WHAT I DIDN'T TELL HIM

WHAT I DIDN'T TELL HIM

I used to have this rather disturbing habit of dreaming about ex-boyfriends while lying beside current ones.  The dreams were sometimes a little bit sexual, but more uncomfortable than nightly dream-state visions of my legs wrapped around the waist of someone from my past was the undeniable fact that the dreams were always rather pleasant.  On those dark evenings as I slumbered beside someone I really cared for, my psyche seemed to want to entertain all of those yesterdays – and only concentrate on the joy of those former lifetimes. 

I never told the unsuspecting men over coffee and egg whites the next morning about what exactly had raced through my mind the night before.  To do so seemed cruel to them – and patently unfair to me. It wasn’t like I’d wanted those dreams to happen.  But I’d look up and see someone smile as he handed me a steaming cup of coffee and I’d feel a tightness in the corners of my mouth when I’d smile back because I knew I was hiding something and my thoughts would begin to race as I’d try to analyze myself right there on the spot to figure out why that other guy had made a starring role in my dream and what it could all mean and then I’d feel a drop happen in my stomach that would stop me short for just a second because I’d know right then and there that this current man probably had some dreams as well and they couldn’t possibly have all included me.

Last night, however, I did not dream about another man.  Last night I dreamed about McDonald’s French Fries.  I was able to recall, even after I woke up and took a shower, just how yellow they were and how they tasted just the perfect amount of salty and I knew, even in my dream, that it was a little strange that they were being served out of a navy blue paper container instead of the conventional red one.  I think the navy part must have come into play because I picked out what I’d be wearing for work right before I went to sleep last night and I chose a flippy navy-colored dress and I looked at it hanging on the hook on the back of my door right before I closed my eyes for the night. 

I haven’t had a McDonald’s French Fry in a very long time, though I’ll happily wager that I could probably find a petrified piece of one should I ever decide to clean out my car.  Like Twinkies, cockroaches, and Vicki Gunvalson, my guess is that McDonald’s French Fries will be part of the collection of relics left behind once we all sufficiently destroy this civilization.  I take only a bit of comfort in the idea that future explorers will surely deduce that we ate an enormous amount of crap in our time here on Earth, but I also hope they’ll realize that the stuff was yummy as hell. In fact, I pray a distant future scholar will one day write a full dissertation comparing all things Hostess to the lure of those Sirens that Odysseus had to combat.  I also pray it’ll be titled The Last Temptation of the Hostess Snoball.  

 

THE RETURN OF KIM RICHARDS -- AKA: WHY SOCIETY SHOULD MAYBE JUST START OVER

THE RETURN OF KIM RICHARDS -- AKA: WHY SOCIETY SHOULD MAYBE JUST START OVER

I took off my gloves once on a blustery cold January day and handed them to a homeless woman who was standing beneath an icicle-encrusted tree. I bought a student a prom dress last year and lent her my own jewelry after gently explaining that it's very hard for anyone to pull off enormous pink rhinestone earrings. I talked a friend off a ledge one night when she mistakenly believed her boyfriend was cheating on her. I play the peacekeeper in my family so often that I'm pretty sure I should earn a salary or at least get dental benefits.

I say all this so you will know I'm not the cruelest person clomping about this large planet. I say all this because I am about to dive in (self-awareness first) and react with scalding sarcasm and a shit-ton of profanity at the sight of Kim Richards needlessly appearing again on my television screen. I say all this because there's nobody in my real life – even that one guy – who I hate more than I hate this trembling blonde Former Housewife who has spent her entire life blaming other people for the mess she has become, the mess she's chosen to shellac and preserve instead of trying to fix. I say all this because I think Kim Richards is a damaged and damaging asshole and only a small reason for that is due to her addiction, the one she likes to claim (while she's drunk) that she's never struggled with in the least. Yes, the biggest reason Kim acts like an asshole is not because she's a raging alcoholic; it's because she's a raging asshole. 

THE CULT OF FRANKEL

THE CULT OF FRANKEL

“Dorinda drank the Kool-Aid, she joined the cult, she’s on the commune.”  And with that one hilarious – and completely accurate – statement, Bethenny Frankel won me back.

It’s always been a significant factor in my makeup as a person to have an immense capacity for forgiveness.  I don’t quite know where it came from, but I do know I have seen once-fractured relationships mend and grow stronger and such incidents can only transpire if one is able to forgive.  I can say that those I’ve forgiven over the years seem to really appreciate this ingrained quality within me, even as I’ve started to view it as kind of a torturous flaw.  I’d actually really love to change that aspect of my personality, to become someone who has zero desire to forgive anyone for anything, but that kind of alteration will almost certainly require a huge deal of effort and I think it’s just wise that I devote my energy to things like mastering the art of baking broccoli until it chars correctly, organizing my spring skirts by length, and finally sitting down to watch seasons three, four, and five of Friday Night Lights.  

I’ll learn to become a withholding asshole next year.

PATTING THE PALLET-ADJACENT PUSS

PATTING THE PALLET-ADJACENT PUSS

Remember that scene in Poltergeist when the technician whose job it was to photograph the gazillions of ghosts living and thriving inside the little blonde girl’s closet decided to go into the kitchen late at night to cook himself a steak?  Remember how that steak became infested with ravenous maggots that burst forth from the center of the slab of red meat and the way your pre-teen stomach began to topple and turn as you watched that thing crawl across the white Formica countertop?  Can you also recall what happened next, when the guy went into the bathroom and began pulling the skin off his face in gigantic hunks of blood and tendons until all we saw was a grotesque vision of bone and hollowed-out eye sockets and the sink below him was filled with heaping shreds of plasma-covered muscle?  Yeah, I’d rather watch that scene every single night on a loop and use the sound effects from the sequence as I walk down the aisle on my wedding day than ever fucking hear the word “Munchausen” ever again.

THE CAVE

THE CAVE

 

There was this creepy movie that came out a few years ago in the United Kingdom before an American studio bought it and distributed it here. The version released on our shores was almost identical to the original cut, but the film was given a brand new ending that basically served to create the possibility of a sequel (or five) because, if there’s one thing our country knows how to export, it’s action and horror franchises. The Descent’s plot involved a bunch of women willingly shimmying themselves down into the deep and narrow crevices of caves where they promptly lost their way and, just when it seemed like it couldn’t possibly become any more horrific or traumatizing, it all somehow got even worse.  See, the caves were also home to wiry creatures that looked like the alien fetus who popped out of the guy’s tummy in Alien and the backwoods inbred folks from Wrong Turn had a baby – and then ate that baby and then vomited the baby up and decided to go and raise it deep beneath the Earth’s surface.

The cave-dwelling creature (so deadly white and blessed with a mouth crammed full of sharp teeth, all the better to eat you with, my dear) was visually alarming for sure and the filmmakers revealed him perfectly.  There he stood, lurking in the back corner of the frame.  The light was dim and he slowly came into focus. It was a powerful moment, the kind only an art form like cinema – one that is capable of manipulating time and space and lighting and sound – can truly create. But the bulimic-looking monster who appeared to relish binging on human flesh isn’t what haunted me.  No, it was the topographical nature of the caves and the winding mini trails that led to nowhere and the sharp rocks that jutted out menacingly and the certain knowledge that being trapped is perhaps the very worst thing one can be.

THE 9 STEPS

THE 9 STEPS

STEP 1:  REMOVE ALL REMINDERS FROM YOUR HOME

Quickly, take down those pictures from where you stuck them in the top corner of your mirror, the ones you glance at as you snap your bra closed first thing in the morning.  Your faces, pushed together in the way you’d only stand beside someone with whom you’ve developed a legitimate closeness, will remind you too powerfully of a hope you cannot allow yourself to harbor anymore.  And the pictures that were carefully placed inside of ornately jeweled frames, the ones you’d trimmed unevenly because you’ve still not mastered the art of the cutting with scissors?  Those need to be yanked free and must no longer decorate your coffee table or that black thing you bought that West Elm calls a “console.”  It’s okay that, to this day, there are still three empty frames that sit in one of your desk drawers, a glaring reminder that once images glowed happily from beneath some glass but now there’s just some emptiness.  But remember: it’s not just photographs that will stir up longings or cause you to feel nothing but fragile in that way that you hate.  No, there’s other shit cluttering up your home, stuff that’s barricading up your mind with useless remnants from the past.  These tangible items will corrode your heart bit by bit in a way that will feel like the sting of acid must as it runs through your veins.  The stuffed animal he won at a fair, the one you named? He needs to be carted off to the nearest dumpster immediately.  Colorful magnets that live on the front of your refrigerator that were purchased on a happier day than today need to be buried under trash like empty pill bottles and dyed corks of red wine because, if you can’t see them anymore, maybe you can convince yourself they never existed in the first place.  And those dried flowers, the ones he gave you on that first night?  Well, those need to be destroyed.  Besides, daisies aren’t your favorite flower anymore.  You like pink peonies now.

STEP 2:  WHATEVER YOU DO, REFRAIN FROM LOOKING IN THE MIRROR 

The person whose reflection you see glaring back at you is someone you won’t even recognize.  There is hollowness in her eyes, a deadness in her smile.  Her pallor will have turned a truly unflattering shade of grey and the dimples in her cheeks won’t be nearly as pronounced as they usually are.  Those dimples – usually your favorite physical feature – will no longer indent in a manner you think of as charming.  No, it will just look like you’ve got two holes pounded into the centers of your cheeks and you’ll notice them immediately on the rare moments you do find yourself settling into a bland grin.  Just face the fact that looking at yourself will only give you painful ideas that maybe the reason it didn’t work out is because he was drawn to girls who don’t appear lost and instead behave like an Orthodox Jew might during Shiva:  cover the mirror – all of the mirrors – so you have no need to be reminded of the dead.

THE LOSING TEAM

THE LOSING TEAM

About a month ago – for the first time in more than a decade – I found myself totally obsessed with the NCAA tournament. It sort of started by accident. See, I like to leave the television on while I'm at work so my puppy doesn't feel so alone and I guess I'm willing to pretend that the people on TV make her feel like she's got company. Usually I put on CNN so she can stay informed, but one day I started to grow concerned that her fragile baby canine mind maybe shouldn't be exposed to the tragedies currently plaguing the world – you know, terrorism, people who don't believe global warming is real, Trump's views on women – so I decided to put on a different channel before I left the house. I think Married With Children was airing as I walked out the door at the ass-crack of dawn. I heard a loud roar of canned laughter and the unmistakable growl of Al Bundy and sure, I worried that Tallulah would watch the show and I'd come home and discover she'd shimmied herself into some Lycra and managed to procure a can of Aqua Net and she'd ask me if I knew that Traci Lords could act, but I decided to just deal with those issues if they popped up.

By the time late afternoon arrived and I walked back through my front door, sitcoms from the early-nineties had ended and basketball was on instead. I found myself playing fetch with the dog and getting my stuff ready for work in the morning and doing yoga, all with the TV still on.  The cheers of the crowd and the sound of the rhythmic dribbling offered me some unexpected solace. I didn't go all in – I never drew up a bracket or anything — but I legitimately began to care about the tournament and there were a few teams I started to root for. I wanted University of Michigan, Miami, or UNC to come out on top. Why? Well, there are very good reasons for all my choices!  My ex-boyfriend went to Michigan and I have fond memories of going to those games.  I even remember half of the school’s fight song, yet another little ditty I can’t sing on key. Most of my family roots for Miami so I threw that team into my mix because it's always nice when my family is happy. As for UNC, it's really very simple: the blue they wear is the prettiest shade of blue in all the land. 

I had to DVR the final game a couple of Mondays ago because my top priority was to throw all my concentration at the last part of the Vanderpump Rules reunion. (Yes, it takes a great deal of concentration to describe a collection of leaky douchebags who fancy themselves human.)  With my recap gloriously complete, I finally settled in to watch the game.  I was riveted. After writing about the morons on Bravo, it was inspiring to see people with actual talent appear on a screen in my home – and while I was upset that the team who wore the nice color didn't walk away victorious, it still felt like a lovely way to wile away the late evening hours. Besides, I've found guys line up for you when it's clear you not only don't mind sports, but you show up to watch a game wearing a hot lace bra under a thin tee while holding a bowl filled with the most amazing spinach and artichoke dip known to man.  (The trick is the red pepper flakes.) 

I couldn't help but think about those games and the team rivalries tonight as I watched the season finale of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Sure, on the surface these two forms of entertainment have almost nothing in common, but dig a little deeper. Both the teams and these women have complicated, public histories. Both have fans cheering them on. Both experience the harsh hatred of the public, some of it very much warranted. And I'm imagining that some basketball players harbor vivid fantasies about ripping fellow athletes limb from limb like you know our Housewives dream about on an hourly basis.

As we're at the end (almost – I’m betting there will be a twelve-part reunion where these women can once again discuss arguments that will still not make a bit of sense) of a season that has seemed fucking endless, let's review the blistering battles that have gone down. Since no fight on this show actually gets resolved, the ripples of dissension are still being felt and analyzed. In no particular order of importance – because none of these arguments actually matter – here's a recount of who has hated someone or who currently hates someone:

PROPER ETIQUETTE DURING A FUCKING MESS

PROPER ETIQUETTE DURING A FUCKING MESS

Life throws you curveballs, my dear.  

This is a sentence someone I’ve known for a very long time whispered into my ear late last night and the whisperer of this nugget of truth knows precisely what she’s talking about.  She’s dealing with her own screwy pitches right about now – we all are – and I felt in her hug and her whisper a bolt of blatant empathy that I found rather comforting.  Maybe others might have felt put on the spot by what she said or become offended by being included in her mass of a mess, but I took only kindness and compassion away from her words.  Sometimes, I guess, it’s hard to know exactly how you’re supposed to feel or which action you should be taking.  Sometimes it’s difficult to delineate when you should just sit still and do absolutely nothing at all.  Sometimes it’s really hard to sit still, even while the world around you is spinning and you feel like you’re losing your grip on everything, including gravity.

The thing about life and family and a lifetime spent with family is that it changes – and I’m okay with that, I suppose, as long as the changes can be tracked.  Far too logical for my own good, I’m weirded out by shocks and surprises, the ones caused when there’s been little or no preamble to a massive and seismic shift in the family unit.  I know it’s a real flaw of mine that I look to find the linear genesis of the journey that got us all here rather than just hopping on the bumpy trip right then and there and allowing myself to be careened forward.  No, I look backwards – and it makes me feel dizzy every time. 

THE PERILS OF GROUPTHINK -- AND RIMJOBS

THE PERILS OF GROUPTHINK -- AND RIMJOBS

There are some beliefs I will simply never abandon:

1. Just because you are good and decent to someone does not mean that you will receive the same kindness in return.

2. With the availability of so many choices in undergarments, there is absolutely no excuse anymore for having a visible panty line.

3. Coconut oil can be brought in to solve almost any beauty crisis known to man.

4. The most monumental events deserve a party – and every good party should have a theme.

It was with these undeniable certainties splashing around my head that the idea came to me: I should throw a party to commemorate the last episode of Vanderpump Rules! I got to work immediately. A multitasker by nature, I prepared for the festivities by swishing coconut oil inside of my mouth for ten minutes straight all the while wearing a nude-colored thong that will not show through a single garment I own.  As the disgusting mixture cleaning my teeth began to froth and foam, I made some choices about party details:

o Obviously, the invitation will begin with a wardrobe decree.  All of my guests must show up in a crop top or they will not be permitted through the front door – and I don’t even care if that means I will lose out on a few hostess gifts.  These crop tops are the only way I see fit to appropriately honor Scheana and I’ll be damned if anyone shows up with a fully covered tummy!

o I think it’s always a nice touch to serve a signature cocktail.  The one I’ll be offering up will have a ring of crushed Adderall lining the rim of the glass because if you think the cast of this show is not constantly hyped up on that shit – or something even whiter – you too are high.

o Music always creates a vibe and I shall spin James’ PUMP CD on repeat.  Not only will this choice be a lovely way to recognize what James has called the greatest achievement in his pathetic life, but it will also guarantee that I’ll get rid of all of my guests at a decent hour because my assumption is that some of them will hightail it off the premises to get away from that noise and a few will even fake their own deaths just to get me to press mute for a second.

o As for the décor, I will obviously have humongous posters of Scheana festooned across my walls so we can all feel for a moment what it’s like to be stuck in her living room. See, I am a hostess who wants to craft not just a party, but an experience.

o I’ll be serving appetizers and desserts.  Though some think they’re gauche, pigs n’ a blanket are coming out of my kitchen along with fried goat cheese balls, the only item on SUR’s menu I’ve ever heard mentioned.  For dessert, there will be a cake in the shape of Lala’s tits because the poetry that falls from the lips of our favorite fun bitch is always worth paying attention to and she did, after all, recently opine that every occasion is appropriate for her tits to come out. I think that means her mammaries should thus be immortalized in buttercream.

DRIVING THE BLAME TRAIN IN DUBAI

DRIVING THE BLAME TRAIN IN DUBAI

Once upon a time – I'm guessing during a bright full moon – a production meeting over at Bravo headquarters yielded some magic. The network gathered together a group of women, coined them “Real Housewives,” and threw them on television so we could all stare at lives that appeared awesomely aspirational.  By day, these women brunched and lunched on expansive terraces where the sun beamed brilliantly, providing the perfect amount of backlighting until they all resembled dewy angels who prospered by never eating a single thing.  By night, they entered sprawling closets in their homes that mirrored the appearance of upscale boutiques and selected outfits that could often be described as “glitzy" – or, if we’re talking about Adrienne Maloof, the look might be best thought of as “Christmas-tinsel-chic.”  A bevy of perfectly groomed puppies scampered about their feet as their maids served coffee made from beans that were roasted by hand and their husbands greeted them with warm kisses when they returned home from wherever they ventured each day in order to make heaping boatloads of money.  Vacations were embarked upon year-round and nobody ever questioned if the private jet could hold the weight of so many suitcases.  The Hermes was real and the bonds between the women were strong and the biggest argument that popped up was rooted in the dilemma of whether or not one woman had the audacity to call another woman “insecure.”

That idyllic time is over. Very little remains now of the days spent luxuriating in the sun besides some flowing caftans and a flood of tarnished memories.  When exactly was it that the tide turned into a constant undertow, when the picturesque lives we sighed and wished were our own spectacularly imploded?  Was it when Russell committed suicide and we watched the season before his death play out knowing what the resolution would be and every single time his grim face appeared on television it felt like we were seeing a ghost? Was it watching his allegedly abused spouse starve herself into a trembling pit of oblivion while claiming that being on this show was saving her life? Could the explosion of all that once felt sublime have been caused by the mindless cackle of Kim Richards or the desperate and cruel machinations of Brandi Glanville? All I know is I long for the days when Camille Grammer descended down a grand staircase swathed in couture on Tony night and toasted a man who had already decided to leave her because, devastating as that was, those were the simple days.

It might be a quest to stay on this show and remain perpetually relevant that inspires the current crop of Housewives to battle one another constantly, throwing down empty gauntlets to trigger fights that not one of them can even hope to win anymore. I don't know how else to explain why this group of women – who are clearly not a collection of totally vapid dummies – insist on discussing the same matters over and over again, destroying connections that were at least once enjoyable, even if they were never more than superficial. It's almost sad to see the disintegration of friendships play out before us like an opera produced by Kandinsky and it's made more upsetting that not one of these women at her core is truly awful. What they are, I think, is fundamentally confused. They're confused when they believe every argument will eventually lead to a satisfying ending. They're confused and dismayed that posts on social media will rarely count as undisputed evidence. They were confused when they bought into the idea that what they said off-camera would never be discussed on camera. And they're terribly confused when they expect that everything in their lives will not be consumed and then spit out by friends and enemies alike after they have so willingly blurred the lines between what is real and what is considered entertainment.