Ann
Ipock
Humorist,
author, speaker
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Georgetown Times Column
TV show is turning
me into a ‘Desperate Housewife’
By Ann Ipock
November 03, 2004
Finally, a TV show worth watching — “Desperate Housewives.”
Bring it on! From what I’ve read, I’m one of 20 million viewers.
Surely we can’t all be wrong, can we?
ABC has found a perfect niche with this prime-time delight. The show’s
creator and executive producer is Marc Cherry, who also produced “Golden
Girls” some years back. Remember “Dallas,” “Dynasty,”
and my fave, “Knots Landing?” Well, “Desperate Housewives”
is similar to these.
My husband, Russell, and I watched the premiere episode together. It turned
out he liked the show as much, or more, than I did. We were both so intrigued
after seeing the premiere on Sunday night that we watched the rerun the
following Saturday night. Each show is run twice weekly — which
equals smart, which equals ratings!
The four main characters, all friends, living on Wisteria Lane —
aren’t necessarily desperate. I’d say it’s more like
desperado. As any good writing instructor will tell you, this show scores
a perfect 100 on the key ingredients which will guarantee its success:
Plot, character, point of view, dialogue, conflict, and scenery. Add to
that — money, adultery, theft, mystery and blackmail.
Let’s start off with Mary Alice who, on the first show, committed
suicide. And now, her husband, Paul, is digging underneath their swimming
pool (which he was smart enough to drain first) before and after her death.
I swear, I can’t tell exactly when — or what — he digs.
This strange activity is freaking out his adolescent son, Zack, who is
now on heavy medication. Then, a mysterious wooden chest appears in their
garage and Paul bundles that sucker up in plastic, secures it with tape,
and drives it down to the river.
At this point, I can picture David Letterman saying, “WILL IT FLOAT?”
just as Paul throws it in.
Then there is perky, smirky, Stepfordish Bree. Well, with a cheesy name
like Bree, what do you expect? Her red flipped hair is nearly as perfect
as her Ivory soap skin. Her eyes are always wide open — like a Cupie
doll — with her lips pursed tight. She makes Martha Stewart (in
her pre-trial days) look like Lucy Ricardo in the candy factory scene.
Even when she “accidentally” poisons her doctor-husband Rex
with a salad that contains onions, which he claims to be allergic to,
she doesn’t crack. Don’t worry — he recovers. Wait!
Has it ever been PROVEN that anyone is allergic to onions? Nonsense! If
so, they’d be in trouble with my cooking. Shoot, my favorite time
of year is Vidalia season!
OK, let’s move on to Lynette. Poor, sweet Lynette. She was once
a corporate mogul — kind of like Carly Fiorini, CEO of Hewlett Packard
— but “gave it all up” to stay home with a husband whose
job forces him to travel five days a week. Even on weekends, he’s
a workaholic — that is, when he’s not pestering poor Lynette
to fool around with him in the bedroom. Their three toe-headed boys are
B-R-A-T-S. Oddly, Lynette’s nursing baby rarely appears.
Next comes Susan who, bless her heart, keeps “looking for love in
all the wrong places” since her husband, Carl, left her for that
21-year old (if that) blonde bimbo named Brandy. He said he simply fell
out of love with Susan. Well, boo hoo! Susan’s 12-year-old daughter
is trying to fix her up with the newest neighbor, Mike, who is not a desperate
housewife at all. He is a knockout, if-looks-could-kill — plumber.
I can’t figure out how he moved into this tiny neighborhood —
even if he is only renting. Maybe he’s fixed a lot of leaky faucets
in his day — but I’m guessing it’s more like he’s
been breaking hearts for years. It didn’t take long to figure out
that Mike is no “plumber.” It’s just a cover-up for
his real work; which we don’t know yet. But it involves secret phone
calls, a gun, and one ferocious German shepherd that barks and snarls
a lot. Recently we saw Mike’s kitchen cabinet being opened, which
was stuffed plumb full of MONEY and MAPS of Wisteria Lane — including
suspicious diagrams and notations. Gasp!
Finally, here comes the Latin babe, Gabrielle, an ex-fashion model that
is spoiled rotten. She has it all: a glamorous home; beautiful teeth;
a rich, handsome, greedy (did I mention shady?) millionaire hubby who
buys her $15,000 necklaces; and a boy-gardener that doubles as her lover
— though he hasn’t finished high school yet. Couldn’t
she be charged with aiding and a-bedding a minor? Gabrielle becomes sick
with worry when the ‘new kid on the block,’ Ashley, perhaps
9-years old, peers through the front door and sees Gabrielle kissing John.
So now she’s buying the kid off with gifts: an Hawaiian doll, a
shiny, new bicycle. But that’s not enough. Now Ashley wants something
money can’t buy — Gabrielle’s devoted friendship.
Now, enter Edie, the UNfriend: The neighborhood divorcee who wants all
the men for herself. Isn’t that rude? She is a temptress who apparently
has no real job — that we’ve seen yet; and now she has no
home because Susan burned it down on account of a cup of sugar. Too bad
Susan left behind a critical piece of evidence: the scorched glass measuring
cup, which Mrs. Huber found.
Speaking of Mrs. Huber — I read that we viewers better ALL keep
our eyes on this dowdy, irritating woman — which I affectionately
refer to as ‘Mrs. Kravitz’ of the old TV show “Bewitched.”
Remember the gossipy, nosy neighbor who never missed the opportunity to
snoop around? Every neighborhood has one. On my street, it’s ME
— or at least, I share that responsibility with Kim, my neighbor.
We have all kinds of secret signs and symbols to alert each other when
something seems off kilter. It’s too sensitive to discuss, but one
method — and I can’t elaborate any more than this —
involves the use of (are you ready?) the telephone.
A Google search shows 205,000 web sites for “Desperate Housewives.”
Can it be that a fan club is not far behind? All I know is this show is
making me a desperate housewife! I live for each new episode, counting
the days, then rehash it with family and friends ad infinity.
And although I’m not a betting woman, if I was, I’d bet you
that a little blackmail will surface next time — as well as the
wooden chest. (And yes, it floated!)