Guilty Pleasures

We all have them.  My husband is a lover of bubble gum pop.  I will tell you, there is nothing funnier than listening to him sing all the words to a Lady Gaga tune at the top of his lungs, while driving his very manly truck down the freeway.  It’s one of the reasons I love him. 

I have one too – guilty pleasure, that is.  The Real Housewives of (insert random city here).

Snicker away.  I’m not ashamed.  I’ll tell you why.

I’ve been a vocal opponent of “reality” television’s hostile take over of primetime scheduling for a very long time – since it’s onset in the early part of the last decade.  I would much rather go skinny dipping in a tank of hungry sharks than lower myself to the level of watching grown people eat bugs, sing bad karaoke or strategically sabotage each other all in the name of prize money.  Give me a well written drama or situation comedy or even a news magazine show highlighting a gruesome murder and I’m a happy girl.  Of course, every fall they give me exactly what I want only to yank it away ten episodes in and replace it with some mind-numbingly stupid game show or yet another version of the Bachelor/Bachelorette – because one’s true love can always be found by putting twenty men (or women) in a house together and making them compete for your affection – oh and a rose.  Absolutely, a sure-fire way to find your soul mate. 

The fact that I am now a full-fledged Real Housewives junkie is a testament to the power of a flu-like illness.  About two years ago, I was lying in bed in a fever induced fog, flipping channels.  I blame the fact that I’m not an accomplished napper for the ease in which I was sucked into this franchise.  If I’d been asleep, like any normal person should have been, I would not have stumbled upon a Housewives marathon.  But I wasn’t and I did.  I don’t remember which city it was and it really doesn’t matter.  What I do remember is being completely mesmerized by the train wreck playing out before me on the screen.  It was absolutely breathtaking.  These women’s antics – all unscripted, of course (wink-wink) – were the funniest thing I’d ever witnessed on television.  I don’t think I have ever laughed so hard in my life.  I watched for two days straight and from that moment on I was hooked.

Now, two years later, there seems to been an endless stream of Housewives to choose from, for your viewing pleasure.  Just as one ends, another begins.  Right now, New York and New Jersey – my favorites by far. Why, you ask?  Could it be Ramona S’s crazy eyes and demands for cases of Pinot Grigio?  Teresa G.’s table flipping temper or her flair for um…fashion? Caroline M.’s voice of reason and sage advise?  Jill Z’s proclamations that “that’s just not who I am” (but she really is)? The Countess’ belief that using the word “darling” and dropping the names of European “royalty” we’ve never heard of makes you classy?  Or maybe it’s Dina M’s adorable Grandma Wrinkles?

I can’t decide.  It’s all so fabulous.

These women are like caricatures to me.  I equate them to characters I might find in saucy novel.  Not real housewives by any stretch of the imagination.  But, really, would a television show about real, honest to goodness housewives be any fun?  I think not.  I was a housewife once.  Nothing remotely interesting about it.  Unless you want to chronicle the number of times I was poo’ed on, puked on, or walked around in a sleep deprived trance.  I once put a carton of milk in the cupboard instead of the fridge and didn’t notice for several hours.  Funny?  Perhaps.  Television worthy? No.

Judge me how you will.  I care not of your opinion of my viewing choices.  I’m unashamed at my obsession with the manufactured adventures of these synthetic women.  They make me laugh.  Out loud.  Until I wanna pee myself.  It’s great.  Now, I ask you – can Big Brother do that for you?

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