I've been on the bench since my return from Jamaica.  The pain medication that the doctor has prescribed for me tends to make me lethargic, if not narcoleptic. My husband has on more than one occasion found me face down in my dinner or snoring away on the couch using one of the Labretards as a pillow.  As a rule I watch more television than would be considered healthy, and with the added dose of lethargy, I've found myself too lazy to change the chanel and have been watching way too much E! programming.

Since I saw Lorenzo and A.J. Lamas in Jamaica, where more than once I had to ask A.J. not to ride his skateboard on the imported Italian marble floors of the hotel's lobby, I felt obliged to watch at least one episode of Leave It To Lamas.  Let me just say that one episode was more than enough.  As I understand it, the idea behind the show was to give Lorenzo's daughter Shayne (of The Bachelor fame - which they don't fail to remind you of at least once every 5 minutes) a spotlight in which to showcase her comedic talent.  If I was supposed to be laughing with her, and not at her, the show has sorely missed the mark.  According to an interview I saw with Lorenzo, he is relishing the opportunity to use the show to work on his relationship with his son. A relationship that reportedly went wildy astray when his ex-wife Shauna Sand slept with the then 18 year-old A.J. Yes folks, only a reality TV show can mend a generational rift of epic proportions.  I suspect that dear old Fernando is spinning in his grave like a pig on a spit.

Next I found myself caught up in the drama of the 2 hour special episode of Keeping Up With The Kardashians that covers the wedding of Khloe Kardashian to Lamar Odom.  Yes, you read that right.  I watched the whole thing, from the moment they started lying to Bruce Jenner and made him cry to the wedding reception where Kim and Kourtney gave a toast that made almost no sense and sounded as though they were offering Lamar a ménage à quatre. This is one of those scripted reality shows that makes me wish that it was legal to draw and quarter reality TV producers, or at least that we be allowed to try them for crimes against humanity. This was two hours of unendurable pain that not even my prescription meds could dull.

I am willing to confess that I was a fan of the original The Girls Next Door series.   I liked Holly Madison, who I thought did an admirable job of trying to embrace the Playboy brand and who appeared to be actively interested in finding a long term position within the Playboy empire.  I thought that Bridget Marquardt did her best to dispel the notion that all of Hef's girlfriends are dimwitted blonds by actually being an graduate student at UCLA during season one.  However now that the original group of girlfriends has been replaced with a set of ditsy blond twins, whose relationship with each other borders on being fodder for a letter to the Penthouse Forum, and Crystal who seems obsessed with proving she's worthy of replacing Holly as #1 girlfriend, I can feel my interest waning.  What was once entertaining has now become painful to watch, even though I did manage to lay on the couch and make my way through two back-to-back episodes on Saturday. Damn opiates. 

God help me... if I have to spend too much longer on this drug cocktail I'm gonna wind up in reality television rehab drooling and begging for someone to give me just a little hit of  a rerun of Britney and Kevin: Chaotic or Breaking Bonaduce. Just a little hit, you know to get me through the day.

However I fear that I will not be able to use drugs as the excuse I use for watching the upcoming series Steven Segal: Lawman. For that we will be laying the blame in my husband Dave's court.  Martial artists stick together donchaknow.