These days, this is what it looks like when I go to bed at night.
That, friends, is Howard Stern. My husband is obsessed. With America’s Got Talent.
I, myself, have little-to-no desire to watch this show, save when someone shares an amazing 10-year-old soul singer’s audition or a ridiculously creative dance on Facebook. So, I only care about the good stuff, is what I’m saying.
I don’t care about the teenage boy who makes Rube Goldberg creations using dominoes and knick-knacks. I don’t care about the unicyclist who catches teacups with her feet. Dog trainer? Nope. Magicians? Nyet. I don’t care whether or not they let the interesting kid who can’t play the guitar through to the next round of not. I don’t really care about the banter between Heidi Klum and an ex Spice Girl. It’s not what I want, what I really, really want.
It’s just not my thing. But my husband loves this show, and to be honest, I can’t figure the heck out why. He doesn’t watch reality tv, except for, say, shows about extreme fishing. He mocks me when I watch anything he doesn’t like. He even plays tricks on me to get out of watching Dirty Dancing.
The interesting thing, you guys, is that, uh, in the bedroom, we are super compatible. We have been working our way through the scary movie project and we went through a political movie marathon, including a first-time viewing of All the President’s Men for both of us. We agreed on all the motorcycle shows and THE WIRE and the zombie shows and serial killer shows and the Stewart/Colbert hour and shows in which Claire Danes does the ugly cry and documentaries about religion and whatever the heck you’d classify Game of Thrones as (Princess Bride meets Lord of the Rings meets, uh, Flowers in the Attic? Oh, with zombies, of course.)
Compatible, until now.
Because of Howard Stern.
Who has ruined things—in the bedroom.