Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank by Celia Rivenbark Page A

sometimes as many as two a week, is none other than Salem’s most esteemed psychiatrist, Dr. Marlena Evans, the sincere-faced long-legged beauty who has been the heart and soul of this show for decades.
    Marlena—Doc to us—has counseled all of Salem at one time or the other, and now she’s,
ick,
stabbing them with a letter opener to the carotid, outsmarting her buddies who spend much of every show saying, “We’re going to get the killer. This won’t happen again,” but before we even go to a commercial break, oopsie, there’s another body.
    Truthfully, most victims have been, well, expendable. I was mildly miffed when she killed her ex-husband, Roman Brady, on his wedding day. I was hoping Roman would find true happiness with reformed whore Kate Roberts, but no.
    After murdering him at his wedding reception, Marlena even comforted the grieving sorta-widow, patting her and offering the earnest-faced consolation we’ve come to expect.
    Marlena’s especially good at killing the goodhearted, dull ones like Caroline Brady and Doug Williams.
    Doug was one-half of the famous Dougandjulie, long-time annoying
Days
soul mates. I think they signed their checks just like that: Dougandjulie. (True story: Back in the ‘80s, I entered a contest to win breakfast with the actors who play Dougandjulie and won! They were lovely and boring just like on the show. I think I asked Doug if I could have the rest of his hash browns, and he said, “I guess.”)
    I know Doc’s going to get caught, but it won’t be anytime soon. The only one who’s figured out it’s Marlena is nineteen-year-old Sean, who’s dating Doc’s daughter, Belle, Salem’s only virgin.
    “Let the police handle this, son,” said Sean’s idiot cop father. But his cell phone crackles alive: “Oh, no! Another body!”
    And time for another doughnut.
    Sadly, I was forced to go cold turkey for two weeks without seeing
Days
when it was preempted by the Olympics.
    Sure, you think that’s pathetic, but that’s just because you don’t watch it. Otherwise you’d know that you can’t expect people to just go on with their lives like normal when the last episode was a cliffhanger with Jennifer out there having a baby in the wilderness, Sean busting out of the house where he’s been held prisoner by a psychotic wannabe girlfriend, and don’t even get me started about Marlena and Roman (miraculously alive again!) making out in the jungle while his foot gets more gangrenous by the second. On top of that, Mimi thinks she’s got cancer, UncleMickey, 106, is gettin’ some from a barmaid, and Sami just found out that her mama clawed her way out of her coffin. (You gotta love a show where the character says with a note of superiority and utter calmness, “See? I told you that Mom was buried alive, and you didn’t even believe me. )
    I get that it’s unspeakably shallow to miss
Days
to the point of tears when the real heroes were over there in Greece, sprinting and wrestling and fencing and underwater-checkers playing and whatnot.
    So I tried to really get into the Olympics and after I finally, sort of, succeeded, they ended. My life could resume, and I need never hear the painfully earnest preachings of the Rev. Bob Costas or see serious journalist Katie Couric giddily pretend to master the balance beam.
    Low moment of viewing? When I simply didn’t get the pole vault miscue and saw the woman sprint under the pole and told my husband, “Heck, I could do
that?
    Because I’m not a guy, I won’t miss the barely there bikinis worn by the Olympic volleyball chicks. My husband says it has to do with wind resistance and improving their aerodynamic jumping abilities. He is so full of sand.
    I think it has to do with them being hoochie mamas. Talented, sickeningly fit hoochie mamas, but hoochies nonetheless.
    I came to the Olympics embarrassingly late and so missed the big ruckus caused by the American who won the gold,although it was later discovered, after the judges