There are few things more brain-frying and panic-inducing than a New York City apartment hunt. More pleasant activities include urinary tract infections and burying beloved pets. And so, after my husband and I put in yet another application for a Brooklyn apartment, we found ourselves sitting on the sofa like sleepwalkers. As we cracked a bottle of wine, I reached for the remote, seeking respite from the anxiety wheel in my brain. I flipped past several informative news programs and a biography of Ashton Kutcher, and then I found it - the brain balm I was craving: There was Teresa Giudice, looking ever so much like "The Predator" in Prada boots. I watched as she yowled at her sister about someone's christening, and I inhaled deeply. Something in my chest blessedly loosened, and I relaxed back into the couch.
I watch reality TV. And not of the "Extreme Makeover Home Edition" life-affirming variety. I watch "Jersey Shore," "Big Fat Gypsy Wedding" and any of "The Real Housewives." I watched "The Hills." I watched "The City." And were someone to sneak a look at my iTunes, they would see I even watched the short-lived "Kell on Earth."
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