Dear readers, these past few days in Genoa City have
given me a case of whiplash from doing
double-and-even-triple-takes and going "HUH?!" And
I'm not even talking about Amber's, um, arm warmers.
Here's a hint, Amber sweetheart: if you're going to
insist upon wearing a sheer brown top with puffed
cap-sleeves and a gathered peasant neckline, in
February, in Wisconsin, and you find yourself
feeling chilly, I have a better solution for you
than rummaging through the lost and found, cutting
the sleeves off a moth-eaten old striped sweater and
wearing those sleeves on your forearms. Get out your
pen and notepad so I can describe my very complex
solution to you. Ready? Put some freaking clothes
on, you stupid whore. What is this - reverse
Flashdance? What's next, wearing ballet shoes on her
hands and cut-up sweatshirts around her calves?
Anyway, what I'm talking about with regard to
whiplash are all the nonsensical discrepancies I am
apparently supposed to overlook just for the sake of
my love for my imaginary boyfriend Josh Griffith.
And I mean, I yearn for you, Josh, but please don't
make me an enabler. It's unbecoming to say the
least.
Victor is selling Sharon's house to JT? Well, I
wonder what Sharon will have to say about that.
She's probably forgotten she owns the damn thing.
And what did they do with all her outdated
"Southwestern" furniture? Put it in the stables? I'd
be pissed as hell if someone moved all my shit out
of my house without so much as a phone call.
Speaking of style, which I'm supposed to be, that
new yellow floral couch is strictly hideous. It
looks like Laura Ashley aimed her ass at the
davenport and promptly had diarrhea. (I'm pretty
sure that opinion is an echo of something my darling
cabana boy Glenn said weeks ago, so Glenn, I owe you
a festive umbrella drink and a kiss on the
forehead.)
Honestly, why must everything be yellow and
flowered? Same goes for the Tackyhouse. And why is
everybody eating dinner at their coffee tables?
Don't they have kitchens or dining rooms? Is Nick
watching "Deal or No Deal" with the sound turned
off?
I don't get it. These morons are richer than God and
yet they have sex only on couches and eat on the
floor like dogs. The Newman siblings collectively
have the interior decorating instincts of that
god-awful Domestications catalog. Oh, but Nick is
such a genius that he's refurbishing the warehouse
in about fifteen minutes. Well, technically Doug
"Extreme Makeover: Crappy Warehouse Edition" is
renovating it, but nevertheless we're supposed to
believe that after all these years Nick has
discovered a latent flair for design? That's not the
only "latent" thing he's about to discover if you
know what I mean and I think you do. I'm sure there
are already hundreds of zesty Nick/Junior slash
fanfics making the rounds of the seedy internet.
Oh, all right, I'll be a good girl and talk about
the damn clothes. For the Dinner Party of Doom,
alleged fashionista Lauren chose to wear a black and
white print sheath with a completely gaudy wide
glittering gold necklace and her usual boring "I'm
still young--no really!" hair. A bold graphic print
like that deserved something punchy and colorful,
not a Cleopatra collar. Gloria thought a black
sequined shrug over a black turtleneck would provide
her with comfort and ease of movement for her
dramatic fainting spell, and Michael couldn't be
bothered to shave for the event.
I've really had about enough of Heather's matronly
black sheath dresses and the ever-present pearls.
Hi! We get it! You're so very different from Flowbee-headed
Porneil. Opposites attract, star-crossed lovers,
wrong side of the tracks, blah blah blah. What is
this, an 80s movie? Where's the sexually ambiguous
sidekick who listens to obscure indie music and
dispenses kicky advice? When's Porniel going to
reveal his secret shoe box full of pictures of
Heather and then they'll have shower sex while she's
still wearing her pearls and the glass door will
fall off mid-coitus and they'll both laugh and
later, he'll go back to writing crappy
"philosophical" drivel and she will marry the
ambitious guy with the huge nostrils and everybody
will be BFFs again. Readers, I can feel St. Elmo's
Fire burning in meeeee... at least I hope that's
what it is. And why is the (former?) Assistant DA
inviting an underage punk to her boudoir for an
illegal nightcap?! Morals these days, I tell you
what.
Victoria was lounging around the Nest She Can't Wait
To Flee in a flowered hoodie on Thursday, writing
her imaginary friend Sabrina a passionate letter and
humping her keyboard like Tori Amos in concert.
Simmer down there, Miss Two Miscarriages! Howzabout
a little parenting instead of whining about going
back to work? How long did you wait for this
baby--who barely made it, I might add? I guess
parenting is fun for about fifteen minutes or until
the pooping starts.
Junior showed up for his first day as a professional
kiss-ass in a bright navy blue suit and light blue
shirt and tie, looking very Alex. P. Keaton if you
ask me. Remember the wacky hi jinks when Alex got
that dream job at the bank and ended up sharing a
hotel room with his hot boss Rebecca and he had to
sleep in the closet standing up? No? Well, your loss
and my condolences. Family Ties ruled!
Phyllis demonstrated a practical way to vent her
stinky armpits on Monday in a navy sheer fuzzy shrug
and a black tank. No matter which way she moved,
that slit of exposed armpit skin was very
distracting. As was the Flappy Hair Face-Off between
her and Sharon when they kept going back and forth
in their conversation about the stupid "Foundation".
With a flap-flap here and a flap-flap there! Here a
flap, there a flap, everywhere a flap-flap! I hope
when Sharon travels to LA they publicly mock her
hair, pointing and laughing until she's forced to
saw it off with a dull wine opener in her hotel
room. I can dream, can't I?
Editor's note: Liza is a struggling freelance writer
who gives her talent at no cost to the Genoa City
News. If you like her work and would like to
contribute to her cause, please send a donation
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