The news yesterday that Desperate Housewives impending eighth season would be its last was greeted by my brain with a small but pungent whooshing sound. Like: Pffffffshhhhhh. I think it was the sound of my synapses struggling not to care, and failing.*
Because the fact of the matter is that while I abandoned this show during the George W. Bush administration, I still hold Susan, Bree, Lynette, and Gabrielle in a messily designed but still rather plush corner of my heart. It remains an all too rare event when a television show revolves around that many (relatively) fully realized female characters and becomes a true cultural phenomenon. (The others: Sex and the City, Golden Girls, and, um…) Also, and this is probably more important, the show at its best was fun, a confection of soapy, sappy, silly, and sassy that felt unlike anything else on TV.
And then the second season began, with its deadly Betty Applewhite, locked-my-son-in-chains-in-the-basement storyline, and the air began to leak out of the balloon. READ FULL STORY