An Open Letter To The Real Housewives Of Atlanta
Dear the Real Housewives of Atlanta,
Last night, of course, marked the finale of your second season, so in some senses this could have been goodbye for now. A temporary hiatus, as you all go back to your foreclosing McMansions and pour white wine into your wounds. Brush out your wigs. Take a few months to rest your scream-muscles and your refill your betrayal batteries. But I’m not saying goodbye “for now.” I’m saying goodbye “forever.”
I mean, honestly, we can’t keep doing this, can we? Don’t answer that.
You were a lot of fun last year, in season one. We were all on board with The Black Real Housewives. And Kim! What an American Treasure she turned out to be. Not only is she attentive and caring towards her children, a talented singer, and the definition of a housewife (in that she is married and lives in a house, not an ugly duplex), but she’s also just really pleasant to look at. (THE REAL OPPOSITES OF THIS BLOG POST!) We have all been so lucky and to have been able to invite her into our homes every week.
But things have changed.
I think it really came together for me in the final scene of last night’s episode. Traditionally, the Real Housewives, no matter what city they live in, end the season with a farewell dinner at which they explain the importance of friends and family and work hard to put their multiple feuds and antagonisms to momentary rest. Not you ladies! This season ended at Sheree’s fashion show, which already, NO. I can only willfully suspend so much disbelief before I suspend myself. From a rafter. I mean, come on, that is not a real thing, and I cannot be expected to just pretend along with Sheree that she is not a man pulling off a hoax. She is the Richard Heene of the Atlanta fashion world. Which is to say that she should climb into a balloon and sail away into the sky. But, so, the women watched the show, and they congratulated Sheree afterwards, wine in hand (naturally), and that was that. No dinner.
No, because even these women could not stand to have a single dinner together. Well, if they can’t be bothered, how can we? Not to mention the fact that everyone became exceptionally unpleasant this season. And only two out of the five of them are married. And many of them don’t have houses. What is this, then? Does Bravo even know? And Kandi Burress’s fiance has died! Reality TV literally kills people. I mean, I know that a bar brawl killed him (a bar brawl! What is this world?) but I’m still blaming the show. And Andy Cohen. Whoops, Andy Cohen, you are a murderer. You should put on your souvenir NYC Prep school blazer with PC’s cumstains on the collar and report immediately to jail.
No, I think we are done here, ladies. Good luck to you in the swamp! Don’t kill each other! Or do! Either way, you’re on your own now.