I’m reading Running With Scissors (now a major motion picture!) because a few months ago I heard an interview with the author on NPR (there goes my punk rock image) and although I can’t remember much of the interview’s contents, I do remember the sound of Augusten Burroughs’ voice and he was funny!

The book isn’t drawing me in yet, really, but last night as I was reading something weird happened. I’ve noticed this before, with TV shows and a few other characters in books. Augusten describes both himself and this house he has to live in with great detail and descriptive gusto, and I’m finding myself- is it a little embarrassed for him? I’m not sure, but what I noticed last night is that I am praying for the chapter when he gets a wild streak of energy and starts cleaning this dilapidated house. I can actually see this sagging, pink Victorian home on a tree-lined street looking terribly out of place, and I truly feel his pain. When Augusten describes the filth inside, I can see it, and all I can think is “later there will be a chapter where he teaches them the value of a clean floor, and they clean it-right?” because I’m not sure I can stand it any other way.

I am a product of reality TV, people. Specifically, DIY and Home and Garden reality TV. It all began when I was a little girl watching PBS with my dad, getting tips from Bob Villa, the master of DIY and before/after. Now, I find myself glued to the TV on Saturday night sucked into “Flip This House” even though the concept of what they’re doing grosses me out, because the rush I get from the before/after shots is sooo sweet. Years ago when the trend was in its infancy, my favorite cable show was Decorating Cents where they take 500 dollars (because that’s CHEAP, y’all!) and redecorate a whole room. I love the shutter coffee tables and the clever use of wicker. I love the painted on wainscoting and the concrete block lamps. But most of all? I love the clearing of clutter. With this new generation of shows came the shutter busters, the room savers, the organizational superheroes that will come in, assess your disaster area, have a yard sale, spend a thousand dollars on labeled, arty retro aluminum buckets and custom built particle board shelves, and give you back your sewing room/family room/dining room/baby’s bedroom. I sometimes skip through the middle, where the couple fights over his golf ball collection or her many boxes of custom dyed yarn, but I’m always back for the big reveal.

It’s the transformation that gets me every time, even if the end product is ugly or impractical. Even on What not to Wear, when I sit cursing the hosts’ ridiculous advice to a mother of toddlers (You don’t have to look frumpy to be comfortable! Just try these mid-rise jeans, a t-shirt and this velvet jacket and pair it with these kitten heels! They’re LOW heels, though, see? Throw on this 3-strand necklace of chocking hazards and you’re good to go!) And the impracticability of following their advice for the average person whose clothing budget is 10.00 a month at goodwill, thank you. When the Big Reveal comes, I’m there. And sometimes, I cry.

I need that reveal, though. I need the bump of having the yucky thing be wiped clean, reworked into something beautiful. I’m afraid to keep reading Running With Scissors because I have a feeling Augustus is never going to give me my happy ending. I have a feeling this filthy house with pet hair carpeting the floor will remain that way for the rest of the book and beyond, and I’ll find myself laying awake at night (like last night) pretending to be a reality show host, walking through the expertly depicted rooms of the old pink house, making a mental list of assignments for my lackeys, preparing for the big reveal.

Augusten, please. Save me from myself.