Not what I thought it would be like, but decently enjoyable. Maybe I just have a problem calling such a sexy lad like Ewan McGregor “Bob”.

We accept you, one of us. I find this incredibly amazmical (amazing + magical).

Has anyone seen the movie Freaks before?

What’s that you say? Don’t know much about the Real Housewives? Been living under a rock or having too much of a life? Well then fix yourself a drink, get comfortable and let me tell you a little somethin’ about these ladies.

Obviously, RHOC is the first in the highly popular Real Housewives franchise. These ‘housewives’ are pretty impressive because they all live in gated communities in THE OC! Yup, the wealthy little suburbia just south of the bedazzled pit-stain of Los Angeles. They bicker and say mean, catty things and jiggle their bosoms around town like they freaking own the place… and well, it somehow it makes for good tv (don’t even ask me how I define ‘good’ tv, because it varies with each program).

Anyway, RHOC returned last night with the usual suspects AND some very interesting (to me, DON’T JUDGE) revelations. Here’s a rundown of what’s been happenin’ with these ladies who lunch and booze (not as much as the ones in Atlanta, though) and bitch:

Vicki: The very important insurance agent who, in previous seasons, has spent a lot of energy berating her nice, loving husband, Don (even telling us, at one point, that he doesn’t fill her “love tank” anymore), in between running some big awesome company and raising a couple of bratty kids. She’s the Big Kahuna of these women – a self-made, successful, control freak of a woman. She claims she’s not big on the drama but, HEY, she signed up to be on the REAL HOUSEWIVES. It’s obvious she loves it, what with her under-the-breath gossip bombshells and condescending attitude to certain other housewives.

My utter disdain for Vicki was somewhat softened this evening due to her rekindled relationship with her husband. Hold onto your hats, friends, because you will never guess what they did to pull that fast one on us. They worked through their problems. Um, amazing, I didn’t even know that type of thing existed anymore (stupid J&K). I was actually quite surprised that Vicki got off her high horse (she kind of reminds me of one – hope Don doesn’t get arrested for buggery) and made it a goal to fix her marriage. Kudos, Vicki, but only new episodes will tell if you stick to your word.

I should also mention that Vicki was recently interviewed by the greatest recapper of ALL TIME and she COMPLETELY blew it, coming off as a TOTAL B who gave snotty answers about being too busy and important to pay attention to silly little blogs and how she would never take the time to read them (they’re written by people who lack real lives, apparently). Here, judge her for yourself. Her ‘tude does NOT help her case for this season.

Jeana: The ex-wife of a jerk baseball player. She finally left him in the second or third season, but still struggles with self-image (she’s the most ‘voluptuous’ of the bunch) and is stuck in this whole “will I ever find someone to love me?” phase. I always liked her until last season, when her nonstop pity parties about her weight and men and her ex husband started to get a little repetitive and about as fun as a Law & Order: SVU murder (not the show, the actual crime – the show is PHENOMENAL). I mean I really hope she DOES find a wonderful man, but HEY LADY, guess what? Insecurities are only so appealing to men (and mainly to those you shouldn’t get involved with) until said insecurities become really annoying and you start to look like a whiny old bat with the spine of a jellyfish. I honestly want to send someone from Jezebel over to Jeana’s house to school her in the abcs of feminism and, you know, not needing a man for validation.

She really didn’t have much to do in the first episode. She and Vicki used to be BFFs but Jeana hasn’t spoken to Vicki ever since she wouldn’t lend her money. (Wow, is EVERYONE broke now?) To be quite honest, even with my Vicki prejudices, I think she did the right thing. I firmly believe money and friendship do not mix, no matter how well you know each other. And the fact that Jeana lets something like this get between them further confirms my suspicion of her schoolgirl maturity.

NOTE: A gray Gawker commenter suggested the rift in their friendship could also be due to Jeana’s blatant crush on Don which, a. is definitely a viable reason and b. has the possibility to make for some mmm-mmm-good reality drama.

The most bizarre-o scene was watching Jeanie’s teenage son scold her for spending $200 bucks on lunch with a friend… Now, I’m not the wisest person when it comes to fiscal responsibility (I’m an AMERICAN, you know), but I’m pretty sure blowing hundreds of dollars on lunch dates isn’t the most prudent thing to do when you’re at the point of begging your pals for $$. Her son understands this, how come she doesn’t? Oh right, it’s the OC (I know, I shouldn’t call it that). Maybe she has the OC Disorder. I don’t know, let’s move on.

Tamra: One of the younger chicas with an older son from a previous marriage and some little kids with her current husband, Simon. She’s young and Barbie-like and slutty and, back when she had money (because you know now everyone’s turning into poors), pretty damn flashy. SHE LOVES ZEE DRAMZ. She’s also very transparent in how she feels about, well, everyone. She always hates on newbies to the group (like Gretchen) because she feels threatened by a pretty new face and bubbies (that’s Real Housewives New Jersey speak for boobs, btw) more perky than hers. Her whole schtick is “Housewives may come younger, but they don’t come hotter.” Yeah, she’s THAT girl. Her idea of resolving an argument with Simon is, and I am not making this up, doing a shot of tequila and just “like, chill[ing] out”. There’s some indication of marital trouble and Simon being too much of a controlling husband (thanks, Vicki), but we’ll get to that as the season progresses.

Husband issues are interesting and all, but we REALLY NEED to talk about the whole Tamra versus Gretchen ish, because that’s the deuce dropped in our laps at the end of the first episode. For those of you who don’t want to rot your brain every Thursday night, here’s the deal with…

Gretchen: One of the ‘newer’ housewives (she appeared last season after a reorg of the main caricatures) lost her thousand-year-old ‘fiance’ to cancer right after the season ended. Like her arch-enemy, Tamra, Gretchen is young and pretty. Unlike Tamra, though, Gretchen nailed the “Why is everybody picking on me? ::sob:: My fiancé is DYING. ::sob::” act quite early on and won over the sympathy of fellow newbie of that season, Lynne (we’ll get to leatherface at a later date), and the other pity party in the room (Jeana).

Tamra and Vicki, however, are STILL not convinced. Tammy’s bitch instincts tell her that Gretchen’s a bunch of lies wrapped up in a silicone-swirl of peroxide, sprinkled with diamonds made from the souls of lost African boys. Or something like that. Tamra does not like this Gretchen hoohah, not one bit. I’ve always found Tamra’s insufferable hate for Gretchen amusing, considering she ain’t a virginal pillar of morality herself. But more on that another time because who wants to talk about that when we can talk about NUDIE PHOTOS!?!?! See? I’ve been lurking in the WS shadows all these months, but it doesn’t mean I don’t know what gets your attention.

So it turns out that some scandalous photos surfaced on this here interweb (Virus, you might enjoy – google “Gretchen Rossi“) right after the season finale, and Tam apparently went on the warpath to make sure everyone and their mother and pet parrot, Petey, knew about it. Oh SNAP.

AND, to solidify Tam’s belief that Gretch is nothing but “the hooker of the OC” (yes, Tam said it to her face last night), it turns out Gretchen is now dating SLADE, the biggest tool in the history of tools from tool planet in tool universe. I cannot emphasize what a loser this guy is and I would suggest you visit RL’s recap for further clarification. He first slimed his way onto the show while dating Jo, one of the original RHOC loons (a pretty loon, to boot) whom, post-season, he tried to start a singing career for and then, post-breakup, tried to pawn her off on unsuspecting dating reality show contestants (is an unsuspecting reality show contestant even possible?). He is a creep to the MAXX and no one likes him. And now Gretchen is dating him… which makes me suspect that Tamra might just be right, and that Gretchen may be just as slimy as SLADE SMILEY (what kind of name is that?!).

I mean, she did do a reality show while her ‘fiance’ was dying of cancer.

CONCLUSION: We’ve got an extremely botoxed stage of goodies for this season. I mean, the War of the Blonds is imminent, marriages are thriving, marriages might be dying and, hell, you’ve got nudie pics! Woohoo! Bet you’re as excited as I am!!! Actually, I’m beat, and I bet you’re pretty beat from having to read this barrel of L’Oreal Superior Preference.

Until Next Time.

Oh sure, every bride starts out her bridesmaids’ dress adventure with (or something along the lines of) “Don’t worry, if you just hem it a few inches and remove the tulle that makes you look like a ballerina on crack and get it dyed black then you can CERTAINLY wear it again! It would make the perfect cocktail dress!” I’m sorry, my little Princess Bride (oh, how I love that cinematic adventure!), but there’s got to be something about becoming the bride and the center of attention that triggers some mental fashion disease which seemingly forces you, whether you like it or not, to end up choosing the most unflattering dresses for your ladies-in-waiting. I wish I could say that this only afflicts a handful of brides each year, but unfortunately I must report that, after an intense, scientific study of the last few weddings I’ve attended this past year, this illness can reach even the most fashion-forward wife-to-be.

Sadly to say, I, my friends, have been a victim of this budget-swindling, grimace-inducing, resentment-creating ailment. I have also witnessed its effects on many a friend – with the worst I’ve seen at the most recent wedding I attended over this past weekend. Picture this, if you will: The Afflicted – A smart, young bride whom I’ve known since before we thought boys were cute and worth almost 100% of our mental energy. Then, try to imagine: The Victim – A smart, young bridesmaid whom I’ve known since, well, the womb basically. Now, before this whole wedding thing, my bride-to-be friend and I always seemed to be on the same, preppy-New England style page. Lilly Pulitzer, Vineyard Vines, Vera Bradley, etc. were all mutual friends of ours. In fact, when she began to plan the wedding and the bridal party wear, it seemed like she was headed in the right direction and that the bridesmaids would end up, on average, content with their lot.

Holy hell, was I ever wrong. I arrived at the hotel Saturday morning, still groggy from the 3,000 mile, trans-continental redeye (am I a good friend or what?) but coherent enough to get a decent recap from my bridesmaid friend about the past week’s festivities and – dah, dah dum dum – the bridesmaids’ attire. First of all, they were floor-length, full-blown, “I didn’t realize your wedding was actually a prom?” gowns. And they were pink – like petal pink – like the pink of my high school prom dress pink. Pretty in pink, if by pretty you mean OH MY GOD SERIOUSLY? Of course, my wonderful bridesmaid pal has been known to, ahem, be a little dramatic at times (she’s always been the actress of the group – in a good way) so I decided I wouldn’t pass judgment until I’d witnessed the dresses myself. Yet, she also mentioned another red flag – the dresses were tight as hell and, after breaking the zipper (keep in mind her body is smokin’) the designer had the crass to ask if she had gained too much weight since the first fitting or if it was, ahem, her time of the month. Wowza, I was a little floored by that. Still, I chose to keep my mouth shut until the ceremony.

The Ceremony: A traditional, Irish Catholic wedding at a traditional, Our Lady of Sorrow and Sadness and Catholic-Guiltness church in suburban Westchester county. I have no qualms with traditional ceremonies – I, in fact, will probably have a pretty traditional one so as not to be disowned by my mother. I am perfectly fine with tradition but what I am NOT ok with is the seizure-inducing procession of bubble gum that filed down the aisle before the bride (in a BEAUTIFUL gown, I may add) strutted her stuff towards the altar. My bridesmaid friend couldn’t have described the dresses any better – in fact, I wouldn’t have faulted her had she been a little more critical of them. This is when it hit me – there’s got to be some sort of bridal fever that causes one to completely ignore the figures and complexions of her supposed-closest girlfriends and choose a dress shape and color that is so unflattering to anyone it would make Heidi Klum cry and that Project Runway fat contestant’s human hair-woven outfits look enticing.

It is this reason why I refuse to hold my dear, now-married friend accountable for such a decision – so long as this illness does not continue to affect her own style choices or her future children’s matching outfits from Crewcuts and LaCoste. Only then will I be forced to stage an intervention. For now, I can only pray to the gods of wedding coordinators that I will not be yet another victim to this bridal affliction. May I only learn to cope with my friends as they take the big plunge into marital life – and hope that I only have to spend one or two more paychecks on Goodwill-bound, dress disasters.

In any case, @DahlELama mentioned that this is a great little way to pass the time (thanks) so here it goes:

1. The sight of someone eating easy-mac makes me nauseous. One of my good friends and a sr. year college roomie would always make the damn stuff after the bar and it smelled and looked absolutely heinous. I never understood how she could stomach that Orange Splice-colored blob of pungent chemicals after 4 hours of drinking LIITs – hell, I never understood how she could stomach 4 hours of drinking Long Islands in the first place! In any event, she’s super skinny and pretty so I guess it worked out. Damn you, Knaums.

2. I am a worrier. I will worry about anything and everything, and have spent many hours of therapy over the last 7 years trying to control it. That being said, I come from a line of control freaks and believe this the reason why I worry so much – anything that is beyond my control is cause for concern.

3. My sister is four years younger than I am – to the day. As in, she was born on my 4th birthday. What’s more interesting is that even my closest friends never remember this – its like a surprise to them every time! I’m not saying this is a bad thing, seeing as I love being the center of attention.

4. I taught Dave Chappelle how to use his iPhone late one night outside a hotel in Georgetown. It was the summer, a few months after I graduated, and I was down there for an interview with my congressman’s office. Dave was nice and, unlike all those rumors of him being insane, pretty normal. He even introduced me to his two friends and chatted with me about comedy for a good ten minutes. It is my most memorable celebrity encounter and, while I didn’t get the job, I’m still happy I was dumb enough to go down there and try. I also consider myself pretty damn lucky that they didn’t offer the position to me, seeing as my congressman was brutally defeated in the ‘08 election and I would probably be out of a job right now (although funemployment does sound pretty freaking awesome, with the right amount of expendable funds).

5. I had my first “French” kiss when I was 13 with a French boy named Simon. I found it to be absolutely nasty and felt very nauseous afterwards.

6. My best friend and I were quite the entrepreneurs in elementary school. Every day, for a good 2 months, John Peter and I would spend our afternoons painting small rocks with neon-colored glue and then take them in our red radio flyer around our block, selling them to our unsuspecting, older neighbors for at least $5 a pop. I guess you could say we were more along the lines of young con-artists, seeing as we were selling them rocks that probably came from their yard and were painted sloppily with glue that would end up peeling off anyway after it had dried. Nonetheless, I still like to think we were somewhat badass geniuses for successfully pulling off such a juvenile ponzi scheme.

7. My other bf from elementary school and I were also quite the young crazies together. So crazy in fact, that we hopped in her grandmother’s car one day while her mom was at the store and drove it up and down the street. We were 8 at the time, and we were awesome. What? I just wanted to do Hoodrat Stuff with My Friend.

8. I once dated an aspiring comedian who wasn’t funny AT ALL. He still shows up on my gchat from time to time and I’m always tempted to let him know how incredibly unfunny he is. Yet, I don’t do it because, deep down, I truly believe I am a better person than that… even after he called me a spoiled brat  (which, by the way, is completely false, thank you very much). I also don’t do it because I don’t want to be responsible for crushing his dreams, even though he’s a complete idiot.

9. I think I my comma usage is out of control.

10. I know this boyfriend is the one but I’m still scared to death I’ll screw it up somehow. I also don’t want to tell him that for fear he might not feel the same way – even though I think he does – or that he’ll freak out (which would mean, essentially, that I’ve screwed it up).

11. I’ve always wondered how I can love olive oil so much yet completely hate olives.

12. I get anxious whenever I see that I have a new message in my inbox on the ‘book (my abbrev. for Facebook, obvi). For some reason I’m always afraid it’s a bad message.

13. I consider myself the paparazzo of our group of friends. I really love photos and have to continuously remind myself that, above all things, truly living in the actual moment is more important than a record of it.

14. My cat, Kat, who died this past April was once on Prozac and grad students at UC Davis did a case study on her behavioral habits. In fact, her demeanor was so unbalanced that I had to visit her, twice a week for 15 minutes each time, before I could officially adopt her. She turned out to be one of the most loving cats I’ve ever known.

15. If the way I treat my dog is any indication of how I will treat my children, then God help them. I think coddling might even be an understatement for it.

16. Pretty sure I’m the favorite granddaughter of my two remaining grandparents – Mimi and Grandma.

17. I named my dog Baxter after Ron Burgundy’s beloved pooch in Anchorman. Truth be told (and not to toot my own horn), it is the PERFECT name for him.

18. I do not enjoy sushi at all but will say I like it and say yes to going out for some because I worry I’ll look like an unsophisticated fool if I don’t.

19. I will always be a Nick(elodeon) kid at heart. Clarissa Darling was my hero back in the day… and I think she kind of still is.

20. Only now do I fully understand the phrase “Youth is wasted on the young.”

You probably think I’m joking, but I fully intend on hosting a $1 trillion deficit shindig this coming weekend. We already have little hope in our gov’t (not counting Obama’s approval rating which will probably never get lower than 55% and according to a CNN poll is currently at 61%, down from 76% in February). What have we got to lose by enjoying ourselves and revelling in the fact that we’ll never have as much debt as our federal government? That’s right -- nothing.

Except maybe acid reflux due to all those lemons.

In any event and whatever happens from here on out, I think we all deserve a good time. Let’s have some fun at the expense of  our government’s apparent issue with expenses. Who knows? Maybe all those bottles of Dubra and Popov, along with the massive outpouring of lemon purchases, will give a little boost to our economy?! See? If you think about it the way I am, you’ll see that glass o’ lemonade as half full in no time!

Image via ninjavspenguin.com

Your Editor Edits: Because I know that SFBirdie is “hot”, I’ll be strapping myself to the undercarriage of the next “plane” out of Scotland to the bankrupt state of California, Mexico or wherever it’s moving to to save cash, so that I can attend her deficit “shindig”. And because SFBirdie quoted the genius that is “Ron Burgundy”, here’s his audition tape for ESPN below.

1. Obviously, this would mean that any response to how I feel about a subject (whether it be one regarding news in politics, technology, science, entertainment, feminism, etc etc etc) I could just fade it out and pretend like it never happened. Oh wait, I already do that HAHAHA

2. I could actually “star” witty things people say… and even promote them (hmm, but I guess that would mean I’d have to have a star too… so I guess I’d have to have a friend with a star “star” me – eeek!).

…if that ever happened, my list would continue like this:

3. Well, with all the starring and non-starring and fading out of opinions, I could totally create a clique of people who agree with me.

4. I could make the people who don’t agree with me that much more insecure and maybe lonely.

5. Who the hell doesn’t like another class system for our society!?!

6. People may think I’m a douchebag, but at least I’d never have to hear it – I’d just surround myself with myself (oh thank you, YES) and therefore feel like a *STAR* (a la Michael Jackson – oh wait, didn’t he end up dead because of this kinda thing?)!

7. Fewer dissenting opinions to mine in the first place, since my mind would take too long to load anyway.

8. Whenever I feel down and lonely, I could just “star” someone and we’d automatically be chill – til they don’t agree with me, because that’s not a real friend.

9. Sorta in addition to numero ocho – anyone who wanted to be my friend would have to kiss my ass so I’d “star” them.

10. “Friending” was over in 2008 anyway.

I wish I could get just a glimpse of these kids in, ohh, let’s say 10 years – when their 15 minutes are nothing but distant memories and all that’s left are the valiums, the failed marriages and the invites to F-list fashion week shows. They’ll wish they did (or didn’t) pose for those Playboy calendars and take that second-fiddle role in the straight-for-vhs (not even dvd) High School Musical 5.

I think I’ll do a separate post for every one of these little nuggets. These golden, rich nuggets that are really those chocolate eggs from last year’s Easter that you find as you’re cleaning out your desk drawer before security comes to escort you out one last time. You could use a pick-me-up – today was rough – so you unwrap the flaky gold material and bite into that chocolate as the tiny gold flakes fall (like your career) to the floor. Except that bite isn’t the pick-me-up you were hoping for – instead, it is just a bitter and stale reminder that you’ve joined the 9.5% of sad sad Americans.

::sigh::

Let us start with my least favorite of the boy nugs (oops, I meant young lads) – Sebastian.

Oh Sebastian, aren’t you the little player? Yet my theory is that he’ll look back when he’s 25 and wonder what went wrong, how did he end up alone when, you know, relationships were like only for the twenty-somethings. Wow, that thought almost made me sad. Almost, but then I remembered his obnoxious hair flips and got over it. Built a bridge, if you will. I actually wonder if the incessant hair tossing is really a physical tick, completely uncontrollable. His parents have probably tried medication, therapy, EVERYTHING but it seems to be all for nought whenever he sees the next unfortunate girl whose heart he can’t wait to break. I can’t blame him – it’s all about the hookup. We’ve all known someone like that – hell I think I “dated” one once. That was back in the day when dates were getting dropped off a block before the movies and making out in the back of the theater while Jackie Chan and that black guy who never quite made it joked around and exploited Jackie’s asianness all for a few laughs in Rush Hour. Seriously, Rush Hour was my first real date in high school, except we never really made out because I thought his rainbow-enhanced Nikes were way too loserish. So obviously that never went anywhere, but he looks mighty fine now (thanks Facebook for showing me what I missed out on).

Anyway, I think I dislike Sebasty mainly because I remember being that heartbroken girl in high school who totally thought that boy and I were, like, gonna get married. We would even stay together in college and we’d talk on aol i.m. all night. It was all going to be so wonderful. Only with so many of these failed attempts at loveeee can a girl stay hopeful – repeatedly telling herself  he’ll realize how much he misses her and come back with flowers and maybe meet her parents too! Oh and how they’d love him even though he didn’t come to the door when his stepdad dropped you off that night. Really, they’d adore him if they got to know him! Even so, you could always elope and over time it’ll be ok – because everything works out in the end when you’re a teenager. Everything.

So Sebastian, this post is dedicated to you and your hair flippie floppies. To you, Chris Tucker and all the boys who leave a girl a little more broken. You aren’t the first (though you truly believe you are, don’t you?) and you won’t be the last. But those girls will someday be women and they’ll see you at the 15 year reunion, with your bald spot and beer gut that you couldn’t seem to lose after college that’s gotten a little bigger from all those nights drinking alone watching Family Guy reruns… and they’ll look at you with pity. You’ll flash that smile that used to make them melt – and they’ll smile a little, oh they’ll smile a tiny smile. You’ll take that smile and think to yourself “Oh yeah, I still gotz it” then shift into that stale, cool guy swagger you perfected over the years working the crowd (and the ladies, especially the ladies) at Bar None. You start to go for the approach  – and yeah, they’ll start walking towards you too. You’ll cock your head and start to extend your arms a little… and you’ll see that smile begin to light up. She begins to walk a little faster – closer, and closer, and then… Right. Past. You. You’ll turn your head a little and see her take the hand of a handsome, well-dressed man at the punchbowl and lead him out to the dance floor. And as they begin to dance to Carrie Underwood’s “Just a Dream”, she’ll glance over his shoulder, one final catch of your eye, and you know – it’s over. Because my poor boy, it was always just a dream.

Just a dream.

(Everybody welcome a brand new Wordsmoker and her superb first post! Yay! Ed.)