Starting March 11, Bravo TV's Real Housewives of New York City is up again. As RH entertains, it fosters renewed appreciation of the everyday, reminding us of the grand lesson that money does not buy happiness.
When I think of bowling, I think, Roy Munson, cigarette smoke, beer, mullets, and "why the hell am I thinking about bowling?"
I found many ways to justify my addiction. I'd use high-brow terms, calling the series an anthropological study of fame and the lengths people will go through to achieve it. I'd marvel at the varying levels of awareness different reality stars had for the affect of cameras being shoved in their faces.
Here at Hulu, we actually prefer our sports to be of the imaginary sort, turning our favorite shows and characters into legitimate athletes and pitting them against each other in battles of skill, grace and screaming matches.
I know it's going to feel like detox. I'm going to yearn to reach for the remote. It's a habit, but I have to get real about what I am willing to consume and when. It all matters.
Mary Amons came into my life a number of years ago, through common acquaintances. Pre Real Housewives of D.C. Slowly but surely, we first became friendly, then friends, and we are on our way to top even that.
What the Gorgas represent is a backlash to consent that's become shockingly trendy.
If one more over-processed middle aged lady shouts, "I love my gays," as if we are human accessories, I am going to lose it. It is important to have our stories told, and to not discourage those in media to bother trying, but we should stand with critics in asking for a fresh angle.
Two martinis and three sushi rolls later, I am finding the whole evening rather funny. D is not laughing -- or maybe she is... it will be easier to tell in a few months when the botox wears off.
While many may now be tuning into the real life drama of Teresa and Joe Guidice, I have to say, I was an early adopter of The Real Housewives. Not sure I should be proud of that, but it's true.
Sure, they still need scapegoats they can indict instead of Wall Street executives. But America doesn't want to see television's too-good-to-be-true housewife take the fall anymore -- not when it can get a caricaturishly bad one instead. Enter Teresa and Joe Guidice, our newest celebrity defendants.
Gretchen declares that she's going to propose to Slade, deadbeat dad past be damned. She wants to do it in a special way. In an empowering way. In a "Housewives" way. By that, of course, she means heading to a recording studio, hiring a songwriting team, and producing an auto-tuned novelty single.
At the behest of their ice-room attendant, the ladies all do a Polish toast and drink sub-zero vodka shots. Vicki passive-aggressively dares Tamra to stick her tongue on the ice wall, and Tamra complies, pulling a full-on "Christmas Story." By her screams, apparently it has stuck.
Lydia is getting her makeup done by an in-house makeup artist. She proudly proclaims that she's a dual citizen -- half Canadian! -- and, as such, is taking "the girls" on a ski trip to Whistler, B.C.
It's a common truism that in life, and in reality TV, major upheavals like weddings, holidays, cross-country moves, and assembling IKEA furniture can turn rational, lovable humans into diabolical, swarthy sailor versions of themselves. Let's see if this episode proves or disproves this theory, as Tamra shops for her wedding dress.
Lydia is planning a salsa party because she likes to "party and have fun" and believes that, as the self-appointed "Friend Whisperer," she can bring cast outcast Alexis to the event and unite everyone under the auspices of Latin rhythms and booze.