The Real Housewives Guide: How to Be the Absolute Worst

There are some things I would just rather not admit. Like that I have the bad habit of yawning without covering my mouth even though I preach about the supreme importance of good manners. Or that I’ve probably seen every episode of MTV’s Catfish. Or that I could do without Anna Kendrick. Or that I eat in bed. But I mean I pretty much eat only in bed. Like, almost nowhere else in my home do I eat. But anyway, nothing pains me more than to admit to another person for the first time that I am an avid watcher of The Real Housewives franchise. Though I keep some small amount of dignity for myself knowing that I only watch on demand rather than tune in each week, and have dropped down from multiple cities to just two (New York City & Beverly Hills), it’s still a difficult lump to swallow and an even more unfortunate truth to speak. In fact, when just this past week I casually dropped a Real Housewives reference into a conversation with a co-worker, she paused, looked hard at me and said, “You watch The Real Housewives? They’re so glamorous and you seem so… dark.” She wasn’t wrong. At first glance, I suppose I don’t exactly appear to fit the Housewives fan mold. (Then again, is there even such a thing?) Still, I’ve learned many a valuable lesson from these women, in terms of what not to do, how not to behave, how not to exist within the bounds of what we like to call human reality. And as I’m now deep in the trenches of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills season six, please allow me to share with you five vital truths I’ve learned from watching all of our favorite and/or least favorite TV wives. Take it as a How To: Be the Absolute Worst.

I. The Art of Admission. Somehow, in Real Housewives land, saying you did something to get a rise out of someone is real enough. All is forgotten the moment you admit you did something fucked up with the sole intention of letting plain old nastiness ensue. Once you admit it, you don’t have to reap the consequences of your original action or own up to the fact that you’re actually just a really shitty person. Recently, new RHOBH Housewife Kathryn told some Housewife that she told some other Housewife something unkind that Housewife had said about the other Housewife just to see how the Housewife who said it would react. I mean, that’s really the best way I can explain it. Just re-read it until it makes sense. (Really, it will never make sense.) But guess what?! It was like witchcraft or some shit. Admitting that she did what she did out of pure malice was her Get out of Jail Free card because almost instantly, all Housewives in dinner party attendance shut the fuck up as if they had never heard someone else come clean about doing something shitty for shitty reasons alone. There was no apology. There was no lesson leading to personal growth. The dinner party ended and all moved on. Abracadabra, baby!

II. Unfortunate Truths. Telling the truth doesn’t matter if you’re an asshole about it. Once upon a time, I was a fan of now defunct Housewife, Brandi Glanville. Not a popular opinion, I know, but I had to appreciate her unique way of “keeping it real.” She said everything — all of the things — she wanted, and the other wifeys did not want to let that shit fly. After accusing one wife of drug addiction, exposing the sham of a marriage of another wife, throwing a drink in yet another wife’s face for reasons unclear to just about everyone including Brandi herself, and threatening to harm and/or kill the majority of the wives among other offenses, this jig was up. Eventually, even I grew tired of my girl B, because it was clear to me that she was an absolute psychopath and it was no longer fun for any of us to watch or be a part of. The good lord Andy Cohen agreed and kicked her off of the show to what I can only imagine must have been Beverly Hills parades even more grand than Vanderpump’s much-promoted Gay Pride. Brandi G, you are gone but not forgotten. The truths you spoke stay with me still, even in spite of your absolute and indisputable insanity.

III. Brand AmbASSador. It’s okay to be a hypocrite if you are also a millionaire. RHONY’s Bethenny Frankel has opinions. Did you know that she has opinions? She does. She has opinions. Opinions about how people live their lives, who they date, how they run their businesses, what they say to other people, what they say about other people… the list goes on. But somehow, Bethenny does not want to hear opinions. She has neither the time nor the attention span for it. She is busy, goddammit! Ya know, running her brand???? How fucking rude are you? And if you tell her how to run her brand?! Forget about it! It’s on. Even though she’s openly critiqued other Housewives business ventures both behind their backs and straight to their faces. Within her own NYC crew last season, she absolutely shat on poor, defenseless Kristen Taekman’s nail color line, Pop of Color, as well as Sonja Morgan’s so-called “international fashion lifestyle brand,” Sonja Morgan New York. But that wasn’t enough for her. During the RHONY off-season, she took her talents to Beverly Hills for a visit. While there, she dared to disgrace the almighty Erika Jayne a.k.a. Erika Girardi a.k.a. ThePrettyMess after she shared a very intimate piece of pop performance art on her iPhone during dinner. Now granted, one of Erika Jayne’s songs includes the now-infamous catchphrase, “Pat the puss,” but how dare you, Bethenny Frankel?! She has eight #1 disco hits, you ingrate!

IV. Who Needs Dignity? Not Lisa Rinna. Lisa Rinna has big, fake lips — she said so! Lisa Rinna’s had the same hairstyle for decades — she said so! Lisa Rinna is wacky — she said so! Lisa Rinna will do anything for a buck — she said so. There’s just about nothing Lisa Rinna won’t cop to and it’s the main reason she’s almost impossible not to love. But it’s also the reason I think of Valerie Cherish pretty much every time she’s on screen. Equally ridiculous, Rinna knows she’s not as classy, intelligent, or sophisticated as some of the other Housewives (not that that’s saying much). Want her to endorse adult diapers? She’ll do it, and to the tune of an apparent $2 million. Want her to say or do something silly? Yeah, she’ll do it, but that shit’s for free. She’s just that kinda gal! She told you… she’s wacky! Rinna’s admitted time and time again that if it gets her money or keeps her relevant, she’s game, and as reasonable people, we can’t hate on that. In fact, maybe we should be taking a few pages from her book. Keep doin’ you, Lisa Rinna. You really are a dream come true.

V. Sane Ain’t the Way. If you’re sane or reasonable, you’re doing it wrong. Poor Eileen Davidson. I first met her as the seductive villainess, Kristen DiMera, on Days of our Lives when I was a child. I admired her both for her moxie and her off-the-charts insanity. When she showed up on the BH streets last season, I thought we were in for it. Unfortunately for all of us, Davidson was nothing like her fictitious counterpart. She was actually — get this — sane. I didn’t let that get to me, though. I was sure that, like many sane new Housewives additions before her, she would be sucked into the drama and that would be the end of that. The old Eileen would be gone forever. But it never happened. Back for her second season, she somehow seems almost more sane, level-headed and real. Too bad for Eileen, she’s not the kind of real these ladies are looking for. They don’t want to have adult conversations, Eileen! They don’t want to confront one another in a level-headed manner and tell the truth, Eileen! They don’t want to take good hard looks at themselves in the mirror, EILEEN! They want to pretend and ignore and divert and argue! That’s the goddamn Real Housewives way! I’ll always be rooting for you, Big E, but if you don’t want to get stomped all over, you’re going to need to change yourself completely for the sake of reality television, just like everybody else.

VI. Queen of the Housewives. Lisa Vanderpump is untouchable. She is unbreakable. She is indestructible. Lisa Vanderpump is the best Real Housewife of all time and she knows it. Consider this your bonus truth. If by some stroke of dreamlike luck, you ever encounter Pumpy, do not dare try to cross her. And if you ever reach the epic rock bottom of becoming a Real Housewife yourself, do not attempt to turn the others against her or slander her good name or reputation. Do not make the fatal error of underestimating her greatness. One by one, you will be defeated. Made into a social outcasts by her hand alone. Banished from the franchise, OR WORSE, denied service at SUR! It’s just the way it is. There has never before been and will never be a greater Housewife than she. And so it is done.

And there you have it, another fifteen minutes of life you’ll never get back. But at least now, you have some insight into the wonderland that is The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. I never promised it would be easy. Never really promised it’d be worth it, either. Quite frankly, it isn’t. Like, not even a little bit. Bottom line is, by the time you know you’re hooked, it’ll be too late. And soon enough, you’ll be posting your own blogs about this mindless trash, wondering where it all went wrong. Now go ponder what your Housewives tagline will be. Make it sassy, fierce, and be sure it makes absolutely no sense. Now, twirl!

Perpetuators of Madness

Things for American twenty-somethings are looking grim, folks. When I look at myself and my friends, when I read news articles about so-called “millennials,” when I turn on the the television or pop open Netflix, there’s one glaring truth I can never avoid: My generation sucks. We’re constantly chastised for wanting it all but being too lazy, carefree (read: careless), entitled and fun-loving to work to get it. So we sit at jobs we hate, or in relationships that don’t add up, or with friends we resent because it’s way fucking easier than buckling down and making the situation better. We’re told this is who we are and we begrudge the generalization but, more often than not, it’s accurate. As I type this, I’m avoiding doing more important things that could get me another step closer to where I want to be. But I don’t dispute that there are people my age absolutely hustling, fighting to simply achieve. Some people astonish me with their drive and passion, the way they so clearly see how short this life will be and how much opportunity we have to make it something great. But the rest of us? At best, the most we can manage is something I warmly refer to as “the side hustle.” We live stale daily lives but do whatever we can to make time for our hobbies and passions, hoping one day we’ll turn them into something tangible. Still, that’s easily lost in the shuffle of everyday life and soon forgotten when the weather is warm and margaritas are five dollars until 7pm. Then, all is lost.

It’s bad enough so many of us balk at the notion of becoming self-starters, talk the talk but would rather lie in bed and switch from Instagram to Twitter back to Instagram again, seek and find so many others of our kind to commiserate with over a Lagunitas IPA or three, but we are only aided by the people and programs around us who perpetuate the madness we’ve become such experts at. That’s why, when I turn on the television to see a 25-year old Hannah Horvath being a generally terrible human being who can’t get her shit together, or an alternate-reality Aziz Ansari whose troublingly unlucky in love, or the thirty-somethings in the newer Netflix original series who actually appear to have their shit even less together than I do in my late twenties, or even Carrie and the gang, who are pushing forty and though they have real jobs and real apartments and real money with which to pay for really nice things, cannot lock down love or even some semblance of a totally grownup life, I get why we don’t get our fucking shit together. Because it’s okay to not have your shit together — TV says so! That is, until it’s too late and we’ve become the fictional characters we’ve relied upon for far too long. But for now, let’s take a quick look at a couple of them, in hopes of recognizing what they’re doing to us and vowing to not be a subject to their shitty examples of lives for another day of ours.

 GIRLS. When I exited college and it became very clear to me that I would not immediately (or maybe ever) have a proper career in journalism, I thought it an opportunity to seek out Lena Dunham’s Hannah as a compatriot in my struggle. That was, of course, until I decided she was a disaster of a sociopath who maybe didn’t deserve love or success… like, ever. And fucking surprise! All of her friends were almost equally as terrible. As I sat in my twin bed at my parents home, I thought, “It’s not just me!,” and I watched the rest of that season from that very bed, feeling somehow better about myself. And as their lives went off in troubling tangents, I felt more and more that mine wasn’t so awful; that we were all in the same boat. Time went on and none of their lives really improved much, so why was I pushing for progress? The thing is, though, these people were not real and I shouldn’t have used them to console my worse-for-wear adult standing. In five seasons, they’d be gone, likely living as happily ever after as you can in Brooklyn because we all want to hope for the best… even for you, Hannah Horvath.

 

LOVE. Netflix’s newest binge series lets us follow one 30-something guy who has lost almost everything chase after one 30-something complete fuck-up until he inevitably lands her because that’s what happens, apparently. All the complete nonsense in between, it turns out, is par for course? Is this what I have to look forward to? Just about the only desirable situation either of these alleged grown-ups finds themselves in is that they know Birdie, the leading lady’s roommate, who is the absolute saving grace of their shams of lives. But even knowing this, I watched along as each of the main characters slowly but surely loses their shit and thought to myself, “Well, if they don’t have it together at this point, maybe I’m okay,” like some kind of completely delusional loser! At this point, I was contemplating writing this piece so I was obviously aware that what I was watching was not real and I should not use these people as the bar to which I hold myself, but still, I gave in. I still took comfort in the story of a young woman so far off her rocker it was hard to believe she was still living a somewhat functional life. And as I sat there, binge-watching with my friend, holding Budweiser tallboys in our hands and shouting, “Oh my god, that’s so you!,” at one another as we so closely related to every other scene, the madness continued.

These are just two of the latest and greatest depictions of what can only be described as “loser adults.” Sex and the City, Master of None, Friends, Happyish, New Girl, and even a favorite of mine, Happy Endings, all featured imperfect adult specimens who, though relatable, have had the ability to confuse school buses full of students of life into thinking that having it all isn’t for the lot of us. Carrie Bradshaw had a pretty cool job and a buttload of expensive shoes, but it took her six freaking seasons to figure love out and put on her big girl pants when it came to navigating both her personal and professional life. She was 37 by then. When Aziz’s Dev Shah discovers that what he’s spent his entire adult life seeking may not be all that, he makes a rash decision in hopes of finding what he needs somewhere else. But you can’t help but look on skeptically, as if everyone — even those involved — is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Chandler Bing was roughly 35 when he took a job as an unpaid intern after years of working a generic office job that gave him absolutely no fulfillment. Thom Payne, in the short-lived dark comedy Happyish, spent his younger years securing a well-paying job at a cool company, a hot wife, a cute (yet unbearably annoying) kid, and a house in the Catskills to get stoned at, but he was very truly old and miserable in spite of all of that. Nick Miller is the saddest among a loft of of sad sacks in New Girl — broke, confused, directionless — and those are some of his better qualities. And Dave in Happy Endings was left at the altar, hates his menial role at a nondescript job, and appears to have very little to live for but, dammit he tries, I guess…in a way. And he somehow comes off looking like a prince compared to his wayward, clueless, ape-like buddy, Max. Obviously, the list of these anti-role-models goes on (Togetherness, Scrubs, It’s Always Sunny…). Knowing all of this, maybe we continue to watch on with extreme caution and self-awareness, or maybe it’s time we get off of our complacent young professional asses and do whatever we can to rise up like phoenixes and remember that the hustle is in all of us, even if we are a little bit fucked up.  

Coven Finale: Ain’t Life a Witch?

I waited until this morning to post for one reason and one reason only… American Horror Story: Coven. The season finale was last night and so I figured today would be a perfect and opportune time to air my dirty laundry. (*SPOILERS AHEAD*)

Let me start by saying, I love American Horror Story. I loved the original season, where Dylan McDermott walked around shirtless and did weird shit that was out if his control. I loved finding out that Taissa Farmiga was dead all along. I loved that she couldn’t escape the house no matter how hard she tried. I loved the romance between her and Evan Peters. I loved Jessica Lange, as I always do. I loved the weird characters that came in and out of their lives: Denis O’Hare, Kate Mara, Zachary Quinto. And Connie Britton’s hair. I loved Connie Britton’s hair.

I loved season 2, Asylum. Everyone who knows me knows I think that season was one of the best in all of television in at least the last decade. I don’t watch a ton of television, but I can only imagine it’s true. For that season, I loved everything. The performances were even better than those of the previous season. The characters were so corrupt and flawed it made them flawless. JESSICA LANGE AS SISTER JUDE!?! What?!?! The only time I found myself second-guessing the story was when the aliens came in, but in the end, they made it work. They made it more than work. It was artistic. It was gripping. It was horrifying. It was gruesome. It was inventive. And it was brilliant in every other category. It was a psychological thriller. Everything made sense and nothing made sense. Which leads me to the inevitable bad news…

Let me just say it now, once and for all. I absolutely abhorred season 3, Coven, which went in the complete opposite route which is to say that they threw a bunch of shit on our screens each week, none of it making sense. You do not know how much it pains me to say this, to have this out there for all of you to read. I never question Ryan Murphy. I never question the career choices of people like Jessica Lange and Sarah Paulson. But if I met them today, I would have to probe, “What the fuck were you thinking?!”

Now, I didn’t sit down and dissect all of the missteps, the reasons the story didn’t add up, the copouts, the holes in plot. And if you watched the show and you’re intelligent by any standard, I didn’t need to do that because they were so very obviously there. I didn’t do it because, quite frankly, there were too many of them and to relive the mess I saw each week might very well break my own witchy heart. So what I’ve done instead, is selected 3 major problems I had with this season and kept them short and to the point. I was thrilled when they said this season would be about a coven of witches in New Orleans and that Paulson would be playing the daughter of Jessica Lange. They are perfect together. They’re a match made in heaven. And the last time I watched a show about witches was when I was a kid and Charmed was cool. And then they did this.

THE FIRST PROBLEM: People dying and just when you were shocked and indignant, they’d come back. And at first you were thankful, because you loved that character and had hopes for them, but eventually it became all of them. It became a world where nothing was permanent, where you couldn’t count on absolutes for anything. It was too much. Sometimes when they came back, you wondered how or why. Not the obvious hows or whys, but the ones that come to you when you turn off the television and try to figure out what the fuck just happened. What I love about AHS is that due to the genre and the brilliance, not everything needs to make sense; you take it for what it is. But this time, I think, all they’ve taken is advantage of that concept. I can back this belief up with my second issue…

PROBLEM TWO: It was about witches and I’m no witch, but some of the shit they were able to do and the timing by which they were able to do it, was entirely unrealistic. One day these girls are helpless, the next day every last one of them had all of the powers. I refuse to believe that’s how witchcraft works. As I watched, each week felt to me like it had been written and filmed the day before. It seemed like there was no clear vision from the start, that they were just winging it, going wherever the wind took them. How very Misty Day of them. But if it was planned out and I’m wrong, well damn, that was just awful planning. I didn’t believe any of it for a second, and what’s worse, I didn’t want to. When I saw the aliens in Asylum, I was ruined. “Why did they do this to me?!,” I most likely shouted at the television screen. But I wanted to believe. Even though my good sense told me not to. Even though I thought it might be stupid or ruin the story or that ends would not be tied up in the end. I wanted to. There was no time during Coven that I wanted to believe. I was disconnected. Coven became background music to my Wednesday night, whereas — maybe sadly — every other season had been the main event.

BIG, BAD PROBLEM THREE: The reigning Supreme. Was it surprising to me that Cordelia was she? Yes. I usually think of almost everything but I did not think of her. But it wasn’t the kind of surprising where you’re like, “Holy shit, I did not see that coming!” It was the kind of surprising where you’re more like, “Why? That’s stupid.” To so intentionally lead your audience astray to reach the point where something happens that is unexpected but does not add up in any sense is something I find absolutely disgusting. And what about the fact that the new Supreme starts showing signs of power as the old Supreme dies out? What power did she show other then her newfound visions and the power to defy sanity and gouge her eyes out for the good of the coven? I liked Cordelia, but no. Then again, at least it wasn’t doe-eyed Zoe.

In summary… WHY AMERICAN HORROR STORY, WHY?!