I knew this was going to happen. I knew that, sooner or later, I would have to write about my “Real Housewives” addiction.

 

What makes this post timely is that I just found out that my best friend has been withholding vital information. She actually knows Aviva Drescher, one of the new ladies on “The Real Housewives of New York City.” Apparently, they went to Vassar together.

 

Granted, my friend is busy raising her beautiful children and following world events and doesn’t have time for reality TV. However, she is my best friend. She knows about my “Real Housewives” obsession and really should’ve disclosed her Aviva connection much sooner.

 

I got sucked into the “Real Housewives” franchise about six years ago, when I was pregnant with twins and prostrate and accidentally landed on the Orange County edition – back when Miss November 1980, albeit a little fatter, was on. Since then, the “Real Housewives” shows have become my great escape, the trash I tune into when the kids are asleep and the day’s chores done. These shows appeal to my voyeuristic nature and, in my defense, to that of thousands of other people.

 

I just can’t stop watching these hyper-styled women get plastic surgery and get drunk, flip out and flip tables, screw men and screw each other. These are the shows in which a character not only names her wigs but also turns to Lindsay Lohan’s dad for backup during a brawl; in which made-men-wannabes punch grandmas at christenings; in which women have breast implants and reductions, nose jobs and face-lifts, weddings, divorces and therapy, all on camera. It’s like viewing porn: you like seeing it but it makes you feel dirty – and you quickly switch it off when your kids walk in the room.

 

Having invested so much time in this productive enterprise, I think it’s only fair that I find a “Real Housewives” connection. Lately, I’ve been stalk-tweeting Bethenny Frankel, one of the earlier New York “housewives,” who was so good at reality TV that she got her own, spinoff show. But Bethenny’s not responding – this despite the fact that I shared with her that I think my friend’s sister used to have a shore house down the road from Bethenny’s current husband. I guess she’s too busy running her Skinny Girl empire to care.

 

So clearly I’m excited that I’ve finally got an “in” – an in with Aviva, who is no Bethenny but who does have a sex addict father, a prosthetic leg, an eerie resemblance to Claudia Schiffer, and a family relationship to Fran Drescher – though, thankfully, Aviva sounds nothing like her. Furthermore, Aviva is about to enter one very large shit storm and tell at least two other New York “housewives” that they really are “quite frankly, white trash.” This is someone to know.

 

I’m thinking about playing my best friend’s Vassar card as entrée and then getting Aviva to propose to Bravo executives a possible “Real Housewives of Bala Cynwyd.” I can just imagine my tryout:

Bravo producers: How much do you weigh?

Me: In pounds or in stones?

Bravo: What’s your net worth?

Me: In pounds or stones?

Bravo: How many square feet is your house?

Me: Including the basement and crawlspaces?

Bravo: Who is your stylist?

Me: Targé

Bravo: Do you have a brand or business to promote, preferably one alcohol related?

Me: I do write about drinking a lot in my blog.

Bravo: Any special talents?

Me: Well, I hate to brag. But I can read 23 Sandra Boynton books with the covers closed.

 

Sadly, because I’m an authentic “housewife,” I’d never make the cut. I guess, for now, I’ll have to stick to raising my kids, writing my blog, and toasting the “Real Housewives” from my bed.

 

P.S.: If you found any of this in any way confusing, please tune in tonight to “The Real Housewives of New York City” on Bravo at 9 ET.

 

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