Pour Me Another Tall Glass of Real Housewives of New York City, Sorry Self

Dear Weak, Feeble-Minded Self,**

You are disgusting.

You were once the recipient of a scholarship to a 4 year, somewhat highly regarded university. A few years back you solved 3/4 of the NY Times Sunday Crossword puzzle mostly by yourself. You easily understand the difference and proper usage of there, their and they're AND two, too and to. And yet each Tuesday night, there you smugly sit, diet coke in hand and tivo remote nearby (for constant instant replaying) enthralled in yet another episode of The Real Housewives of New York City.

If you could inject episodes of this show into your veins, dear stupid, stupid Self, I fear you might become a junkie. You've taken to watching eps two or three times each, and your growing knowledge base about these women is likely sufficient grounds for a restraining order.

Self, you cannot keep sitting around fantasizing about meeting the housewives in person and letting loose with a flurry of pushy questions, high-and-mighty comments and snarky observations. It ain't gonna happen. Besides, what on Earth would you say!?

Alex: First of all, naming your son Francois did NOT work. He doesn't want to fucking speak French! (in spite of his stupid name which will, sadly, lock up future daily ass-kickings at school...if he ever gets into one). Save the money from one of your hideo-tastic, ill-fitting dresses and buy yourself a clue. Second of all, get a freakin haircut, get o-v-e-r yourself, buy your husband Simon a rainbow flag, and for the love of Christ, please get your teeth fixed.

Francois: It's not your fault. Stick your fingers in your ears, close your eyes, and lock yourself in your bedroom until you are old enough to ride the subway by yourself and escape from your parents desperately blinding social climb into the wannabe wasteland of NYC sycophants and hangers on. Or, Plan B: see if Tinsley Mortimer will adopt you (hot diggity DAMN would that piss your parents off!)

Johan: It's not your fault either. SEE FRANCOIS'S ADVICE ABOVE

LuAnn: Is your kitchen seriously that tiny!? Please tell me they are shooting Rosie's maid's quarters out back. Also, how totally crazy it that you are a Countess and your name is LUANN!? I mean, a waitress, OK. A nail technician, no problemo...but a Countess!? And this, dear Countess LUANN, is the reason that Bethenny didn't quite realize that you needed to be formally introduced like the Queen of freakin' England. Sheesh.

Jill: Is there anything I can do or say to convince you to take me out to lunch? I need a "connectah" like you in my life pronto (eim fruhm the fyve towns too!). Also, your gay boyfriend, (you know, the one who you think is dripping with taste) has AB-solutely none. He's bringing you down...big time.

Ramona: You might want to try pointing at things with your fingers rather than your eyeballs (I can't even imitate you for more than 15 seconds without straining my peepers). The daily rotation of hunky crosses around your neck are cringe worthy. Also, listen to your daughter; she's always right and has more sense than anyone else on the whole damn show.

Bethenny: You should seriously wear a bikini more often--you've got a sick bod (but that white dress you wore in Miami was Whore-endous. Burn it). Also, stop drinking so much...it's slightly distracting from your whole organic chef/health nut persona. In summary: I'm totally desperate to be your BFF. Call me.

Simon Van Kempen: [insert deep, full-bodied sigh] Oh forget it.

[Just read the freakin McCord Van Kempen family website--there is nothing that I could really say here that will do more for the cause of bringing to light his epic douche-i-ness than this].

And yes, Simon...in answer to your question you are "hopelessly gauche."

Wake up Self...you're dreaming again.

Don't eventhinkaboutit,
Mi

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