The Beverly Hills version of the Real Housewives series has always struck me as the platinum standard of the franchise. Sure, the women from New York own spacious mansions in the Hamptons that come complete with tennis courts and perfectly manicured sprawling lawns, and the women from New Jersey live in homes stuffed with the largest Baroque-style of furniture ever measured by modern man. Not to be outdone, the ladies from the O.C., who first brought this televised aspirational version of Dante’s hell into our living rooms, have the largest breast implants of all the women combined, but those distinctions simply do not matter. Because it is the group whose zip code is 90210 or 90210-adjacent who bring the real glam to those of us who watch the program while wearing sweatpants.
It seems important that I tell you that I have watched every single episode of every single season of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. I haven’t been able to fully commit to the other incarnations of the Housewives phenomenon, one that I … Continue reading