I’ve been in love with three women in my life, other than my mom and grandmas and my beautiful, 5-year-old daughter Zoe.
- Karen, my wife.
- The women of “Desperate Housewives” – Gabrielle Solis, Bree Van de Kamp, Lynette Scavo and Susan Delfino.
- The women of “Sex and the City” – Carrie Bradshaw, Samantha Jones, Charlotte York and Miranda Hobbes.
What woman in that group doesn’t belong? Easy. Answer: A, Karen, who hasn’t broken my heart.
Sunday, May 20, will be the first time since 1998 that I’ll turn on my TV on a Sunday night and know I won’t be able to see any of my TV women. “Desperate Housewives” aired for the final time on May 13, ending my eight-year rendezvous with the hottest moms in the history of TV.
For fifteen years, Sunday nights were golden. I got 94 dates – OK, you can call them episodes – and with four of New York City’s smoking-hot women and a whopping 180 with the quixotic quartet of Fairview.
Why was I so much in love with “Sex and the City,” an attraction to a chick show that led to endless ridicule among my friends?
Simple: I was jealous of Carrie Bradshaw because she had the greatest job for a journalist. Ever.
Listen, I’m 5-7 and overweight so I don’t even dream about playing quarterback for the Ravens. Can I play basketball like LeBron James, pitch like Justin Verlander, hit like Josh Hamilton, punch like Floyd Mayweather, run like Ray Rice or tackle like Ray Lewis?
No, no, no, no, no and hell no!
But could I do Carrie’s job? Could I write a sex column a week, buy whatever designer clothes I wanted, eat at whatever restaurant I wanted, drink only from the top shelf, date beautiful people and hook up with them afterward?
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes and hell yes!
Seriously, Carrie always had money, rarely worked, bought whatever she wanted and drank whatever she wanted – did you ever see wine in a box in her apartment? Ever see her eat at McDonald’s? Hook up with someone ugly? Just saying.
Carrie got paid to hang out with her friends and talk sex – I mean shop – with her friends. You can’t tell me that’s not the best job in TV. It’s certainly better than 24’s Jack Bauer. He only had a day to save the world and I never saw him eat or go to the bathroom once in eight seasons!
Carrie’s on-again, off-again flame went by the nickname “Big.” Well, the last time I looked at my stomach that’s a moniker that would suit me, and hell, I’m bigger than “Big.” His first name was John. My first name is Jon. It’s not my fault his parents didn’t know how to spell.
If I had been cast as the show it would have devastated millions because “Sex and the City” would have been so huge it would extended it to an hour and HBO brass would have rode that cash cow so hard “Sopranos” would still only refer to a type of voice, not an iconic show.
But my love affair with “Desperate Housewives” is deeper. It started in 2004, the year I got married and I’m not saying my neighborhood isn’t good, but it’s no Wisteria Lane – not even close.
If I was living on Wisteria Lane, it would mean every morning I could jog behind Susan and Gabrielle in their spandex. What man wouldn’t love that workout? I’d be so ripped when swimmer Michael Phelps saw me with my shirt off he’d blush. He’d think: “I bet Gallo is so high on life he doesn’t need a bong.”
After my workout, I could invite Bree over, knowing she’d be obliged to bring a basket filled with muffins or scones. In eight seasons, I never saw Bree go to a neighbor’s house without food. Who needs to spend money on breakfast when it’s just a phone call away?
What would Bree and I talk about? Doesn’t matter.
She brought the food. I’d just nod at all of her mumbo jumbo.
I would then go to work at some high-paying job and come home and get sip margaritas with Gabrielle and then my take my wife out for dinner. A babysitter? Lynette’s son knocked up Susan’s daughter and doesn’t have a job. He needs all the money he can get. Perfect.
And football Sundays? I could have watched them with Susan’s husband Mike, an avid Colts fan, before he was shot on his doorstep in the biggest TV tragedy since NBC retired KITT and Knight Rider in 1986. We could have watched football while Zoe could have played with Gabrielle’s daughters and Susan’s son. Perfect.
I swear, there must have been local ordinances banning women from bagging clothes, jeans that weren’t two sizes too small or blouses that didn’t reveal cleavage. I swear I’ve seen less flesh on Skinemax, I mean Cinemax.
No wonder Tom Scavo took Lynette back in the season finale. If he didn’t it would have been the worst decision in TV history since ABC passed on some show called “CSI: Crime Scene Investigation,” which was promptly picked up by CBS.
Who wants a show that draws like eight million viewers a week and spawned spinoffs in Miami and New York? Apparently, not ABC.
Now, ABC has evacuated Wisteria Lane at a time when the show had never been better.
The network dumped the series – and dumped me.
It’s time for a scone – and a cosmopolitan.
I already miss my mistresses.
What’s a guy to do?
Time to watch “Bridesmaids.”