ColumnWhy we really care whether or not Lindsay Lohan is sober.

It’s easy to say we care about Lindsay Lohan and her sobriety because we hate to see the cutie from “The Parent Trap” movie remake struggling. We say we care because she was so loveable in “Mean Girls.” A few of us may even admit to being drawn to the train wreck that appears to be her life.

Watching the Oprah reality show “Lindsay“(sorry, but it’s a reality show; respect to Lady O and its award-winning director for trying to class it up), many of us are rooting for her. I am.

Not because she’s famous, but because she’s a person who appears to be struggling. Also, I did love her in “Mean Girls.”

Others are rooting for her to fail. As a famous person, she can afford an addiction treatment center that reportedly costs upward of $80,000 a month, a life coach (who dumped her), a personal assistant, and a sober coach (who also seems to have dumped her) and still can’t make it.

That’s why we really care. If Lindsay Lohan fails it will give us an out.

If she can’t do it, how can we, mere mortals, be expected to get our shit together? To quit drinking? Make time for the gym? If she loses her battles, how can we be held accountable for losing our own?

This week alone I have read that she admitted to having a glass of wine and was seen drinking at Coachella.

As a culture, we’re great at putting women on pedestals and then celebrating when they can’t balance up there.

Kim K. Looks Fat at the Grocery Store! Miley Is a Skanky Mess! Tori is Painfully Thin! Gwyneth Does a Thing and We Hate Her!

Stars, they’re just like us—and we all suck.

It’s been a year since I quit drinking. I never careened out of control ala Lindsay Lohan;  I never entered a rehab program; but I did need to stop drinking.

And you know what, as great as I feel overall, there are moments—whole entire days sometimes—when it really doesn’t feel worth the effort.

While I work hard to not make a big deal out of it, and sometimes succeed in those attempts, it is effort. Every day, I remake my choice in a million little ways.

There are a lot of factors in why I have done well so far (and I say so far because who knows). Maybe my problem wasn’t as bad as the other LL’s. My family is definitely awesome (and not trying to cash in on my fame by writing a book about me like Lindsay’s mom Dina Lohan is). And, no one made this choice for me.

Perhaps most importantly, I never had to leave the bubble of rehab and experience the shock of re-entry into life under a microscope and flashbulbs.

I’m not criticizing people for watching “Lindsay.” I wouldn’t be writing this if I wasn’t watching myself—and feeling a little guilty about it. But, I know that my watching doesn’t impact her success getting sober. And that her success, in turn, doesn’t impact my own—or anyone’s.

Overall, watching “Lindsay” makes me sad. You can see her, in moments, really wanting more for herself. More that has nothing to do with vintage Yves St. Laurent. More than the chance to chain smoke in private. It seems like she wants to make it and be happy—whatever that means to her, and I hope she gets there.

Stars might be able to retreat to rehab centers that cost more for a month than many make in a year, but people like me have a much better chance at winning the war because there’s not a crowd of people watching me teeter on a pedestal, ready to pummel me with chants of, “I knew she couldn’t do it,” and then hand me a drink if I fall.

That Happened is Libby Lowe’s weekly column for EcoSalon analyzing media, news and pop culture through a feminist lens. Keep in touch with Libby @LibbyLowe.

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Image: Zennie Abraham

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ColumnDoes watching women tear each other’s eyes out on TV make me a bad feminist?

When the last season of The Bachelor ended, I promised myself I was done with any TV shows involving the following: dating, housewives and matchmakers. The thing is, I love these shows. I don’t care that they are scripted, stupid and hardly ever result in true love.

It started innocently enough. Years after The Bachelor franchise became popular, a friend invited me to a viewing party. I had never watched the show. But one night of wine, snarky smack talk and vegetarian entrees (in the form of sea salt brownies from Trader Joe’s), and I was hooked. Years later, much to my own embarrassment and the dismay of my husband Erik, I still am.

And my viewing habits have gotten even worse: Millionaire Matchmaker and The Real Housewives—of New York, the OC and Beverley Hills, I haven’t stooped to Jersey—have crept into my life. Erik classifies these shows as “horrible women screaming at each other.”

Even though I have caught him watching brain-numbing golf tournaments, something about his characterization crept into my head, and now I am pretty sure that watching this crap makes me a lousy feminist.

With all of the ways society pits us against each other (working women vs. stay-at-home moms, single women vs. married women, lesbians vs. straight women, women without kids vs. women with kids, trans women vs. Smith College), I have to ask myself: Does watching women tear each other apart for entertainment support my beliefs? The clear answer is no.

But, god help me, I can’t help but wonder how bridal stylist Desiree Hartstock (That’s her real last name!)—or Des, as Sean called her on the last season—the doe-eyed, likeable runner-up, will do as the Bachelorette when it starts up May 27!

Like an addict, I watch the commercials and bargain with myself: What if I just watch my favorite part of the show, the introductions where the contestants exit the limo and I place bets on which one will do the requisite horrible dance, recite the wretched poem or have the dumbest job? Maybe I can just tune in for the hometown dates and the last hour of the three-hour finale. Would that be SO bad?

According to the ‘70s rallying cry, “the personal is political,” it would be. This seems to be a question that still matters—and regarding issues far more important than reality TV.

Aligning my beliefs with my actions is a constant battle. Do I buy the recycled toilet paper even though it’s scratchy? Pay more for the organic, local produce? Change the channel when women with spray tans and implants rip each other apart over a guy they don’t even know? Historically: occasionally, yes, no.

I’m not suggesting we strive for total consistency at the risk of sucking the fun out of life. I am fully confident that I can get my TV fix from Callie Khouri’s Nashville, Mindy Kaling’s The Mindy Project and Lena Dunham’s Girls, all of which offer plenty of drama, mind-bogglingly good hair and smart writing sans negative stereotypes about women as catty bitches out to get a man at any price. However, Rebel Wilson’s new show doesn’t start until fall, and my other stories, as I call them, are going on summer vacation.

I can’t stick up for the housewives or the matchmakers, they have to go. But I can argue that The Bachelorette is a feminist-enough show—at least as much as brownies are a vegetarian entree. The woman is in charge and calling the shots—or executing the shots the producers are calling—whatever. The male contestants don’t typically come across as any smarter or nicer than their female counterparts. No one emerges smelling like a rose, as they say.

So, will I go cold turkey and say goodbye to the ladies of reality TV, or will I accept the rose ABC is pushing and tune in? I’m not sure, but I can tell you this: in Bachelorette lingo, it will be the most dramatic, and hardest, decision I have EVER had to make.

Image: ABC TV

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ColumnWhere celebrity becomes conscious.

I used to watch a ton of reality TV. If a Real Housewife was bickering in the Big Apple, I was in. If beloved Tim Gunn was nattily quipping away on Project Runway, I was sitting up straighter and considering if I could really make that pant (not plural) work. My husband once suggested getting rid of our cable, and I threw myself across the box as if it was the last cupcake being featured on Cake Boss. Or DC Cupcakes. Or Cupcake Girls. And all of this was done in the dark, shades drawn, with me hissing like a rabid cat at anyone (see: disgusted husband) who tried to take my remote away.

Then, a mere few months ago, something changed. While channel surfing, I let the TV screen play for a moment on the highlights of a New Jersey Housewife’s spray tan. I glanced at the book on my nightstand. Back at the spray tan. Then back at the book. Then I actually turned off the television. J.M. Barrie wrote in Peter Pan that “Every time a child says, ‘I don’t believe in fairies,’ there is a fairy somewhere that falls down dead.” Did Paris Hilton shed a hair extension when I did this? Probably not. But it did get me thinking – how could I go from super fan to cold-turkey?

Basically, it’s because none of it seems real anymore. Much of reality TV has dissolved into scripted bad behavior, (see: Bad Girls Club), fearfully large families (see: 19 Kids and Counting, Kate Plus Eight), and bridezillas, (see: Bridezillas). Reality “characters” are now hitting plot points. What happens on these shows has become bad behavior in a bubble, not real life.

One has to wonder if producers are getting sloppy or are reality TV personalities just becoming self-aware. Experts are predicting a singularity to occur when technology becomes smarter than humans. I say it’s already hit in the brain mechanics of our reality stars – they are not only self aware, they are preening towards the camera. When reality isn’t really reality, then it doesn’t really work anymore. Doesn’t quantum theory point out that in the very act of watching, the observer affects the observed reality? If a Kardashian shops at The Grove, does it really happen if no one watches?

It’s no secret that some regard reality TV as the bane of all existence, the downfall of culture, the “end of times” for intellectual thought. Bloggers are pondering if reality TV in fact makes us dumber. But even Salon.com, the go-to for cultural elitists, regularly covers reality TV. Most of us are watching whether we admit it or not, and the trend doesn’t seem like it is turning despite much clucking of tongues (my tongue included) at the degenerative state of reality TV.

And yet, there are glimmers of redemption on the reality-ruled horizon. TLC’s The Little Couple brings us Jen Arnold and her husband, Bill Klein, newlywed little people. The Arnold-Kleins appeal on their sheer normalcy – they work, they plan, they play, all just on a shortened eye-level. Are they contributing to society on some meta level? Maybe not, but they’re not falling drunkenly headfirst into a beach. This is a plus. Then there’s Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution, a show which showcases efforts to get kids and their parents to eat better. It’s hard to argue that this isn’t a good thing.

But then, who says television is really supposed to make our world a better place? And if so, who gets to decide what’s worthy of our attention? It may be a slippery slope from The Little Couple to the Jersey Shore, but both exist within the same genre. So where the line?

Ultimately, what makes reality palatable is how the reality stars use their platform. Erin Fox blogs about television at her web site, Squee TV. I asked her how she felt about the world of Snookie and Real Housewives.

Fox told me:

Reality TV can be a very positive thing if done well, and knowing that the sole purpose is really entertainment. I feel like Bethenny Frankel has become a touchstone for women who are interested in becoming entrepreneurs.  She’s a no-filter, ball-busting babe, but she just sold a low carb margarita drink for over $100 million. I’d like to sign up for that seminar. And, look at Kathy Griffin. She’s another loud mouth, button pusher but she has done amazing work for gay rights on television.

In the end, Fox’s “ball-busting babes” perhaps explain reality TV’s popularity – people watch because they see themselves, or versions of themselves they’d like to be. Or in the case of drunken, battling reality stars, what they fear becoming.

So on that point, it seems like reality TV is nothing more that our own mirror ball sending tiny reflections of our moves into every corner of our country. And while we may be critical of it, perhaps our criticism is warranted out of our own frustrations with our fears and hopes – in the end, of our own reality.

This is the latest installment in Katherine Butler’s column, Shade Grown Hollywood, where celebrity becomes conscious. “Shade grown” refers literally to shade grown coffee, a farming method that “incorporates principles of natural ecology to promote natural ecological relationships.” Shade Grown is our sustainable twist on Hollywood.

Image: crazysphinx

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For the record, I am not a person who is interested in crafts. Whether it’s gluing seashells onto homemade greeting cards, scrapbooking, or painting acorns for a nature-themed centerpiece – none of it appeals to me on any level. If someone handed me a hot glue gun I would use it to attach myself firmly onto my couch so I could watch an entire Top Chef marathon without pesky blood relatives trying to steal my spot in front of the TV.

But I was forced to rethink my position after reading a recent interview with Martha Stewart. In that firm and slightly scary way of hers, Martha described crafts as a way to recycle; she pointed out that a shirt used for a crafts project is a shirt that will not end up in the trash bin. After reading this eye-opening piece I decided to reconsider my stand on crafts – perhaps I could learn to look at them as part of an eco-friendly lifestlye instead of mind-numbing impediments to happiness.

I began looking for creative ways to reuse some of the items cluttering up my home, but I surprisingly found few craft projects that called for broken swim goggles, take-out menus or outdated video game systems. An exhaustive search of Martha’s website turned up absolutely nothing that would transform dead batteries, ancient underwire bras or old VHS tapes into decorative knick-knacks. In fact, it soon became clear that attempting an artsy activity of any kind would force me to become an environmentally insensitive consumer, as I would have to go out and purchase all sorts of non-biodegradable supplies: glitter and stencils and paraffin and crepe paper – even something called rick-rack, which turns out to be the frou-frou cornerstone of the arts and crafts industry.

Further consideration led me to calculate the other effects a craft project would have on my carbon footprint. Driving to the crafts store would have to be factored in, as well as the countless times I would open and close the refrigerator door as I used food to avoid actually doing anything crafty. Landfills would be directly and adversely affected by the many tissues I would use and discard, as I wept quietly from boredom and craft-induced feelings of inadequacy. The numbers began to add up, especially when weighed against the relatively minor eco-hit I would incur from turning on The Real Housewives of New Jersey. I also had to consider the very real fact that every single craft project I read about made me want to stab myself in the eye with a calligraphy pen.

In the end, I decided it would be better for the planet – and for me – to abandon this endeavor. I applaud Martha Stewart for her creative recylcling efforts, but I have come to realize that if God wanted me to do crafts, He would not have invented reality television.

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