I’ve made no secret of the fact that I am deeply disturbed by The Puddinette’s television viewing habits. The crux of the issue is that, in general, if it’s reality, she’s down with it, but I can’t stomach any form of reality television unless there’s a chef involved. For the wife, though, if they’ve make a show where some number of theoretically similar people have their “spontaneous” lives filmed 24-7, she won’t be able to turn it off. God help her, too, when she finds a program where a bunch of people who really ought to be considering a lengthy stay in either a half-way house, mental institution, or prison all co-habitate some pimped out crib provided by the production team, who hopes that full-time access to a wet bar, hot tub, and community showers will result in…um…questionable moral behaviors. My better half is powerless to resist such temptation . Sure, she readily admits that it’s mostly horrible crap, but sometimes you just can’t avoid staring at a train wreck.

She and I often discuss how nice it would be if someone, somewhere, somehow, managed to make a TV show that we both would look forward to watching. Sure, we catch the occasional compromise show, but really, it’s typically not something one of us would sit through without the other on hand. Today, though, I think I cracked the nut. Finally, I’ve come up with something that might work for everyone. As she was complaining that she would kinda like to do something the other ladies this evening, the idea struck me: the world totally needs “The Real Housewives of Northern Kentucky”.

This won’t be the kind of program where you’ll get a bunch surgically enhanced women who care more for time on camera than their kids or that snipe at each at the director’s bidding. No, no, I’m talking about actual soccer mom’s here, tooling about their respective ‘hoods, dropping kids at preschool in the ubiquitous Honda Odyssey (an official sponsor, of course), droppin’ some phat cash at The Walmart on crazy stuff like milk and eggs, before rushing home just in time to get the kindergartener off the bus for lunch. Mmmm…peanut butter and jelly!

On reality shows, there’s always someone just teetering (or worse) on the edge of infidelity. In reality, when you’ve got to actually physically raise your own kids, well, hell, nobody’s got time for fooling around. On that reality show, there’s always some alcohol-fueled cocktail party where a liquored up trollop causes a big scene by calling one of the other “ladies” a whore in front of her peeps and much drama ensues. In the real world, where you thank the good Lord every day at 3 o’clock because it’s nap time for the baby and quiet time for the other kids, mom’s don’t call each other out; they lack the time, the energy, and the motivation for it. They’re just glad to be able to have the occasional dinner at Applebee’s without having to cut up anyone’s chicken.

On that reality show, ladies do time with the one-on-one confessional camera. In actual reality, moms squeeze every 10 minutes of peace they can find into pumping up their plots in Farmville and throwing out calls to their peeps to get their back and help raise that new chicken coop. On my show, “The Real Housewives of Northern Kentucky”, the only confessional is one’s facebook status, and you can always count on your friends to be rocking Farmville during nap time at their own houses, snapping fingers as they read that request for help with the new stables. “Don’t worry girl,” they’ll comment in reply, “I got your back, now hit me with an egg full of some hot ugly duckling”.

The term “hot ugly duckling” isn’t a euphemism to real housewives, but God only knows what to might mean to the bottle blonds and plastic boobs of Orange County.

pud’n