I think I still watch soap operas because they remind me of what bad writing is really like. Don't believe me? Write scenes worthy of a soap and submit them to any commercial publisher. You'll get a rejection in record time. No editor I've ever worked with would accept such unbelievable characters and storylines.
Example: last week on The Bold and the Beautiful, the always tacky, always pushy Amber Moore crashed a party for up-and-coming designer Caroline Spencer. Not being invited never stops the white trash girl from Furnace Creek. Fresh off her scheme to pass off her baby as the child of media heir Liam Spencer, she's made a complete fool of herself in trying to worm her way back into the Forrester Creations family via ex-husband Rick Forrester.
And the male characters--total wussies! This is a high fashion house. They should design the men's suits with backbones, because only one man on this show seems to have one...and I'm pretty sure he's the devil incarnate.
Spineless men, pushy women...the staple of soaps for decades now. I remember how my mom would react watching Dynasty back in the '80s. She'd be outraged when ex-wife Alexis (Joan Collins) would barge into the Carrington mansion, usually without knocking, and bait Blake's current wife, the sweet, spineless Krystle. "If that were my house, her (substitute the word "butt" here) would be hitting the sidewalk!" Mom would shout.
Mom was only a doormat for her own sisters. I wouldn't even allow that.
I had something like this happen to me six years ago, when we were in the process of moving. I had a so-called friend who was the epitome of the pushy broad. She showed up not long after we moved in. She and her husband were having issues. He didn't know she'd lost her job. (She says she quit; they say she got fired for stealing.) She thought she was going to spend eight hours a day parked in my apartment. There was no way that was going to happen. I'm too accustomed to doing what I want when I want. I explained to her that I needed to finish my book, and I couldn't do that with her underfoot.
She very generously offered to leave by four so that I could write in the evening. Wasn't that nice of her? I was counting to ten by that time. I explained that being able to write on my own schedule means my schedule, not hers.
She still didn't get it. She said her husband would be furious when he discovered she wasn't working and she would be moving in with Collin and me. I not-so-patiently told her that no, she would not be, as my lease prohibits adding new tenants without management approval. We even have to get approval for temporary houseguests. I had to get permission from the leasing office to keep a friend's dog while she was on vacation.
The last straw came the day we brought home everything from our storage locker. We'd just unloaded the truck when she arrived. "This isn't a good time," I told her.
"Oh, that's okay'," she said, as if I had asked her if she minded that I was in the middle of unpacking. She walked past me, into the apartment, and pulled up a chair in the midst of all the stacked boxes. I started counting again--this time in Spanish.Slowly. Very slowly.
She doesn't know how close she came to being decapitated.
I went about my unpacking, figuring she'd take the hint. She didn't. When she pushed me to stop what I was doing and listen to her, I let her have it. She got out of there fast. I haven't seen her since. But she still comes to mind when I see characters like Amber Moore on TV....