On Kangaroos & Klums: Heidi, That Is.

Listen, I'm going to be honest.

Despite my capital L love for Tim Gunn, I haven't watched Project Runway since it moved to Lifetime.    I know I'm in one half of the show's target demographic- straight girls who love gay men- and am a staunch lover of their other demographic- gay men.

I just couldn't get behind the move to a different network.  Bravo is all about being (or thinking) you're young.  It's flashy.  It's fun.  It's sassy.  It's tragic in that over the top "Should-I-wear-an-Ice-Capades-outfit-to-the-club?  OMG! No-you-shouldn't-because-I-would-have-to-change" way.

Lifetime is just tragic, like sad tragic.  As in "I-don't-know-if-I-can-put-on-clothes-today-but-I've been-wearing-this-outfit-and haven't-taken-a-shower-in-a-week.  Ok-two-weeks" way.

But I digress.

Yesterday, I was walking to meet a friend for dinner who did I happen to see on the side of a bus but HK.  It's the latest advert for the new season of Project Runway and it looks a little something like this:

That's a tall drink of, well, not exactly water...

HK has a diamond for a nipple.  I can never compete.

My first thought was: Why is HK in her underwear on the side of the bus?

My second: Wait, has the show become so gimmicky that it's a full season of underwear designs.  Tragic...Lifetime tragic.

My third: Oh, right.  Now that HK isn't married to Seal and perpetually knocked-up like a kangaroo, I guess that makes it ok to be in you underwear on the side of a bus.  Way to stick it to Seal.  Their children must be so proud.  

My fourth (this morning as I was looking for the picture on the internet): this blog has an excellent point- HK does look like she's going to chop off a nipple.

My fifth:  I must do more research on Kangaroos.  They will be our overloards one day.  Seriously, people.  Three different lady-bits chambers for babies.  We are doomed as a species.

A Judgment-Scented Potpourri

In case you haven’t heard, I love me some Real Housewives; although, as I’ve mentioned before, my enjoyment of the show is dropping faster than Snooki after a night out at the Shore—the Jersey Shore, that is (a show I would like to go on the record as saying I do NOT watch).

The current cast of the original Housewives series, Orange County. I know what you're thinking: They all look so natural!

I find myself watching the horror on screen between the cracks of my fingers, much like I watch scary movies. And let’s be honest, there’s not much difference between a Real Housewives horror and a Wes Craven horror, although Ghostface is slightly less offensive and terrifying than some of the Housewives. Maybe these women should look into investing in a mask or two; $5 is a small price to pay to hide terrible plastic surgery and to stop scaring small children.

But I digress…

What really gets me about these shows is when, during an interview, the women are asked a question that they deem too personal and respond with, “That’s private” or “This is my personal life.” I’m sorry, but don’t you lose the right to your personal life when you sign on for a reality show? In my opinion, the minute you sign on the dotted line, your personal life becomes public; you trade your privacy for that D-list celebrity status you so desperately want.

So, sorry, ladies, but your privacy is long gone—just like your self-respect. 

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In case you haven’t heard, Aaron Rodgers is, for the most part, a pretty good quarterback (although, if you watched the Packers first and only playoff game this season, you may not believe me). He’s the 2011 league MVP and star of those irritating State Farm “Discount Double Check” commercials—yeah, you know the ones. He is not, however, a homosexual. Allegedly.

I was willing to believe he was cut with a straight edge in a straight line from a straight cloth, but after seeing this picture he took at the pre-Super Bowl Playboy party with Shaquille O’Neal, I’m not so sure. 

Shaq and A-Rod

I can’t remember ever seeing another heterosexual man rest his hand ever so gently on the thigh of another man. I’m not saying it doesn’t happen; I’m just saying this is one of those things that makes you go “hmm.”

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In case you haven’t heard, former ATG Boyfriend Johnny Depp may have ended his 14-year relationship with the mother of his two children, Vanessa Paradis. Or, more specifically, she ended the relationship with him. Of course, there’s been no official confirmation and Ms. Paradis has, in fact, denied it; but as we’ve learned with Nick and Jessica and Demi and Ashton (among others), where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire...eventually. And in this case, it makes me kind of sad. As much as I love the Depp, I was kind of rooting for these two.

Johnny and Vanessa faking their way through it.

It’s rumored that the reason for the split is none other than the infamous man-stealer and humanitarian, Angelina Jolie. If you remember, Depp and Jolie starred together in the widely-panned film, The Tourist, and even during production there were rumblings that Paradis was unhappy with her lover’s costar. Can’t say that I blame her, given the leggy mom’s history of wooing costars, but seriously, Angelina has 6 kids and Brad Pitt. Where would she find the time or energy to steal yet another man?

Of course, considering neither Depp nor Pitt has aged particularly well, maybe it’s true; maybe Jolie just can’t help herself when in the company of aging pretty boys. That said, Luke Perry’s girlfriend better watch her back. And her man.

If I Was a Rich Girl

I have been incredibly blessed in recent months to be surrounded by a wonderfully supportive group of friends and family as I try to work through my reality-TV addiction. But, of course, there will always be people who are more than willing to slip me a shot of Survivor or a snort of Top Chef and then I’m right back where I started. My most recent relapse occurred last week in the great state of Maryland, where I was introduced (by an enabling family member) to a new waste of time: Bachelor Pad. 

The Lawyer Barbies and Doctor Kens of Bachelor Pad

 

Have you seen this? I don’t watch The Bachelor or Bachelorette (I know, shocking that there are reality shows that I can’t actually tolerate) and therefore found no use for the aptly named Bachelor Pad. But what else is there to do on a rainy, cold Monday evening?

I actually kept my superior attitude -- holding fast to the belief that, although I’m more than happy to waste hours on the Housewives, I would never be so desperate as to give even a second of my time to the Bachelor or any of its shoot-offs -- for about 30 seconds. I don’t think they’d even finished recapping the previous week’s episode and I’d already thrown aside the project I’d been intending to work on, giving my full, awed attention to the whining and backstabbing in front of me.

There were two things that struck me most about this show: first, the overwhelming number of synthetically altered bodies all in one place. I had no idea the plethora of things that a woman (or man – I’m looking at you, Jake Pavelka) could have nipped, tucked, injected, plucked, shaved, implanted, waxed, plumped-up, or plumped down. This show really is an educational experience. Maybe they’ll start rerunning it on PBS, right after Sesame Street.

The second thing I noticed was that these people are idiots. I mean, it stands to reason that if you attempt to make yourself resemble Barbie in every possible way, your brain isn’t far to follow; and let’s be honest, Lawyer Barbie is more Elle Woods than Marcia Clark.

It could be argued that by simply allowing themselves to be filmed for the show, they’ve displayed a severe lack of intelligence – or, at the very least, judgment – but what struck me even more is how absolutely uninformed they were about how much (or how little) money they could potentially win.

They all had grand ideas of how to spend the prize money, pledging to buy their moms a house, their dads a car, and the entire country of Indonesia, all with their $15K winnings. (It was actually more like $125K, but still…) Note to the Barbies and Kens of Bachelor Pad: just because it sounds like a lot of money, doesn’t mean it actually is a lot of money – or that it will allow you to buy a multitude of high-priced items. It's not 1946. A hundred thousand dollars does not a millionaire make. 

Maybe if we’re lucky, they’ll take $10 of those winnings and buy themselves a clue.

It May Glitter, but It Sure Ain't Gold

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!”

 

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.

Second Season Curse?

As an admitted reality TV addict, for which there is apparently no 12-step program (at least that’s what the guy at the AA meeting told me when I tried to crash it), I watch a lot of fame-hungry people engage in a lot of questionable, yet highly entertaining, behavior.

One of my favorite train wrecks is the Real Housewives series on Bravo (I’ll pause while you judge me), which follows different groups of “ladies” from areas around the country who are, ironically, neither real nor housewives. Unfortunately, many of these women ruin my enjoyable viewing experience by falling prey to the “Second Season Curse.” 

The curse hits when the women make the mistake of reading their own positive press, and come to the second season with egos too big to fit through the door of their bank-owned homes. Many, many Housewives are victims of said curse, bringing a diva attitude and over-the-top drama, in an effort to increase their camera time. And the latest Housewife to have fallen victim is, apparently, Sonja Tremont-Morgan of New York City.

As her name implies, she was once married to a much-older Morgan heir, whom I’m sure she married solely for love. Now, however, she’s a divorced mother of one, living on the Upper East Side or West Side or some side of Manhattan, in a townhome she can’t afford, that sports its very own elevator (which she also can't afford).

If you’re familiar with the series, you know that last season Sonja was the voice of reason among the women (although, in all fairness, it doesn’t take much to sound reasonable among this bunch; “Satchels of gold” anyone?). But this season, it seems she may have finally drunk from the crazy Kool-Aid. It was inevitable, I suppose. She’s done a lot of ridiculous stuff, but the icing on the cake was this past week when she showed up to her own costume party missing half her costume. She mingled, she schmoozed, and then she said, (paraphrasing) “Oh my, I’ve forgotten my petticoat” and then conveniently bent over to show just how much petticoat she’d forgotten. 

 

She claimed the wardrobe malfunction was just a giant brain fart, but, speaking as someone who’s admittedly never forgotten an essential undergarment, but who still thinks she would realize her bottom half was missing, wouldn’t you feel a little breeze? Wouldn’t you, at some point, realize your hindquarters were sticking to the car’s seat or the dining-room chair or something?! The only reasonable answer is yes, which means, she was either too drunk to notice or is just that desperate for attention (i.e. camera time). I’d bet it’s most likely what’s behind door #2, but either way, it’s pretty sad.

Hopefully for Sonja, her third season – if she gets one – will re-find her charm.