To Borrow From Amy Winehouse, What Kind of Fuckery is This?
I don’t watch much TV these days—what with Lo’s softball, my guitar lessons, making turtle costumes, and cooking gourmet meals. But I still watch Grey’s Anatomy, still look forward to—and plan my entire week around—being in my bed in front of the television at 9 p.m. on Thursday night.
This means figuring out my exercise schedule, the best day to use the crockpot, how much time to set aside to practice Free Bird, and how to make sure Lo is sufficiently exhausted by Thursday evening that she’ll fall asleep by 8:45. I also have to remember to drop a couple of subtle comments about the hole in the kitchen ceiling so Biggy won’t dare mention the fact we have no milk or clean towels as I crawl under the covers.
So you can imagine how excited I was yesterday about the special two-hour episode. I’d hear the commercials for it on the radio as I sat in traffic, and before I knew it I was forgiving the Blue-tooth-wearing asshole in the Hummer for cutting me off. Or suddenly, I’d lose count of how many people driving maroon Ford Tempos have Mardi Gras beads hanging from their rearview mirror.
Those commercials promised great excitement in the land of McDreamy and McSteamy. Two hours—it was going to be like getting a baked potato AND French fries with my steak!
Last night, with that extra hour’s incentive, I managed to put Lola down, make the three requisite returns to her room--ice water, another kiss, find the Atlanta Braves blanket—and assume the position by 8:45. I even got to see the last scene of The Office.
Well, less than five minutes into Grey’s, another show appears on my screen. Two characters I’ve never seen before are driving in a car in L.A., not Seattle, engaging in dialogue not about Meredith or Izzy or George. What the hell? I think maybe Daisy has stepped on the remote (I could kill her), so I pick it up and start clicking. I’m on the right channel. I wonder if there’s been some mix-up at the station. I wait for them to straighten it out. Then I press 6 again just to be sure.
Next thing I know, Addison appears among these SoCal strangers, and I realize I’m in the right place. Unfortunately. It doesn’t take much longer for me to realize--as they shift occasionally back to Seattle Grace in a totally uncohesive, incoherent manner—that I’ve been HAD. They have lured me here to hold me hostage—that in order to see my Grey’s, I must sit through their new pilot, a cross between Scrubs and Melrose Place, the cross being an insult to both.
To make matters worse, the bones of Grey’s they were tossing me were farcical—Chicago Hope meets the Three Stooges (again, an insult to both), apparently written to jibe with the other show—to no avail.
Disappointment doesn’t begin to describe it.