I cannot possibly be the only one these days suffering from intense Housewives malaise, right? It’s a real problem, my friends, but being the proactive type, I have taken steps to try to remedy the issue. My first act – flinging my cable box through a plate glass window – only ended up creating further (and bloody) problems, so I’ve decided to head back to the basics and deal with my challenge logically. It’s not all that hard to figure out what’s causing me to visibly recoil any time I see an adult female in an evening gown hold out a piece of fruit. Simply stated, I’m getting really f*cking tired of watching grown women fight about pure nonsense and then get paid for it so I have recently taken some important steps to at least attempt to alleviate my pain:
Step 1: Cut several incarnations of the Housewives from my life like I’m hacking off a limb rotted with gangrene. I was able to accomplish this particular goal rather easily. “Au revoir, New Jersey table-flippers!” I shouted from my rooftop more than a year ago, my voice filled with glee that I would never have to figure out which twin’s husband allegedly slept with his mother-in-law or have to definitively ascertain what species birthed Theresa. “Adios, Atlanta lunatics,” I scrawled in the sand during one warm afternoon on a sundrenched beach when I could have sworn I saw something that resembled NeNe Leakes bobbing in the distance beneath the waves. “Suck it!” I happily trilled recently to my television set after watching my first (and last) episode of the newest Housewives who reside in and around the exciting city of Potomac. While I realize I shouldn’t judge a series on only one episode, I’m quite certain that the entire show revolves around a drag queen spewing out lessons in proper etiquette to fools who aspire to be as famous as Vicky Gunvalson. Those women have been forever sliced from the fabric of my life and I have never felt more free.
Step 2: For the Housewives shows that I will still watch because I write recaps about them – New York, Orange County, and Beverly Hills – I make it a real point to only view each episode once. Enforcing this rule can be complicated. It means that one must never accidentally leave Bravo on during a long rainy afternoon because we all know how those marathons can suck in even the most reluctant viewer and, for my sanity and for the safety of those around me, I must refrain from rewatching screaming battles fought by people I do not even know.
Step 3: Never – but I mean ever – follow a single one of these women on Twitter or Instagram. If there’s anything remarkably provocative that needs to come out, rest assured that an entire segment of the twelve-part Reunion will be devoted to whatever post one of these women wrote that singlehandedly sparked World War III and know with total certainty that each person on that couch will whip out a phone from between her Spanx-clad thighs to show some evidence that probably won’t end up mattering anyway.
Step 4: Accept that the people on this show will never really change. If you like one, you will probably continue to like her. Might your favorite Housewife f*ck up every now and then and cause you to wince because you’ve decided to be on her side and she’s momentarily behaving like a possessed toddler? Sure. But will your allegiance to these strangers actually matter in the long run? Not a f*cking chance. Also embrace the fact that the Housewives who appear deranged are in fact out-of-their-f*cking-mind-crazy and remember that just because one of them is sick, it does not mean that you have to like her now or overlook that she has surrounded herself with a posse of assh*les.
Step 5: Cleanse your mental palate every now and again by watching Requiem for a Dream. After viewing the arm amputation scene or the gangbang done in exchange for some heroin, issues like Münchausen syndrome and Kim Richards’ inability to accept any kind of responsibility for the misery that is her existence will appear positively minor.
Have I helped cure you of your Housewives Fatigue? Good! Because this episode is about glamorous women who hate each other doing charitable things and I feel like sharing this wellness plan can be my own little act of charity. I’ll march for Yolanda and her babies tomorrow, but tonight there are more pressing matters to discuss. See, tonight Erika and a few of her enemies are boarding a private jet bound for New York, and since I’ve obviously chosen to embrace my philanthropic side, I’d like to caution her guests to sit very close to the emergency exists and perhaps bring along their own flotation devices. Several of them should feel free to use their own t*ts.
Before they can pack carry-on bags stuffed with sequins and Xanax, there’s regular sh*t to attend to first. In Yolanda’s world, “regular sh*t” means checking in with her supermodel daughter to find out how she did on today’s runway and calling her husband to ask for help in writing the speech she’ll be giving at the Global Lyme Alliance. According to our honoree, she’s lost any and all brain function that once allowed her to be inspirational in front of a crowd and she wants this speech to kick serious ass so all of the women she now hates will hear it and hop on her journey by opening their hearts and cease asking her questions about the inconsistencies she posts to the world. It’s a little known fact, but having integrity means never again having to answer a single question in one’s lifetime.
In an office across town, Kathryn and Donnie meet up with a woman who is going to fit Kathryn with a hearing aid that will give her back some of her lost hearing. It’s a hugely exciting prospect for her and it’s nice to see someone regain a sense and all, but I can’t really hop on board with Kathryn after her hideous display over the last few weeks when she all but sold secrets and then had the audacity to blame everyone else for her idiotic missteps. I will, however, fully embrace the woman if she scalps Faye Resnick before the finale. Baring that event, I think I might be more than okay that this blonde could very well be a one-season wonder.
Speaking of blondes who are part of Housewives Past, Camille is back. She’s throwing a charity event at her home to raise money for cancer. It’s a cause close to her heart because both she and her mother have suffered from the disease, and it’s good to see her look healthy. Less enjoyable to witness is the fact that Kyle and Eileen are traveling to the event together in a limousine. It is my dearest hope that during this car ride that Kyle not mention (either in words or through interpretive dance) that she’s feeling any tension with a single person in this entire world because we all know that the only thing such a revelation will lead to is Eileen feeling the need to solve the problem instantly. She will gather the two people engaged in a mild showdown to her breast, mention the scalding hatred they are each actively pretending to ignore, and she will then appear completely flummoxed when a peaceful resolution does not occur immediately in her eyeline. Seriously, Kyle – don’t say a f*cking word during that ride.
Seems all the women are turning out for Camille’s event. Lisa Vanderpump is there and even Yolanda shows up! She wants to compliment Camille on “having the balls” to share her medical journey, and I just can’t help that the cynical side of me hears her say that and believes it’s just an example of Yolanda congratulating herself because apparently it takes balls to post pictures on Instagram of one’s bloody implants and daily inoculations. I had bronchitis last week, but I suppose I have no balls because I didn’t snap photographs of the balls of phlegm I coughed up to share with the masses. Perhaps I’ll get braver over time.