Ship Coming In

According to my horoscope, my ship’s coming in tomorrow. Since I’ll be at the docks all day, I thought I should post something enlightening today. So here it is: my informal review of my new obsession, FX’s Damages.

I had no idea about Damages until I recently became a Ricky Gervais fan (I’m a late adopter, a.k.a. old person) and started reading his blog. He wrote that it was some of the most brilliant writing he’d ever experienced. So, I innocently clicked the Hulu button for Season 1, Episode 1. 

Hooked. Completely. Can’t stop. Peanut MnMs level of hooked-dom.

Yesterday, Ricky G. wrote that he was having the second season fed-ex’d. How ridiculous is that?!? :) Like Chris Rock says about OJ, “I’m not saying I could do what he did, but I understand.”

One of the writers is married to Grace, from Will and Grace. And another writer is the seemingly ("trust no one") oblivious doorman! Now, that’s funny.

And, of course, there is the burning question: What the hell happened to Glenn Close? Did someone beat her as a child? Relentlessly bully her on the playground? Lock her in a room? Chain her to a radiator? What was it that, to this day, gives this woman the endless supply of nasty she pulls from in role after role after role? I thought Cruella De Vil was bad, but this! This Patty Hughes. She’s hard to believe bad.

When Ellen asks her, “Do you regret what we did? Because I do.” and that woman looks at her and suspiciously asks, “You do?” Oh my. The icy chills. Sign me up for every episode forever and ever and ever. 

Damn you, Glenn Close. Damn you. 

On an unrelated note, at dinner last night, I was asked repeatedly about what kind of men I prefer. Huh? What kind of who do I what? It took me a few minutes to get with the program, but I came up with Craig Ferguson, Hugh Laurie and Colin Firth. And now I can’t stop laughing at my choices. I’m so obviously out of the loop. 

Then, my friend started picking out men in the packed restaurant and insisting on my reaction. I admit I sort of felt like an awkward girl of 39 again. But this must be stopped before it goes any further, because I really do like being in the house with the dog. I’ve waited on this peace for a long time. So, if (single) Craig Ferguson interrupted all this and knocked on the door and forced me to dinner and a movie, I’m afraid I’d have to say, “Thanks, Craig, but no thanks. Take all that love and admiration you have for me and move on down the road. Nobody here is interested in that stuff.” And then the dog would kill me in my sleep, because her survival of the fittest instinct told her it was the right thing to do for the betterment of my species.