TV Junkie

It was MustSee TV last night at the Haus. Don’t you know it? Thursday nights at 2100 hours everything in my world comes to a screeching halt so that I can catch the latest episode of Desperate Housewives.

I didn’t intend to be rude when I escorted my neighbor out the front door at 2059 last night. I calmly explained the situation to her & invited her to stay. She was probably a bit freaked by the glint of wild excitement in my eyes and politely declined my invitation as she bolted for the door.

OK, so “Latest episode” is a bit relative. For those of us subsisting on the current AFN line-up, “latest episode” meant the Mother’s Day edition. Thanks to the Hollywood writers playing a little hardball earlier in the year, we are only a mere 2 months behind and not more.

Now that I have actually seen this episode & not just cheated read about it on abc.com’s episode recaps, I would like to personally thank Marc Cherry for sparing us the gorey details of the Delfino baby’s birth. Since I was on the wagon last night, I was super happy that I did not have to suffer through whiney Susan’s highly dramatic, long, hard, unmedicated vaginal delivery of a breech baby in the cab on the way to the hospital while Mike was off somewhere else fixing some Frau's leaky pipes.

Let me tell you, it’s the small things in life that can bring such gratitude.

It was refreshing not to have a front row seat for TV L&D drama. I liked the variety of a retro TV birth, circa 1975. Start with a contraction & skip right to a beautiful, bouncy, perfectly cleaned-up 3 month old bundle of joy. Now, that’s my kind of delivery. Too bad I couldn’t have that starring role. The only thing better would have been TV birth circa 1960. You know, the ones where the mother & baby just mysteriously show up on the hospital’s postpartum wing, perfectly coiffed & awaiting visitors.

The way I see it, Marc owed us since we had to suffer through Danielle’s comedic delivery on Bree’s dining room table (or was it a desk?) while freakish Fairy Tale characters looked on. Really, I love the gals on Wisteria Lane probably more than I should, but Little Bo Peep playing midwife to Frankenstein was a bit much.

In the days before Susan actually had the baby, we enjoyed several scenes of the mother-in-law-from-hell playing HausGuest. "Mama" shows up striaght off a turnip truck from the Confederacy in a taxi and proceeds to teach a little southern domestic diva know-how. OK, so she was trying to get Susan to pony-up in the kitchen with a flour sifter so that she bread and deep fry something, but she was also imparting a little throw-back southern philosohpy from her Memaw. Man especially like the part where Mama was telling about her Memaw’s definition of a perfect HausFrau.

She’s the wife to give her Man what he wants: a chef in the kitchen, a maid in the living room and a whore in the bedroom.

Hey, my Memaw just wants hot pink thongs. And, Heather's drives around with wine in a go-cup. What is it with these southern grandmas? And, how much much fun am I going to have being one?!

Anyway, Mama's Memaw's definition wouldn’t have been so offensive but my Man had to do the whole touchdown hooting & hollering routine on the couch, emphasized by a Preach it, Brother! And a Now, that’s what I’m talking about!

Whatever.

Shall I point out that he was doing this whole bit while digesting prepackaged frozen chicken fried steak w/ Lipton’s Pasta Sides and a nice salad a home cooked meal & sitting his bum on my our perfectly vacuumed couch.

Will someone please tell him that 2 out of 3 ain’t bad? Especially on a Thursday night – Thursday night’s rule is no gorilla sex monkey business unless necessary for procreational purposes & then it has to be before 2100 or after 2200. Hello. It’s my Desperate night. A HausFrau has to draw the line somewhere.

And, don’t let him kid you. Y’All know all about the duct tape.

Anyway, now I’m patiently waiting on Mr. Cherry to give equal air time to the flip side of that coin. I'm eager to hear the definition of the perfect HausMan. And, if the recently re-empolyed male writer's can’t think something up, I’ll help them out:

The perfect partner for any HausFrau is ready with a piña colada at the cabana, eager with the suntan oil by the pool, shirtless and muscular while weed whacking, a pancake flippin’ fool in the kitchen & a freakin’ genius when it comes to changing crappy nappies.

Oh, and, a little Fabio in the boudoir doesn’t hurt, either.

Preach it, Sister! That’s what I’m talking about!