I'm trying to imagine Wookie's reaction to a swan walking through the front door of our home in the way it transpired on the most recent episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
There are two possibilities of what could take place in a scenario such as that one, and only the second one involves bloody carnage. The first route the Swan Entrance could take would be one that’s almost peaceful: Wookie wouldn’t even notice the swan’s presence. Now, the vet recently told me that my dog is not blind, but I watched her bump into the wall in my dining room just last week. I pretended I didn't see it so as not to embarrass her – my pup’s got pride – but I saw the whole thing like it was taking place in slow motion and it made me sad and brought me back to the days she would take those corners with great speed. But, as I try to look at the world in a glass-half-full/the-swan-would-live kind of way, potential canine blindness also means that Wookie would refrain from assaulting the swan – and that would mean I wouldn't have to use floss to remove the feathers from her back teeth.
The second option is that Wookie would somehow sense the swan's presence like she used to with Daisy, the Maltipoo who lived across the way who somehow became Wookie’s arch nemesis in a one-sided battle of wills that poor Daisy never understood that she was a part of. Wookie would feel the existence of Daisy in the air and then she would give in to the rage that sweet Maltipoo incomprehensively created inside of her and she would growl and she would lunge and once I sent Daisy an I’m-Sorry bag of treats with a note from Wookie, apologizing for her deranged actions. And so, when I consider the long frail neck of a swan, just imagining this scenario play out in my mind starts to make me sweat knowing the potential swan-gore that could transpire.
But in the home of Lisa Vanderpump, swans waddle through the open glass doors to salute their human queen. The poor one who tried to consider living inside of the castle instead of being content to wade in the water under the moat was chased out by several furry dogs, and the thing ran fleeing for safety. And that reminds me: I need a moat. My birthday is coming up during the first week in January. And I'm fine if a few people want to chip in and get me one.
I also want an otter to live in the water of my moat. Get to shopping, people!
I'm imagining that the house for which Brandi is having a housewarming party for is moat-less. But that would not be the reason I wouldn't go to her fiesta, and it won't be Lisa's reason either. The real reason for a "Not a fucking chance" response on an RSVP stems from the hostess being an asshole. Yes, I said it: Brandi is an asshole. And I'm betting her asshole is just as tight as her rejuvenated vagina that she mentions as often as Kyle refers to her wealth.
(And who wants to join me in an unsavory little wager that Kyle has the Chanel logo carved into her pubic hair? C'mon – somebody take me up on this. I'll buy a water-safe toy for my otter to play with from my winnings. Should Otto not have joy in his life? Yes, I'm naming my brand new otter Otto. Why would I not?)
But back to Brandi – foolish, stupid, classless Brandi. She almost had me fooled. She was tossed into a televised group that included an addict, the addict’s insufferable fence-straddling sister, and a satin jumpsuit-wearing Adrienne Maloof; how could she not come off looking appealing in such company? She did shit like furrow her brow at the superficial women in her midst and I appreciated her candor. But that candor has turned into crassness, and I'm bored. Now all I see when I look at her is that her brow will no longer furrow due to all of those fillers and she refuses to acknowledge that she destroyed a friendship for absolutely no reason and that when someone is accused of turning people against you and of bankruptcy and of being the most manipulative woman who has ever tromped across this large planet, the falsely accused and her loyal husband will never forgive those sins – and they shouldn't.
So really, all The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills has become is Brandi alternately groveling to two people she systematically tried to destroy and Kyle throwing bullshit parties while wearing a blinding caftan and Kim showing up to add exactly nothing to the equation and Yolanda questioning more than once why she wasn't invited to something another woman was invited to, but I'm giving her a slight pass because I admire the gladiator boots she wore to Kyle’s party and I give her credit for pulling off a look most people wouldn’t even attempt.
It's disappointing when a television show dies before your very eyes, grinding to a halt with a wheeze. I'm not saying all onscreen dinners should involve the psychic who inhaled maniacally on an electronic cigarette (they absolutely should), but there's something so tired about these women gathering around a table they'd never so much as drift passed if there wasn't a contract involved. And unless my television becomes one that is scratch and sniff so I can at least smell the copious cocktails, I might be nearing the end of my Housewives moment.
Should I sit Shiva?
Could this be it?
Am I really done?
I might be. I can't find any joy anymore in listening to Kim's trembly voice as all she adds to any conversation are anecdotes about appearing on shows that were taped before I was born. I can't watch as Kyle makes what she thinks is a witty joke that nobody with hearing is laughing at and then see her form her lips into that ironic thin smile that makes me want to rip my own eyes out. And I really can't listen to Brandi talk about all the guys she's had sex with like she's saying something incendiary, because who cares? I'd rather listen to her say that the crazy lady who lives inside her head convinced her to turn against a loyal friend and then listen to either her or the alter ego apologize unequivocally for her actions, because sometimes that's what a grown-up has to do. And while I sadly know that her vagina is now that of a six year old, the rest of her is in its forties – it's time to woman up.
Being accountable and loyal are difficult qualities to continually pull off. It's inconvenient sometimes. It's challenging. It involves searching your mind until you locate the absolute correct thing to do when you're in a moment where loyalty and accountability seem the harder road to take. It demands that you remember events accurately so you can reprimand yourself for the times you brazenly waltzed down the easy road.
But Brandi, it seems, has no whispering conscience, not even when she's not filming awkward dinner scenes in the backyard of an estate owned by people so wealthy that they could both buy and sell her before appetizers are served. Even when she sat on the sofa of Watch What Happens, she couldn't stop herself from referencing another woman's smelly crotch and saying inane things like "Bring it!" when the possibility was brought up that her ex-husband’s wife might join the show because once she discussed another woman's discharge, she ran out of vocabulary words.
Sometimes it's hard to see your own behavior in the moment. All kinds of variables cloud it: alcohol, inhibitions, fears – but this woman's behavior is televised. She can rewatch her life in the manner most of us cannot, and she still can't see how she’s coming off accurately. And yes, I get that being "unfiltered" has become her persona and that quality has led to a brand of sorts, but at what cost?
Now Lisa, the one who will not forgive Brandi for being the worst friend in the whole wide world, is not fully blameless. (In most cases, uttering something negative about Queen Vanderpump should be read as a hint that I’m being held against my will by one of the Mob Wives.) It was all kinds of messed up that Lisa told Brandi to congratulate the woman Brandi’s ex-husband had an affair with on her upcoming nuptials, but Lisa apologized for her idiotic blunder. The rest of the nonsense – the who-packed-the-tabloids-that-detailed-Kyle’s-husband’s-alleged-affair and the Lisa-makes-me-fight-her-battles accusations – just came off as silly and tacky and badly formed ammunition that only served to take the accuser down.
So here’s what I suggest: aim the anger at the right person. And think it all through before you strike. It’ll suck sometimes –there’s an excellent chance that you might have to direct some of your anger your own way, but maybe the only result in doing so will be that you’ll never make that same mistake again.
Another bit of wisdom I’ve gathered over the years? Ignore the assholes of the world. They’ll still try to be heard of course, waving their arms and shrieking for attention and striking in cowardly ways, but just shake your head at them like you would if a gnat came too close. The assholes will never truly matter.
Now, it all gets a bit more complicated when you’re stuck on a show with such a person. Straight up ignoring won’t work when you’re shoved into a yard with a woman who has tried to destroy you, but Lisa’s handling it all in a way that makes me appreciate her breezy and regal disposition all the more. And it’s easy to stay classy when you’re right, and maybe that’s what’s hindering Brandi in this scenario. She was wrong. And she will not apologize. She’s still searching to aim her blame at anybody but herself.
I wish Brandi no ill will. She’s a human being and she’s been dealt a rough hand, no matter how perfectly shaped her ass is. But when someone comes into your life who celebrates you and tries to protect you, don’t destroy the person who is really a gift. And when someone who doesn’t matter even a little bit tries to destroy you, smile with the knowledge that you’re seen as that much of a threat and have yourself another sip of champagne.