You may officially call me desperate. Because I've become addicted to Desperate Housewives.

Each Sunday evening I dutifully plop myself down on the couch to absorb ABC's newest hit television show.

A little background, though:

I'm not a frequent hour-long program watcher. In other words, I usually don't sacrifice an hour of my life every week to keep myself abreast of the latest drama. I think I watched E.R. for a month straight before I finally lost interest. I've never even saw an episode of NYPD Blue. I watched the X-Files, but not religiously. (At least until the series ended. Then I taped all of the old shows off TNT late night and caught the whole nine years of Mulder and Scully's alien hunting in a single fall season).

And while my parents can sit fascinated for hours with the multitude of Law and Order's available, cop shows hold no real interest to me. I prefer old re-runs of All in the Family, the Andy Griffith Show, Seinfeld and Leave it to Beaver.

But, man, those desperate housewives of Wisteria Lane have really done a number on me.

I suppose a lot of it has to do with the fact that the show's about women. A fascinating subject. One that I understand even less as I get older. Maybe I'm just trying to gleam some nugget of insight into the life of a kid-crazy mother, a klutzy single mom, a flirty ex-model, and a prim, perfect clean freak. That's Bree, who happens to be my favorite by the way. I can imagine her gracefully entering my apartment, washing my clothes, polishing my bathroom to an immaculate shine and whipping up a quality, home-cooked meal without ever breaking a sweat.

Of course the situations these women find themselves in are at the same time ludicrous and yet highly entertaining.

Susan (the klutz) has set fire to her rival's house, been caught naked in the bushes by her boyfriend and generally has become an accident waiting to happen since the show started. Bree has had to deal with her husband's affair and the hit-and-run of a friend's mother-in-law by her drunk-driving son. Gabrielle (the ex-model) has, herself, been having an affair with the 17-year-old gardener and just found out her rich, successful husband Carlos is an embezzler who stands to lose everything. Meanwhile, Lynette, the stay-at-home mom is dealing with the day-to-day frustrations of raising four kids.

Which, when all is put together makes for good theatre.

Want more?

It gets even more interesting.

The show is narrated by a dead housewife. She was a close friend with all the rest before some dark shame caused her to put a gun to her head and pull the trigger in the season opener. Her husband's a killer himself - offing a snooty neighbor midway through the season - and her son's a real wreck, mentally. Also, there was something (or someone) buried in their pool which lends even more mystery to the show's plot.

Desperate Housewives. A guilty pleasure, I know. But so is a hot, fudge sundae.

And you'll never find me turning that down.

(Kevin Pearcey is editor of The Luverne Journal. He can be reached at

335-3541 or

via email at kevin.pearcey@ luvernejournal.com)