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David Beador

NO REGRETS

NO REGRETS

During my early twenties, I went through what I now like to call my I-prefer-that-he-appear-homeless phase when it came to men.  It was purely an aesthetic thing.  After all, I wanted whatever guy I invited home to actually be gainfully employed and I definitely wanted him to have a home of his own to head back to once I was finished with him – I’m just a girl who likes herself some solitude.  But when it came to what turned my head in a dark Manhattan bar, it was always the same:  longish hair, sexy scruff, a tissue-thin cotton tee that I figured I’d end up sleeping in one night very soon, at least one tattoo that wasn’t some bullshit tribal vine wrapped around his bicep, and a hint of spicy cologne that smelled like mystery basted in swagger.  Only once did a man wearing a suit and tie cause me to stop and gape like someone who was tragically born without the ability to stop drooling, but that rather undignified moment did not occur at a bar.  No, that guy was a Secret Service Agent who used to show up at Yankee games when George Pataki was Governor.  This stunning male specimen would stand in the aisle behind home plate while Pataki and Giuliani chowed down on hotdogs. (This was back during those days when New Yorkers cheered Giuliani’s presence instead of wondering about which year it must’ve been that the man lost his entire mind and started ranting and raving on Sunday morning talk shows.) I sat right near them – I was blessed with a stepfather who has really good seats for Yankee games – and whenever that Secret Service guy was around, I could not take my eyes off him.  I have literally no idea what happened during the games he attended because I never so much as glanced at the field.  In fact, I easily could have been knocked out cold by a fly ball on any one of those crisp autumn nights because I paid attention to nobody and nothing except for him, though I did once consider that if such an accident were to transpire, perhaps he’d rush over and give me mouth-to-mouth like he was taught in Secret Service School.  (That’s a thing, right?)  I even started praying for out of control foul balls to pummel me right in the temple since it started to seem that being struck unconscious might be my only hope of this man ever sliding his lips on top of mine.   

Then came one particularly memorable evening when I looked over at my pretend boyfriend who was wearing an expensive suit that nicely concealed his loaded weapon and he smiled right at me and sort of raised his eyebrows and nodded in a greeting.  I flashed my dimples back at him, but in the next instant I felt all possibility drain away. Since he could hardly walk away from the public figure he was hired to protect and nobody was allowed to get anywhere near them without the right sort of clearance, I realized that unless I attempted to assassinate his boss, I’d never get to actually meet this guy. As one of the many differences that will always exist between Squeaky Fromme and myself is that I will never be the assassination type – and I don’t have red hair or worship a crazed guru – I realized with a tragic thud that this was a relationship that could never even begin.  When his term was over, Pataki wasn’t the Governor anymore and he didn’t show up at Yankee games and I never saw the gorgeous guy ever again.  Quick question though:  is there maybe a summer camp for former Secret Service Agents where they show off their knot-tying skills and spend afternoons crafting one another friendship bracelets made out of lanyards and wile away the evenings making s’mores beside a roaring campfire as they trade gossip about who was the biggest pain in the ass to protect?  Because, if so, I’d like to be Head Counselor.

I do apologize for that little memory-induced digression, but I haven’t thought about that guy in a long while and now I feel positively fuzzy inside.  My point, however, is that I typically only went for guys back then who looked dirty.  My vetting process stayed consistent for a very long time, until a bunch of years later when an extremely pretty man caused me to do an emotional double-take.  But back in the days when filth ruled, one guy I was briefly smitten with seemed like he might be a real contender.  He had long hair (blonde – not usually my thing) and his face looked like it would be scratchy to kiss.  He always wore jeans and a tee, loved good music, spoke Sarcasm as fluidly as he did English, worked as an editor, smoked like a chimney, enjoyed stroking my hair whenever we were next to one another in a bar or in an alley, and had a tattoo that read “No Regrets” brandished across his chest in huge black letters.  And it was that tattoo that sort of moved me beyond that type of man.  It was that exact tattoo that made me wonder if I could maybe train my brain to begin to feel attracted to something else.  It was that very tattoo that caused me to call my friend Nicole late one night when it was very dark and I could see no hint of the stars and whisper to her, “I just don’t think I am supposed to live a life where ‘No Regrets’ wanders through my kitchen first thing in the morning to get some coffee.”  I knew: it was time to make some different choices.

I bring all of this up because I’ve thought a lot recently about people who proudly proclaim that they have no regrets coloring their lives or taunting them in their dreams.  It’s a hard thing for me to believe is possible. I have several huge regrets and most of them involve hurting someone I love or allowing myself to be hurt by someone I shouldn’t have loved.  While none of these regrets haunt me constantly, in my lowest and dreariest moments, I do wonder about their impact on both my mind and my soul. I am able to realize that it’s hardships that trigger growth and I can say with certainty that making some of those questionable decisions shoved me onto a journey where I learned some gut-wrenching but important lessons about life and men and the resilience of the human spirit, but it wasn’t like any of those lessons were fun to learn.  It wasn’t as though admitting that I had a regret (or twelve) brought me any sort of immediate comfort, but I’d never even consider not admitting that my regrets exist.    

Knowing him the way I did back then, my longhaired former crush probably earned the right to emblazon those words across his skin in indelible black ink. In the time we spent together, he was brutally honest – with himself and with others – and he also gave really good massages, which I know shouldn’t really figure into this in any real manner, but they were just that impressive.  Still, though I was able to believe that his tattooed motto was both reflective of his past and a warning about how we wanted to live his present and his future, we eventually drifted apart, a choice I’m certain has caused neither of us any regret.  He hasn’t passed through my thoughts in a lot of years, but I couldn’t help thinking about him during part two of The Real Housewives of Orange County Reunion because I think Kelly Dodd should leave that set where women who hate her sit on overstuffed couches and drive directly to a tattoo parlor and get “No Regrets” inked straight across her Botoxed forehead. This woman (who causes me to feel spiking levels of hatred whenever her grotesque smirk appears in high-definition on my television screen) spent her inaugural season insulting her coworkers viciously and constantly, yet she still idiotically maintains that she has zero regrets for any of her psychotic behavior.  She wouldn’t redo any of it!  She would happily inform Shannon that she’s ugly one more time!  She would love to call Heather “an interloper” yet again just so she can prove that she can pronounce words with more than three syllables!  She would definitely not walk back on the choice of appointing Vicki Gunvalson her Life Coach because who better to guide one fucking asshole than another fucking asshole? No, Kelly has absolutely no regrets for anything and if anybody so much as attempts to suggest that perhaps she should, she will just smear on some more lip gloss and take yet another shot of tequila and mumble that anyone saying such a thing is doing so out of pure envy because Kelly is a fucking idiot who sold her depleted sanity to Bravo and I have no doubt that she will be back next season because it’s the crazy ones who tend to get the raises. I will say this, though:  I hope that one day in the very near future Andy Cohen feels a pang of regret for thrusting another preening narcissist with no self-awareness upon us during an election season that has already felt like an exercise in abject fucking misery.

The Reunion finally concludes tonight and I feel the need to announce that if Vicki is hired back for next season, my recaps of this show will be concluding as well.  I just can’t expose myself to such a horrible person and her barely lucid sidekick anymore, not when I can better spend my time tracking down my Secret Service Agent who will surely enjoy spending his Monday nights feeding me ripe strawberries while inquiring as to which Real Housewife I’d like for him to destroy first.  As I enjoy being accommodating, I’ll give him a list with the names Vicki, Kelly, Kim, Brandi, and Luann on it and allow him to plot against them at his leisure.  But since it’s not currently strawberry season, let’s instead settle in and discuss how this shitshow finally ends, okay?

 

THE SOUL-SUCKING LURE OF INFAMY

THE SOUL-SUCKING LURE OF INFAMY

It’s here!  The season finale of The Real Housewives of Orange County is finally upon us!  And do you know what that means?  Actually, it doesn’t really mean a whole lot of anything. The truth of the matter is that this show is not anywhere near over, what with three weeks of a Reunion still to get through and then one of those “Secrets Uncovered” episodes, which we all know is filled with clips of the shit that didn’t make it through the first edit.  I will not recap the “Secrets Uncovered” episode – I won’t even watch it – because I get offended when any network seeks to pass off their sloppy seconds to me like it’s actual entertainment.  Besides, I’m pretty sure I can live forever and prosper without seeing some sequence in which Heather petitions a zoning board to allow her newest mansion to have its own zip code or watch Vicki continue to announce that she is never the cause of her own suffering. As I am quite certain that she is the cause of my suffering, I prefer not to expose myself to the horror when it’s not necessary.

As for the upcoming Reunion, I’m already dreading it. Not a ton happened this season and there’s no legitimate way for Sir Andy Cohen to fill three hours of television by retreading the action, so what that means is the time will be clogged up with even more screaming – and, by this point, I’m not sure I have the strength to take it.  Very little of what these women are fighting about actually matters. I can certainly see why Shannon is apoplectic about Vicki spreading stories about David beating her because there are real stakes to such an allegation, but nobody really has to care that Kelly is a demonic moron who spouts profanity whenever she feels cornered and attacked – which is always.  These women can make the choice to never associate with Kelly again, or at least they could if they were willing to leave this show and the benefits that come with calling oneself a “Bravolebrity” without any irony whatsoever.

As for what they’ll eventually talk about during the Reunion, here’s what’s gone down so far this season.  I’ve divided the action up by Housewife – and if you’re noticing that there’s way more to cover in the Vicki and Kelly departments, it’s because they are insane people and I’m hoping my lengthy summations can eventually be used by the team of mental health clinicians who will one day surely study them so they can then write scholarly articles on the synergy that exists between psychosis and reality show participants. 

DUNE & GLOOM

DUNE & GLOOM

 Sure, sometimes I allude to the possibility that the crazy cruelty, incessant idiocy, and stomach-churning hatred heaved out into the world by our Real Housewives of Orange County could bring about the kind of fiery day of reckoning Tamra studies with her personal trainer/spiritual guru while she's doing burpees. Yes, I've suggested Vicki pantomiming the act of nailing herself to a crucifix during a party in Newport Beach might very well lead to Catholicism as a whole shutting down just so the religion's followers do not have to be in any way associated with a creature I'm pretty sure was thought up by Satan himself after a particularly rough week. And okay, fine -- I've called some of these women morons and lunatics and Mephistopheles' asshole. I've giggled uncontrollably just glancing at the hideous purses Gretchen once thought would make her a millionaire and I've gone on record saying I'd rather drink the urine of a possum in heat than ever so much as taste Vicki's Wines By Wives. I stand by those comments; they're entirely accurate, but none of it means I wish personal harm to come to any of these women. Watching the accident go down on tonight's show was scary and I'm glad everyone is safe. That's not to say, however, that I would have objected to this accident knocking some sense into the heads of the truly senseless, but I suppose it's best I don't get greedy. Besides, I've already used my allotted three wishes on praying Bethenny gets herself ordained and shows up in Palm Beach to perform Luann's wedding ceremony in a long white dress and a veil.


THE BIGGER PERSON

THE BIGGER PERSON

Oh, Kelly. You are such a tragic moron. First of all, you managed to convince yourself it would be nothing short of wise and incredibly fun to go on this show, even though you claim to have been a multimillionaire for eons and therefore must not need the money. Secondly, you waded into these (well publicized) rage-filled waters although you've diagnosed yourself with the very broad and convenient ailment of Anger Issues. Thirdly, you bizarrely chose to align yourself with perhaps the only human lady in the entire stratosphere less appealing than you are and you actually then had the idiotic gumption to raise the millionth glass of alcohol you've swallowed since you've been on this show and toasted to the fact that everyone else must simply be devastated that they can't BE you, even after it's been made alarmingly clear that to be you means to be ostracized because most decent people refuse to even attempt to stomach your hideous personality. Cheers, Kelly! Here's to your eyes growing ever wider in surprise that everyone besides your ill-chosen mentor thinks you're psychotic -- and not even psychotic in an interesting way like the Countess on The Real Housewives of New York has continually proven herself a psycho with her never-ending delusions of grandeur. You, Kelly, are just a generic psycho and I'm bored with your antics already. Who do I have to blow at Bravo to make sure you don't return next season? You might not be willing to suck dick to get what you want, but I'll make an exception and go ahead and open wide if it means I never have to lay eyes on you again until I see you on the eventual commercials for Marriage Boot Camp.

 

 

 

 

 


 

THE CREATURE FROM NEWPORT BEACH & THE MENTOR FROM HELL

THE CREATURE FROM NEWPORT BEACH & THE MENTOR FROM HELL

It takes a very special form of bile-spewing creature to make it into the Top Five Worst Housewives of All Time in less than a season, but Kelly Dodd – asshole extraordinaire – has managed to reach that pinnacle. She's already proven she has what she so succinctly coins "anger issues" that rival the table-flipping rage of felon Theresa Giudice. She's also mastered the fine art of furious projection previously made famous by Professional Victim, Kim Richards, in that she strikes out both blindly and cruelly at anyone in her airspace just to take the focus off her own disgraceful behavior. (Kelly might also drink as much as Kim did in Kim's sickest heyday.) It's difficult, actually, to choose the very worst thing Kelly has done so far this season since her behavior thus far has mirrored that of a third grade sociopath stricken down with both a superiority complex and insanity, but I suppose it's nice that we have a choice. So which terrible action was the very worst? Was it when Kelly shrieked "Cunt!" and "Dumb fuck!" across a dinner table while proclaiming herself "an amazing mother"? Might it have been the moment she told Shannon she was ugly with a sick smile smeared across her face? How about the way she's decided Vicki Gunvalson is awesome and just slightly misunderstood? These are, of course, all excellent options for anointing Kelly with a crown made out of dogshit and her own broken dreams, but the single grossest thing I think she's done went down in the final two minutes of last week's show, after she'd already made Regan in The Exorcist sound like a Disney Princess. Yes, Kelly insulted half the people at the table with filthy epithets, tried to then hug her victims, announced she doesn't need to suck dick because she's a multimillionaire who's never had to develop a gag-reflex, and smiled serenely at Vicki, her soul sister. All of that was despicable, but the worst of it was in the aftermath, when she decided it would be hilarious to make fun of Heather's mannerisms and voice because all that action proved was that this very sick woman has not – and may never – learn a single thing. She's shown herself to be as idiotic as the black stools upholstered with muppet fur lining one of the twelve bars in her home and I fear nothing short of an exorcism that comes with a complimentary brain transplant can save her now.

HELLISH THINGS

HELLISH THINGS

Much to my constant dismay, I am the forgiving sort.  I’m not quite sure where this little trait of mine comes from, but since I have a few fond memories of my father staunchly holding some grudges, I’m just gonna go ahead and claim that my forgiving nature was bequeathed to me by my mother, along with an almost identical face.  I don’t much enjoy this aspect of my personality; there’s just something fiercely narcissistic about staying furious with someone and I wouldn’t really mind a bit more fierce narcissism running through my body.  Alas, I was apparently not built to cut someone from my life completely. Just in case you need an example, how about the time I forgave a family member for refusing to congratulate me for writing a book that was in no way about her?  Her reason for withholding the congratulations?  I hadn’t told her I was writing a book and she refused to be proud of me because she wasn't included in the process from its genesis.  Save your time and don’t even try to make sense out of it.  It makes no sense, but I forgave her anyway because having to be in the same room with both her and my inner inferno of bubbling fury left me feeling short of breath and feverish and I was far too worried about my health to stay angry. 

But even a forgiver like me would never just shrug and think, Well, it’s all in the past, had someone decided to sneer, “I’d never be friends with you because you’re ugly,” directly to my face in the middle of my own party the way Kelly did to Shannon on last week’s episode of The Real Housewives of Orange County. That's a comment simply meant to be as hurtful as possible, one said by a person who doesn’t have anything more damning in her arsenal and thus decided to take her anger out on your face.  My face rejects that sort of bullshit.  Will Shannon and her face end up forgiving Kelly?  I have no idea why she would, but we’re still early enough into the season that I suppose it’s possible.  Plus, we all need something to focus on besides praying for Jim Edmonds to be kinder to his fetus than he is to the wife who is carrying it.   

MRS. ROPER IS MAD AS HELL & SHE'S NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE

MRS. ROPER IS MAD AS HELL & SHE'S NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE

The thought came to me while I scrolled through my Twitter feed and saw all of the unironic cry-face emojis reacting to Theresa Giudice’s reunion with her square-shaped husband after spending some time in jail:  I’d make a really terrible Real Housewife.

To be fair, I did not watch Theresa’s triumphant return home because I’ve sworn off the Jersey ladies in much the same way I’ve also sworn off carbs.  As I see it, the only real difference between the two – both of which are terrible for you and leave you feeling sluggish – is that I still crave one of those things desperately, though I can promise and swear that the thing I miss did not create an offspring I’m fairly certain is from another species entirely.  What I’m trying to say (besides that I think little Milania will one day help to usher in the apocalypse) is that my reaction to hearing about this woman coming home was different than I think it was supposed to be.  I did not cheer her homecoming.  I did not pour myself a celebratory glass of Fabellini. I did not tear up and I did not tune in. 

I’m sure Theresa would say I don’t like her because I’m jealous.  Calling someone who hates you “jealous” is a very Housewives thing to do.  Over in New York City, Luann is all but making commemorative tees that proclaim how jealous everyone on the planet is of her joy and she will shoot those shirts from a cannon while she performs one of her hit songs at her upcoming wedding. It appears that you cannot be a Bravo Housewife and not wholeheartedly believe the root of someone’s discontent with you is always predicated by a hungry green-eyed monster.  It also appears you cannot earn a paycheck from the network without having to continually associate with the very people you can no longer stomach and you must do it while wearing a rather hideous jewel-toned cocktail dress.

Being on a reality show means you have to get dressed up and go hang out with people who plot against you like you’re all still in the eighth grade. You have to attend theme parties.  My standard answer to a probing question I don’t much feel like answering Yeah, I’m not talking about that – probably wouldn’t go over all that well at one of those parties and definitely would not fly at the Reunion. However, using the answer I employed the other day when speaking about someone I know well – She’s behaving this way because she’s an asshole – might very well get me a raise on one of these shows.  That line would probably be used in the coming attractions for the season, but it would be misleading because I’d never actually get into it with the asshole.  Assholes, you see, very rarely realize they’re assholes, even when provided with a color-coded flowchart that maps their asshole behavioral history. Not being on a reality show means I get to ignore assholes most of the time.  But if I were an OC Housewife, I’d have to endure that never-ending conversation (yet again) as the asshole before me mimes the crucifixion (yet again) while both of us wear the closest approximations of polyester chic we were able to locate so we can fit right in at the seventies party neither of us particularly wanted to attend in the first place.  It all just seems exhausting.

Speaking of total assholes who exhaust me, I look at Vicki Gunvalson and I cannot believe she has been on this show for eleven seasons and has seemingly learned so little about herself and rational human behavior in the process.  It also stuns me that she hasn’t started to dress differently or mastered a new way to shriek so every Schnauzer in the neighborhood will not begin to howl whenever she gets angry.  And it’s most difficult to believe that after going through a divorce and watching her friendships implode into a smoldering pit of ruins, she still doesn’t long for just the tiniest bit of privacy.

Vicki is the perfect Real Housewife because she never learns a blessed thing.

VICKI'S CASSEROLE

VICKI'S CASSEROLE

For those of you too caught up with watching the recent scuffle between lunatics who want to continue to allow people on a No-Fly list to purchase automatic weapons and decent people who desire some change and chose to squat on the House floor until a vote could transpire or the chaos rumbling through the financial cosmos because of the Brexit vote, I am very sorry to tell you that you missed some other essential news this week.  Yes, it was reported just the other day that Vicki Gunvalson – a woman who makes me want to secede from the human race in general – claims to have lost over twenty pounds!  And how did she manage to shed one of those thighs?  Well, she used a wise diet that included gnawing on grapefruit and lettuce for breakfast (because who doesn’t crave lettuce at dawn?) before skipping lunch entirely and then tearing into an ounce of chicken when it grew dark outside.  In other words, Vicki used a diet plan called “Starvation” to achieve her goals and though I’m repulsed that she put such information out into a world where impressionable people might decide to follow in her bullshit footsteps, I’m even more upset that her dramatic weight loss did not result in her vocal cords depleting to just a hanging thread of nothingness.

Turns out that Vicki can still speak because the world is just not fair.  It also turns out that we start this week’s episode still on that boat where Heather would like to know why Vicki didn’t call everybody immediately after the Brooks-faking-cancer-and-doctoring-medical-records debacle to say, “Holy shit, you were all right! I was dating a lying sack of total horseshit who was so repulsive that he lied about having cancer.”   I feel the need here to say that, whatever Vicki’s response to Heather's question, that answer matters far less than the fact that she waited until the motherfucking cameras were following her again before she even attempted to craft an apology to any of these people and that kind of scheduling tactic makes me scoff at any of her impassioned pleas for forgiveness.  By the way, in this context, “scoff” means flinging something at a wall and wishing the wall was Vicki’s face.

THE MYTHICAL SHE-BEAST OF ORANGE COUNTY

THE MYTHICAL SHE-BEAST OF ORANGE COUNTY

There are just some people whose absence in your life feels nothing short of palpable.  It’s not even the lack of their physical presence that creates the smoldering void, but all of those damn associations you stumble upon – daily, hourly. If you’re anything like me, you find yourself tripping dangerously over song lyrics.  You bang headfirst into television commercials that advertise products you once would have purchased just to see that person smile.  You fall with a painful thud down a whirring rabbit hole that’s been lined with a tarnishing silvered memory and land, totally disoriented, into a pit of what you are certain must be simmering regret. When you wake up in the morning, another name pops into your fatigued brain, even before you wipe the cloudiness of sleep from your eyes, even before you remember your own name. 

You finally understand why just the syllables that make up the word “longing” sound so incredibly hopeless.

I have not experienced any of the above emotions during the many months that have gloriously stretched by since The Real Housewives of Orange County has graced my television screen.  I have not missed a single one of those ladies or the bedazzled tank tops they wear without even a hint of irony.  And while I suffer from the terrible affliction of always wanting to give a person a second (or a nineteenth) chance to prove he or she is not a total asshole, my opinions are already rather solidified when it comes to some of these women who have suffered continuously due to the exposure and stress being a part of this show brings into their lives – and yet they still always come back for more, more, more.

BOOGIE NIGHTS 2: THE GIRTH BROOKS STORY

BOOGIE NIGHTS 2: THE GIRTH BROOKS STORY

It was probably somewhere around the fifth hour of watching the Senate hearing on Hillary Clinton’s role in the Benghazi attacks when a series of revelations began to sweep through my mind like a brushfire caused by an aerosol can of Resveratrol exploding inside the bidet of a marble bathroom that is Coto de Caza-adjacent:

1.    There’s the ability some of us have to keep calm under pressure – and then there’s the way Hillary Clinton reacts under pressure.  That woman did not so much as lightly perspire the entire time she was being grilled under hot television lights by political foes who would probably rejoice in literally roasting her over a bonfire like she was a rotisserie chicken.  No matter what she was asked, her composure was nothing short of masterful.

2.    And speaking of masterful, I want the name of Clinton’s makeup artist toot sweet and I’d like to buy stock in whatever company produces her matte face powder and blotting papers because – holy shit – those are clearly some excellent products and perhaps our greatest hope in the fight to make unintentionally shiny skin a thing of the past. 

3.    Anyone who can walk away from watching the coverage of these hearings without fully understanding the term “bipartisan” at this point is either an idiot or was too busy checking the US Weekly website so as not to miss the latest pearl of wisdom that has fallen from the inflated pout of young Kylie Jenner, a girl who now more closely resembles a blow-up sex doll than a human.