Astoriabout chronic cringing.

I've got to get something off my chest about the boob tube.

First note: I sold my TV for $100 to a man named Eddie. Not because I didn't use it, because I needed $100.

Second note: I am paid a meager salary as an After School Program Director. I try to keep the griping to a minimum because, somewhere in the world, I'm a millionaire. So, I take odd jobs.  I babysit for sweet, precious angel-babies once or twice a week. Let's call it professional in-home child care. As a professional in-home child care provider specialist, I: talk on the phone, order take-out, and watch TV.

TV is a treat, like soda. I flip through that channel guide as if I have four minutes to live and need to watch at least 12 seconds of every show on the list. Chopped, Office, Daily Show, Chopped, Office, Daily Show, Seinfeld, Friends?--never again, Office. Repeat, flip, guide, exit, jump back to Office...hold the phone! Sleepless in Seattle!? Thank you TBS and other brilliantly crafted networks, for addressing my needs. The comfy chair, the four remotes, I'm a Queen for two hours.

This evening I hit a snag. I was professionally and expertly caring for a 3-month old, Anabelle. I tucked her in, whispered the usual to her (as I do all the children I work with): "when you grow up, make sure to vote." Num, num, num, tuck, tuck, tuck. I walk back to the couch, snuggle up with the remote, my hands trembling from excitement. I don't usually babysit on Thursdays, so I don't even know what to expect! Maybe even Sex and the City!

I start with How I Met Your Mother. Classic, seen them all, feel at home when I'm watching them, laughing aloud - sorry Anabelle. It ends right on time, and I move forward with the plan I'd created during commercials: HIMYM will be followed by It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, genius! I'll move from there to Food Network, then Comedy Central. I'll lap around and come back to Seinfeld and more HIMYM. Bathroom and water on commercial breaks only.

But then! The sweet baby began to move around in her sleep, nothing major, just some tossing and turning. She's usually quite peaceful, so I took note. I watched the baby monitor so closely that I became jumpy at each of her arm flails. Why did she just make that face, are those locusts hovering above her? (Parents, if you'd like to hire me, dial 555-BABY) Was she in sleep-pain? Is she having a nightmare? What do I do?! I'm her only chance at survival! Sure, she's safer than 99% of the children alive today with her soft bed, camera poised over her pillow, cabinets full of baby blankets, milk, toys, and soft things to chew. She keeps scrunching her face up and rolling around! I'm on it! I go and hover, placing my hand on her chest, phew! Still rising and falling. She seems to be smiling in her sleep, now. I'm a good babysitter. All your child has to do is move an elbow and I'm there with a thermometer. All this to say, I was a little on edge tonight.

So, I let her be, twists and turns abounding, and I get back to the plan. I'm on to 'It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia'. Great! Lots of laughing coming my way -- I bet! I laughed out loud a bit, checked the baby monitor, pinky movement, I let it slide. Back to Philly. The crew on the show has taken a vacation to The Jersey Shore, and it has hardly lived up to their memories of drunken crowds and fun in the sun. It's desolate, boring, and as they pointed out, there were more dogs on the beach than humans. They decide to revisit the spot known for the action: under the boardwalk. We all know it's going to be a let-down. But what no one expected was a colorful and long-lasting scene with two homeless people having anal sex. Listen, I'm no prude. It just caught me off guard. I wasn't in the mood, my insides already a little tense. It wouldn't have phased me, but this evening---no, it would phase me at anytime. It was graphic.

Flip. On to Food Network. BORING. Comedy Central for Tosh.O. He's walking around a college campus with a black light, looking for semen. OK. He opens a dorm room and what comes flying through the air but luminescent sperm, which lands right in his mouth. Fine. I get it, I'm queasy, but I get it. It wasn't until the camera panned to the pantless kid with a too-small blur over his penis in his hand that I reached for the remote.

Moving. Right. Along. Baby is still fidgety, but snoozing. I am starting to feel better, she's fine. I can do this, I said. I flip back to Philly. I can take it. Now the two are on their way up a roller coaster. The kind where you're in a seat, feet dangling, climbing up a vertical structure, just to be dropped at full speed.  The woman's hair somehow becomes stuck in the apparatus, a single braid, in fact. Her buddy won't help her, and the ride takes off. The braid is ripped from her scalp, blood squirting, their faces are shown, she's screaming in pain, and her buddy vomits mid-air.

Power, cable, video1, TV, off, system unit, power, video3, power, unit 2, off-mode, screen 5, power, TV again, power, power, power.  Finally, it's off.

At this moment, I yearn for the days of just: "Power."

I'm happy for the great strides we've made in television. No more keeping one foot firmly on the floor when sitting in bed with your wife, Dick van Dyke. Today, you can have anal sex with her, shoot projectile sperm into her mouth, rip her hair out, and vomit. Cue audience laughter and theme music.

That flip sound? It's not you falling over the ottoman, it's my tummy. Next time, I'll bring a book.