There are just certain things one should never do:
1. Enter any supermarket or CVS the day after Halloween when all the candy is 50% off and the sugary portion of the brain gets stimulated simply by looking at all of the discounted Twix that line the shelves like a caramel-and-cookie-and-chocolate-coated dream.
2. Meet a blind date on a boat that takes you far out to sea when you’ve never been that good a screamer.
3. Try on a bikini in December unless you’re tan, drunk, or surrounded by blind people who have been drinking.
4. Go shopping for electronics on Black Friday without having first rubbed Vaseline across your entire body. The slippery nature of the stuff will help you to stop the person who is trying to club you over the head so she can snag that humongous TV from getting a good grip on your forearm.
5. Watch the reality show you’re tasked with recapping when you are in a very dark mood.
Yes, I’m coming off perhaps the bleakest week of my adult life, a week where I lost a lot. I had to say goodbye to one of my greatest loves and it’s left me feeling a bit disoriented, more than a little bit lonely, and like I’m trying to swallow a craving that tastes both salty and sweet but the lump in my throat keeps getting in the way of gulping anything down, even a memory. Over the last seven days or so, I’ve been faced with realizing definitively who is there for me in the murkiest of times and who is not. I have watched life turn into death. I have lost water weight from crying the kind of guttural sobs I didn’t think my body even knew how to generate anymore and I have lost any sort of patience for assholes who try to hurt those around them. And it is with that mindset taking hold of my thought process that I’m going to issue a warning: if you want to read a nonjudgmental recap where the writer pretends these Vanderpumpers are not society-tarnishing demons, you should wander away from this page immediately. Come back next week when I’m sweet again. Call it projected fury caused by wrenching grief, but I’m venturing close to the shadowy corners tonight – and I’m inviting you to come with me as long as you’re willing to take the journey without a flashlight.
This one’s meant to be dark.
Last week, before actually important news saturated the airways (I’m speaking, of course, of the atrocities aimed at innocent civilians in Paris that shocked everybody and Charlie Sheen’s tragic medical diagnosis that shocked nobody), Bravo updates were appearing in the press constantly. For a few days there it was impossible to go online and not see that two new Housewife shows are heading our way like an Earth-shattering comet and that Brooks, the smarmiest man ever to walk the streets of the OC, admitted to doctoring the documents he waved in front of cameras on his I Have Cancer press tour in a misguided effort to prove (through falsified medical records) that he indeed has been stricken with a deadly disease. But before anyone can say anything, let’s just all go ahead and accept that fine, Brooks might have fabricated those documents, but he’s totally not lying about anything else and he obviously has a disease (I think it must be the disease that causes his unceasing smirk that I’d love to kick off his face with a stiletto) and if you believe anything else, you’re just an asshole. Either that or you’ve got yourself some working synapses.
The thought of two new Bravo shows appearing on my television brought on a strange combination of excitement and terror and I think it’s because I’m starting to be aware of the lengths the participants of these shows are willing to go. In fact, I sat back and contemplated some of the craziest moments we’ve already been privy to and they include, but are obviously not limited to, the following:
o Kim Richards drunkenly proclaimed sobriety before being arrested – for public intoxication.
o The husband of one of the Housewives committed suicide and, before he was even embalmed, his wife wrote a book about the abuse he’d allegedly leveled her way before, during, and after production.
o A woman wearing a red sari crashed a White House dinner.
o An electronic-cigarette-puffing psychic sneered that she wouldn’t help someone locate an abducted child.
o A self-proclaimed MILF suggested that her son get a fellow Housewife “naked drunk” and then looked the other way while the two almost banged in a bathroom during a dinner party.
About a week and a half ago, I received a text from someone I’m usually pretty happy to hear from – but this time, the message almost caused me to clutch the nearest wall for both emotional and physical support.
HIM: Have you heard? Vanderpump Rules is airing twice a week this season.
ME: No, only on Mondays.
HIM: There’s another show airing on Fridays.
ME: Please tell me you’re joking. Please tell me I will not be spending my Friday evenings writing about these dipshits after spending my Monday evenings doing just that.
HIM: I’m not joking.
ME: Fuck. Me.
After sliding down the wall I’d been clutching and yelling out a litany of profane words in the sweetest tone of voice I could muster whilst in the throes of an existential crisis caused by this news, I decided to fact check the information. I hopped onto Google and, with a shaking hand and a trembling heart, I typed “Vanderpump Rules Friday” into the search box. It was only after I confirmed that the Friday airing is an “after show” where the “stars” will appear in the hopes of gulping in some extra attention that’s been basted in fleeting fame and will surely lead to bloating that I calmed down.