TBT: RHOC Season One

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                                    rhoc-cast-s1

Close your eyes and take a journey with me, no, not some awful breakup induced spiritual journey, but one back to the year 2005. A lot went down in ’05; Brangelina was born, Dina and Michael Lohan finally got divorced, and Prince Harry went to a Halloween party casually dressed as a Nazi.

Perhaps the most monumental event of 2005 came when Bravo/Andy Cohen bestowed upon us perhaps the greatest blessing in reality television history, known to most plebeians as The Real Housewives franchise. As soon as the gates to Coto de Caza opened, I was hooked (and wondering when the f%$& Kirsten Cohen was going to show up). I don’t know why I was so enthralled with these women, after all, they were old as s@#^ and didn’t really “do” anything, but something about the fact that they fought like Middle Schoolers really grabbed me.

On a recent Saturday, when I was operating at what I like to refer as a “diminished capacity” and had no plans to move anytime soon, so I decided to watch RHOC from the beginning, please don’t ask me why. Not two seconds into the intro and I found myself saying “What the actual Hell?” Who had dressed these women? Someone had to pay for all the ill fitting tops and flare jeans I was seeing, justice had to be served. Not long after, I fell asleep face down in a Taco Bell Crunchwrap Supreme wrapper and forgot all about it, until now. So in honor of #ThrowbackThursday I’m going to dissect the outfits the women of S1 wore in their intro, because first impressions are everything (which means I’m screwed, but whatever).

Vicki: As much as I’d love to cut Vicki some slack for entertaining me with her bat shit crazy antics in later seasons, I just can’t. This is mostly due to the fact that I would feel less threatened by someone trying to rob me at knife point then I do by her impending camel toe. Also, I don’t understand her top, and I won’t respond to it.

Jo: There isn’t much I can say about Jo in this get up, it did however serve as a nice reminder that she wasn’t always a human Bratz Doll.

Lauri: Lauri is the type of woman who goes into Forever 21 with her teenage daughter, and ends up only buying things for herself. No explanation necessary.

Jeana: Clearly Jeana thought that some weird, dream catcher statement necklace would make us forget that she has the worst bangs in the history of bangdom (actually,wait, that might be me circa 1995-2003). Bangs and atrocious necklace aside, the cap sleeves on her top make me so nervous I feel like I might pee myself when I see them.

Kimberly: I know, who the hell is Kimberly? She only survived one season, probably because she was so boring/irrelevant, but judging from her leopard print top, it could be she just ran off to join The Cheetah Girls.

As much as the OC Housewives and I have grown apart over the years thanks to more interesting cast members from other places (ie: Kim Richards, Milania Giudice, and Kelly Bensimon) I will be forever in their debt for letting Bravo film them throwing wine on each other, thus paving the way for the Beverly Hills, Atlanta, New Jersey, and New York housewives, and though their outfits circa S1 may make me cringe, I’ll always think of them when I hear the line “I’m not like, a regular mom, I’m a cool mom!”

A Strongly Worded Letter to My Eyebrows..

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Dear Eyebrows,

I wasn’t always so aware of you, you furry little bastards. There was a blissful period of my life where I wasn’t clued in to the fact that there were two thick, wool socks permanently stuck to the area above my eyes. But, nothing good can ever really last, can it? The fact that Pretty Wild only lasted one season is definitive proof of that fact.

I’ll never forget riding in the car with my dad around age 12, when out of nowhere, he turned to me and said, “We have to do something about those Fu Manchu eyebrows of yours.”  Per my default response to my parents for most of the early 2000’s, I rolled my eyes and muttered “whatever.” I got you waxed, and as with every other aspect of my appearance didn’t really give a s$%& about you again until high school.*

Recently I discovered that you both grow up, not out like you’re supposed to. Instead you choose to grow more in the direction that a box topiary does. I would imagine this is due to the fact that I shaved you off around age 6, but I honestly don’t thank that constitutes this level of betrayal.

Why can’t you behave more like my mother’s eyebrows? Due to a combination of her OCD over-plucking and scowling she was able to create a hostile forehead situation where no hair grows anymore. Prominent brows are in you say? Cool, but you two look more Sloth from The Goonies than Cara Delevingne. Take several seats.

I don’t even know why I bother with you anymore, honestly. Despite the waxing, and the constant plucking, you still insist on growing like an invasive plant species. I guess there really isn’t anything else left to say, except that I’m sure I’ll take about you in therapy someday.

Regrettably Yours,

Grace

*college, if we’re being honest

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I’ve known I wanted to start blogging for awhile, not about anything in particular, but I suppose if I was forced to describe my personal brand it would be a hybrid lifestyle blog full of cynicism, delusions of grandeur, an ever so light sprinkling of sarcasm, and more than likely an overabundance of reality television/pop culture references.

I feel like those elements make the above picture a perfect introduction. That dime piece holding the parasol? That’s me circa 1998, having just participated in a Parisian themed ballet recital. Anyone who’s ever seen Dance Moms will clearly be able to see that I’m more of an Abby Lee Miller than a Maddie Ziegler, and anyone with eyes, Dance Moms savant or not, can see that ballet probably wasn’t my “thing.”

Yet despite the fact that my dancing showed about as much promise as your aunt’s drunken performance to FloRida’s “Low” at your Bat Mitzvah, I took it until I was 17, because I’m convinced my parents had children so they would have free, albeit terrible entertainment.

Honestly, Twitter is my usual platform for spewing my nonsensical ramblings about the Real Housewives franchise, avocados, my short lived (yet somehow way too long) career as a ballerina, other people’s fashion choices, and a whole bunch of other random absurdities. Twitter cages me in though, at 140 characters I can’t really say everything I want to say about these very important topics, and like Miley Cyrus, I can’t be tamed.

I’d close this out with something like “So come on this journey with me..” but the word “journey” is way too “Eat, Pray, Love” and Julia Roberts is the worst, so instead I’ll leave you with some immortal words from the one and only NeNe Leakes.. “Bye Wig!”