Ladies, we've all been there on the handle-end of a sharp object. We've just finished our shift at the diner or make-up counter and all we want is a warm meal and a foot massage from the man we love. Life, however, decides to present us with a more challenging option: that man passed out in our favorite recliner, gargling on what smells like feet and Newports. Liquor bottles lie empty in odd corners, the fridge is depleted, and our savings account is shrinking daily. He's probably sleeping with Cindy or Stacy, those strippers who live a few trailers down, though he probably isn't, but it doesn't matter as we drive that steak knife over and over into his flesh, only stopping when his screams die out and blood covers the linoleum floor.
I know, the odds were against it, but sometimes women actually DO get caught for murdering their husbands.This is our way of putting our foot down and saying we aren't going to take your shit anymore. We had to bounce around orphanages and work at countless escort services before we met some rich billionaire and waited for him to die, leave us all his money, only to have you piss it all away while we went through several miscarriages and a substance abuse problem. If anything, it's just nice to have a little quiet time to put our thoughts together, maybe take a bubble bath.
I have watched more made-for-TV movies revolving around domestic abuse, teenage pregnancies, extramarital affairs, and my personal favorite, Nora Roberts' adaptations, than I care to admit when sober. I have vegged in front of the television for weekend specials entitled "Tainted Love" and "I'll Kill Yours If You Kill Mine," the latter being a really unfunny version of Throw Momma From the Train, if that movie had chicks with giant boobs, mental problems, and a taste for murder.
Women love this story arc: we get to build up a giant wall of steel around our fragile hearts, and have a tan, sensitive guy show us another way of life.These two-hour segments are all variations of the same perfect formula: Valerie Bertinelli or Kristy Swanson or that flat-chested chick from Baywatch are getting their ribs broken by their alcoholic husbands. With the money from various off-shore accounts, these women hire hitmen to carry out the justice they deserve, because going to the authorities is not an option as their husbands are senators or hedge-fund billionaires. With their husbands' deaths shrouded in mystery, the women inherit a lot of money, start dating hunky construction workers, and get cancer. The last few scenes are of the women, confined to their hospital beds, saying goodbye to their young children who will be shipped off to boarding schools and ridiculed as orphans.
Despite the tragic circumstances, or, perhaps because of them, the women always come off as these brave heroines who would do anything for their families. They may have died of cancer, but their message of overcoming any obstacle or birthright despite their conditions, even if that means murdering the rich guy they're banging, survives.
Women love this story arc: we get the chance to be the victim and the fighter. We get to endure a rough upbringing and build up a giant wall of steel around our fragile hearts, and we get to have a tan, sensitive guy show us another way of life by cooking us dinner and having sex with us in front of a roaring fireplace surrounded by candles. Nevermind the redundancy of that setup or that he's a mystery writer or comic book artist; the fact remains he wants to help catch the person trying to kill us and conquer our schizophrenia. We hold onto that guy while still being independent running a bar or selling homemade jewelry.
The greatest part of these movies is that these women rarely get jail time. Not only are there enough plot lines to dedicate entire weekends to murderous love affairs, but there are little consequences for any crimes. For every Scott Peterson, there are 6 gajillion women killing their dumb husbands and getting away with it. Women may have to spend time in an interrogation room, but, being the savvy and cunning creatures we are, we marry the men who killed our husbands in the first place, trusting that his love would live on even after we've turned him over to the police to get the heat off us. Or we get cancer and die. Or, we change the channel to Syfy to catch Dinocroc vs. Supergator because David Carradine's shitty acting coupled with chicks in tank tops and rogue Australian hunters is far more entertaining than the convictions of a mentally unstable woman with daddy issues.