Hawaiian is officially losing touch with reality.

So I had this really annoying roommate in college who would preface all of his arguments by saying “But do you know what the reality is? Let me tell you what the reality is…” But he didn’t have a clue about reality. He was a nudist/atheist who had briefly joined the Mormon church so that he could go on a mission for fun, and he’s one of those people who is destined to either join a cult or try to found one because he needs a common cause in order for anyone to spend time with him. But whatever he learned during his two years in Paraguay didn’t teach him anything about reality. He doesn’t know reality the way I do. Because even if that guy actually did manage to trick someone into giving him a job that paid him actual money, I know he didn’t buy a TV. And how is anyone supposed to get in touch with reality if that doesn’t happen through their television?

The last couple of nights have involved 2 episodes of American Idol, the finale of Project Runway, the series premiere of 8th & Ocean, the series premiere of Top Chef, the premiere of the latest cycle of America’s Next Top Model, the first two episodes of that new TLC show about the “little people” family, two plastic surgery documentaries, a makeover show, and yes, I’ll admit it… I even watched the latest episode of Miami Ink. I think I’ve officially achieved reality TV overdose. And oh, I think I may have watched a few minutes of The Amazing Race. I don’t know anymore. it’s all become a blur with a voiceover coming out of a floating Tyra Banks.
Not that it helps much, but I’m only watching Idol because, well, I happen to enjoy the company I keep while doing so. So if I have to watch Paula thrust her breasts at the cute guys every Wednesday night just so I can purposely not thrust anything at all in the direction of the cute, wide-grinned guy who usually sits at the other end of my couch on those nights, then so be it. It doesn’t matter that we don’t sit with our legs crossed toward each other in an unequivocal sex invite. In fact, i think it’s more telling that we work very hard to maintain as much distance as possible for fear that if we bumped into each other instead of discussing politics, law, and the size of Mandisa’s ass, that we might actually find that bumping into each other isn’t such a bad thing. It could be a good thing, really, but neither of us is ready for something potentially that good. And that fear of potential seems to be the big invisible hand manipulating the bits and pieces of my current reality.

So I know you’ve looked at that list at least twice now, and I bet you keep coming back to the “little people” show and Miami Ink. I can’t help it. I like the little people. It runs in the family. When my favorite cousin was four, we caught him petting a “little person” in Target. He was incredibly excited because he had just learned that there were miniature pigs. Miniature people was a world his big little head had yet to even imagine. He wanted to take her home with us.

As for the Miami Ink thing, the show makes my head go completely numb, and I really can’t deal with another angel, flower, or goldfish meant to honor someone who just died, but I’m still trying to figure out how a Jewish guy who served in the Israeli army has the accent of a Latin thug. And I may never be able to wrap my own big not-little head around the bizarre resemblance between Tiffani Thiessen and the female tattoo artist, Kat Von D.

Anyway, I think my relationship with reality TV and anything with a commentator/narrator has finally come around to bite me in the ass. Or tail. Or something. Last month when the Westminster Dog Show was on, I had lunch with a friend that I haven’t seen in seven years. This means, of course, that she wasn’t up to date on any of the little things that go on with me, and so she had no idea what she was doing when she asked if I indeed was ready to give up the “thrill and romance of dating” and finally settle down with someone. I replied that of course I’d give up the horror and torment of dating in order to settle down with someone, and then, Hawaiian-style, proceeded to explain that really, dating was like a dog show — it all comes down to grooming, pedigree, breeding, and presentation. She, of course, was rightfully appalled at this reduction, and said that even if it were an absolute truth I should perhaps let other people think there’s more to it than just this barest of recipes for conjuring the magic of romance and love.

Somewhere in the ether of time and space, the small god of irony must have heard overheard this conversation.

Because tonight, I have a date. A first date. He’s a nice guy, it seems. Cute. Southern. Intelligent. Single. Out. Has peculiar methods of dealing with his laundry and enjoys watching TV in bed. Nearly everything I might put on a wishlist. So of course, I’m hoping he likes me. Except that in this case, that doesn’t matter much. Because he’s not coming to meet me by himself. It seems he doesn’t think he’s the best judge of what’s right for him anymore, and so if we actually do end up having a second date, it will be based entirely upon whether or not I make a good impression… with his dog.

So yeah. Keep me in your thoughts this evening. And if I actually like this one, maybe it will be clear to this guy and his sidekick that no matter how grumpy I may get, my bark is always worse than my bite. And if not, then let’s just be honest… it probably has something to do with my breeding, grooming, pedigree, or presentation.