I helped somebody move this weekend, someone I care for almost desperately. And I watched as one lifetime was carted out of one doorway and loaded into a truck only to unceremoniously be dumped across an unknown threshold. Yes, there is a feeling of rebirth one can have as a brand new home is put together, but the past is always there. It appears suddenly in the glassware you used to drink from in the old house, the framed print you can’t quite find the ideal place for on a freshly painted wall so for now it’s been shoved deep inside a closet and the corner of the frame scrapes your shin every single time you lean in to pull out an item of clothing. With all of those upcoming tomorrows there comes a loss of yesterdays, and so I did the only thing I suppose I was able to do in the situation, which was try to nod as convincingly as I could as often as possible as a nonverbal method of indicating that this change of scenery will eventually be nothing but a positive thing. Part of me even believes that, but the other parts of me know the sadness that brought this change to come to pass -- the desperation of all those nights spent awake and afraid, the memories of the times that were real and were true -- are now forever tinted sepia because they’re all in the past.
But still I can make a case for why the future looks promising. Still I can hope to convince a person I love that the unknown is not always going to feel frightening. Still I can reinforce that change can often be exciting and I can also caution not to look too far ahead because, for now, even next week will appear hazy. And after all of those optimistic affirmations have finally left me speechless, I can again nod slowly because I know that, in this exact moment, absolutely nothing feels safe or justified. Right now, as boxes cover the floor and the memories of former rooms that were once filled with life seem so very far away, all I can do is recognize that today change will not be seen as an opportunity. For today – and for several consecutive tomorrows, too – it will be hard for those who feel displaced to find their footing and to ask them to pretend otherwise would just be cruel.
Since staying fully in the moment left me wishing I could unzip my own skin and shimmy to safety, I allowed myself a few minutes of silly tangential thoughts as I placed someone else’s hangers in a brand new closet, lining them up perfectly as though it might matter in even the short-term of it all. And as I tried to organize clothing by color and by season, I allowed my mind to drift to a certain Orange County Housewife who maybe hasn't yet packed up her entire world and lugged it to an unfamiliar setting like this person so dear to me did, but even though the packing in her case would probably take a whole lot more time (there have to be inherent difficulties that come in when one must box up a bazillion bottles of tequila) I couldn’t help but realize that – devastating or not – Kelly Dodd needs to move away from the house she resides in with her domineering husband and the ceaseless resentment that is so evident we can all smell it through the television screen whenever either one of them appears in close-up.
There are certain things I just don’tshare all that easily and I guess the reason for my reluctance is pretty simple: they’re the things that cause me to feel temporary (but still momentarily paralyzing) paroxysms of shame. Shame, you see, is a tough one. I can totally temper my anger and I can quietly quell my joy, but my shame comes roaring out like breath that’s been laced with fire, as though I’ve instantly been transformed into one of those mythical beasts from literature and film that have always psychologically traumatized me for absolutely no good reason whatsoever. Shame happens, and I find myself emotionally and mentally pummeled by something I probably should have – and could have – avoided in the first place. Very rarely will I find the strength to turn my fury on the person who caused the actual distress to infiltrate my life. No, I am far too preoccupied with going inward so I can more effectively beat the shit out of myself until my brain and my stomach and my tear ducts become as bruised and abused as my heart.
It’s hard sometimes to figure out who you can make yourself root for, isn’t it? I mean, on the one hand, you’ve got someone who seems to have a rather tenuous relationship with the truth. There are scores of examples throughout the years that illustrate (at best) some colorful evasiveness and (at worst) some boldly bellowed lies. How can you feel comfortable putting your trust into a person so many people emphatically don’t trust? On the other side, though, stands a raving lunatic. The word “bombastic” comes to mind whenever this face graces the television screen. Every single time this person speaks, rage bursts out along with some spittle. Worse than having to wipe your cheek from all that airborne saliva is attempting to decipher what it is that’s even being said since apparently about 90% of this individual’s statements and proclamations are chronically misinterpreted. Don’t be silly! you’ll be told. Nobody was being insulted! Of course that thing that was said, the one that caused entire populations to cower in both fear and disgust, was purely said in jest! Do you not comprehend sarcasm? And really, how could anyone possibly think this person is inciting violence with words? This person is an excellent parent! Does that little factoid not cancel out all the other flaming despicableness?
I know you all think I’m talking about Clinton and Trump since it’s debate night and our nation is currently careening toward an epic conflagration of political and social misery, but my statements are in fact about our Orange County Housewives – and I fully expect one of them to be on the ballot by 2024 because I’ve come to believe anything is possible in what I’m certain has got to be a Bizarro World we’ve all stumbled into by refusing to turn away from gluten. Sure, Kelly Dodd and Donald Trump have a few things in common. They both have terrible hair they rock with commitment and they’ve both allegedly been millionaires for years and years and years. They’re also both fond of blasting words out of their mouths while fueled by some fizzy concoction of hubris, fury, and temporary self-righteousness and they both grin while they utter some of the most awful things a human being has ever uttered while fully aware cameras are pointed straight at their faces. They both apologize after the fact – or they sometimes do – and they often maintain that of course they didn’t mean what they said. No, not all people from Mexico trying to come into America are rapists! And Tamra Judge is totally not a dumb fuck! God, it’s so annoying when people who are listening to you expect you to commit to the words barreling out of your mouth, huh?
Before anyone loses their shit too completely because Meghan and Shannon did not immediately teleport themselves to a hospital in the desert so they could hold the hand of a wounded liar, allow us to consider some of the many reasons that perhaps prompted them not to go:
1. They needed time to make a casserole.
2. Meghan gazed deeply into her husband’s eyes, saw what she believed was a sparkle, and realized the glistening shimmer covering his pupils meant there was a possibility he was going to attempt to be kind to her for fifteen whole minutes that day. Since such an event happens even less frequently than an eclipse, there was no way she was gonna miss it to go hang out with Vicki fucking Gunvalson.
3. Shannon – though she was blessedly not a passenger on the Vomit RV to Hell where some shit-talking about her vow renewal ceremony went down – knows Vicki well enough to realize how emphatically not happy Vicki is that Shannon’s life is improving and therefore doesn’t want to extend herself for someone who recently shrieked, “You’re a cheater!” into her husband’s face at a party Vicki was lucky enough to be invited to in the first place.
4. Vicki sucks stringy antelope balls.
Think about it really: how many co-workers have you jetted off to visit in the hospital? I work in a place with a lot of people. I’m very good friends with some and I’m cordial and collegial to the rest. Those who I no longer qualify as “work friends” are people I’d do anything for, and that includes making hospital visits where I will show up with a bag crammed full of their favorite candy and a Cookie Monster stuffed animal because dammit if that furry blue monster doesn’t just make everything all better. For the rest of the people I work with, I kick in some money for the “Get Well Soon!” fruit basket and I sign the card someone shoves under my face while I’m trying to make photocopies. What I’m saying here is that Vicki Gunvalson is essentially Meghan and Shannon’s colleague and they owe her nothing. Not only that, but Vicki was rude as fuck to Meghan upon meeting her because Vicki harbors bizarre delusions of grandeur within her mottled mind and she sees this series as her show and she has somehow yet to grow out of the eighth grade mentality that whispers to her hourly that it’s up to her to haze the new girl. As for Shannon, Vicki lied to Shannon’s face for well over a year about her boyfriend having cancer in order to get some sympathy. Ergo, no matter what Tamra and Vicki’s BFF Jesus might say, Meghan and Shannon are and should be going nowhere. Vicki can stay in that hospital until one of her children shows up to get her. She can lie there until someone builds her a cross made out of tongue depressors that she can nail herself to with used Q-tips. I realize Vicki hates being alone more than any living being on this or any other planet, but perhaps being alone with her ravaged and selfish thoughts will finally be the punishment she deserves for having been such a self-righteous asshole for more seasons than I care to count.
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.
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.
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.
Incredibly important news came out this week – and I'm not talking about an Olympic swimmer reacting with a blithe "Whatever" upon allegedly being held up at gunpoint in Rio or the fact that there are now Swedish Fish flavored Oreos with a startling bright red cream center. (By the way, what is going on in Oreo Land? Who is doing the focus groups and reporting back that the public is dying for such revolting flavor combinations? At this point, I'm fully expecting the next edition of the Oreo to be Athlete's Foot flavor to kick off football season.) But I digress. The really important news of the week is that Luann just announced she will wear three dresses at her upcoming wedding. One dress is for walking down the aisle, veil included. Another is for the party itself that will be attended by the finest C-List socialites nobody has ever heard of. And the third dress she will throw on WHEN SHE PERFORMS A SONG. Yes, the Countess has not only convinced herself that she should marry a guy who cheated on her, but that she should also commemorate their union musically – and I'm not sure which part of that is more disturbing.
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.
Maybe this is karma. Perhaps the universe finally banded together and chose to strike back, so sick and tired it was of your brazen and far-reaching selfishness.
The fault? Yours.
The fallout? Ours.
That bubbling cauldron of foul-smelling hatred? I’ll carry it today – and I’ll try not to spill.
Where do you go from here? Me? I’m grieving the death of someone who’s very much still alive, someone I thought I loved with my entire heart. A reconciliation does not seem likely because – maybe finally – I’ve simply had enough. Look: we all tell lies. More often, we all tell quarter-truths. But this goes farther; this is about nothing but a blazing pit of betrayal that hasn’t even fully caught up to you yet. I will not be beside you when it finally does.
