It's October for the Real Housewives, and you know what that means: do you? Because I have no idea what that means. These women's lives are such vacuous shadowplays of human existence, shuttled from one publicity event to the next, constantly grasping with ghost claws at whatever shred of meaning they can find in the purchase of a handbag or the somewhat mean-spirited reference in a third-tier gossip column, that I can't honestly believe that the changing of the seasons holds any real meaning for them. Maybe they sling a coat over their arm for the red carpet photographers on their way into yet another teeth whitening product release party? So they opt to push the pomegranate-scented calamari around on their plate indoors instead of out? When they trace the razor up and down the length of their forearm, they push it in a little deeper, just enough to leave a crease, before burying their heads in their hands and sobbing?
Or nothing. It means nothing at all.
So LuAnn's daughter is home for the first time since leaving for boarding school. Now that I know she's getting divorced, I can't help but watch her scenes of domestic bliss (or if not bliss, then at least quiet resignation) with a somewhat more charitable attitude. It's not that she's any less ridiculous or nightmarish of a person. She's the (second) absolute worst (after Kelly), and no amount of divorce will change that. But that's the sweet sting of dramatic irony. Watching her putt around her Upper East Side townhouse like she doesn't have a care in the world, because she doesn't--she hardly even cares about her children--all the while knowing that in just a few short months this sham world is going to collapse on her in a publicly humiliating way, well, you know, a lot of nervous laughter is involved. Read more