April 26, 2007

Confessions from the Carpool

Field of Dreamers

By Shana McLean Moore
Times Columnist

I have always been a sucker for anyone who carries a dream in their pocket, despite all the obstacles in its way—like pocket lint, car keys or a soul-sucking full-time job.

Whether these dreamers spend the hours of 9-5 cleaning bathrooms, slinging hash to pompous patrons or even writing computer code, they make sure the bills get paid, yet still manage to dig up the physical and emotional wherewithal to devote time to their craft. They even persevere while the inevitable naysayers spout statistics about how they’d sooner be hit by lighting, become the Bill Gates of Nigeria or replace Gayle King as Oprah’s BFF, than achieve their goals and dreams.

This explains (okay, rationalizes) my passion for reality TV, where we average Joes and Josefinas live vicariously on our couches as the dreamers survive the politics of a deserted island, sing and sashay their way to seeing their name on a Broadway marquee, or belt it out for a golden (more like platinum) ticket to Hollywood.

This also explains why my children say I cry all the time. There’s just something about a dramatic story of overcoming the odds that makes me release the salt-water dams of my sinuses. While you might advise me to consider anti-depressants, maybe I should just start by going back to watching dramatic series where fictionalized characters are merely shot at, dismembered or impaled.

Others might suggest that I get a life of my own. To them I say… well, point taken. The thing is, for those of us with kids who have just enough of a life of their own to require us to spend ours chauffeuring them to all their practices, rehearsals, parties and the like, prime time television comes on at precisely the time we feel past our prime. By that time of night we’re simply exhausted.

The feeling is best summed up by the professional athletes who inspire kids by telling them to “leave it all on the field.” Well, by day’s end, I have “left it all” on my office chair, the kitchen sink, the laundry room and in my minivan captain’s seat. I am just grateful “it” doesn’t leave marks that I’d also have to clean.

So by the time evening rolls around, I collapse onto the couch, tear-up and vote for these young people who are singing, dancing or eating raw pig intestines to fulfill their dreams of fame and financial security.

The problem is that my kids are now old enough to watch these shows with me. Until this year, my husband was the only witness who could mock my tears when someone hit the high note, mastered the Samba, or avoided throwing up all their hard-swallowed work. Now, my girls do an embarrassingly spot-on imitation of my “Oh, did you see her proud mother crying in the audience?” “I can’t believe she could control the involuntary heaving and win immunity for her team!” “Did you s-s-see all the expression in his f-f-face even though he once suffered from facial paralysis?”

My girls might not admit it, but they are equally as passionate (though admittedly more dry-eyed) about their favorite contestants. The tension lies in the fact that we are rooting on enemy teams. It’s something like a San Francisco Giants versus Oakland A’s rivalry that’s played out, not on opposite sides of a stadium, but on opposite sides of the couch. While our rivalry hasn’t yet gotten to the point of a brawl, there have been a few threats to cut off the fingers of misguided youth who want to dial in their vote for someone not favored by the gal who pays the phone bill.

Whatever form our dysfunction takes, it all boils down (or percolates up) to the fact that we are gripped by different back-stories. My girls inevitably relate to the youngsters they view as the underdogs of the show while I, for some strange reason, root for the relatively grey-haired older dogs, who will likely be put down if someone doesn’t come and rescue them from their kennel of obscurity soon.

But shhh—with age comes wisdom, dontcha know. So I secretly vote for my people twice to undo the damage of my daughters’ votes, thereby ensuring that the rest of the “old dogs” and I are allowed to dream another day.

Shana McLean Moore lives in Almaden Valley and is the co-author of “Femail: A Comic Collision in Cyberspace” and the author of “Caffeinated Ponderings on Life, Laughter & Lattes.” For more information visit Moore’s Web site at www.caffeinatedponderings.com.