedo-news channels, nature shows, cartoons, sports channels and reality TV. The news channels were out. I don't believe in taking a busman's holiday. The sports channels don't grab me since the major golf tournaments are over, real football season hasn't started and they moved the equestrian events to pay-per-view (I'm going through some serious Margie Goldstein Engle withdrawal).

Since I wasn't in the mood for cartoons or watching crocodiles eat baby gazelles, and I was going to have plenty of daytime drama when my kids got home, I ended up watching reality shows.

I normally don't like this kind of show because the reality is, most people who want to be on reality shows are not the kind of people I want to invite into my living room on a daily basis. Or yearly basis.

I don't necessarily mean the competitors, either. I can't even stand to watch 10 seconds David Hasselhoff on The Soup's clip show, much less sit through an hour of him on America's Got Talent. It's just painful.

There have been a few times when I got suckered in and involved, though. I watch the American Idol tryouts and if one or two of the contestants grabs my attention, I'll stick around for the regular season. I watched Top Chef the year that nasty little guy with the troll doll hair came in second, and I watched Project Runway until Vincent got booted.

Because of the debut of this year's Project Runway, the television was flooded with fashion reality shows. Fashion is so not my thing. The only reason I know the difference between an empire (Ahm-peer) waist and an A-line cut is because of the torturous years I spent as a lifestyles editor, writing up wedding dress descriptions. My only personal requirements for fashion are 1. Inexpensive, 2. Comfortable, and 3. Won't get me arrested.

But just because I don't like to wear haute couture doesn't mean I don't like it. Some of the dresses are beautiful, although most of them adhere to that Madison Avenue myth that size 4 is overweight. Mainly I watch Project Runway because I like the host, Tim Gunn, so much. He is the kindest of critics, one from whom others (hint, hint, Mr. Cowell) could learn. He actually offers constructive criticism -- comments the contestants, on the rare occasion they are actually paying attention, can use to make a better product. He proves you don't have to be nasty to make your point --or your ratings.

I overdosed on fashion TV Monday, flipping between Project Runway, "The Devil Wars Prada" and Rachel Zoe (which is a whole other train wreck and needs its own column.)

So it was no wonder I dreamed about all of them that night. Rachel, Tim and Meryl Streep were walking through the stables at the Celebration, their Prada and Gucci buried ankle deep in horse, um, you know. That in itself spoke volumes, but the funny thing was when they started critiquing the horses' tack.

Not the riders' clothes. Not the barn decorations. Not even the ribbons woven into the horses' manes. Just the saddles and bridles came under scrutiny.

I can't remember exactly what they did say in my dream, but it must have been funny -- I laughed so loud in my sleep, I woke my husband up.

I'm sure Freud and Jung would have no problem analyzing my dream. The Celebration can't come around without criticism, usually from people who have never even seen a walking horse, much less know what they're talking about.

But then again, sometimes a manure-covered Jimmy Choo is just a manure-covered Jimmy Choo. Either way, I'm laying off the reality television for a while. I've got a horse show waiting ... and 11 days of excuses not to do the housework.

Mary Reeves is a Times-Gazette staff writer. She can be reached at mreeves@t-g.com.