At a restaurant a couple weeks ago, a woman I know but hadn’t seen in years stopped by our table (okay, my wife and I were sitting at the bar, not at a table proper), and, after we’d gotten each other up to speed on the lives of our kids, the woman said something to the effect of, “So, it’s almost time for The Real Housewives. I can’t wait for your recaps!” I leapt from my barstool and, like Byung-hun Lee did with an origami crane in Red 2, I stabbed her in the trachea with a cocktail straw. As she lay on the floor, gasping for her last breaths, I looked down at her twitching body and said, “Don’t ever mention The Real Housewives to me again.” Then I stared down everyone else in the restaurant, waiting to see if anyone was a big enough LeeAnne Locken fan to take me on.
Now that I’ve had some time to think about my actions, I’d like to apologize for killing that woman. But you must understand. Writing about that show for 10 episodes last season traumatized me. Two hours to watch each episode (because I compulsively pause it to faithfully transcribe dialogue), then four hours or so to write each recap. I spent 60 hours of my life thinking about The Real Housewives. I am not a better person for it.
God gives us only so much time on this planet to better ourselves and serve our brothers and sisters. Then God brings such unrelenting calamity to your house (rotting subfloor in the downstairs bathrooms, leaky roof, leaky kitchen faucet that wrecks backsplash, haywire irrigation system) that you curse his name and he turns you into a pillar of salt. Or some guy you haven’t seen in a long time kills with you a straw. Point being: with time being such a precious commodity, why waste it on The Real Housewives, even if the cast this season will be joined by D’Andra Simmons and Kameron Westcott, two white socialites who are so rich that they don’t get grief for having African-American first names? You know?
Now. Having said all that, maybe I can be talked into it. Give it your best shot.