There were no surprises when first Gloria, then John mustered up the courage to stick their snouts into the opening of the she-devil's den in hopes that semi-civilized coercion would convince Jennifer to revoke Tom's bail. John's attempt was a bit more understandable since he'd had no prior dealings with the quick-changing chameleon, thus had no idea he was conversing with a woman without morals, therefore, appealing to them would be a waste of valuable time. But Gloria's had more than a taste or two of Jennifer's intimidating ways so could have saved all those empty threats she timidly tossed at her and used the hot air she blew in Jennifer's direction to warm her chilled hands instead.
As I said, not unexpectedly, John fared no better than his brain-dazed bride and had it not been for Jennifer's intervention in restraining Tom from proving it wasn't just young boys he could successfully abuse but elderly men as well, would have emerged from the resulting fray considerably worse than when he arrived. Thanks to Jennifer, though his collar was a bit crushed and his dignity dented, John left the premises under his own power and with his face intact. But so incensed by the reality that Tom could have pounded him onto the threadbare carpet without even becoming winded, John made a beeline to Paul's office, not to ask for PI assistance, but to request a firearm, presumably to protect himself and his family should a situation arise that warranted it. To John, apparently time was of the essence, how else to explain why he wouldn't just head to his local gun shop instead and impatiently cool his heels and his temper during the few day waiting period. John talked a good game, okay, to be honest his talk probably wouldn't have terrified a termite, but I had a hard time taking mostly gentle John seriously as a gun-toting vigilante. More likely this is the latest in a trail of bread crumb clues for a developing whodunit with Tom as the unlucky victim.
Poor Tom, did he oversleep and miss his appointment the day God was distributing brains? That's the only reason I can think of for his agreeing to participate in Shenda's (see Trish's comments below for explanation of this nifty nickname) asinine plot. Has he forgotten all her earlier boasts about how she always gets what she wants? Apparently so, if he can so easily be persuaded that all she now wants is two million dollars. Right, the appetite of this perpetually raging psychopath is going to be satisfied by dollars over death? Not a chance. I know what Shenda's saying, but it will be interesting to discover what's really turning in her macabre mind. Because I seriously doubt it has anything to do with ransoming a live Lauren. What was the real purpose of that just out of bed pix she snapped of Tom? And why does Tom have to be the one to kidnap Lauren. Is he going to chloroform her and then tie her arms around him so they can speed off on his motorcycle to the farmhouse in the country?
Judging solely by the way Shenda's other ideas have crashed and burned, I have my doubts that this latest plot will proceed precisely as planned. Especially after listening to Lauren make the colossal mistake of discussing their post-nuptial plans in front of Scott, more commonly known as the human sieve (one shake and Shenda can cause the entire contents of his brain to come pouring out). Is it possible Sheila and Tom could wind up being the very discreet crew aboard Lauren and Michael's honeymoon yacht? Just guessing; with Sheila as the mastermind, this one could twist in any number of directions. I could easily see her leaping or being shoved overboard in the middle of the ocean with no visible land in any direction where she'd be presumed dead but, in actuality, of course, turn out at some later date to be very much alive.
Oh well, moving on to other misguided lives, it's more Beauty of Nature business within the walls of the Newman empire. Even as Brad vigorously courts Victoria, he can't help but continually cast longing looks in Sharon's direction. I'm surprised it wasn't necessary to reprint the digital shots from Sharon's session. Because the way Brad was drooling all over them, they should have been covered with wet spots.
And while I'm on the subject of wet things, was I the only fan who found the photo shoot quite the hoot? Could the room have held any more people? With all those gawking people lurking about, it's a wonder the shutterbug had any room to maneuver Sharon into appropriately appealing positions. I'm guessing few fans would dispute the fact that Sharon is quite lovely to look at, when she's not whining about one thing or another or dragging her pouting lip behind her, that is. And an equal number would likely agree that Sharon would probably present a pleasing picture even when garbed in a gunnysack. Me, I was tolerating it all just fine until someone had a light bulb moment and decided to make her look like a mermaid just popping out of the deep blue sea. First of all, wet stringy hair plastered down the side of one's face has never been what I'd call becoming. Unless, of course, the lass in the lens is garbed in swimwear and baring most of what God gave her for a Playboy calendar photographer. Because that was the moment when the only question that kept repeating itself in my mind was whether that was really water coating Sharon's complexion, or did someone mistakenly slather her with Vaseline using a spatula and think we would not know the difference? Looking at that shot, the last thing I was tempted to do was rush down to Fenmore's to buy a bag of B of N goodies. All I wanted to do was snatch up a handful of hankies and start wiping all that goo off her face. I don't presume to speak for anyone else, just my opinion.
Well, Sharon might be the lady Brad dreams about both awake and asleep, but Victoria is the one he has squarely in his sights. Yes, they finally finished what Abby's slight fever last week stopped cold. About that little encounter, perhaps it's just me, but I really could sleep just fine at night if I never had to be a voyeur to any more after the incident moments of the Genoa City in lust set. Scribes, take a memo. I'd be just as happy if you related the tawdry details to me in conversation. For the most part, these fictional folks, through the wonders of multiple layers of pancake cover up, and various pots of paints and potions are about as close to perfect as can be be. But all those camera closeups of supine faces and bodies molded together in mock ecstasy can sometimes turn out less than flattering. Speaking for myself, I wouldn't miss them if they ceased.
Gee, Bradley, way to dump a bucket of icy water on Victoria's hot-blooded hopes! Had someone with whom I'd just shared that very special part of me informed me there was room for improvement, he'd probably never get another opportunity to see if I could. What exactly was he trying to say with his admission of having high expectations. That Victoria fell short of them? And if so, by a lot or a little? Something tells me that had the hair resting on his hairless chest been blonde, its half empty head filled with complaints of husbandly inattention, his answer would have been much different. Victoria might find Brad to be a man of many talents, but from where I sit and criticize, his main talent seems to be beguiling gullible, needy women.
On that needy woman note, is Nick purposely trying to drive his into the arms of a man who would jump at the chance to make her say his name? Could his excuses have been any more lame for not going along for the ride on Sharon's big tour? Sorry dear (uttered, by the way, without the slightest bit of discernable dismay), meetings, you know. Have to be there, Victoria's not up to speed, he claims. Oh, and he is? Granted, Victoria has had most of her attention on B of N and the rest on Brad, but at least she's been there and has presumably been keeping abreast of things through department memos, reports and emails. Nick, on the other hand, should be much further out of the loop than his sister since the occasions he's appeared at the office are so few, wedged between his doting Daddy duties, can be counted on one hand, with the thumb and at least one finger still folded down. And even if we accept what he's says as gospel, that there's only one man for the meeting job and he's it, it's hard to believe that in these days of technology advancements, at least some of those meetings couldn't be handled by email or conference call. Finally, I can't overlook the fact that Nick is after all a Newman, a man filthy rich who could have the company jet idling on the runway at a moment's notice. If nothing else, he could fly nightly to St. Louis to spend some quality night time with his wife.
But though she was obviously sorely disappointed in her husband's response, Sharon didn't waste more than a minute or two weeping inconsolably and audibly in her pillow, in hopes her husband would hear and change his mind. Instead she snatched a Puffs off the night stand, swiped her tear away and sat right down and dialed up Brad. Yes, of course, I'm exaggerating at Sharon's expense. And to give her credit, she did nothing more than listen to his voice. And though she's obviously attracted to Brad, she's not launching a full frontal assault upon him. Nick is being given plenty of rope to loop. Unfortunately, his admitted guilt around Sharon (about Cassie, I am presuming) may make him use it to hang himself.
As if the young Newmans weren't already distant enough from one another, the friendships predicted to solidify in the coming weeks and months are likely to push them even further apart. Nick is already turning more to Phyllis than to his wife and Daniel is likely to become closer to Nick by way of young Noah. A move surely guaranteed to deepen Sharon's discontent. And to put the icing on the cake, Phyllis and Nikki's new plan to make corporate history together will entwine the lives of the Newmans and the Abbott/Romalotti tighter still. At this rate, in no time at all, this could soon be one big unhappy, dysfunctional family.
Leaving fractured families behind and turning for a moment back to business, who do you all think deserves to be Newman CEO? Nick did abandon the position, a position many would say he got only because Victor hoped it would eradicate the memory of Nick's wife's lips plastered to his. But, before that Victoria was offered first refusal and chose self-exile in Italy instead. Perhaps neither Newman seed should be in charge. Because there senses aren't very well developed. How else to explain how neither is observant enough to see the very clear bond growing between Brad and Sharon? Or can smell the hot scent of desire whenever the two inhabit the same small office space?
And finally, much as I like Kevin, I have to agree with Phyllis' recent observation. His actions were indeed worthy of earning him the scornful title of weasel. How quickly his gratitude has been forgotten toward two of the Newmans for agreeing to sell him and Mac the coffeehouse. Has Kevin not the backbone to stand up to anyone??? I could understand his soft spot for Gloria. Though she doesn't deserve any favors from him, she is after all his Mother. After growing up under the cruel and sadistic five fingers, a thumb and a leather belt of Tom Fisher, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that Phyllis' fury would frighten him. She's intimidated many a stronger, braver man. But Jackrabbit Abbott! Nobody should be afraid of that big, bad, blowhard. Nobody but Kevin, that is. For Jack, talking Kevin out of those backup disks must have been even simpler than snatching a lollipop from a tot.
Always to be counted on to provide some much needed moments of merriment, were the Baldwin-Fisher brothers. I loved their little dance lessons. Do people actually waltz at weddings?
Continuing in a lighter vein, far be it from me to claim to always be adorned in the most becoming of garb, but I confess some of what certain of our fictional favorites picked from their bulging closets caused me to rub my eyes in disbelief, while simultaneously scurrying to adjust the colors on my TV. If a crowded flower garden had exploded, Sharon's dress would be what I would have expected to be its result. Nick must have agreed, because the man who usually uses any occasion to announce his wife and her attire "amazing" opted for silence this time. And while Yolanda was effusive in her praise of Dru's coat, my response was much more astonished than admiring. But it was Gloria's garish gold jacket that made me reach for my sunglasses to protect my eyes. What was she thinking? Me, I swore I heard Christmas carols playing and suddenly had visions of gold Christmas balls dancing through my head. And one final head-scratcher, Why did Sheila arise and aphysiate her hair with spray, forcing it into those unnatural and immovable face framing wings only to slap a stocking cap on it and plop on that awful wig?
And with that, I see that the sands of my hourglass have all trickled away. Your turn, faithful fans.