I spent some time last night scrolling through the roster of recorded shows on our DVR, all the while bitching at Sophia over the amount of storage space she’d hogged taping episodes from every “Real Housewives” series in existence. In exasperation I asked her: “Honey, why must you watch the shows from every frigging city that trots out a group of rich, self-centered, silicone-enhanced bimbos? Can’t you pick one set of tarts and leave space on the DVR for something even minutely less inane?”
Sophia gave me the old raised eyebrow, as well as “the finger,” before responding: “They’re not ‘inane;’ they’re entertaining. And no, I won’t choose just one.”
I knew that tone all too well. It’s the one I called (but only to myself): I don’t care how little sense I’m making now; I intend to dig my heals in, irrational or not; I’m probably pre-menstrual!
Though recognizing it as a can’t-win argument, I couldn’t resist further comment: “How can you not see, every one of those shows is the same? Instead of calling them “The Real Housewives,” the producers should name them ‘Problems of the Rich and Wannabe-Famous, which the Average Joe Can’t Relate to, and also Doesn’t Give Two Shits About.’ If they want to depict real housewives, they should air the ‘Real Ghetto Housewives,’ or the ‘Real Housewives of Trailertown,’ or even the ‘Real Housewives of the Aryan Nation.’ Admit it, wouldn’t you rather see a show featuring a Crack Ho arguing with her illegitimate teenage son after he busts a cap in someone’s ass? And did he also forget to buy formula for his baby, whose name is unpronounceable in any of seven different languages? You betcha!”
I won’t repeat what Sophia called me then (mostly because I don’t know how to spell it, and I’m also not a hundred percent sure what it means). Suffice it to say, she did not compliment my insightful observations.
Facing defeat, I attempted to salvage a compromise: “Look, aren’t there a bunch of episodes here you’ve already watched? At the least, can you learn how to use the erase button and start deleting the shows after you’ve seen them?”
That’s when my wife told me she knew perfectly well how to use the erase button, “now” … after having accidentally deleted an entire group of titles while trying to make room for the Housewife offerings. Which titles? Only the entire set of classic hockey games I’d recorded over the past six months, intending them to tide me over until the NHL season begins again next fall! Though not my finest moment, my reflexive response to this casual admission included a number of choice words I won’t repeat (and not merely because I don’t know how to spell them and don’t know exactly what they mean).
The “Real Housewives” I’d rather see