Funny, Isn’t It?

 

By Jeanne Charters

 

Funny, isn’t it?

 

Through the years of writing these columns, dear reader, I have divulged many secrets to you. I’ve told you stuff most self-respecting women only reveal to their OB/Gyn doctor. Often, I have questioned the wisdom of these revelations, but columnists are gut spillers first and foremost, with an innate need to be known and understood by their readers. Open a columnist’s mind and their every thought, however perverse or zany, spurts out through their fingers and onto the computer screen.

 

Sometimes, it’s downright embarrassing.

 

Photo by Myra Kruzer

Photo by Myra Kruzer

I’ve shared with you intimate details about breast cancer (mine and my daughter’s), revelations about my marriage, and deep, dark secrets about the wild single life I led before I said “I do” for the second time. By the by, note to all you single women out there—relish every minute of that solitary life. I don’t miss those minutes or the complete control I had over the TV remote, but boy, it was fun while it lasted. Wouldn’t have missed that time for the world.
But this secret—this admission—this revelation is one of the hardest I will ever have to share with you. Brace yourselves.

 

I have been watching Keeping up with the Kardashians. There, I’ve said it.

 

It all started with my daughter, Caroline, in New York.

 

“Mom,” she said. “Really, it’s fun.”

 

“Caroline, it’s trash! They’re a bunch of bikini-clad fame whores.”

 

“Oh, and like The Bachelorette is high art?”

 

Low blow, Caroline.

 

“At least everyone knows The Bachelorette is manufactured TV. Kris, Kim and Kompany pretend that show is how they really live. Like any woman wears false eyelashes 24-7.”

 

“They’re not false.”

 

“OMG, daughter mine. Have I taught you nothing?”

 

“I think you’re just jealous.”

 

Jealous? Me jealous of Kris, Kim, Kourtney, Khloe, Kendall, and Kylie? Not that I ever watched them before, but who can pass a supermarket tabloid without seeing the K squad, bosoms bared, staring out from behind the politically correct, canvas grocery bags with Whole Foods emblazoned all over them.

 

In the interest of understanding my youngest child, relating to her on a level we could share, I decided to catch a few episodes. And besides, it was the K squad or Duck Dynasty. Summer is pretty lame in TV land.

 

I now have five episodes left on my recorded queue. I have watched at least 20 in the past week. By any standard, I would have to call myself an addict. Is there such a thing as Kardashian Anonymous? Does one wean off slowly or just quit?

 

I can’t stomach Kris—think she treats husband Bruce, a Gold Medal Olympic champion—like a dolt. The problem is he is kind of a Gold Medal dolt. Sometimes, Kris reminds me of Lucille Ball in her prime. Remember how Lucy would plot with Ethel to fool poor Ricky. Kris must have been taking notes back then.

 

Kim’s pretty and stacked but about as exciting as an untoasted bagel. Without cream cheese!

 

But Kourtney and Khloe are really a blast. Kourtney loves to make Kim cry because Kim is such an “ugly Krier.” She really is. The way Kim looks crying is enough to make me swear off the waterworks as a bargaining tool with my husband. I need to have someone make a video of me crying to see if my eyes glisten and glow or just puddle up and pull my face down like Kim’s do. And her nose runs.

 

When Kim cries, Kourtney’s grin morphs into cackling glee. She really is like the wicked witch of the West. Such malice in such a teensy person is staggering.

 

Meanwhile, as Kourtney revels in Kim’s misery, Khloe, the giant daughter whose husband Lamar is a drug addict, grieves. She really can’t stand to see anyone hurt and will do anything to placate the injured party, namely Kim. Kim spends a lot of time being hurt. Funny, isn’t it but I really love Khloe. Although I could do without the constant hair fluffing.

 

Bizarro!

 

I think my fascination comes from being the mother of four daughters. I’ve seen each one of my girls play the crier, the cackler, and the griever, sometimes all at the same time. I find myself trying to figure which daughter reminds me of which “K” in this Krazy Kardashian Klan, but it’s impossible to determine that because their moods change quicker than their hairdos.

 

Ah well, summer is nearly over. Good stuff will return to TV, and my brain may be salvaged by the return of quality programs like “Grey’s Anatomy.” What, you say? “Grey’s Anatomy” is just a hyped up medical soap opera with no similarity to what goes on in a real hospital. Bite your tongue.

 

PROGRAM NOTE: There’s a new sheriff in town! Don Draper (Mad Men) and Damian Lewis (Homeland) pack up your chiseled cheekbones and tortured eyes and move on. James Spader in The Blacklist has more sex appeal than both of you combined. He’s short. He’s bald. His face is a little doughy. But OMG!! He reeks sensuality!

 


 

Jeanne Charters, a transplant from New York, is a writer living in Asheville with her husband, Matt Restivo. Her collection of columns, “Funny, isn’t it?” is available at Malaprops, Mountain Made in the Grove Arcade, or at her website, JeanneCharters.com. She has written three novels and is back to seeking an agent for her young adult novel, “Shanty Gold.” She can be reached at jcharters@bellsouth.net.

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