I've been so consumed lately with focusing on how much of an asshole one of the Presidential candidates is that I've almost forgotten about that other raging asshole, Kelly Dodd. I suppose I'll worry tomorrow about my newest affliction – Asshole ADD – but tonight, I'm just going to appreciate that the closest I'll ever get to this awful human specimen is through my television screen. The other Real Housewives are not so fortunate. They're contractually bound; they must interact with the seething monster in the terrible clothing until someone finally slays the beast.
Where last we left off before the Olympics conquered Bravo, Kelly sneered that she'd never be friends with Shannon because Shannon is "ugly" and then invited Shannon to lunch to apologize for being such a dick. That apology did not go so well since Shannon insisted she did not, in fact, throw a party with the express purpose of setting up a woman she barely knows. Luckily, Kelly can drink away her pain in one of the twenty-three bars that line every nook and cranny of the lovely home she lives in with a man she hates.
Quick disclaimer: I haven't slept in about sixty hours. My sweet puppy got spayed yesterday morning because one experience of caring for a 6.4-pound Maltipoo in heat was more than enough for me to deal with in an entire lifetime. Those were some rough days, some peculiar days. I strapped extra-small diapers to the dog for six weeks straight. I learned how to pop her tail through the hole in the back so she would be more comfortable. I apologized every time I did it and told her how exciting it was that she was becoming a woman. Her response was to remove the diaper herself in the middle of the night and then place it on my pillow. Tallulah? She's sweet – but she's also as crafty as they come. Anyway, I was anxious about such a tiny thing having surgery so I was up all night on Monday and that waking misery continued straight through Tuesday night as my dog and her plastic-coned head struggled to get comfy without any success. This morning, I forgot to put a mug under my Keurig and coffee spilled freely across the countertop. Yesterday afternoon, I tripped up my steps. What I'm trying to say is that since walking up my own staircase feels incredibly complicated right now, there's also a chance that this recap might be all over the place. Should I, however, begin a paragraph by talking about how the Countess is just terribly misunderstood, please send help.
Where last we left our Housewives, Jules was realizing once again that her husband is terrible, Dorinda was stirring some shit to earn a better spot on the Reunion couch, Ramona was sexually harassing one of the yacht’s crew members, Carole was counting backwards from seven trillion just so she could make it through the party, Luann was proclaiming to the moon and the stars that nothing could ruin her night, and Sonja was finally admitting to herself that it felt all kinds of yucky to watch her friend get engaged to a man with whom she too was once quite close. Oh, and Bethenny? She was lounging on the beach while holding text messages that are apparently so damning, Luann might end up hurling herself off that boat and swimming to shore while ruing the day she ever met Tom – but anyone who thinks Luann will actually admit her life is not perfect or that she’d believe some woman over her possibly-wealthy fiancé has not been paying attention to who Luann has clearly shown us she is over the last several seasons.
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.
There are quiet lunatics and then there are bombastic lunatics. The bombastic lunatic side of the wall currently includes those who enjoy proselytizing into cameras about all sorts of things, including how much we desperately need a wall. I happen to be a Democrat, but I don’t think it’s some staunch affiliation to a particular party that caused me to stare in disbelief at my television screen last week as Chris Christie – lambasting everyone but the treasonous bigot he’s supporting – turned almost blue with fury. Rudy Giuliani appeared to master the art of turning himself into an animated cartoon villain before our very eyes, a Gargamel for conservative millennials. These men? They fall into the category of lunatics who actually look unhinged – unless, of course, you happen to agree with everything they say, in which case you probably just view them as incredibly passionate. But whatever it is you believe, nobody can deny this form of lunatic has all the physical signs of someone losing control. There’s the hyper-quick adrenaline rush that ends in a face so flushed the color can only be described as falling somewhere between crimson-shock and heart-attack-red. There’s the antagonistic pointing of fingers until they become full-fledged jabs to the blank air. There’s the perspiration that spreads like a fungus. It can be uncomfortable watching people behave this way. In public, I’d avert my eyes. However, I kept finding myself tuning into the Republican National Convention, if only to see who was presently yelling or to see if anyone actually saw fit to offer any clear strategy for achieving the many things they all just kept screaming about.
I’m not a strictly vote-the-ticket kind of Democrat. I once dated someone who told me that he wasn’t mentally tied to any party. “I vote Common Sense,” he’d say, and though I’d bet a good deal of someone else’s cash that he’s a registered Republican, I think I have spent my voting life pulling the common sense lever, too. I recognize that what’s common sense to me may not be to others. I accept that to some degree. But watching all of the unedited footage at the RNC that looked as close to teetering madness that I’ve ever seen left me feeling uncomfortable. (It’s possible I actually experienced a change in blood pressure over the last week.) You’d think, then, that staring for a while at one of those quiet lunatics would be effective in calming me down, but Luann – Countess, engaged woman, quiet lunatic extraordinaire – is also almost too much to take tonight. While she’s not screaming her message to the masses or turning alarming shades of red, she is just as insufferable as the man who was celebrated for no good reason in Cleveland and I’d bet my own money that the two are double-air-kiss friends.
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.
A procession of D-List talent will invade our television screens tonight, but unfortunately I won't see it because I'm not able to tune in to the Republican National Convention. While I’m devastated that I will miss the prime time speaking slot awarded to Scott Baio – who is, very sadly and very apparently, the very best the party can offer – I’ve made my peace with the fact that I will instead watch something really important, like The Real Housewives of Orange County. (Who else wants to bet that Vicki will totally vote for Donald Trump?) Of course, watching the OC Housewives is similar to watching the RNC anyway; there is an air of conspicuous consumption that almost seems palpable and white people as far as the eye can see. I do feel a little sad that I will miss hearing the pearls of wisdom spoken by one of the stars of Duck Dynasty, but that sadness can be assuaged somewhat by realizing that this episode could very well begin with Shannon cold-clocking Vicki across the face! Truth? I rarely believe that violence is the answer to a problem with a fellow human being, but I’m no longer convinced that Vicki Gunvalson is of this species and nothing short of DNA testing that’s been done by a team of experts that Brooks never even claimed to work with will satisfy my suspicions.
This episode of The Real Housewives of New York begins the way every episode of this show – and every single day of my life – should always begin, with a Deep Thought By Luann: “When you’re in love, everybody tries to rip you down!" Luann wails the sentiment, and it's probably because she has no idea who she really is or how people really view her. She’s a woman so blinded by her massive and spiking levels of self-worth that she cannot see that it’s actually her insufferable arrogance that is causing these women to turn on her, not the jealousy that only she can see. Also? Whenever someone above the age of twenty-three insists upon using the word “soulmate,” the wise people in their midst need to be given free reign to snicker and start forming brackets or perhaps an entire gambling ring that will monitor just how long it takes for this relationship to implode since the people in the relationship are clearly currently clouded by overwhelming lust and dollar signs that smell like lube.
We are still at Dorinda’s dinner party, the one she threw because she’s contractually obligated to do her part in getting this group of women who would never actually see one another on their own volition into the same room every once in a while. Having heard quite enough about which of her fellow castmates Tom has seen in just a thong, Luann finally gets up and walks out. She runs into the smokers on her way to freedom. Dorinda and Jules implore her to stay, but Luann’s had it. She is going home, dammit, to the penthouse apartment with the fucking terrace and she will stare into a hand mirror until she feels better about herself while she reclines on a chaise that allows her to stare down from Tom’s rooftop at all of the little people who just want to be her.
Here are some places I’d rather be than inside of a car with Vicki Gunvalson on a long road trip:
· A hot yoga class that I’ve run to in order to get a brief respite from the brutality of a humidity-drenched heat wave in late August, one that caused a cataclysmic weather crisis that simultaneously led all air conditioners in the region to explode at the very same moment that Duane Reade and CVS ran out of every form of deodorant including carpet deodorizer.
· Sitting in Biology class on my first day of 8th grade when my hair was newly lobbed into some hideous asymmetrical style, all the better to show off my frosted pink 44 lip-gloss. It hurt just looking at myself in the mirror.
· Standing on line in Nordstrom when I’m in a massive hurry while the person in front of me returns a dress so awful that, not only should she never have purchased the item in the first place, but some designer should have thimbles rammed into his ears and nostrils just for creating it. By the way, this return will be conducted by a Nordstrom employee who just started working at the store an hour ago and nodded convincingly when her supervisor asked if she understood the return process because she didn’t want to appear like an idiot on her first day and now the supervisor has left and the new girl has no fucking idea what she’s doing.
· Hell.
Fortunately, I can see no scenario – including one that takes place in the fiery confines of Hell – in which I will have to ride shotgun as Vicki Gunvalson literally drives me to a full mental breakdown. Briana doesn’t have it so lucky. She is heading from Oklahoma to California, and it’s all because Vicki prayed so hard to her BFF, Jesus, for Briana and her family to live close enough that Vicki can pop by to borrow some brown paint, should she ever eventually run out. Actually, the truth is that Briana wants to be close to her team of doctors because there’s a lot physically going on with her. It’s a shame such a young woman is facing these medical issues. Her husband has to stay behind for a while and Briana cries as she says goodbye to him and to her house and to any future privacy she ever hoped to achieve now that she lives just a hop, skip, and a whoo hoo from her lunatic mother.
Since it hit ninety degrees this week in New York, the images of the snowy winter that started this episode of The Real Housewives felt momentarily soothing. All of those beatific miles of freezing white... But then I reminded myself just how miserable all of those blizzards actually were and I realized that I'd rather see a close-up of whatever picture Jules definitely still has on her iPhone of her busted vagina than relive all those mornings in February when I had to clear off my car at the crack of dawn. In any case, we leave the frigid tundra quickly and start with Bethenny coming into her office and, while there is no discussion of her nether regions, we can all be placated by the fact that Kristofer, her “Celebrity Make-Up Artist,” looks very well rested. (Can I just say that I find it completely preposterous that the guy’s title is not simply "Make-Up Artist" but instead it must be "CELEBRITY Make-Up Artist?) Anyway, it's bandied about that maybe this guy – who earns a living by only tending to the faces of the incredibly famous – garnered his aesthetic freshness by having ingested someone’s placenta. Listen: I do not mind these gynecological references. In fact, I hope he will sculpt his client’s eyebrows so they eventually resemble fallopian tubes, but it turns out that his alertness is not actually due to downing a shot of liquefied afterbirth. No, Kristofer looks so wonderful because he recently had his fat frozen. This is aspirational television at its finest, folks! But let’s not stop there! We can also stare at our screens and covet the ginormous clutch Bethenny had made out of what I’m guessing is a Skinnygirl shopping bag and she’s told by the assistants who clearly hate her that her brand new accessory will look amazing with a jumpsuit. We’re not two minutes in and already I’m certain that everybody in that loft dreams hourly about murdering their boss and replacing the pops of Skinnygirl red paint on the wall with her plasma.
As for Bethenny, she’s feeling anxious. Her surgery is only three days away and she’s getting ready to launch a new line of Skinnygirl chocolates that I pray will be made by chemists who had nothing to do with crafting the formula of her margaritas because that shit tastes like evil. In any case, the medical issue she’s facing is no joke and her friends have been incredibly attentive and kind in the days leading up to it. Carole, of course, has been there for her, but the real news is that Ramona has been unbelievable, something that – bizarrely – doesn’t surprise me at all because Original Ramona was clearly abducted in the dead of night by a fleet of aliens interested in studying the root of where lunacy comes from and the New Ramona they dropped in its place has proven herself to be nothing short of lovely and selfless. I mean, Ramona brought Bethenny flowers and toted along a book so she could hang out in the other room and read while Bethenny recovers so she won’t ever have to feel alone. That sort of thoughtfulness is no joke so I refuse to make one here.
Luckily, other jokes have begun to percolate like coffee laced with laxatives because the beauty routine is not over. Tokyo shows up next. His job as the hairstylist today is to wrap Bethenny’s head in a wig cap and toss a red wig on top. Come to think of it, Bethenny sort of looks like one of the aliens that I think might very well have stolen Original Ramona. That’s not to say that Bethenny looks bad. She pulls off the ridiculous look and she knows it, which is evident the moment she bellows, “I’m definitely having sex with a stranger tonight!” Is it wrong that I sometimes say that while I’m not wearing a wig or have not just been tended to by a man who is carting around his very own cellulite icicles?
