Listen in on the private thoughts of Anabel Blue, penner of those stories slightly out of the box and on the kinky side of life...
Saturday, May 23, 2009
OMG! Not 007!
I waited awhile to watch the finale of Grey's Anatomy. I carefully avoided all the spoilers flying around. If you haven't watched. stop reading now.
I pretty much knew Izzie would expire. I mean, it had long been announced that both Katherine and T. R. were leaving the show, it was just a question of how. I actually thought they might run off together. How stupid was that? So when it looked like Izzie would rally there at the end, I knew it was a fake-out. But when the mutilated "John Doe" good samaritan etched "007" into Meredith's palm, I was just stunned. It was a good kind of stunned, I wasn't angry at the writers, but I was angry when George died. What a shocking way to end the show. I also thought the elevator scene was borderline campy. George looked awesome in uniform, but it was, well... uh.
Now the new season will have to begin with grief. Losing both Izzie and George in this manner will be really tough on the docs. No matter that Sloan and Little Gray are about to shack up. And what do you think about Derek and Meredith's pseudo hand-fasting? Eh. Like that's gonna hold water, right?
I still think Chandra Wilson is one of the best things about Grey's. Her spunky, in-your-face golden-heartedness just fills such a big spot on this show. She has reminded me of someone I really care about for some time, but didn't put my finger on it until this last episode. My publisher and friend Karen Syed is my real-life Miranda Bailey. And that's a compliment, Karen!
I won't miss Isobel Stevens all that much, but George's absence will be very noticable for me. RIP, 007. Seattle Grace won't ever be the same without you.
Here is what Miss Anabel would like you to know about her.
She grew up thinking she was born in a small French town, however, it may have been a small American town that looked and sounded French. She’s never been quite sure.
By day, Anabel is an expert at fitting men into suits, and by night, she is quite adroit at getting men out of their suits. She lives in a tiny, very-French looking flat upstairs from a patisserie, watching the gentlemen come and go from the dimly lit tavern next door while sizing them up for suits and erotic romance. Her cat, Jacques, watches with her, giving his approval or disapproval with the switch of his tail.
When she is not romanticizing about her would-be biography, Anabel is actually a very suburban professional something or other, who writes contemporary romance, mysteries and other fun stuff. She knows only a handful of French words, but truthfully, isn’t our sultry mademoiselle and her discerning feline a lot more interesting?