When Housemaids Scrub the Floors, They Get the Spaces In-Between.

Though I tried to avoid it at all costs, I found myself sucked into Bravo’s collection of useless Real Housewives series.  My favorite is New York (Team Bethenny!) followed by New Jersey and then Atlanta.  I can’t help myself.  These overtly decadent and decorative women pretending to nurture careers and families when we all know they’ve never put in more effort than it takes to hold themselves upright in a manicurist’s chair in their lives makes me giggle.

All of them, that is, except for the Beverly Hills ladies.  They don’t make me laugh.  They don’t make me smile.  They make me very sad and a little sick to my stomach the way I felt that first time someone showed me the Faces of Death web site.  I find myself grotesquely fascinated and a bit horrified that people like this exist in the world.  And that there are other people willing to broadcast such things for the rest of us to see.

They’re all dead-eyed and vacant; sporting plaster-of-paris mannequin faces.  Sad and bored in ways that only an obscene amount of money can buy.  Lonely from rattling around in their silly mansions all alone while their husbands do whatever someone does to afford such a life, they cling to eachother like a support group.  They don’t seem to like eachother much at all—especially the sisters—but who else understands the pangs of despair when you realize you’re nothing more than a bullet-point on some man’s list of net worth and assets?

This show proves without a doubt two things:

1.  Money can’t buy you happiness.  It can buy you enough plastic surgery to form your mouth into something resembling a smile, but it won’t be actual happiness.

(This lady freaks me out the most.)

2.  Weezer got it all wrong. 

(I still like the song, though.)