Tink's mom » TV

The More Things Change, Blah, Blah: 13 Things About the Return of ‘The Real Housewives of New York City’ I Find Comforting

eliz — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 02:04:32 +0000

Ramona? Good news! STILL CRAZY. Still twitches spastically, still finds herself white hot. When someone mentioned her haircut, she rambled something incoherent about Sampson and Delilah and how her “long gorgeous blonde hair” was “my sex symbol.” Huh?
But seriously, she looks like she aged 15 years since the last season. Too many shots of Patron probably.
Mario’s crack about the Countess now being Countless was solid word play. But also bitchy, because even divorced, everyone knows how she clings to her title. But what can you expect from a guy who wears man jewelry?
I was going to say: I think LuAnn could have a whole second career in her now that her sugar daddy has flown the nest. She needs to start a blog about maintaining the facade of a socialite lifestyle on a budget. She can borrow from her former status as etiquette expert and give entertaining tips, shopping finds, list the latest online coupon codes for J.Crew, she might even do some cooking posts. She’ll be the P-Dub of the Hamptons.
However, then I saw the promo where she’s recording a song about etiquette. Reality show starlet + musical career = I think you’re getting bad advice.
What you should be spending your time on is that daughter who broke her wrist sneaking out of the house. The kid fell off a second-floor balcony. Heed the warning, LuAnn.
Jill Zarin’s Bobby with his ’70s photo-gray glasses and the admission that he has every issue of Playboy since 1969 screams “creepy uncle.”
Kelly? STILL CRAZY. That is all.
“To show people your boobs is a huge, huge honor.”
I will give her big props for the crack about Bethenny inventing the margarita. It was quick, witty and actually fit in with the context of the conversation. Kelly, FTW.
But that’s it – Bethenny with her PETA ad and Kelly in Playboy. Let’s hope that’s the extent of it.
Even with the questionable home decor and children with aspirational names, Alex still seems normal and real, which makes Simon even harder to explain.
Bravo to Bethenny about the boy and the baby and the business. And alliteration overload. I even dig her Skinny Girl Margarita car, primarily because it irked the delicate sensibilities of the Countess, who couldn’t understand the distinction between driving around in a be-logoed car when it makes you money as opposed to wearing a designer logo that cost you money.

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This Is How You Know You’ve Made It on Twitter

eliz — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 03:14:06 +0000

When some of the biggest bloggers around start following you on Twitter, it’s a big deal.

These writers don’t just follow anyone, you know. They must have been impressed with my wit, my pith, my haikus about Thin Mints and “Gossip Girl’s” Chuck Bass. Julie is the first blogger I read regularly, and anyone can tell you the special place one’s first blogger occupies in the heart. Finslippy is smart and funny and is on the short list of people I’d like to be when I grow up.

However,

When douche-duo Speidi takes time away from repulsing all of humankind to follow a non-Hollywood nobody, well, it’s oddly flattering. First these two and then maybe Paris Hilton’s chihuahua. (Shhhh! Don’t jinx it!) If I get all big-headed about my celebrity Twitter chums, help me to keep it real, will ya?

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11 Other Things Martha Stewart Is Pissed About

eliz — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 05:03:30 +0000

You heard that correctly. I said pissed.

That I gave an ABC unprecedented access to my daily personal and business routine over two days and despite my legendary thoroughness, I forgot to add a rider that I receive the Barbara Walters soft-lighting Vaseline-on-the-lens treatment.
That that ex-cheerleader Rachel Ray wasn’t even upset about what I said. Why, when Julia Child called me “nothing more than a working-class Polish girl with good bone structure who refuses to give up that WASPy surname even though her husband divorced her for her assistant years ago,” I had the decency to go on a 10-day eating binge and then stay out of public until I lost most of the weight. I was brought up properly.
That I stayed up to attend a crowded midnight screening Friday, even going so far as to willingly embarrass myself by being the only one over 30 in the theater, and nobody even fucked.
That I get up at 4 a.m. with a dedication that borders on monastic to work out with light weights as is recommended for postmenopausal women, and those sugar hams with hairdos Paula Deen and Ina Garten not only nearly outstrip me in book sales and ratings but are beloved by all of America. A nation of hams in track suits, so why am I surprised?
That no one has ever acknowledged that that Diane Keaton movie where she ends up dating the business tycoon who dated her daughter was based on me. Ever. It’s not even one of those “widely known secrets,” either, like how “Heartburn” is really about Nora Ephron and Carl Bernstein. And do you know what? I wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment to do full-frontal while Jack Nicholson leered. And another thing? That kitchen in the film was BLATANTLY copied from my third-renovation kitchen at Turkey Hill.
That no one has stepped forward to loan out their uterus to my daughter, when she so has bravely gone public with her quest for a baby. Any child born to my daughter will live a life of rarefied privilege and that fact we don’t have thousands of healthy young handmaids on our doorstep just shows how indolent the youth of America has become.
That I served five long months inside and I’m not afforded the same respect as 50 Cent. I am not some 45-day-sentence Paris Hilton celebutante.
When I think of the number of employees I could have berated, fired, threatened to fire or humiliated in those five months, I, oh … I … I’m sorry. I need a moment.
That I have to make insipid small talk with Jessica Simpson and fend off lecherous come-ons from Donald Trump every time we film one of those Macy’s commercials. It gets so bad I actually look forward to getting a contact high from Carlos Santana.
That I have to make a gluten-free version of my celebrated stuffing this Thursday because of an ungrateful niece who chooses now to develop celiac disease.
That Diddy won’t be my cub.

Read the day’s other lists over at Anna’s:

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