Season 9 of the Real Housewives Orange County Premiered: Did Tamra Judge Not Know a Plumeria from an STD?
(Here’s a word from one of our sponsors: No, No, No, No, No, No! This isn’t the new one as that, along with visions of sugar plum fairies, is yet to come–and it will! I’m just uploading my articles onto this blog–but, seriously, who could ever tell the difference? Meghan, mayhaps?)
What is there to say by now about this soggy fruit salad that’s the Real OC? Mr. Cohen’s very first, remains my least favorite of The Real Housewives Franchise. Don’t know about you, but I wasn’t riveted last night, although I remain compelled to at least pretend-watch while polishing my nails after biting them first. I feel that there’s no need to expand on that, as we can agree to hold this truth to be self-evident, while I tell you about Heather and her new abode, instead.
We find our miss Uber-Prissess (that’s a made up word I just concocted to fool myself into staying awake) praising the quaintness of her temporary rental house because it’s nothing like a bone chilling mausoleum nor the Louvre, as that was her old house which they sold for a killing. Of course, this being in the post-Mc-Mansion-era, she and her brow beaten hubby are building a Double-Whopper-with-Cheese-Whiz, instead. Nuf-said, as NeNe might chime in to our rescue with a decidedly conclusive “plop” sound.
I can’t tell you enough how I abhor all the faux Tuscany decor, faux boobs, faux tans, faux orchids in speckled-faux-plastic-china pots and all the unpardonable faux pas of the over-bleached straw extensions in both texture and color that are signature trademark of—and all so enviable within— this bunch. Yet, somehow, I must find the strength. How else can I continue to reveal that in Heather’s soon-to-be Faux Modern Museum of Horrors, she wants a beauty salon and a Scooby Doo Room? That’s a room with a mysterious, hidden door to the unknown. I know our determinate Uberprissess will succeed, because she wears the smarty pants in the family, so let’s sincerely hope that she mistakes one room for the other and ends up with an 80’s perm headed for a galaxy far, far away.
Before we tune out, let’s mention in mere passing—or jest— new Housefrau Shannon, of the Defunct I Magnins of County Corck-It, that she and I fondly recollect. I once had a coveted olive green Jackie-Before-The-O raw silk suit that just screamed for a pill box hat that I scored in a thrift shop in Reseda back in ’88 that was an I Magnin original. Like Shannon, I still mourn that now Defunct I Magnin suit stuff.
But that isn’t all we share. It worries me to admit, that we share another common bond and that is the fact that the we can only speak into our cell phone from the safety of another room while wearing a Hazmet suit, because we “don’t want to radiate our brains out”, as Shannon so poetically describes.
There’s another housewife whose existence entirely escapes me and a premature chick-trip to Hawaii where nothing worth mentioning happens except that one of our brainy Femmebots—-was it Vicky of The Horton-Hears-A-Woo-Whos or Tamra of the Tammie-Tell-Me-Nots—- might have implied that she didn’t know a plumeria from an STD. And that, my duhhlings, announces that we’re overdo for a run out the door to catch the total eclipse of the moon, instead, and file this boo-boo in that overstuffed folder of wasted hours we can never get back.