The Real Housewives Of Atlanta: Make Your Haters Your Motivators

I suppose it’s impossible to say exactly what you would do if your fortunes were to change dramatically for the richer. Maybe you WOULD start wearing those button down dress shirts with sequined skulls and screen-printed angel wings with your $900 jeans that still look an awful lot like dad jeans. Maybe you WOULD buy some McMansion in a gated community, furnishing each room directly from a catalog and parking a Hummer in the driveway to let motherfuckers know. Maybe you WOULD spend all of your time having lunch with friends you barely even know, and planning elaborate birthday parties for yourself (my assistant got a vodka sponsorship, so it will be nuts). You can’t say for sure that you wouldn’t, Poor Person. But you can guess! You can guess that even if you were to have bundles of money wrapped in rubber bands tucked under your posturpedic mattress (it’s from space) tomorrow that you wouldn’t waste it on a meaningless life of tacky self-indulgence.

What are these ladies even doing?!

Sheree has lunch with her friend to complain about the fight she had with her party planner last week. Fair enough. That fight was incredible. And I don’t know what that guy was thinking. I mean, the ladies of the Real Housewives have basically signed some kind of contract with some kind of supernatural being (for good or evil I am not sure yet) in which they become dehumanized creatures of raw public humiliation in exchange for…something that we will never know. I think that when you sign up to be on this series you get to spend five minutes alone with the President’s Book of Secrets. But that guy? He’s just a party planner in Atlanta. That can’t possibly be good for his business.

The ladies have some comments about how this party planner is clearly not a real man, because a real man would never treat a woman this way. Huh? I’m not saying that they don’t have a point, kind of, but the day that our society is structured on the normative ideation of a Real Housewife of Atlanta is the day that I pack up my stuff and head to Whoops Ocean (I have a house boat there that I’m fixing up for when I retire, Shawshank Redemption End Credits-style).

Although, to be fair, Sheree’s friend is incredibly beautiful? So somehow that changes things? Seriously, though. Yowza! Tex Avery wolf eyes!

Are you sure you know what to do with those weapons? Because I don’t see you using them to MARRY ME.

Meanwhile, Kim has a designer come to her house to give her some clothes. You know how real, talented fashion designers are always making house calls to the trashiest of reality TV trash. Ugh, Kim. The worst. She’s like “Oh these old bags? It’s just free clothes that super famous fashion designers won’t stop sending me.” Right. Those carefully placed shopping bags that still have a little bit of dried up slime on them from when you got them dumpster diving? She’s like “What do you think of this belt? It cost $3,000 and I think that is ridiculous for a belt, but I do like it.” The guy is like “you should keep it.” WHAT WORLD ARE THESE PEOPLE LIVING IN? Unless Kim is about to be sent to prison, and he’s recommending that she take the belt with her in order to hang herself in her cell (because of the shame she has brought on her family and the durable quality of a $3,000 belt), I don’t get it. Send that belt back and buy a new wig for your busted head.

Then Kim tries on a dress.

Perfect. It fits her like a glove that hates her.

Nene calls Kim and suggests that all the ladies go out and talk about stuff. Kim, rightfully, is like “why would I want to do that?” Nene is clearly trying to sandbag her, because she had that weird Giggle Party in the park last week with Sheree, her former enemy, and knows that all of the other women are Team Boo Kim, of which she is maybe the captain. Kim agrees to meet Nene first, one-on-one, at “their place,” which looks to be a Mexican Applebee’s. At first they are very tense and Nene makes yet another joke about having that glass of wine, because of how that was ever a thing that made sense to anyone. But soon they are drunk, and sitting on each other’s laps (?) and Kim agrees that she will go out with Nene and Sheree as long as Nene promises to be open and honest during the discussion so that they can really clear the air and be friends again. Nene agrees. Nene lies!

When the three of them do meet, Kim tries to keep things light by putting on a bicycle helmet. She says that she brought it so that when the ladies dug their heels into her skull, she would be safe. The only thing funnier than that is the genuine look of disappointment when Kim has to put the stupid bicycle helmet away because it’s time for the adults to actually talk. But this was just an ambush. Sheree starts accusing Kim, and Kim decides she doesn’t need to sit there and take this, and she tells Nene that she loves her and wishes they were still friends, and Nene is like “I’m genuinely a stupid person and have no idea what is going on or who to trust, my head is a sieve,” and Sheree calls Kim trailer trash, and the waiters in the restaurant are all standing around being like “Women!” The fact of the matter is that Kim stinks, but Nene did Kim dirty. Poor form, Nene.

This fight, we are promised, will continue next week. Oh good.

Meanwhile, Kandi. She is getting ready to marry a man with six children, but first she has to deal with these blogs. Whoops! Don’t you know the first rule of Life Club: never deal with the blogs.

Kandi’s mom, much like the blogs, is very against this upcoming marriage. Kandi doesn’t understand why her mom has to see the worst in everything and can’t be supportive of her. I don’t understand why her uncle dresses like a 22-year-old.

No, he’s fine. He seriously looks like someone handed him those clothes and said “put these on and let’s go get some lunch,” and he was like, “I want a sandwich,” and they were like “sure, put the clothes on and we’ll get you a sandwich.” That is the ONLY scenario other than hostage crisis in which wearing Ed Hardy is allowed.

Chin up, Kandi!

Oh, and Lisa Wu Hartwell, whoever that is, might or might not have a babzzzzzzzzzz.

Next week: wig pulling, for one thing.