Desperate Housewife
I love the show. Love it. Love the dirt, the sneaking, the dead woman narration. But I hate the HYPE. The hype that says, "The show has finally allowed women to be just 'okay.' To be real."
What one commentator was referring to was the obvious lack of big boobs on the show. Yes, he said something like, "Women all over America are shouting out praises for the show that finally says small boobs are okay."
Okay. No big boobs. No big deal.
But there is absolutely NOTHING real about that show.
For instance, if the women are so real, then why do none of them have the saggy baby belly? Hmmm? Even the wife with four screaming kids has a perfectly svelte figure. No sagging-tube-sock-breasts from too much breast feeding, no tell tale pouch flopping over the top of her low-rise jeans.
It seems like America will accept "okay" as "real" as long as "okay" doesn't look too unpleasing.
I'd like a desperate housewife show of my own. One that shows how hard it is to crawl out of bed in the morning because your closest friend depression is there in the mattress, sucking you down, begging you to stay nice and warm.
Or the one that shows how you have to go out and buy "fat jeans" because your last pair of "fat jeans" is too small.
The one that shows as soon as you have one load of laundry folded and put away, another one is ready to come out of the dryer, one wet one to go into the dryer, and yet another one is ready to go into the washer. It is a spin cycle.
What about the one where a divorce doesn't mean continuing your lifestyle? The story where the Mighty Provider, the Man of the House just up and leaves and none of the bills get paid and the house is going into foreclosure and there's an extension cord stretching from your house to your neighbor's house just so you can run the space heater?
How about that one?
So I enjoy Desperate Housewives, but for the escape it provides me; not the glimpse into suburbian hell that the producers tout it to be.
9:57:22 AM 
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