And Just Like That...They're Back.

SPOILERS AHEAD. Only read if you want to know major plot points from the first two episodes.

Anyone who knows me well knows that Sex and the City, its fashion, its plots, but most notably, its hero, have been central to my development. My bent toward writing made me feel (like the other hundreds of thousands of women out there) like I was “a Carrie,” while the more recent publication We Should All Be Mirandas (a hysterical must-read and great stocking stuffer) left me feeling like there are little bits of each woman in all of us.

So when I heard that the series was being rebooted, I screamed with joy.

I thought I’d write a little something for each installment, which appears to be dropping on Thursdays. There are ten episodes slated to be released, with the first two appearing in our collective HBO queues early yesterday morning.

The short answer is: I love it so far.

Michael Patrick King and the gang wasted no time jumping right in: we perfectly pick up with our girls, as we’ve joined them so many times before, around a table in a restaurant. Notably, one seat is empty (save for a handbag), and they get right to the point: Samantha has moved to London after a falling out with Carrie, when Carrie fired Sam as her publicist. We’re told their communication has been icy – Carrie’s reached out, but hasn’t received a response. It feels like a meta-commentary on the ugly unraveling of SJP and Kim Cattrall’s real life friendship, which Cattrall claims never was a friendship at all. And though it does feel strange not to have our fourth Musketeer around the table, sprinkling obscenities (God knows she would’ve done 10 minutes on Miranda stepping on Brady’s used condom), in other ways, it doesn’t feel so odd. If there was one of the four of them destined to fall away from the pack over time, it was Samantha. It was wise for them to tackle this off the bat. We miss you, Kim, but the show must go on.

And SPOILER ALERT just in case I didn’t scare you off already, for those arguing that Samantha would’ve come to the funeral instead of just sending flowers: remember when Miranda’s mom died, and Samantha had to be dragged kicking and screaming to Philadelphia for the funeral? She goes to stuff like this, but she doesn’t enjoy it. Without the other three to encourage her to do things like this (Miranda’s mom’s funeral, Brady’s baptism, being a bridesmaid in Charlotte’s wedding which she also hated doing), it makes perfect sense to me that she wouldn’t be there. I like that they had her show up in some way, but more on that at the end of this post.

The first episode takes a minute to get its sea legs. Carrie (maybe a character choice, maybe not) feels more subdued; less squeaky and squeal-y and more matter-of-fact. We get shades of the carefree girl we used to know, but her life is a little confusing right now. She’s a wife, a friend, still fabulously dressed, she’s a guest on a podcast (why?), she has a famous Instagram/is an influencer (or something?)? Unclear. Not much writing in her world, it would seem. But even her quips are delivered deadpan, maybe foreshadowing that there’s something coming (which they also serve right up at the end of E1 - no grass growing under this show’s feet). It’s strange, and I’m very interested in whether she’ll perk back up or whether this is kind of…it. She really only seemed her sparkly self when she was with Big and Stanford. Hmm. Maybe this’ll be about her unleashing or rediscovering herself a little bit.

Charlotte is, well…Charlotte. She’s remained pretty much unchanged as the years have rolled by, with the exception of her grown (!!!) children. Loving the pushback Rose is giving her about the prissy fashion, and Lily being a piano star? Well, of course she is. Charlotte is kind of a wreck with a heart of gold. What will this storyline be for her? I betcha there’s some non-binary Rose stuff coming.

Miranda, as always, is serving us layers. One minute she’s the strong, caustic character we’ve grown to love; the next, an insecure white woman navigating a new awareness of racial and cultural identity; the next, a completely unpredictable loose canon with a scorching temper. MPK is giving us hints of what will surely be a storyline related to alcoholism (purse wine at Lily’s recital, downing a bourbon pre-funeral, turning the corner from berating Che with a fresh bourbon in her hand, only to have to meet Che again, stopping into an empty bar before 11 AM to have a drink before class where she also rambled on and on). It’d be an unexplored direction for Miranda, whose whole raison d’être is controlling her surroundings and keeping a tight lid on her life. I’m thrilled to watch Cynthia Nixon, an actress among actresses, sink her teeth into whatever’s coming down the pike.

The new characters! All women of color, which is a deeply needed breath of fresh. Some might argue that their collective casting is a little clunky and obvious (attempting to check a box, a hater might argue), but then again, there simply were no notable characters of color on this show in the past, and that needed to change. Any addition was going to feel a little forced. Thankfully, these characters are in the incredible hands of Nicole Ari Parker (a goddess who I first encountered watching Brown Sugar a million years ago), Karen Pittman (whose amazing work on The Morning Show should have everyone amped), and my BELOVED Sara Ramirez, who was (duh) Callie Torres on (duh) Grey’s Anatomy. These knockouts slip into their roles like a hand in a glove, and I particularly appreciate that Pittman’s first few scenes are serving as the foil to a bumbling Miranda, formerly the most liberal and culturally fluent of the foursome, and now kind of making a damn fool of herself. My first reaction was cautious: it’s a tired trope to have BIPOC serve the roles of “teacher of the ignorant white folks” in any story. However, King has these newbies kick the tires on Miranda, Carrie, and Charlotte, while still being their own people. In these two episodes alone, we found out Che Diaz used to work as a bouncer in a lesbian nightclub, started smoking pot at 13, and is a standup comic with a good sense of humor about the world. Lisa Todd Wexley (LTD to those in the know) is FABULOUSLY chic, married to a high-powered businessman of some sort who’s descended from piano royalty, has a son who’s obsessed with video games, and is the walking, breathing envy of all her peers. And Dr. Nya Wallace is working through fertility issues with her partner in addition to soaring in the world of academia. For my money, that’s a decent amount of backstory to develop on three brand spanking new characters on a show where the four leads are so familiar they might as well be on speed dial. Curious about the opinions of BIPOC fans and how they feel it’s being handled. If this is all the development those characters get, then it won’t be enough. But time will tell.

We get to visit with a greying Mr. Big and a hearing aid-ed Steve, while Harry adorably learned how to skateboard to spend time with his daughter.

And then, of course, tragedy strikes.

Stray observations (a la The AV Club):

• Okay, let’s talk about it. I was…not clear that Big was dead. I actually watched that scene three times because the construction was so unbelievably confusing to me. He’s sitting on the ground, Carrie rounds the corner and sees him, and…stands there? They stare at each other? Then has the major reaction and runs toward the shower, knocks him down into the water (my first impulse would be to call 911), sobbing his name until he goes limp in her arms. He was looking at her! Even moving! I was so grateful for the bluntness of the “And just like that, Big died,” because I absolutely wouldn’t have gotten there on my own. He looked limp, in pain, and declining, but he didn’t look like he’d died. Am I alone in this?

• The Big masturbating scene was absolutely painful to watch. It was too intimate, too long, and served what purpose??

• “Maybe don’t tell her that.” “I already did.” “Okay.” Stanny and Anthony forever.

• All the funeral stuff is extra sad knowing that Willie Garrison didn’t make it to the end of filming. Gut-wrenching.

• Imagining Kim Cattrall probably feels that Samantha’s sending flowers to Big’s funeral is a little too on-the-nose, as one of the major explosions in the gossip columns was when SJP sent condolences to Cattrall when Cattrall’s brother tragically passed away. Oof.

• “I think my soul just left my body,” at the piano recital murdered me.

• Miranda, somehow cool with the tons of teenage sex, but freaking out over a little pot. Hmm.

• Every delicious shot of an apartment or closets or clothing. Including Miranda wearing the same exact shade of royal blue to the NY Public Library that she wore to Carrie and Big’s ill-fated first wedding attempt I MISS NOTHING. (Even though I know Pat Field isn’t working on this, little homages to her pop up everywhere.)

• We’re acknowledging the pandemic and we’re also…not.

• So I guess we’re gonna be seeing Big’s secretary again, huh? ‘Cause that was…really something.

• Sara Ramirez is brilliant as hell.

• Continuing the musical score from the first movie = noted and wonderful.

• The day when I casually resign myself to my high-school aged children having loud sex in my house is the day you can call the guys with the dollies and white coats because JUST COMMIT ME. No fuckin’ way, yo. (Pun intended, this is a SATC recap, after all!). And frankly, I don’t need to see 17 year olds having raunchy sex on my TV! Thanks though!

• The moment of catharsis Carrie has screaming at Charlotte in the hallway? That’s real friendship.

• “What’s with the white designer hoodie on the old coot neighbor?”

A Morning Poem

(This is not a poem.)

Good morning to waking up in the dark and watching the world turn colors.

Good morning to my body. It has at times been lean and muscular, and other times, like now, it’s a little soft and squidgy around the edges. I observe it without judgment. I’m thankful for what it’s done for me. I’ll whip it back into shape at some point, but not today.

Good morning to the voices of my children who shoot out of bed like canon fire and require no time to warm up. They wake up warm. They are ready to play and laugh and scream and twirl right when they set foot on the floor. When did we un-learn that?

Good morning to this particular tragedy-adjacent morning, a weird and melancholy day for all of us who remember where we were twenty years ago. I was in the hallway of my seventh grade classrooms and my best friend passed and told me what had happened. Wanting to appear detached (and having no idea what she was talking about), I shrugged and said, “Cool.” I knew immediately that was so irreverent that I’d regret it. All our teachers turned on the news and we stopped learning, or started learning, in another sense. In the fall of 2011 I’d be standing in front of a classroom of seventh graders, teaching them about this day because they didn’t remember it. They, who had so little, wrote letters to the families of the victims.

Good morning to the news cycle, where even an accidental glimpse of a screen and the push notifications from the New York Times can send me into a spiral of dread. I read these, of course, on my phone in a house, safe, with food and with air conditioning and heat and medicine. And even still I have thoughts like, “Reading about that cast a pall over my morning.” The world is on fire and I get to decide when I read about it.

Good morning to the cobbler in the refrigerator, staring at me each time I open it. Not today, Satan. (But tonight? Probably.)

Good morning to the new parenting rules that say emotions are normal and time-out isn’t what it used to be. We embrace the big feelings and try not to say things like, “That makes Mom feel sad,” because our feelings aren’t their little problem. That part I think we’re getting right, but I know we’re getting it wrong somewhere else the next generation will correct.

Good morning to the fall TV lineup and how this should be Ellen Pompeo’s last season acting on Grey’s. Right? Come on. It’s done. She is a queen and an icon and should get paid forever, but what stories are left to tell?? We’ve done it all! Bomb/flood/fire/plane crash/active shooter/cancer scare/adoption/car crash/bus crash/PTSD night-chokings/spousal abuse/IZZIE IS ACTUALLY STILL ALIVE!/mental illness/addiction/race/immigration/COVID. The mind spins. I hope they don’t screw up the end of This Is Us.

Good morning, also, to Nicole Kidman’s truly unhinged accent work in Nine Perfect Strangers. It’s a journey and a delight.

Good morning to those of us who are feeling very weird about church right now. I believe in God. I want things to get better. If I could, I’d set my relationship status with organized religion to “It’s Complicated.” But to leave feels like an abandonment, so here I limbo.

Good morning to cool weather and a hearty THANK YOU to to the ways Covid restructured our sense of not postponing joy (a la “There are no rules anymore,”), allowing us to lean into our fall decor and drinks and treats on September 1st because who says we can’t? The police? Celebrate Christmas before Thanksgiving for all I care. Joy is the bottom line. It’s fall at my house, dammit.

Good morning to the ways the world makes us all ache, to the songs of birds outside who aren’t afraid to sing it right out loud because they never had anyone tell them they were “too much.” To the hard pieces that we feel compelled to turn away from so that we can just freakin’ survive, and to the knowledge that being bewildered about sad things doesn’t mean something’s wrong with us – it just means we’re still alive, feeling, responding, not-numb-yet try-ers. Good morning to our very stubborn hope cracking through the places we thought we boarded up to protect ourselves, to warm sleeping dogs (and cats, too, I guess, whatever), to needing a sweater, to You’ve Got Mail season, to the hundreds of layers of life we have to sift through in the span of one little tiny day. To another day of navigating the brutalities both gently and fiercely. To Bill Pullman in While You Were Sleeping. To golden light streaming onto the floor as I finish this sentence. To where the light makes me look.

The Illusion of Selflessness

I know the term “self care” is thrown around with the fury of a thousand suns these days. Typically when you hear it, it’s in reference to some kind of luxury: a massage, getting a manicure, having a hair appointment.

My mom and dad live in Tulsa, but have a place here in Asheville where my mom spends a lot of time to hang out with her grandchildren while my dad is working back in Oklahoma. In the beginning of August, she left for the month (a longer stretch for her to be gone), and that meant Jordan and I were on our own here with no “built-in child-care.” It’s weird necessity breeds invention.

Her absence coupled with my desire to stay on top of my life (anyone who has kids knows that if you live somewhere you don’t have family, things can get on top of you quickly) and my recently having read this article caused me to have a moment of clarity:

I am in charge of my life.

Simple and cliche, yeah. But there are so many things I did throughout the day that were just rote: I did them because I’d always done them. I didn’t even really remember deciding to do them.

So a few weeks ago, I made a decision that was, for me, the epitome of self care: I decided to take a hard look at my daily routines and see what was serving me and what wasn’t. Again, it seems like such a simple idea, but it had truly never occurred to me to take inventory. I saw it written somewhere, “Imagine the life you want to live. What do you want to be wearing? What do you want to be doing with your time? Okay - so go do that.” Duh. smacks forehead

For me, it began with the mornings. Over the last few months, my morning routine was that Jordan would come in and drop coffee off (a saint) on his way to work at 6:30. I’d start stirring around and then, within minutes, there would be a child awake who needed me. I’d wake up, but really lounge around until 7 (the earliest I’ll get Rosie out of her room), then go in to feed her a bottle. After that, I’d send Mac into the den to watch a show while I jumped in the shower and shut Rosie in my room with me while I did my hair and makeup. I’d cook breakfast in a robe, kids in PJ’s, FaceTime my Dad over breakfast, and with 10 minutes left on the clock, be in a screaming hurry to get the kids dressed, Mac’s backpack loaded, and everybody in the car for school.

Once I looked at that one section of my day, it all started clicking. Why?? Why was I allowing myself to begin my day with that much chaos?

Two weeks ago, I set an alarm for 6:15. I didn’t immediately look at my phone or mindlessly open Instagram (a habit i’m ashamed to admit was pretty engrained). Instead, the night before, I chose an inspirational podcast to listen to (like this series Kristen Bell and Monica Padman are doing, or this episode Glennon Doyle and her wife Abby Wambach hosted). While I got in the shower, I got to stick an AirPod in and listen to the voices of powerful women pump me up. I did my makeup and hair, put on my robe, and got back into bed for 10 full minutes of coffee sipping before I was on deck as a parent. And before I sat back into my sheets, I sprayed a delicious-smelling linen spray I got at this fabulous home store in town.

From there, the morning went so. much. more. smoothly. I had already gotten myself up and ready, so all that was left was breakfast and kid dressing. Guess what? That’s real easy to do in an hour and fifteen minutes, as opposed to a tight thirty five.

What surprised me, though, was how changing my morning set off a chain reaction of other things I’ve always wanted to prioritize, but never had:

• I’ve started picking up hard copy books more, setting aside 10 or 15 minutes here and there to chip away at something.

• I’ve re-organized so much: both kids’ closets, my refrigerator (HEART EYES), cabinets galore.

• I’ve started following the motto “Don’t put it down, put it away.” Right when Mac gets home from school, all his things get put in a place just for them. My laundry (gasp) goes where it’s supposed to right away.

• I really prioritized my nightly skincare routine, which I often rush through/skip steps of.

• I set a couple of important boundaries with work-related writing that are allowing me to write creatively and pour more of myself into things like this blog!

My takeaway from all this is that my life routines had become very reactive rather than proactive. The first minutes of my day were the perfect microcosm of how I’d chosen to go about the rest of the day: within the first ten minutes of opening my eyes, someone needed me. That wasn’t good for me.

In one of my morning shower podcast sessions, I heard Abby Wambach quote her wife Glennon: “The idea of selflessness is bullshit. A lack of self?? Who wants that?”

Of course, we all know the traditional definition of the word “selfless,” to put others before yourself, to be a servant. And that is a beautiful quality – but it’s a beautiful quality in moderation. Putting my own feet on the ground each morning before I’m needed? Making sure I’m taking care of myself first, and establishing that I’m a self first? That was, truly, a game-changer for me.

And by the way, many, many parts of my life are still a mess. My eating is garbage, I haven’t worked out in weeks. I don’t say that to be self-deprecating, I say it to acknowledge that self-improvement is progress.

But there are so many little ways that I realized that I could be kinder to myself than I was being. Why not get a linen spray? Why not light a wonderful candle before I shower? Why not remind myself in tiny ways that I’m a “self?” This has been a lesson in true self care. In addition to the bigger, more obvious things (like a hair appointment which absolutely counts), I’ve been caring for my SELF. Who I am, unto myself, before I’m anything to anyone else.

When my alarm went off, I remembered something one of my old roommates told me one time. When I worked for Teach For America in Memphis, I lived with two straight goofball guys (oh, the stories I could tell you). One night over a box of pizza (because #ofcourse), we were talking about the first thing we do when we open our eyes. I can’t remember what everyone said, but I remember Kyle’s response because it struck me as so damn sweet. He said, “I smile.” He was totally serious. I said, “Are you kidding? You smile?” He said, “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

It was a tiny act of declaration, right at the beginning of the day. Alone in the dark, he made the choice to begin his day in a way that honored himself.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

It’s a pretty good question.

Airports: A Rant

I recently traveled to Nicaragua on a 5-day whirlwind trip that was one of the highlights of this thing we call life. Boy, did I have a GOOD. TIME. More on that later.

But y’all – the AIRPORT SITUATION. As I said on my Instagram stories recently, I don’t know if it’s the mere fact that I hadn’t set foot in an airport in nearly 2 years or if things have actually gotten worse, but it was as though the rats had overtaken the city. And by rats, I mean me and my fellow travelers. And by the city, I mean the airport.

As the rats and I ran around from station to station, I was writing this very blog post in my head. It was a veritable trash pile of content. So today, I present to you, the musings of a young woman traveling alone with alllll the time in the world to observe the behavior of her fellow rats.

In no particular order:

1. This is an observation that applies to anywhere, but especially to an airport where tensions are running higher than Kim Zolciak’s wigs: please do not take FaceTime calls with NO HEADPHONES. People. The amount of fellow rats I saw doing this was staggering. In the terminals, in the food court, in the line waiting to board the plane. I heard conversations about schedules, conversations about prescriptions, YouTube videos being played about gothic themes in old Hollywood (interesting content, but I didn’t choose it at that moment). The exception to this rule is the precious Nicaraguan woman who sat next to me on the plane who talked to her grandchildren before takeoff (“Mi amor, mi amor, te quiero mi amor.”) – that lady could’ve attacked me with a brick and I would’ve thanked her, she was so cute. A pair of Steve Jobs’ headphones (the “dingle dongles,” as Heather McMahan refers to them) cost 15 American dollars. We beg you.

2. The second is a personal pet peeve of mine that I waiver between trying to be understanding about vs. boiling with impatience when dealing with. And that is people who create a traffic jam at the x-ray conveyor-belt. Here’s what these people want to do:

   • Go through the spin-y “hands above your head” stripper gun detector

   • Mosey to the VERY first available spot they can find on the conveyor-belt

   • Plant themselves there like a 100 year old oak

   • Spot their bag, scoot it to the edge

   • Proceed to BEGIN RE-CLOTHING THEMSELVES IN THE SAME SPOT

   • Leave the tray that held their stuff on the belt for someone else to deal with

   Y’all, when I tell you this sends me into a fury. And listen – this is where my conflict lies. I’m not directing this toward people who clearly are not comfortable in this setting, and it’s obvious who’s who. If you’re someone who doesn’t fly very much, or are nervous and a little overwhelmed, sister, you. do. YOU. I’m talking about the folks who clearly do travel a lot, but for some reason have chosen to prioritize putting on their belt above ANYONE ELSE THERE/their needs/schedules/etc.. Below I have listed the proper protocol for conveyor-belt behavior that I would insist upon if I were queen:

   • Go through the spin-y thing

   • Walk with purpose, but not aggression, to a spot where you can see your bag but you aren’t in anyone else’s way

   • Upon seeing your bag or your tray of belongings, approach the belt and immediately REMOVE YOUR TRAY AND TAKE IT ELSEWHERE

   • Find a quiet bench (there’s always one nearby for just such use), park thyself, put your shoes and other items back on

   • RETURN THE TRAY to live with its friends

   I politely asked a woman who was helming her family of 5 (all adults – this as an adult parents/siblings trip) if she wouldn’t mind moving her tray down the belt so I could get in there and she looked at me like I’d peeled the skin from her body. Why? Why. I ask you.

3. I admit I am a convert on this next one, but the truth is that people wrangling babies or toddlers on planes are almost* always working as hard as they can. If their kids are causing a problem, you can bet your bottom dollar that the parents are in a hell way worse than your spectator hell. Their hell is of their own creation, and that’s the worst kind. God bless caregivers sweating blood and trying to keep their children quiet and entertained on planes. I see you. I feel that struggle. *This does not apply to the mother who was on her phone, snapping at her children who were both playing wildly and slapping each other around in the customs line. That mom needs a drink, but her kids also need a time-out.

4. Your seat is for your feet. The area under my seat is for MY FEET. Not your feet. My feet. Your feet = your seat. (I’m talking about people sitting next to each other. Jordan thought I needed to clarify that I’m not talking about people putting their feat under my seat.)

5. I sat next to a woman who brought aboard the plane an airport-bought chicken Caesar salad which she bathed, lathered, and doused in a garlic Caesar dressing I can only describe as searing to the nostrils. Bringing a cute lil’ sammich on the plane to save some shekels on airport food (a brilliant move I wish I’d thought of) is one thing. Choosing to eat the world’s smelliest food next to a stranger and then (yes really) falling asleep so that your dressing-covered napkin drifts onto my lap is really a CHOICE.

6. The jumping up when the plane lands. What is that?? Don’t people know that all they’re doing is choosing to stand up for longer? I really feel like this is a recent development. I don’t remember this happening 10 years ago or so. But on every single flight (except the Avianca Air ones, wherein a flight attendant calmly announced which rows were allowed to disembark in multiples of 5 and the passengers complied with the reverence solemn kindergarteners who love their teacher), once the “ding” of the fasten seatbelt light went off, it was like there was a silent contest to see who could be the first out of their seat. Like, folks. We are all going to get off this plane. If you have a connection, I understand feeling rushed. And in that case, you’re the exception! But this was like…every last soul. I don’t get it.

7. I know some folks will be shocked I didn’t put people talking to me on the plane on here, but my fool-proof way to deal with that is by having about 5 minutes of polite conversation then saying, “Okay - I’m going to turn my brain off and listen to a podcast. See you on the other side!” One of my friends recently submitted that the best way to avoid plane small talk is to say, “I tend to get pretty nauseated on planes, and being quiet and focusing on other things is the only way I can keep it under control. If I talk, I vomit.” Effective!

8. And finally: don’t be rude to the TSA people, for two reasons, really. One: people are rude to them all the live long. If they’re rude to you, it’s probably because their soul is shriveling up like a little raisin and they’re scraping the barrel for the will to live. So just be extra kind and smile and follow instructions without complaint. But secondly, and more importantly, if you go up against TSA…guess who’s winning? Not you. And while you may create an entertaining respite of a spectacle for your fellow passengers to enjoy, you will never win the day. I watched a woman throw down with a TSA agent about whether or not her bag was regulation size to fit in overhead bins. Ma’am. MA’AM. Guess who knows the answer to that?! THE PERSON YOU’RE HOLLERING AT! In the famous words of Heather Dubrow:

One final word, and it’s a positive one:

If it’s at all within your budget, I cannot recommend hiring a travel agent highly enough. My wonderful friend Holly NeSmith (of Brownell Travel) helped me coordinate this international trip and made it so smooth, so wonderful, and so headache-free. It’s my opinion that it’s worth saving the extra money in advance to devote to someone who can make your life so, SO much easier on the back end. And bonus: travel agents get better fares, better seat options, and better hotel rates – so you actually might end up saving in the process. Not having to worry about anything made traveling alone to an international destination a breeze. Very grateful!

But to all you rule violators out there: be warned. We watchin’. What are your airport pet peeves? What’d I miss?

In Defense of the Housewives.

Listen up, people. This is IMPORTANT CONTENT.

(No, it’s not.)

For years – and at this point I really mean years – I have been delightfully indulging in The Real Housewives franchise. I started watching when RHONY (Real Housewives of New York City, as each city will henceforth be monikered in this post by its acronym) premiered in spring of 2008, my freshman year of college. At that time, the only other franchise on the air was RHOC (Orange County), which was a weird, gritty, “new-moneyed” mayhem of California blondes. It was compelling, but it lacked a little…something. Polish, maybe.

Cut to the New York girls BRINGING. IT. Bethenny, Jill, Luann, Alex McCord (I could do a whole series on Silex alone), and Ramona. The five original mob bosses of Bravo. Bethenny, of course, has gone on to be a mogul in the world of business, and the other ladies have each staked their own claim in their own corners of the universe. Later that year, the Atlanta girls arrived on the scene, and then in 2009, we were #blessed with RHONJ, where the New Jersey gals changed our lives forever simply by introducing two little words that will send chills down the spine of any true Bravo fan: Danielle Staub.

If you’re reading this piece as a complete stranger to this series, sorry for all the inside baseball talk. But thirteen loyal years of fandom for these franchises, their later (not lesser) descendants (Potomac, DC, Miami, Beverly Hills, Salt Lake City, and, God bless, Dallas), and the “short-but-canceled” (Miami and DC) means I had to pay some detailed homage right up front.

Haters will say that the whole Housewives universe is the brainchild of evil, brilliant Andy Cohen, who sicked these mostly-over-40 women on America at a historically vulnerable and unpleasant time and got us all hooked on people who just scream at each other. And in every joke, there’s some truth: they are all older, they’re prone to hollering at each other, and it is full of drama.

Luann DeLesseps falls into a bush in Mexico.

But it’s not cooked.

And herein lies the major difference between the Housewives and every other reality show: there’s no bottom line. This isn’t a show about winning a cooking competition, surviving in a house full of enemies to get prize money, or being the last woman standing to win the heart of some bumbling ding dong. No, this is simply lives being lived while cameras are up. In fact, I’d argue the decline of some of the franchises has been the awareness of the cameras, and that the best seasons of any franchise are the result of lack of self-consciousness. When the cast members start producing their own seasons, a la Lisa Vanderpump or Lisa Rinna, it can sometimes go great - but other times, you spend a whole season swirling around the drama of who gave a dog away and to whom (yes, really) while flying to international destinations with a glam squad in tow. When Erika Jayne does it? Great. When every housewife is suddenly glammed to the max in every scene? No thank you. Give me no makeup Scary Island or give me death.

Shereé Whitfield delivers one of the most iconic lines in Housewives history.

I have grown to love these women so much that I can actually (and sometimes prefer to) fall asleep with Housewives on. As Casey Wilson recently wrote, “their screams are like waves crashing against the shore.” So well said.

Why is it comforting? Because these women have become my friends. Their lives have played out in front of me; their stories have scored and punctuated the high and low tides of my own life. I can remember where I was sitting, 5 days post-partum with Mac at Christmastime, when I got the news that Luann had been arrested and assaulted a cop. I was feeding Rosie a bottle while I read up on whether or not Erika Girardi’s husband swindled widows out of millions. I stood in my college apartment with my two best girlfriends watching Kelly Bensimon completely melt down on Scary Island. Danielle Staub debuted “Real Close,” a duet with lesbian superstar Lori Micheales, a nightmare and an ear worm that caused us all to claw out our collective ears and eyeballs, my senior year at ‘Southern (and we parodied it for months). If you’re unfamiliar, please watch this horrible clip with dancers that can only be described as Oompa Loompa’s wander, thrusting, confused, on a tiny morning show stage. (Or, if you’re feeling sultry, might I suggest this version, which features a horrified and delighted Andy Cohen saying, “Wow! Wow…Oh my God?!”?)

There are real reasons to watch, in my opinion, that transcend the comfort of our dear friends screaming at each other and drunkenly falling in the bushes. There are few shows on television that, almost exclusively, feature women over 40. In each HW city, the median age skews lots closer to 50 than it does to 30 (though there are younger cast members cropping up like Candiace Dillard, Ashley Darby, and Leah McSweeney). Getting to watch women whose primary responsibility may once have been taking care of young children and keeping a home transition into their next chapter of life is exhilarating. Maybe their chosen chapter isn’t what we’d write for ourselves, but the simple acknowledgement that women are people beyond their responsibilities in their family is revolutionary and deeply feminist.

Ramona Singer “walks” in a “fashion show.”

There’s actual, un-produced family drama (“You stole my goddamn house!”; Taylor Armstrong’s tragic storyline; Jennifer Aydin’s parental woes; watching Vicki Gunvalson discover by phone that her mother had died; Ramona Singer’s true love Mario publicly cheating and the divorce that followed; Porsha’s myriad dramas with the Hot Dog King) that keeps each woman human, because no matter how petty things get with the other cast mates, she has layers. We’ve seen our girls through prison, through spousal suicide, cheating, bankruptcy, and, most recently, swindling orphans and widows out of millions of dollars. Allegedly.

Another compelling and timely reason to watch is the diversity. With the casts of Atlanta and Potomac featuring exclusively Black women, the other mostly-if-not-completely white cities have gotten much-needed makeover. The addition of the ICONIC Eboni K. Williams on RHONY, Crystal Kung Minkoff and Garcelle Beauvais to RHOBH, and Dr. Tiffany Moon to Dallas are equal parts overdue and refreshing. Sadly, it does occasionally mean that these women of color are having to explain why “articulate” is offensive and that gagging over eating chicken feet is culturally insensitive – and while that’s a burden that should never be on BIPOC, it’s bringing a conversation into living rooms (and onto tablets, really) across America that the average viewer may not have ever actually seen play out. Watching Black women wrap their hair before bed or discuss how their passion is often mis-identified as anger because of their race? It’s a window into a world white women don’t live in. It’s certainly not The Point of the Housewives franchise to educate white women, but, much like Ramona is learning from the incredibly patient and gracious Eboni, I’d wager a lot of white America is learning a few things, too. And we’re learning it from friends, which is powerful. (We’re also seeing how ugly it can be when white women mis-handle issues of race, which I guarantee has left white viewers wondering, “Oof. Is that what I do?”)

Play the above while you read the end. Just trust. Extra points if you get the RHOBH reference.

You may scoff and consider us, the fans, to be trolling for garbage at the bottom of the Dumpster. But I ask you: is a deep, comprehensive knowledge of a subject really a bad thing? I’m lookin’ at you, sports fans who know every single member of a team there’s ever been, with the players’ stats committed to memory. Consider us sports fans if you must. We are up to date with every fight, with every nuance. We know that Melissa really hates Teresa. We watched Porsha go from “Where did the train actually run in the Underground Railroad?” to blooming into the comedy legend and activist she is today. We remember the horrendous blue background at the first Jersey reunion. We were there. We REMEMBER.

If I can make it to my 80’s with a knowledge of the cast of RHONY in the first five seasons? I’ll call it a win. If I can shout WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE WITHOUT DORINDA?! to a stranger in a bar and get a goofy smile of recognition back, I’ll be happy. What I want in my life is more idiocy. More lobsters in purses. More breaking off teeth from biting the buttons of a strange man’s shirt cuff. More Donkey Booty workout tapes. Less luxury car shopping, honestly, I can do without that and murder mystery parties EVER AGAIN. But more bad products: perfume, wine, lip kits, joggers that never arrive. Give it to me. Give it ALL to me.

Ultimately, though, what glues us to our screens (and to the podcasts about these shows, the Instagram accounts, and Housewives Twitter) is that we’ve grown connected to these unhinged, larger-than-life characters we call our pals. I thought for many years I was alone on an island with my fandom, maybe alongside a few very close girlfriends, but NO – Al Gore’s Internet has proven to me the ocean that surrounds us is also made up of Housewives fans who know every reference, every deep-track quote. Bonding with HW fans across generations and geography is one of The Lord Andy Cohen’s greatest gifts to us all. We all have our favorites (Sonja, Porsha, Dorinda, Kathy Hilton, Yolanda, Phaedra, Karen Huger, Luann, Dolores). But we stand strong as a fanbase, ready to defend a viewer whose opinions we disagree with because, like the sands of time, God knows our own opinions will change on a dime.

So today I offer praises from my heart to the ears of the heavens for our decade+ relationship with our girls. Long may they live, more may they drink (except the sober ones), and louder may they yell.

I hear every shout as a triumph over the patriarchy.