This "Disparate" Housewife Likes Things the Way They Are

August 8, 2010

In my life as a cable-free T.V. viewer, it is possible I have flitted across tidbits of “Desperate Housewives” on my way to something nerdier, likely a nature show sponsored by, say, the Alfred E. Sloan Foundation rather than Victoria’s Secret. My brief encounters with these characters that seem to have frequent brief (read “BVD”) encounters of their own always leave me a bit befuddled.

Do people really live that way?

Even the so-called “reality” shows—apparently, no one’s writing scripts these days—seem to have little to do with the real world, or at least the tiny corner of it that I happen to occupy.

Hey, I’m no prude. For Pete’s sake, I’ve been known to go bra-less from time to time. Usually as a result of forgetting to paste on the Playtex before bringing the garbage cans to the curb, but still. . . And yet, I can’t come to terms with most of the people who occupy the T.V. screen these days.

From the 10 or 12 minutes I’ve spent with the “Housewives” gang, I’ve concluded that these backstabbing bimbos have nothing better to do than break up marriages between Bellinis. The men in their neighborhood aren’t friends so much as they are sexual targets. Frankly, I think these women are missing out.

Just last night, for instance, I openly conversed with several men, at my friend Kari’s annual Hawaiian pool party. Despite Mark’s presence at the party, I managed to move from one male to the next, each time presenting the side of me that I figured most appealed to that male counterpart. (Typically, among crowds of male strangers, that side would be my backside, but among friends, I am free to flaunt other angles). With Jeff, then, the talk was church, though not because he happens to be a yogic master who seats people each Sunday. It’s just where our conversations often (happily) fall.

When that conversation had grown a bit stale, and my chlorinated hands a bit too wrinkled, I swam to my next man of the moment, Steve. With him, I had to be sharp, ready to talk books, with a dash of word play thrown in, just to keep things interesting. He’s a tolerant companion—much like Jeff—willing to ask more questions than he answers, and able to act as though being a school librarian is the most fascinating profession there is. This gift, I suppose, is at the heart of the art of wooing a middle-aged woman such as myself. Or it could be that he’s just a really nice guy, kind of like Jeff.

After emerging from the pool, a la Christy Brinkley, and rapidly wrapping my lower half in a swim towel spattered with sun-splashed images and stains from last week’s supper, I took up a brief and colorful conversation with Joe, another educator, who was haranguing me about the low-fat strawberry cake I’d brought to the party.

Mark nary batted an eye at my multiple encounters with the opposite sex, mainly because he, too, was working that angle. And I couldn’t have been happier for him.

That’s the thing about good friendships. It doesn’t really matter if we share the same chromosomes. Just as long as we don’t share spouses. . . .