Sorry, no matter how I try, I can’t take out trash TV

The minute I saw commercials for a new show called "Baseball Wives" I shuddered. Be strong, I told myself. Don't let this one get you.

Thankfully, it hasn't sucked me in -- yet. But if I happen to flip through the channels and catch a baseball wife's table flipping or her blouse ripping or her dignity slipping, I'll be in. All the way in.

My name is Xazmin and I'm a trash TV addict.

If ever someone creates that 12-step program, this will be the part where I get a round of applause from fellow addicts. Tears will follow and tales of triumph over the God-awful disease will ensue. People who haven't watched trash TV since the second season of MTV's "The Real World" will give me the kind of hope only a 20-year sobriety story can give. Of course, I'll probably ruin it by pointing out that Tami, who starred in said season of "The Real World," has now graduated to "Basketball Wives," the most delicious dirt your TV taste buds can nibble on. And, that will pretty much mark the equivalent of spiking the punch at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, so I'll be asked never to return.

See? There's no point in trying to get clean. Even my hypothetical attempts fail miserably. Still, every year around this time, I toy with the idea of never caring what happens to Snooki and the gang after the cabs arrive.

Two years ago I pulled the trigger and made it a New Year's resolution: no more trash TV. By February I was rocking back and forth in a dark closet, uploading episodes to my smartphone. Whose judgment was I hiding from? My own.

Loving trash TV is tough on a respectable woman such as yours truly. Mainly because it makes yours truly so much less respectable. I realize this. It's the reason I don't worry about houseguests noticing dust buildup or poking around the medicine cabinet. I worry about more serious matters when we have visitors, like how long before they see my DVR listings and ask to see the wheels under our house.

Similar to fancy plastic plants, sometimes I record decent programming just for show. So I can scroll down the DVR list when I have company, stop on PBS' "Masterpiece," check out their reaction and then move on.

It's not that I don't enjoy shows that have never ended with a slow-mo slugfest. Shows in which cocktails are consumed, not thrown. For instance, I've seen every episode of every season of both "Breaking Bad" and "Mad Men."

The problem with these, I believe they're called quality, shows is the commitment they require. You must give them full attention, complete silence and a promise ring to get the most out of them. Don't even think about grabbing a quick drink of water while watching "Breaking Bad" or you might come back and wonder why Walt is stuck in the middle of the desert -- again. And, a bathroom break during "Mad Men" could mean returning to find Don Draper newly, happily married. "Happily" being the head-scratcher.

My trashy shows would never do that to me. No matter what chore calls me away from the tube, there's sure to be two Botoxed faces screaming at each other when I return.

A few of my faithful favorites include the aforementioned "Basketball Wives," of which I watch both the Miami and L.A. editions. There's "Mob Wives" -- New Jersey women who are equal parts gaudy and Gotti. There's even "Sister Wives," a reality show about polygamists that probably made my cut simply because it has the word "wives" in the title.

I could give those up if I really put my mind to it. (Clearly, I'd rather keep my mind out of it, though.) But, the one I simply can't shake, the one that inspires foaming-at-the-mouth withdrawal if I miss just one show, is the "Real Housewives" franchise on Bravo. Trash TV addicts would call it my show of choice.

For those with their TV-watching integrity still intact, here's a breakdown. Cameras follow a group of women around a certain part of the country (Orange County and Beverly Hills, Calif.; New York; Atlanta; New Jersey). Some of them have a lot of money and some of them pretend to have a lot of money. All of them have a lot of drama. That's the gist of the show. Lights, camera, action.

It's easy, it's cheap and it's addicting. Yes, it's crystal meth with commercials.

For fans, the Bravo producers -- specifically Andy Cohen -- act as our personal pushers. They know what they're doing with this show. They know we consider "Watch What Happens Live" the secret stash scrapings that get us by until we can get our next fix. They know the reunion shows are the biggest score of them all, with their generosity of finger-pointing, word-bleeping and scandal-exposing.

And they know how dirty we feel after we've gotten so hooked that we follow Kyle, NeNe and Caroline on Twitter, read the blogs of Tamra, Ramona and Taylor on the Bravo website and walk around our houses singing those things that Kim, The Countess and Melissa call songs. Sometimes we do it "each and every day, every day, every day."

All right, the trash is officially out of the bag.

My name is Xazmin and I'm a trash TV addict. I'm not resolving to stop this year, either. I'm resolving to accept it.

Contact columnist Xazmin Garza at xgarza@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0477.
Follow her on Twitter @startswithanx.