OMG. I couldn’t help myself. I watched the Atlanta Housewives last night. OMG. (Did I say that already?)
I know Reality TV is not reality. I know Bravo TV looks for bigger-than-life characters, unapologetic opulence, and then edits edits edits to shape the on air antics into whatever suits. After all, it’s entertainment.
Nonetheless, this particular collection of housewives? I find them embarrassing. On so many levels. And so much more than the other franchises.
Did I really watch it? Was it just to see if the show was as appalling as I thought it would be? Yep. And yep.
I never really got the 15 minutes of fame thing. Something about artificial presentation. Something about privacy. Something about self-respect.
I write; I’ve always written. I’d happily write 16 hours a day, and ideally I’d write what people would like to read. But I have no need for anyone to recognize me in the grocery store (in my oldest shorts, no makeup, my hair a mess). Hell, I have no need for anyone to recognize me in the grocery store when I’m looking hot!
I’m not normal (for an American), but neither are they
I know these women are caricatures – at least – that’s how they’re portrayed. But raging fights with party planners? Wig business for the busty blond country-singer-wannabe (originally from Connecticut) – because she broke up with her sugar daddy? Trash talking in limos, trash talking around the table, trash talking over diamonds? A grand soirée with a poet, rose petals and a helicopter to celebrate a divorce? Are you kidding me?
Do these women parent? Do they actually know how to do anything, except for the one who is clearly a business woman and entrepreneur of some skill?
Where does the arrogance come from? The sense of entitlement to royal treatment and royal tantrums because their husbands (or ex-husbands) made bucks in sports or business?
In an effort to be fair, I make no comment on who these women really are or what’s beneath the performance, the make up, and the assorted agendas stirred and set up to entertain. Nonetheless, the diva attitudes, entourages, and trash talking are nauseating. I want to hurl my freshly baked and daintily digested summer peach pie.
Why does this bug me so much?
I know great women – and men – who work hard for their kids, who set aside their dreams, who are smart, caring, and with egos in check. They struggle through divorce, layoff, illness, and real tragedy, and come fighting back with integrity. They don’t bemoan a 7-figure settlement and downsizing to a 5,000 square foot home.
I will add that I spend time in Atlanta, have friends who are native Atlantans, and this missed opportunity for smashing stereotypes (rather than playing into them) is personally disturbing.
Why do we watch?
I know we tune in for drama. For outrageous drama. Sorry Bravo TV – I’m boycotting this one. It’s a matter of principle. I’ll get my drama elsewhere, thanks.
My own life. My imagination. My teens.
Maybe a little Tolstoy. Or better yet, I’ll scream, you scream, we’ll all scream for the TV to be turned off – and maybe for a real southern classic. Peach pie.
And so the evening wouldn’t be wasted…
I dug out my favorite spiced peach pie recipe, compliments of the Food Network. Good stuff!
Access the Food Network’s recipe here and enjoy!