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So here I am, a trashy reality TV show addict, staying in for the night to sit on my couch, eat Yodels and judge those who have signed their souls over to cable television networks.

Because that's what the Sabbath day is all about, right?

Now, I don't usually discriminate when it comes to trashy television; I love it all, or maybe I'm purely fascinated by it all. I enjoy watching the insane and irrational compete for love, money and who can disgrace their grandmothers the fastest. It's my way of clearing my head, a way of feeling better about myself when I've had an off day. Plus, it's not like I try to emulate any of the behavior. My dad has always said that if I didn't have good grades, I'd be forced to watch PBS on a continuous loop.

As a reality TV aficionado, I tend to watch most shows at least once, but some are just too ridiculous to sit through. 

Case in point: VH1's Daisy of Love. 

While I find Bret Michaels wickedly entertaining, anyone who competes to be his girlfriend, and then comes in second place, should not be allowed to have her own dating show. How can America trust the judgement of a silicone-injected Tattoo Barbie who wanted to be Mrs. I'm-balding-but-you-can't-tell-because-I-have-hair-extensions-and-a-bandana-glued-to-my-scalp? The answer is that we can't.

As she simultaneously dates Cage, Chi Chi, Professor, 6 Gauge, Brooklyn, Fox, 12 Pack, Sinister, 84, 85, 86, Big Rig, London, Torch, Tool Box, Weasel, Cable Guy, Flex and the most appropriately named Dropout, (and yes, she renames them for memory purposes) she searches for someone with whom she can share her life and love of tattoos and eyeliner. One by one, these sweet gentleman are sent home and the remaining celebrate avoiding elimination by raising their flasks in appreciation. Classy, classy, classy.

I tell myself I can get through the hour of programming, but without fail, I can only physically make it halfway. There's just something about this one that I can't stomach. It could be the unnecessary violence, swearing and alcoholism or maybe I've just logged too many hours of mind-rotting television and my brain has reached its limit.

Criticisms aside, when a skunk happened to wander into the mansion (while the suitors were all conveniently drunk and clothed only in their leopard-print undies) and sprayed 12 Pack in the face, I smiled, appreciating the impromptu family reunion, or average hunting day for these guys, depending on how you look at it. Either one works for me.

Long story short, I'm holding out hope for Megan Wants a Millionaire, which premiers in two weeks. Until then, I'll have to ponder one of life's greatest questions:

"Will you stay in this house and be my rockstar?"

I'm sorry, Daisy, but no, I definitely will not. To quote the infinite source of wisdom that is Fox, "I'm out like sauerkraut."

A perfect weekend

Step one to having the best weekend of the summer so far? Having absolutely no work for two full days. Saturday and Sunday were completely mine and I spent it with some of my favorite people, who are so special that I'm going to introduce them to you. 

Saturday I woke up early to spend the day with Christine, one of my best friends. We've known each other since we were six years old and always have a good time. We drove down to Narragansett and beached it all morning and afternoon. (Yes, "to beach" is a verb, all the cool kids are using it, duh.) Lying in the sun and eavesdropping on fellow beach goers is one of our pastimes of choice, and the conversations we overhear never disappoint. 

After the beach, I stopped by the pool club to visit some coworkers since work is always better when you're not actually required to be there. And to round off the day, I vegged on the couch and watched "You've Got Mail" with my mother and Laura, Christine's twin sister and also one of my biffles. Meg Ryan movies are cheesy as a fondue restaurant (baha I'm a dork) but I watch them whenever they're on TV. 

Today, err I guess yesterday since it's technically Monday now, I slept in then spent the afternoon beating my boyfriend Corey at cards and annoying him by taking lots of pictures. I hadn't used my camera in a while so I was a bit snap happy. I was able to catch him mid laugh, high five for me. 

The best part of my weekend? Going to the Inn at Castle Hill in Newport with my entire family to celebrate my grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary. I assumed the role of unofficial photographer was pretty successful in sneaking some great shots, if I do say so myself. I'm planning on putting up an album on snapfish or some other photo site, but for now here's a sampling. 

This is the first time I've ever felt like I looked like anyone in my family. I see a great resemblance to my grandmother this photo.

And here they are, 50 laughter-filled years later. 

The Kavanaugh clan.

And one last picture, this one of my mother who is too adorable to not include.

Overall, the best 48 hours I can remember experiencing in a while. Spending time with people I love and having gorgeous, sunny weather for the first time all summer? Absolute perfection. 

The healing powers of capitalism

I'm a firm believer in retail therapy. Sure therapists can be helpful and spa days can be heaven, (trust me, my aunt paid for me to get a facial last year so I'm well aware of its healing powers), but there is just no substitute for spending a day in and out of stores, trying on clothes. I don't even have to necessarily buy anything to feel better. Of course, I say necessarily because I have the willpower of, well, a girl shopping at the mall. 

While I'd love to relax and de-stress to free activities like an hour of yoga or cleaning my room, those methods simply don't work for me. To be perfectly honest, I've never understood how cleaning can help anyone relax. Small tasks like cleaning off the top of my dresser actually stress me out more than leaving the piles of jewelry, price tags and empty water bottles where they lay.

But I digress. 

So in participating in my therapy sessions, I accumulate quite a few articles of clothing. Rest assured, I shop at cheap stores so I get a lot for my money. (Forever21, H&M and Express, especially with the sweet associate discount, are oh so kind to me.) Since I'm a habitual shopper, I tend to buy what's trendy so I tire of it quicker than most. Couple the huge quantity of textiles with my ability to hoard crap like a squirrel before winter and I'm left with a very full closet and drawers that can barely open. 

Starting last summer after my freshman year of college, I donated two large garbage bags of very gently worn clothes to Big Sisters of Rhode Island and gave some to my younger cousins, who were eager to raid my wardrobe. I finally got around to unpacking my clothes from school this year (yes I moved home two months ago, stop judging me) and realized I was in dire need of purging my closet again. Then just like that, nostalgia hit. The overflowing laundry basket at my feet is full of tops worn on first dates, message tees bought as jokes and a shirt worn for well over 24 hours when I went to Paris for a week on a senior class trip and my luggage went to Mumbai and Milan, courtesy of Delta, the greatest airline in the world. 

It's so hard to let go of the memories that the clothes carry. I'm well aware that it's probably shallow and overly dramatic. Some people scrapbook, I shop. So I'll give the clothes away, for a cousin or a complete stranger to maybe wear on her first date. And I'll continue to do what I do, creating a nice little cycle. It may be a weak justification for spending money, but what other kind of therapy is reusable?

Sleep deprived, but in a blogging sort of mood

So my 20th birthday has come and gone. I spent the day trying to wish the cloud cover away from the beach (I succeeded for a glorious 15 minutes), scoffing at teenagers (who are now obviously immature wretches who don't respect their elders), and getting stung by bees for the first time (birthday surprises rock). Seeing as I'm older and wiser now, it is only natural that this birthday was one of learning. Turns out that putting pennies on bee stings sucks all the hurt out like a mommy's kiss on a boo boo, a big thanks to my grandfather for that trick. 

After reading a few of my articles in the paper, my uncle gave me the gift of Katharine Graham's autobiography Personal History, which so far has been an interesting read. Sure, I'm only up to page 15, but her writing style already has me hooked. I've been thinking about this one line about her mother's career decision all day: As she wrote later, when she told her family that she intended to do newspaper reporting, "My mother wept and my father said solemnly: 'I would rather see you dead.' " Sometimes I wish I could see what it was like to live back in a time where opportunities were not as readily available as they are now. It just makes me wonder what I would fight for.

Segue. I'm tired and "That 70's Show" is distracting me from being more creative or skillful.

Since I've been home from Boston to rural suburbia, I've rediscovered the therapeutic powers of driving my truck at night with the windows down and singing loud and quite well if I do say so myself, and with no witnesses to refute me, my statement will stand strong. At 10 o'clock at night, seeing more than 4 cars on the road is a rarity and drivers run the risk of being swallowed whole by the so-called "potholes" that, if filled with water, could serve as a child sized swimming pool. There's just something freeing about being the only one on the road, nevermind being one of a few still awake, so a celebratory sing along to Eddie Money's "Take Me Home Tonight" is more than appropriate. 

For the sake of continuity, I think updating more than once a week will be beneficial. I'm going to hold myself to that with Blogspot as my witness. There's nothing more binding than that.