No, I don’t care if the entire Real Housewives franchise is pure trash. I. Love.
Trash The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Especially Kyle and Adrienne (hearts!), but – all the girls. Also, they’re all running their own charities and businesses (ok, OK — maybe they “fell into some money” along the way… or married it… tomato, tomahto…) so, they’re livin the dream. To be able to afford rhinolipotox whenever and wherever you want it. And the haute couture to flatter it.
I was driving around BeHi the other night for my fancy restaurant delivery job, a little sweaty (stand-still traffic makes me hot), listening to that god-forsaken Carly Rae Jepsen song (please watch the video just for the “The Sky Is The Limit” chest tattoo), when I was stuck at a light near Rodeo Drive. I noticed some camera crew, and a limo parked outside an art gallery on the corner. Inside, was tall, model-y Brandi Glanville filming a Real Housewives segment.
Glitter rainbows! It’s fun to see famous people. IT IS. Even when you see them all the time in LA, doing “Stars They’re Just Like Us” stuff. Like walking (guy from The Sandlot I always see near the gelato place). Or eating spaghetti (Michael Cera at Little Dom’s).
I also just realized Brandi was the former wife of the guy Leann Rimes jacked as her own (Rrrrg. Leann! For shame.). That makes me like Brandi even more. I’m glad to see a woman who had her heart minced in public, rock it out. Because even if you are the bitchiest of bitches, it’s hard to recover from stuff like that. Don’t we all know it.
Then, the light turned green and I drove away in my dirty Honda with the front bumper which is slowly extracting itself from my car. And went to Melanie Griffith’s house to deliver her dinner.
Y’know. All in a day’s work.