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MEN ARE FROM MARS, KRISTEN IS FROM THE UNDERWORLD

MEN ARE FROM MARS, KRISTEN IS FROM THE UNDERWORLD

I once spent a week at a gorgeous villa in the Dominican Republic.  We were given our own butler who served us lavish breakfasts by a private swimming pool.  I had a golf cart to use at my disposal.  The water I floated in was the kind of blue you only see in one of those deluxe Crayola packages, the ones that come with the extra special hues.  And all of it might have been perfect had I not arrived with the kind of raging bladder infection that made me constantly aware of the fact that I am, without fucking question, a woman.  The pain was searing and unceasing and it all was made somehow worse when I caught a glimpse of my agony in the rearview mirror of the SUV that was shuttling me from the airport to the place my family was staying, a place they’d already arrived at two days prior.  In the reflection I saw physical suffering surrounded by about seven miles of hair that had already succumbed to the ravages of humidity and when I arrived at the front door of a palatial palace I never would have been able to afford on my own, my parents flung open the door with broad smiles that disappeared the second they saw my face.  “Give me every pain pill you’ve got,” I croaked at them, and soon my palm was filled with medicine that was yellow and some of it was pink and my mother removed four of the pills so I wouldn’t overdose and I didn’t ask a single question about what I was ingesting; I just swallowed them without water and was blessedly asleep in less than an hour.

On another April vacation, I joined two of my friends in Barbados.  All three of us were in desperate need of temporarily leaving our lives behind and we took off for the faraway beach with the hope that, when we returned home, the cosmos would have done their work and our existences would feel easy again.  We spent the first few days lolling around on the sand and dancing at dinner and drinking lots of dark rum and all was relatively calm until Thursday when I stopped at an ATM and was unceremoniously informed that there was no money in my account because the rent check I’d post-dated had been pre-cashed and there I was in another nation without any cash.  We weren’t leaving for another four days and I fell into a panic next to the counter inside the ATM vestibule and my friend Nicole pulled me out of there by unwinding me from the fetal position I’d curled into out of astonishment and fear and she gave me money to hold me over until we returned home where I could pay her back.  (I also got my period two and a half weeks early the very next morning and she graciously walked me uphill to a gas station where she bought me tampons since I’d never considered packing any and I didn’t have the money to pay for them myself.  The girl is headed straight to heaven.)

Then there was the time I went to California for a week.  We stayed at the Montage in Laguna Beach and I surrendered to the luxury quite easily.  I ate salads served to me by the pool and walked the dunes as the sun set majestically behind the horizon in the distance.  I rubbed my light sunburn with a lotion I still believe was made by the Gods that smelled of verbena and wealth and not a bit of me ever wanted to leave.  But all vacations must end eventually, so we boarded a plane bound for Manhattan and it must have been about two hours into the flight when all of a sudden the plane did a U-turn that everyone on board felt.  “We need to turn back around and land in California,” said the pilot.  “There’s been a massive power outage across the Eastern seaboard and there’s nowhere there for us to land.”  This was not long after 2001; flying already felt scary on some weird primal level and I locked eyes with strangers and they looked as nervous as I felt and the pilot must have sensed the mood because he came back on and announced, “It’s not terrorism that caused the problem.  They don’t know what it is, but it’s not terrorism.”  Being the cynic, I couldn’t help but immediately think If they don’t know what it is, how can they know what it’s not, but soon we arrived again in the land of sunshine and, since there was nowhere else to really go, we returned to the Montage and I took a surfing lesson the next day.  Eventually we found out the cause of the darkness had not actually been terrorism and that made me feel better, even when I discovered that someone who worked at the hotel entered our rooms while we lazily enjoyed the sunshine and stole all of our jewelry.

All of those vacations I took were defined by bursts of joy that were then pissed on by stark reality – and I’d still rather retake every single one of those trips than ever travel anywhere with the cast of Vanderpump Rules.  On just Night One in New Orleans, Jax and Stassi cried, Brittany became resentful that Jax has yet to burst into tears over how horribly he’s treated her, Sandoval calmly recommended therapy to the bride-to-be, Kristen crouched behind a shrub so she could get better cell service because she was finding it difficult to track Lala’s movements from across the country, and Schwartz looked like he was torn between arranging for a pedicure prior to his day of drag or using his private time to fake his own death so he wouldn’t have to get married to a woman who publicly decreed that the only reason she and her beloved fight is because of their friends – and then she chose to go on vacation them.  Seriously?  I’d take the burning pee of a bladder infection any day.

TRAVELING WITH DUMMIES

TRAVELING WITH DUMMIES

There's nothing that can fuck up a vacation more than a lack of compatibility amongst the people you're traveling with. You know what I mean. Like, sometimes you want to be at the bar until four in the morning because you've been talking to that scruffy guy who looks vaguely homeless but you know he's not because you caught a glimpse of his Prada boots and you've found out he's seen Springsteen play almost as many times as you have and he's been touching you lightly on the lower back for the last forty minutes in a way that doesn't make you want to shimmy out of your skin just so you can wash it in bleach and then the friend you're with announces that it's time for you to accompany her back to the hotel. (I'm just spitballing here, not recounting an actual experience with a friend who is now dead to me and one of the hottest men I've ever seen in real life. Also, hey Jason!) What I mean is that people who go on trips together have to be on the same page when it comes to how late they want to stay out and what it is they plan to do during the day and how you calling the entire closet while you’re still on the plane is totally fair. There must be some mutual respect that naturally exists or the vacation will turn into a miserable nightmare where you might consider doing something rash like flinging a friend off a cruise ship during a squall. (Again, that's just me writing fiction. I never once considered shoving a friend over a railing into the rough surf. Also, hey Jessica!)

 

So with the understanding that exists inside the mind of a rational adult that one should only vacation with people you're quite certain are not walking demonic entities, I can't really feel all that badly for any of the bullshit our Vanderpumpers find themselves in during their trip to New Orleans to celebrate the upcoming nuptials of two people who cannot stand the sight of one another. Look, it's bad enough when the bride and the groom stare daggers at each other over a breakfast of tequila and scrambled hatred, but the others along for whatever is the opposite of a hero's journey are also filled with barely disguised animosity. Think about it. On this one trip alone, the following enemies are expected to dine together...in public...on camera...in a place where there are knives:

Ariana and Kristen:  Though she’s pretending to be sort of lucid these days, let us not forget that Kristen spent an entire season imagining out loud how awesome it would be if Ariana got run over by a Mack truck. 

SUCH A DRAG

SUCH A DRAG

Much like any other person who went away to college and spent thousands upon thousands of dollars to sleep in cramped rooms with strangers, exist for months at a time on starch and seasoning packets alone, and broaden my burgeoning intellect, I learned many important life lessons during those four formative years:

 

·      When you live in a dorm, make sure you shower in flip-flops. There is perhaps no fungus on the planet with as much chutzpah as the fungus that lives between the tiles in a communal bathroom and since you will need your extra money to buy chicken wings and ramen, you really don’t want to have to waste your precious funds on spray cans of Tinactin.

·      No matter how beautifully your Big Sister decorated the bottle of cheap champagne she bought you with puffy paint and your sorority letters, that bottle of cheap champagne should still be viewed for exactly what it is:  a liquid demonic entity.  And should you guzzle it, you will be lying facedown in the bushes outside of Sig Ep in no time and it’s a pretty good bet that people have peed in those bushes, so not only will you lose your dignity, but your cheeks will be pressed against remnants of urine.  Instead, thank your Big Sister for the lovely bottle, swear that you will keep it atop your armoire forever, take a few sips of the fruity potent evil, and then spill out the rest when nobody is looking.  Your liver will thank you.

·      When Night You decides it makes total sense to set the alarm for 3:45AM so Morning You can get up and do some last minute studying, recognize immediately that Morning You has absolutely no intention of doing anything besides turning off that alarm and slipping back into a sleep that will then be riddled with hyper-colorful anxiety dreams about trying desperately to locate the room where the exam you haven’t adequately prepared for is being given.  (Seriously – I still have this dream and it’s always about my Evolution & Extinction class and it’s frankly insulting that my psyche has not evolved enough at this point for this particular dream to be fucking extinct.)

·      Don’t even bother learning the pretend astrological sign that correlates to your pretend date of birth on your pretend ID.  No bouncer will ask you that question as long as you’re wearing something low-cut.

·      Go to your professors’ office hours.  Not only is it far more difficult for them to fail you if they have some sort of connection with you, but some professors are worldly and fascinating and often quite funny and getting to know them will actually benefit you as a person – and I swear I’m not just saying that because my father was a professor and I’m a Freudian wet dream come true.

·      Get rid of that long-distance relationship as quickly as you can.  I loved my faraway boyfriend with my entire heart and I’ll easily acknowledge that my devotion to him probably kept me somewhat grounded, but you’ll have your entire life to be grounded.  Cut that guy loose and go dive into that sort of “good trouble” a certain Senator often advocates.  Your “good trouble” will probably not include a sit-in, but my guess is you’ll be lying down for part of it.

·      Make your peace now with the fact that for events like Halloween and Greek Week and some drunken random Tuesday, guys you know will show up at your door and ask to borrow bras and heels because someone once apparently told every single boy as he shot out of the womb that dressing like a girl is hilarious and all kinds of subversive.  Allow whatever guy who stands before your full-length mirror while trying to create the illusion of cleavage to enjoy himself, but for the love of all that is holy, do not lend him your good bras because he will stretch them out with the circumference of his back.  Also do not even bother to explain that dressing like a woman is not actually all that funny.  You’re up against a little thing here called patriarchy here, and to even try to understand why having tits is hysterical is a massive waste of time.  So just shove the guy into a bustier, tell him to curl his toes so he will walk better in heels, and then send him out the door and wave goodbye to that bustier because you’ll never want to put that thing next to your skin again.

 

College ended a long time ago, though much of it seems like yesterday, and it’s hard sometimes to fully remember all of the ridiculousness that bracketed the years I spent at an institution of higher learning.  But all of those lessons came rushing right back when I saw the preview for this week’s Vanderpump Rules episode, the one that included Schwartz dressing up like a woman for his bachelor party.  Listen, should Schwartz have some sort of sexual fetish bubbling up inside of him that causes him to feel turned on and blissfully tweaked and alive whenever he slides a thong between his ass cheeks, I have no problem with that.  Should Schwartz have a desire to dress in women’s clothing just so someone in his apartment looks stylish for more than a nanosecond, I don’t have a problem with that either.  What I do have a problem with is the juvenile notion still floating about a grown man’s head that a guy dressing up as a girl is just so sidesplittingly funny and, try as I might to be tolerant of their rampant stupidity, these Vanderpumpers are really starting to get on my nerves.

THEIR BRAND IS ASSHOLE

THEIR BRAND IS ASSHOLE

Here's an important lesson to internalize, my friends: people rarely change. While it’s possible for someone to maybe tweak his or her mindset and behavior and become, say, more patient, more reflective, or less quick to anger, an entire personality overhaul is never going to happen unless you're dealing with someone who’s just spent a year surviving on bark and rain water in the wilderness – and even then it's a slippery slope because you just know that person’s conventional behavior will slide right back in the second he swallows his first Hostess Sno-Ball. Change is hard. Change is inconvenient. And that inconvenience is why the committed liars will always lie, the horrifically selfish will never morph superhero-style into selfless crusaders, and a person who registers in the negative range on the emotional intelligence scale will very likely never fully understand (or care) that his actions lead to painful effects for which he is completely responsible. It's a messy world out there and assholes who have no problem being assholes will rarely volunteer to remain diapered in padded rooms. They will continue to walk amongst us, and I'm really starting to hope they all get stricken with the sort of potent rashes that lead to puss-filled blisters, if only so the rest of us can start identifying them by sight. 

Our Vanderpumpers – and those foolish enough to love them – should probably go ahead and purchase stock in some Adderall-spiked-diaper-rash-destroying-Desitin because assholes abound in Vanderland. We're five seasons into this series and what’s abundantly clear by now is that not a single one of these people is willing to change or capable of change. Strategically speaking, I get it. I mean, the only thing someone like James has going for him is his ability to be a staggering prick. That's his brand now – being a prick – and we exist in a world that weirdly celebrates this sort of bullshit behavior and so something tells me this little weenie-like emotionally-stunted man-child will never choose to overhaul his persona and risk getting kicked off the only real opportunity he'll ever have to exist in the proximity of show business. Yes, he's got that incredibly impressive residency spinning records at an empty hotel, but we all know he'll fuck up even a nothing opportunity like that in no time. 

Now that we're talking personal branding, let's admit what we're actually dealing with on this series: 

Schwartz will forever be The Doomed One, a man so terrified of his now-wife that he'll never be able to gnaw his way to freedom.

HELL HATH NO FURY LIKE A MEDIOCRE ROASTMASTER SCORNED

HELL HATH NO FURY LIKE A MEDIOCRE ROASTMASTER SCORNED

I’ve been thinking a great deal about divisiveness these days because, really, how can you not?  We’ve probably never existed in a society in which people were fully tolerant of the views held by those who believed the emphatic opposite, but I think I managed for a while to convince myself that we did.  Call it what you will – naiveté, stupidity, a New York mentality – but even the willfully blind have to eventually wake up and realize that the lines we’ve drawn are really deep now, the sentiments really complicated.  It might be impossible at this point to convince people to believe in something they don’t already believe. 

If you happen to be that one lone human being who has not recently engaged in a bit of existential terror due to the separations that now define us, I want to know where you are currently hiding so I can get you the money I’m raising on my brand new GoFundMe page.  I imagine you must be residing in some sort of bunker and you do not have a television and you have never heard of this little thing called “social media” and all of your closest friends are livestock who rarely roar with laughter, not even when they hear from some sheep down the street that an advisor to the President went on national television where everyone could see her and used the term “alternative facts” instead of the words “bold fucking lies.” Part of me truly envies the person out there who is completely uninterested in the chasms defining this moment in history.  More of me wonders how such a bland mindset can exist and, to that end, the funds I raise will net you a laptop that only grants access to two websites.  Yes, you will be able to wile away the houses in your bunker by reading everything on Breitbart and The Huffington Post.  Immerse yourself in total journalistic bias, my agoraphobic friend, and then decide what it is that you believe and whether or not continuing to remain in that bunker makes sense.  And if you have some extra room, a shower with decent water pressure, and a nice selection of canned goods, perhaps I can join you when the frogs inevitably come tumbling down from the sky.

But even if you spend your days attempting to ignore the rising flames of political and social chaos, chances are – unless you’re that one guy who only speaks to cattle – you still watch television, a venue where chaos reigns.  Take The Bachelor.  On this season’s installment, a bazillion women are ready to gouge out the eyes of whichever woman some guy named Nick decides to feel up first.  To be clear, these “contestants” met Nick less than a week ago and they are already declaring to the heavens that he would make the perfect husband.  They’ve also convinced themselves that they can tell far more about a person by his ability to do a mid-air split in a bouncy house than by the way he deals with – oh, I don’t know – bills that come in when he doesn’t have the money to pay them.  Bouncy houses aren’t metaphors for real life, people.  Neither is rappelling off a tall building or diving Botox-first into the ocean.  It’s not just The Bachelor, though, that’s a breeding ground for dysfunction and conflict.  Look at our Vanderpump Rules gang and you will see conflicts as far as the bile can be spewed.

CONFLICT #1:  LALA VS. EVERYBODY  

Okay, here’s my take on the Lala situation:  the girl played her hand all wrong.  I would actually support someone leaving this show because she began to wonder about the long-term effects of coexisting on television with monsters.  I would applaud a woman who reached her “Eureka!” moment and threw down her microphone and walked away from the sort of contrived scenarios that can only breed mold and hatred.  But I cannot care about or root for Lala, a girl who went on TV and told ridiculous lies and then got annoyed when people didn’t believe those lies.  I can’t wish the best for someone who croaked out clichés like, “There’s no shame in my game,” and then lied about what the game was and who the players were before going ahead and swallowing the dice because she’s just really used to swallowing things.  Lala is a “TWERKIN’ FOR A BIRKIN” tee come to life and I will not miss her in the least when she finally crawls away.

 

A STAR IS STILLBORN

A STAR IS STILLBORN

For the last five seasons, I have used the following words – both in writing and in the baffled crevices of my own mind – to describe the kind of person Kristen Doute has willfully decided to portray herself to be onscreen:

·      Lunatic

·      Psychopath

·      Candidate for lifelong intensive therapy

·      Amateur voodoo priestess

·      Professional stalker

·      Woefully misguided pseudo-human

·      A hunk of organic matter completely devoid of self-awareness

·      Romper-wearer

·      Sole person to blame for why we as a society know of the repulsive existence of James Kennedy

·      Batshit crazy woman forever trapped in a stunted adolescence of her own creation

·      The person I'd least like to be trapped in an elevator with anywhere, including Trump Tower

I realize that those descriptors aren't exactly the finest illustrations of my own kindness or compassion or the most effective way to show female solidarity, but I tend not to strive to find an element of sisterhood when I’m not quite sure the other thing in the equation is of my species.  For years now, Kristen has chosen to get paid to go on television and behave in a manner slightly more unhinged than that one student I had who used to think he could communicate with the phantom people sitting in the empty desks.  That guy was certifiably nuts, but he was also a good person; he rarely to never rhapsodized about the joy he would feel if someone got plowed down by a Mack Truck driven at full speed.  That guy never slept with someone his best friend was in love with and he never then went on television with every single person in the bullshit scenario and expected the secret to stay buried.  And even on the days I assigned long and complicated research papers, that guy never once recommended that I go suck a dick.

WHAT WOULD LALA DO? (HINT: NOT WEAR A TURTLENECK IN A HOT TUB)

WHAT WOULD LALA DO? (HINT: NOT WEAR A TURTLENECK IN A HOT TUB)

Here’s the thing about liars:  after a while, they start to get really fucking boring.  It doesn’t start out that way.  At first, there is sort of this fascination with all that they say.  Their tales are vivid, their anecdotes crackling.  It’s the specificity of the stories that draws you in and you’re left with an impression that this life you’re hearing about – this life you’re temporarily and peripherally connected to – is a life far more interesting than your own will ever be.  See, your stories have fewer characters weaving in and out.  Your stories don’t sparkle like a sequined skirt rustling around a thigh gap.  Your stories eventually wind down because that’s what happens in real life – and right there is your first clue.  A liar’s story has way more chapters because they write it as they go along. 

Still, there’s no denying the captivating appeal of being in such close proximity to an agent of deception.  If you’re anything like me – and some of you are fortunate that you’re not and you never will be – you can’t help yourself.  You go back for more and you become an even more captive audience as you attempt to take in all of the glistening fragments and organize them into something linear.  You want it to make sense. You want to solve this puzzle of a person and there’s a big part of you that really thinks you can.  But then time goes by and the moments you consume from someone else’s life begin to taste like flat champagne. And it’s when those bubbles no longer tingle on your tongue that you admit certain things to yourself, like the fact that every story this person tells goes into extra innings. The stakes involved in each story are higher stakes than any you've ever encountered. And every single person mentioned drives a really nice car.

I don’t quite know if every liar lives with the knowledge that one day he or she will be exposed, but I do know that one of the ways to avoid having to face the truth is through that tried and true method of escape.  I suppose that if someone is skilled, she will initially try to project disbelief that she is not being believed, an act that could potentially cause the accuser to apologize and slink away, leaving whatever power has been gathered in a pathetic puddle the liar can then stomp through for extra impact.  But sometimes there is no audience left – there’s nobody who even cares to find out if any of it was true – and that’s when liars become runners. 

There appears now to be no way to deny that Lala Kent is a liar. Perhaps we would have figured it out much earlier, but she spent so much of her time onscreen with Jax and James and their abject duplicity is so pronounced that it was really kind of hard to focus on anything Lala said or did in their presence.  But now that she’s been banished from the rest of the cast and only permitted to sit in small groups where she pretends to make amends or to offer a bit of digital penetration as penance, her ridiculousness has become clear.  Look, the truth is that most of the people on this show are relatively awful and they have had five or so seasons to come off as sane and delightful and many hiatuses in which they could have done philanthropic work that would make me think that some of them are not truly dead inside, but that kind of shit never happened.  When I say that Lala is entirely full of chunky horseshit, it does not mean that I believe the rest of them are as pure as the snow before Jax pisses his name into it, but – for tonight anyway – we need to focus on the fun bitch’s untruths.  Her false tales involved minor things, like getting off of work to go on a modeling assignment when that modeling assignment didn’t actually exist and the only thing she really showed off was her clitoris while she was aboard some rich guy’s yacht.  The stories then grew to include debatable facts, like how she is rolling in luxury because she lived at home for a long time and apparently the interest levels under her mother’s roof are more massive than anything the financial industry has ever witnessed.  And then there are the accounts, the ones studded with holes the size of craters, about a boyfriend who may or not be married and could or could not be famous who does or does not break up with her every other day who loves her madly or doesn’t even know she exists in the first place. 

 

THE VANDERPUMP RULES SAGA: CHAPTER NINE -- HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BOO!

THE VANDERPUMP RULES SAGA: CHAPTER NINE -- HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BOO!

As soon as the ball drops, the resolutions begin. Bursting like fireworks, they appear list-style in my mind: BE NICER TO MY MOTHER; SCOOT MY ASS LOWER TO THE GROUND WHEN I'M DOING SQUATS; DESTROY THOSE WHO FUCK WITH ME IN WAYS THAT ARE BOTH INVENTIVE AND PERMANENT. It's just the standard list, but it makes me realize I'm about to embark on a very busy year, what with the knowledge that there's more than one person I need to destroy. But rather than feel anxious, I am instead comforted by a wave of unifying humanity. I know I am not alone in making grand plans. I'm quite certain the cast of Vanderpump Rules just made some important resolutions, too. 

I think it all went down like this: One by one, our Vanderpumpers gathered together in the last moments of 2016 in a spiritual temple Jax built with his own hands out of empty boxes of steroids. This behemoth was bound together with his melted down breast tissue and even though the temple still leaned alarmingly to the left since Jax can't do anything right including building religious monuments, everyone who entered the 8th Wonder of the World still knew immediately that they were in a very special place. As The Chosen Ones, they began by singing songs about how much more satisfying it is to live life while being followed by cameras, their lilting voices rising melodically into the darkening sky. James used his cheap little keyboard to keep the rhythm going and Lala only slipped out of the temple once to properly suck the dome of the Range Rover rep who selected her to again be the recipient of one of the hundreds of free trucks the company gives away annually. Since everyone in the temple hates her, nobody even noticed she was gone. 

THE VANDERPUMP RULES SAGA: CHAPTER EIGHT -- HOW OLD ARE YOU NOW?

THE VANDERPUMP RULES SAGA: CHAPTER EIGHT -- HOW OLD ARE YOU NOW?

On the night of Stassi's birth, all of the angels in the heavens gathered together every bit of sweetness and light they could find in the universe to form one perfect little girl – but then she left and we got Stassi. And tonight Stassi is multitasking like a champ, proving herself able to simultaneously pack a suitcase while plotting the destruction of whichever person’s name she picked out of a hat this week. Listen, I get why she hates Lala.  They have zero history together, Lala has been nasty to Katie, and – while all of these people are somewhat shady – Lala’s shadiness is so massive that you can’t actually make out colors when you’re in her presence.  (I feel terrible saying such mean things about Lala, but I think we’ll work it out after she offers to finger me.) Still, while I understand Stassi’s raging animosity in that scenario, I can’t quite get behind her burgeoning hatred towards Scheana.  Her immaturity has finally done the impossible:  it’s made me like Scheana – and now I’m concerned about what could happen next.  Allow me just to say this: if something transpires on this episode that causes me to type the sentence, “James is terribly misunderstood and he’s the finest artist of this or any other time,” I will have to stop recapping this show altogether because I will have blown up my television set. 

THE VANDERPUMP RULES SAGA: CHAPTER SEVEN -- A COVEN OF ASSHOLES

THE VANDERPUMP RULES SAGA: CHAPTER SEVEN -- A COVEN OF ASSHOLES

My friends, it has been one frenetic week in the muck-filled swamp that is Vanderland. Not only did we finally catch a glimpse of what's been hiding within the confines of Sandoval's ponytail. Not only did Kristen do an interview with New York magazine where she arrived with two – yes, two – publicists and a gigantic bloody knot in the center of her forehead that she got courtesy of walking directly into a glass door (it was so Ariana's fault), but Lala also very publicly announced that she’d left this show and all of the unfortunate looking people on it for good. 

It's a fucking Christmas miracle.

While Lala’s tumultuous exit has yet to play out on the show, girlfriend (and the publicists her mother and her boyfriend pay for) have made sure to turn her upcoming farewell into as close a media frenzy as one can possibly be when more than half the population of this great nation has no idea who this person even is.  But let’s give credit when credit is due, yes?  After all, Lala has made sure to capitalize on the very feminist action of quitting a Bravo reality show where she liked to talk about her dome-sucking prowess in between calling other women fat by doing interview after interview with such illustrious outlets as The Inquisitr and TooFab.com.  And in these hard-hitting interviews, she made sure to imply that she was certainly not shutting the door on reality TV forever, but there would need to be some clear stipulations in place before she would deign to act like a monster onscreen again. “If someone were to come to me tomorrow and say we want to give you your own show or we want to put you on a show where people are on your same level as far as talent and looks and everything else goes, then I would do both of those,” Lala explained.  That’s right: according to Lala – a girl who became known not for her singing or for her acting but instead for being a hostess at a restaurant in Los Angeles where the ceiling is lined with klieg lights – the biggest problem she had with Vanderpump Rules was that her costars weren’t talented or hot.