I'm not especially proud of this, but I've watched nearly every show in Bravo's Real Housewives "franchise." I always felt a little dirty afterwards, that is, until I discovered Richard Lawson, Gawker's beyond brilliant (and most-read) 20-something chronicler of the ladies who louche. Richard's recaps of each episode are so much a million times better than the actual show.
Jersey Girls: (l-r) Jacqueline, Theresa, Danielle, Dina and Caroline.
Richard, Richard, how to sum up your brilliance? You are Marcel Proust combined with David Foster Wallace, William Faulkner crossed with Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Nora Ephron dusted with Virginia Woolf. There really is no other way to make my point than to give my readers a sample of your awesome literary chops.
The Real Housewives of New York City: (l-r) Bethenny Frankel, Kelly BenSimon, Ramona Singer, Jill Zarin, Countess LuAnn DeLesseps, Alex McCord.
Richard on the RHofNYC:
Meanwhile at the Hamptons chateau that Ramona has fashioned out of
waffles and spirit gum, she and her basically-a-hired-homosexual
husband languished in their swimming pool and Ramona sang old sea
shanties, hoping that her long lost beloved Captain Redbeard would
return to her. She stayed there all evening, floating around, kelp and
barnacles slowly consuming her.
Back at the brambles, Alex and Simon were bragging about a large
inflatable pool that they bought and put in their broken glass-filled
horrid backyard. So much better than the Hamptons, they cooed
needlessly. Simon lay there, like the king of absolutely nothing, all
night, barnacles and kelp avoiding him at all costs.
Ol' Crackerjacks LuAnn invited Bethenny to lunch on the pretension
of talking to her about some silly cancer thing. In actuality, she
wanted to brag about her book deal. Yes, someone has actually put their
head down on their desk and put their hand out, asking for money, and
agreed to publish Class with the Countess, a memoir cum
travelogue cum etiquette handbook cum cumstain that Crackerjacks has
written in her head bone, drawing on her vast experience writing
articles for Hamptons Magazine (exactly as real as Social Life).
Bethenny, bless her, was sort of horrified that Crackerjacks continues
to exploit her bullhockey Countess status. "Are you classy because
you're a countess?" she asked, innocently. Crackerjacks said "No, you
know, I'm American Indian." By way of... explanation? She then added
that her Indian name was Keeps Elbows Off Table. Which isn't true. Her
'Indian name' is actually Crackerjacks O'Reardon, a nom de plume she
used back in her days of scuffling around on a creaking wooden stage,
disrobing for out-of-work coal miners at the Canary Club, that place
just off the interstate, during the late-morning shift. "Go
Crackerjacks! It's your birthday!" she would bellow to herself,
wheezing and farting, her Capri cigarette dangling off her lip, the
muted sounds of Joe Cocker rasping "Love lifts us up where we
belong..." coming lilting from the jukebox, a few coughs, a gust of
wind. Creak. Creak. "Go Crackerjacks..." Creeeeak.
Richard on the RHofNJ:
Teresa
is also a treat because she has three daughters. Their names are
Milano, Asti Spumante, and Prosciutto Royale and they are all beautiful
talented little bundles of vicariousness. Teresa claims that she is not
a stage mother, no way bucko. She just likes to make her six-year-old
daughter, Risotto, pose in sexy rapstress poses and would like her to
have an acting and singing and dancing and modeling agent in New York
City. Because, you know, the little fucker is just plain talented. And
there's no denying that. Why fight the spotlight, you know? You can't.
You just can't fight the spotlight.
Teresa is very close to two horrible sisters, one named Dina, the
other named Caroline. (Isn't that name a little suspicious? What kind
of self-respecting Eyetalian is named Caroline?) These two gals are
basically mobbed up, which makes me scared to write about them, but I
must be strong in my journalistic integrity. I'm basically Veronica
Guerin you guys. Which means I'm one step closer to my life's goal of
having Cate Blanchett play me in a movie. Anyway. The Sisters
Rosensweigissimo. Dina is blonde and prettyish in that sort of
mysterious middle-aged suburban lady way—there's something
aesthetically pleasing about her whole appearance but when you look at
individual features to try and find the source, you're only met with
ugliness. The strange protruding lips, the tired wine-soaked eyes, the
floppy mass of hair. I guess she's a classic full-on Monet, much like
Amber. Best not to inspect too closely.
Dina is also unpleasant and rude, and makes constant, awful
references to her enormous bubbies, creations out of a William Pène du
Bois novel. She has children, I can't really remember how many, but
there's only one important one. Her name is Briannica or Allybeth or
Courtniffani or something and she is about twelve years old and has
little round glasses and a Wendy's hairdo and you instantly feel bad
for her when you see her. But then she opens her mouth! And out tumbles
the binky-bonk cadence and word garbage of a horrid New Jersey woman
twice her age and you just put your head in your hands and shudder and
feel suddenly sorry for the Skidmore class of 2019. Dina and Ashlissa
went to play tennis but Dina couldn't play because her bubbies were too
big and she couldn't take them off because she forgot their special
carrying case back at the house so Morganriley was upset and said "Next
time wear two sports bras!" Poor dear. The same poor dear wants to have
a nanny that will call her "your majesty" and you put your head in your
hands and feel suddenly sorry for that Filipino kid who's moving here
in 2022 to be "adopted" and oh sleeping in the broom closet isn't so
bad, if anyone asks, tell them you're an exchange student who cleans to
earn a little extra pocket money.
The other sister is Caroline, who I will refer to from now on as
Strega Nona (perhaps Nona for short). Strega Nona has a little pixie
haircut and wild beady features and she has two overgrown sons who have
definitely pumped a fist or two. There is Christopher, a 19-year-old
wiseacre who wants to see bare bubbies when he's getting his car
cleaned. He's a "get rich quick" type-a guy, Dina explains to us
knowingly, because, I guess, when you hang out in made-up towns in New
Jersey and everyone lives in prefab mansions you probably know a lot of
"get rich quick" type-a guys. I don't know any. I'm just putting that
out there. Christopher looks a bit like an Italian Tintin, though not
nearly as latently homosexual as my favorite Belgian adventurer. And
then there's Albie. Ohhh Albie. He of the million-watt smile and breezy
confidence. Albie is the 22-year-old golden boy of the family, the only
one going to college (and now law school), beloved by the ladies,
creepily flirted with by Strega Nona's ancient friends. As Nona herself
isn't all that interesting yet, I'm betting that there will be many
high jinx with Chrissy and Albie. Perhaps Captain Haddock will be
allowed to tag along.
There is also Jacqueline, who is sad and pompadoured. She's a "Vegas
girl," which means she's a foundling child, left to sizzle in the
desert but rescued by the Franciscan monks who live in the Bellagio.
Then she was married off to Dina and Strega Nona's brother and moved to
New Jersey. But not before giving birth to a teenage girl. So the
family is transplanted here and Jacqueline has fit in well, bossed
around by her sisters-in-law, referred to chillingly as like the cool
mom from Mean Girls by her own oblivious daughter, who seems
to have failed to grasp that Amy Poehler is a comedienne who was deftly
parodying a certain kind of modern American maternal horrorshow. Isn't
it terrifying how many children, as evidenced by all these iterations
of Housewives, are being raised terribly in this country? And
these are the rich kids! The poor ones will be eating out of garbage
cans and living in the woods by 2019. Good luck with the townies,
Skidmore grads.
Jacqueline is the only one who is friends with Garbanzo, a
non-Italian woman who I believe was a face double for Pizza the Hut in Spaceballs.
I kid, I kid. Her name is Danielle and she is fit as a fiddle and has
three or seven or forty-six children, all of whom are named Primavera,
even though, again, Danielle is not Italian. I think she might be
Croatian-Dutch, or maybe Albanian-Kiwi. It's hard to tell. Garbanzo has
made every effort possible to fashion herself in the style of the
Romans she mingles with, down to the straw-like wig and eyelid
implants. The entire state of New Jersey needs to put cucumbers over
its eyes and take a nap. Y'all bitches look tired. Damn, Gina.
Enjoy Richard's latest RHofNJ recap. If you feel bad about the brain cells you are wasting watching this show, just read it. Someday you will thank me. :-)