I am a sucker for the Hallmark Channel (as unrealistic as it may be) and have no problem pulling up my panties and admitting it. Instead of finding me at a holiday party, I am sure to be under a blanket with some carbs tuned into the unfeasible magic instead. Maybe that’s why I love it so much — the fantasy known as everything looking and feeling like gumdrops and sugar coated bullshit is delicious. I crave an escape from the chaos of my real life and Hallmark delivers, one majestic tale at a time.
As soon as they start in with the marathon on November 1st, I am a goner and this year was no different. While sitting all cozy like in a swirl of faux fur, I was captivated by a woman wishing on a star to Santa. She was asking for her Prince Charming to come, he arrived within minutes on a horse carrying roses. Although I eat it up, I wonder who writes this bullshit. The impracticalities get thrown around like confetti all season long.
Let’s talk about the men: They are all super rich, smoking hot, non-asshole men who can cook, yet they are home alone on a Friday night wrapping gifts for charity. Something feels off here. Bitch, please, I believe in make-believe, but that is ridiculous.
How about all the rescuing? Every time there is a damsel in distress she gets rescued in 2.2 seconds. Maybe it’s because all the women have perfect hair and makeup at all times. From the moment they awake, they are ready for a glamour shot session. Where was my Prince Charming the other day when my car broke down in the rain as I stood waiting for AAA for two hours and nobody else gave a damn? If I were in a Hallmark movie, that shit wouldn’t fly. In fact, not only do you get rescued, you get rescued by a seductive Casanova since there is a one at every corner.
If you lose your lover, don’t fret. There is one waiting a block away armed with a dazzling smile and no history of clingy ex-girlfriends. If you see your boyfriend cheating on you with a luscious blonde, just take a few steps, a fresh new man will bump into you as he is exiting the local country store where he just bought gifts for everyone on his block before he goes to volunteer at the animal shelter.
The man we want the most of all is Santa, of course, because he is real and doles out gifts like new boyfriends, magic books, and do-overs. So if you’ve been an asshole lately and regret it, just cry outside on a park bench and Santa will come and give you a second chance at the life you have screwed up.
You will get to do this in a huge mansion of course. Everyone who lives over at Hallmark has one. The single working mom that is struggling to makes ends meet comes home to a small mansion every night where her kids are waiting for her in matching sweaters while making dinner. The single guy who is a fireman or spends his days doing some other type of service work, comes home to a mid-sized empty mansion, but he is usually greeted by a cat or two. And the married couple who glide down their driveway simultaneously always have the biggest mansions of all.
Which leads to my biggest question: Who pays the damn electric bills in these homes? Every house is adorned in a gazillion dollars worth of lights. You can even find them outside draped all over every tree and bush sparkling like fresh-cut diamonds. Even if someone is walking in the middle of the forest in Michigan, they need sunglasses to cut down on the glare in Hallmark land.
Then we have the lucky ones who have money left over from their huge homes and electric bills to hire boyfriends and girlfriends. This is usually to get back at an ex, or keep their parents off their back because they are still living the single life. The plot twist is they fall in love for real because karma is sweet when you hire someone to help you lie and be deceitful.
Nobody really gives a shit though — no one gets mad in Hallmark land. Things get solved with gingerbread men and eggnog. People can break up, lie, cheat, rob each other blind and nobody is pissed. They all become besties and share a pork roast with Yorkshire pudding for the holidays and all the dirty stuff from their past is swept under the cowhide rug that lies in front of the roaring fire.
So if you need me, I will be parked in front of my television living vicariously through these fictional characters who reside in snow globes. Or maybe I will be outside on a bench waiting for Santa to give me a do-over — I have been kind of a bitch this year.
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