If I had a million bucks, I would never have to suffer the awful feeling that I would rather chew my own arm off than empty the dishwasher for the umpteenth time. I’d never have to sweep the tumbleweeds of my husband’s body hair off the bathroom floor again. I’d never have to push the dented plastic fender on my mini-van back into place.
But I don’t play the lottery. I always forget to look under the cap of my soda. And I figured out long ago, that you’ll weigh a million pounds before you’ll buy enough McDonald’s French fries to get the Boardwalk sticker to win Monopoly.
If I ever had any chance of winning, it might be at the game of Survivor. I’m hearty stock. Where I grew up, everyone hunts and fishes. I’m comfortable with dirt under my nails. I can collect firewood, chop it up, build you a shed and a raging bonfire. Child’s play.
Also, I could live on the fat stored under my chin alone for 39 days. Besides, my resourceful mother taught me how to make meals out of cheap cuts of meat. I have often thought, “Why don’t the Survivor cast mates dig up some clams and boil them in a little coconut milk with lemongrass and a pinch of sea salt?” Amateurs.
Despite these obvious skills, my dreams of winning Survivor are unrealistic. Even if I could get someone to sweep up my husband’s body hair and watch my kids for a couple months, I’d get voted off in the first few weeks and here’s why:
#1. I never shut up.
Put me on a bus, in a waiting room, in a check out line, and I’ll strike up a conversation with anyone. I’ll tell long anecdotes. I’ll add unnecessary, detailed descriptions. Before you know it, people are trying desperately to get away from me.
Picture this Survivor scene: After building a water-tight shed for my tribe, I start a roaring bonfire and begin to cook the fish that I caught for everyone. Feeling confident, I tell a story about the time my car broke down in Cincinnati.
An hour later, I’m still describing the mechanic’s coveralls, while one of the cast mates stands behind me, silently mouthing to the others, “She’s outta here” as he scrapes the last bites of the fish dinner from his coconut shell.
#2. I’m slave to my digestive tract.
When I travel, my intestines stage a sit in. Without the comfort of my morning routine, complete only with pot of coffee and time to stare out the window, my digestive tract shuts down. There’s no escape, if you know what I mean.
My family is well aware of my all-time record: Ten days straight while on vacation in Rehoboth Beach. Imagine that in a bathing suit.
Picture this Survivor scene: On day fifteen, I can’t take it anymore. Without windows to stare out of, I am found beached at the water’s edge like a whale, weakly chewing palm fronds for fiber, mumbling something about needing a cup of coffee. My tribe mates, put off by my deliriousness and mystified by my growing paunch, vote me out that night.
#3. Conflict makes me cry.
My emotional range is limited to happy and sad. When confronted with anger; however, I never know what to do, and often find myself crying just because I don’t know how to fight.
Picture this Survivor scene: While tribe mates are catching rays, I gather crabs nearby. Thinking they all might enjoy another anecdote while tanning, I begin to tell them about the time I had a blind date with a guy named Jethro.
Tribe bully Shawna jumps to her feet, and screams, “Nobody gives a crap about your boring life, lady!” Insulted, I can’t seem to muster anything except a quivering chin and a blubbering apology. Sensing weakness, they vote me out that night.
#4. My penchant for scavenging.
Every time we go to the beach, my husband gets mad at me. While he likes to sit in a comfortable chair with a book, I am compelled to scan the horizon for stuff. Shells, sea glass, crabs, flotsam and jetsam. If it washes up, I’ll take it home, boil it, put it in a jar or glue it onto something.
Picture this Survivor scene: Two sensible tribe mates find me trustworthy (i.e. gullible) and want to form an alliance to get each other to the final three. They search for me to discuss, but I am a mile away, engrossed in a pile of smelly seaweed that has had me captivated for hours. We go to tribal council before they’ve had a chance to find me, and I am voted out.
#5. I look gross in a two-piece.
Wobbling excess flesh started and ended with Scary Naked Guy Richard Hatch in Season One. Nowadays, you could bounce a quarter off most Survivor contestants’ stomachs. As for me, birthing and nursing three large babies has turned my formerly mediocre figure into something of an old deflated inner tube. If you tossed a quarter at me, it would most likely disappear into one of many rolls or follow the groove of a stretch mark across my lumpy hip.
Picture this Survivor scene: Jeff Probst announces the start of the obstacle course and we all start running. While my tribe mates are propelled by lean sinewy muscle, I am slowed by a wobbling gut and an unsupportive bikini top. Crawling under the first set of barriers, my top snags on something and is ripped off. The cameras zoom in on what looks like two dangling fried eggs. That night, the vote to cast me out is unanimous, and the director instructs that the footage be cut from the scene as not suitable for viewing.
That being said, I’d better go empty the dishwasher.
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