My Real Housewives obsession has admittedly taken a nosedive as of late. I know, a tragedy. I never thought I’d utter these words, but I think the series has run its course. These women are just too ridiculous. Do people like this exist? Really? If so, I sure hope I never meet them. They bring new lows to the phrase, “With friends like these…”
I’ll tell you one thing, if any of my friends ever tried to double air kiss me, or tell me that she simply didn’t care about my feelings, or even considered the notion that I’d started hemorrhaging out of my nether regions and had to be rushed to the hospital just to ruin her “fashion show,” a little curb-kicking party would most definitely ensue. (Of course, I would probably have someone else do the kicking so as not to scuff my Louboutins, which I would obviously have if I was a Real housewife—I wouldn’t be able to afford them, but I’d most definitely have them.) But, then again, these women aren’t really friends. They’re characters.
And being that they’re characters, they do still provide some enjoyable entertainment. One thing that I particularly enjoy is that, even in the midst of a vein-busting, hands-flailing, hotheaded, Italian fight, they still refer to each other by their nicknames.
For instance, in an altercation with his sister Teresa, little Joe Gorga (and I do mean little; he makes the hobbits look like NBA stars) screamed at her to mind her own business or respect his wife or something, but he ended it with “Tre” (her nickname).
My favorite, though, happened as Teresa stood talking to her cousin Kathy. Everything seemed relatively normal until, suddenly, someone flipped Teresa's Charlie Sheen (aka “crazy”) switch. There she stood in her little black dress, five-inch platform heels, hair perfectly placed, makeup impeccable, and all of a sudden, her hands started going; her bracelets started clanging; the wrinkles on her Botoxed, virtually non-existent forehead were suddenly visible. Her head was bopping, her eyes were popping, and then she yelled, “Don’t even go there, Kath!”
My favorite, though, happened as Teresa stood talking to her cousin Kathy. Everything seemed relatively normal until, suddenly, someone flipped Teresa's Charlie Sheen (aka “crazy”) switch. There she stood in her little black dress, five-inch platform heels, hair perfectly placed, makeup impeccable, and all of a sudden, her hands started going; her bracelets started clanging; the wrinkles on her Botoxed, virtually non-existent forehead were suddenly visible. Her head was bopping, her eyes were popping, and then she yelled, “Don’t even go there, Kath!”
Kath. Not “Kathy.” Not “you inconsiderate cow.” Not “you lying sack of manure.” No. Kath.
To me, this is like screaming, “You’re a piece of crap, Lovie Bear!” or “You’re a dirty drunk and a worthless human being, Kitten!”
Granted, I’m not Italian, but it just strikes me as odd.
Of course, I guess the oddest thing would be if they ever did something normal.
