Housewives of Beverly Hillbillies
Recently I began watching Housewives of Beverly Hills, a TV reality show depicting the trials and tribulations of the aforementioned title.
It turns out the show is a metaphoric train wreck that I can’t stop watching, so my DVR is set to record it in case I’m busy doing something productive like grocery shopping or saving a life.
It’s not something I’m proud of, necessarily, but I am acknowledging and owning it much like Dr. Drew from Celebrity Rehab preaches each week on his realty show.
I’ve sampled other reality TV shows like Dog the Bounty Hunter, Jersey Shores,The Duggers (19 and Counting or whatever), and anything on MTV. All these shows helped me with were finding the mental tools required to discourage myself from poking out my own eyes.
Now that I think of it, somewhere around 95 percent of programming on TV today may just be reality-based; and the remaining would include the news, political commentary and old westerns.
But I digress.
I had watched a few episodes of Housewives of Beverly Hills previous to last weekend. But I was sitting at the hospital all weekend with a loved one (she’s doing fine, thank you) and the only company I had was a TV and a Housewives of Beverly Hills marathon.
To give you a thumbnail sketch of the show, it features six women who have vaseline-covered grips on reality and more money than collagen, at least for now.
By hour 10 of the marathon, I finally took the time to go to bathroom and paused for a moment to think about my own group of friends and how we are similar to the ladies on the show.
What I came up with was, apart from the fact that one of us has a small dog, there are no similarities.
A typical day in the life of Housewives of Beverly Hills looks something like this: Wake up thinking about the girls night out you are going to that evening with women you have a 98 percent chance of fighting with. Call one of the women to talk nasty about the others.
Get out of bed.
Spend the day planning another party for next month, then call and invite the five ladies you just said ugly things about.
Call your stylist, psychic and hairdresser to come to your house and get you ready for your casual girls night. During this, make sure your husband follows you around while carrying anywhere from one to three dogs, each roughly the size of a dinner roll.
Put on high heels that exceed four inches, whether you are wearing a moo-moo, cut-offs or an evening gown. This is a must.
Kiss your dog on the mouth and nod at your husband when you leave for the party in the limosine with four of your friends.
Upon arrival at the party, give the obigatory round of European double-air kisses to everyone there and grab your martini glass that is roughly the size of an Olive Garden salad bowl.
Once there, you are free to fight with your friends for the rest of the night, and eat a meal prepared by a personal chef.
Repeat during the next episode.
It’s a brilliant formula.
To be fair, I finally decided that one of the ladies on the show has enough collagen in her upper lip to save the entire starboard side of the Titanic, which is what makes the ginormous martini glass necessary. A high-ball glass simply wouldn’t work.
This scenario is juxtaposed with what my girls night out looks like.
I call Janice that morning with a “Woo-hoo! Tonight is girl’s night”” to which she always responds, “Are we there yet?”
If it’s summer, we show up at Janice’s after a long day at work in flip flops with no makeup and our hair in a pony tail, because she has a swimming pool.
We bring our own food, which usually includes buffalo wings from a local restaurant, Little Smokies in barbecue sauce, chips and dips and the occasional Moon Pie. Then we compare our insulated coozies, which hold our beverages.
At no time during the day do our husbands follow us around carrying a small dog, or even a large dog, and none of us has seen our hair stylist that day unless it was time for our six-week trim.
We eat, laugh, and float in the pool then go home and pet the dog and kiss our husbands on the mouth. An even more brilliant formula.
Where are the camera crews, darling?