My sister brought home the 1st season of Ugly Betty, which I just finished. While my first instinct is to identify with Betty (don’t we all?), what really freaks me out is that I’m the same age as her older sister, Hilda, a single mother whose wonderfully gay son came nine months after her prom night. I’m continually amazed because Hilda looks older than me, and it boggles the mind that if I had somehow gotten pregnant during my last year of high school, I’d have a 12 year old child today. It’s a big thing to wrap my mind around, especially since I don’t think I’d be good with children. I can barely take care of my cat.
So its weird that the person I feel the closest to on that show is a single MILF who loves her family fiercely but who sometimes needs a smack on the head for her lack of common sense, just because we were born on the same year. She isn’t my favorite character though. That would be her incredibly cute and talented son, Justin, and Claire, the murderer mother of the show’s other main character, Daniel Meade, Betty’s boss, playboy, party animal, and EIC of Mode magazine.
Why am I writing about Ugly Betty? I’m not going to wax rhapsodic about how the show places importance on the inside vs. the outside, blah blah blah. I’m writing about the show because its how I’ve been wasting my evenings and how, for a show that’s supposed to be an inside look into the workings of a big fashion magazine, I can’t find any clothes that I’d like to wear.
In other news, I had the following insane conversation with an uncle:
Uncle: (after hearing me tell my aunt, his wife, all about my current office job) So, where do you work?
(What I really wanted to say: Didn’t you just hear me tell your wife all about where I work and what I do?)
Uncle: I see. Is that like your job in TV?
(What I really wanted to say: Yes. Because sitting around in an office all day is exactly the same as running around interviewing actors and staying late to edit an episode or finish a story. But I guess you already know that.)
Uncle: Ah. But you used to be thin then, right?
(What I really wanted to say: Yes. And didn’t you use to be smart. Oh, my mistake. I was thinking of someone else. At least I can go back to being thin. You can never go back to being smart because it’s impossible for anyone to go back to what never were.)
You can tell I have a lot of angst about my weight, and about the intellectual savvy that some of my family members possess. How can I compete with such razor sharp wit? (Buti na lang they don’t go on line, or know what sarcasm is, or else I’d be in big trouble.)
I realized just now that this entry sounds like something Joey Dizon (Hello, Joey! :D ) wrote on his blog, except his is funnier than mine. Joey, if you’re reading this, take heart in the fact that at least you don’t have to see your teacher every time your family gets together. No wonder my cousin wants to dance half naked on TV.