I should’ve just gone through my usual routine of making Ace Ventura Pet Detective faces in front of my mirror instead of watching last night’s dismal eppy of ‘Real Housewives of D.C.’ But let us not lose hope, ‘Housewives’ fans! My psychic powers are telling me that this series is at its embryonic stage and will soon develop into something grander and more delish than Auntie Frances’ fried chicken and peach cobbler! (At the least, we should tune in to see what new hair revolution Paul Wharton is fighting for.)
To its credit, the show has already ventured into the risque subjects of race, class, eating disorders, and now, to add to its repertoire, the metrics of a man’s junk! And since the last item mentioned is so very odd but so very true, let us recap with joy in the anticipation that we will be able to make an enterprise out of the rest of the human anatomy by the time the season’s over!
Yays and Nays
“People think I’m in my 30s, but I’m really old—I’m 44!” whisper-screams Michaele on her birthday. (Attention: Women who are 45 and over, please feel free to go menopausal on Mrs. Salahi anytime.) To make his skinny bouncing wifey feel less geriatric and prevent her from burning any more calories in fear that she’ll disappear into thin air, Tareq surprises Michaele by confiscating the accessories department of Barney’s and laying it out in their living room for her to shop to her heart’s content! Once she gets through her retail therapy of shoes, leather purses, and designer shades, her devoted hubby takes her outside and gives her the ultimate gift: a horse, but of course! She screams with glee and straddles her beeeutiful new pet, bejeweling it with the name Sparkle. (I once had a My Little Pony named Sparkle.)
Hearty Food, Heartless Guest
Because she didn’t feel enough friction at her cooking class/dinner party with Cat Woman, Stacie decides to up the drama and have another dinner party, inviting the blunt Brit, Mary, Lynda, and her hair-iffic majesty, Paul Wharton—but this time, it’s at her Auntie Frances’ home!
“Let’s have a black family, Sunday-style dinner—you get what you get, and you never know what you gonna get,” Stacie says with a feisty laugh.
As the Southern home cooking is getting prepped and everyone is exchanging hellos, the brash Brit nervously searches for liquor to down amid her “strange” new environment, but she finds none to her liking and communicates her disappointment with haughtiness. Stacie arches an eyebrow. Oh, Hell-to-the-No.
Size Matters—And Now We Got a Patent for It!
While Lynda, Mary, and Cat hang with Stacie and the rest of her fam upstairs, Ebong, Mary’s hubby Rich, and Stacie’s hubby Jason saunter downstairs to have a man-to-man talk—one that is most definitely the sole focus of every man: the volume of his god-given package! For reals!
Jason: I have a patent that uses technology to measure the different size of body parts…”
[Ebong squirms in his seat uncomfortably]
Jason (continuing): “I call it the Penal Volumetric Measuring Device.”
Rich: “Is this where the white guy leaves the conversation?”
Message to Jason: We applaud you for your entrepreneurial pursuit to help those who feel an emotional void over not knowing their ding-a-ling circumference—but don’t quit your day job, buddy.
Racist or Just Plain Rude?
“I did genuinely feel out of place…this is not my kind of scene,” mumbles Cat to the camera. Guess she didn’t like the collard greens because right after she ate them, the Fastidious English Lady zipped out the door without saying goodbye to her host!
Insulted as all get-out, Stacie takes her hubby Jason, her cousin, and Paul Wharton downstairs to let loose on the D.C. newcomer.
Stacie: “What kind of home training do they teach in London? She was straight up rude—I think she’s not used to being in an environment with a majority of black people.”
Jason: “She just might be rude in any situation.”
Paul: “Yeah, that biatch didn’t even say anything about my fab Tina Turner up-do. Was it because I wore it in a ponytail?”
Eat a Burger and Fries and Deal With It!
Being the Divaliciousness that he is, Paul is having a mega birthday bash and Michaele is planning it! Ooops, it just sucks like fudge cakes that while he’s getting his hair crimped, the Tiny Sprite isn’t there to cater to his every whim! Instead, Tareq and Michaele are busy making their grand entrance via a white-stretched limo with a police motorcade surrounding them. Ta daaaa! The other Housewives roll their eyes in disgust, as if they’re looking at New Money antics. “It’s so ostentatious—a bit too much for people who can’t pay the bills,” exclaims Lynda.
Premeditated or not, the Salahis make a special toast to Paul and pop open a bottle of wine, its trajectory aiming directly at the Snippy Mother Hen’s hiney. POP! Indeed it lands on her caboose, but before she could retrieve it and shove it down Tareq’s skinny nostrils, Paul takes center stage and makes a lovely toast about friendship and having better genes than Halle Barry.
Once the party starts wrapping up, the Salahis, Paul, and Lynda make small talk. Oh, and you better believe it’s on:
Tareq: “You should play polo with us some time and then we can drink some good Virginia wine.”
Lynda: “Is there such thing as a good Virgina wine?”
Angry at her rudeness and recalling her eating disorder intimations, Michaele jumps in. The convo is like so:
Michaele: “I heard you and Paul here were hanging out and you were talking about me…’If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say it at all’—isn’t that what your mother taught you?”
Lynda: “You’re so skinny you need to get your duds at a children’s department…Paul, did you feed her any fries?”
Tareq (stuffing his mouth full of hors d’oeuvres, bits and pieces flying out): “Hey! She was built to be a supermodel!”
Michaele (to Lynda): “Talk to me if you have something to say about me, Stubby!”
Lynda: “Go eat a burger and fries, Featherweight! I have to go now and be a lil cougar, goodbye!”
Paul, looking faint as if his womanhood was stolen from him by R. Kelly, gulps down his Chardonnay, snaps his manicured fingers in the air, and calls it a night.
Alright, now that I’ve put in my two cents, how about you? You still diggin’ the DC Housewives?