Im Really Here ...

So who knew that after weeks (well over a month) of silence, my blog voice would resurface via inspiration from the Real Housewives of Orange County. Last night, while putting far too many clothes in my Boca bound suitcase, the mostly blonde ladies from the West Coast made their season 7 debut. As I had hoped, the original franchise and my personal favorite (although at times New York and New Jersey have temporarily stolen my allegiance), the opener did not disappoint. I did catch the ten-minute teaser last week so I was fully up to speed on the life and times of the ladies who are anything but "real." And although he won't admit it, Jeffrey also enjoyed some quality television between intermittent snores. By the time the juicy upcoming tidbits rolled, my bag was zipped and I was already writing this blog in my head. Unfortunately, that also meant that sleep was mostly an exercise in futility; I should have skipped the tossing and turning and spent the night writing. But no, I sleep-blogged for hours and jotted down what I could remember over my morning coffee. So here I sit, in a Starbucks in New Jersey (work delivery and a flight out of Newark to Boca later today), tapping away on my reborn iPad (did I mention that my first iLove recently returned to my appreciative fingers with un-shattered glass and is responding beautifully to my touch ). I'm not sure how long I will sit here, I am very happy at the moment, oblivious to my fellow free wi-fi users, and confident that I will not be disturbed by any familiar faces. I am sure that I could find some good shopping nearby, but I am headed to a 4-day full-on South Florida spendathon and am already dangerously close to my Jet Blue luggage weight limit. On a side note, on my way to my current location I drove by the exit for Franklin Lakes, home to the Jersey Housewives. I was tempted to venture off and explore their reality and maybe even visit Kim D. at the Posh Boutique. I decided against it for many reasons, not the least of which was that nothing in my aforementioned luggage has any sort of bling or fur adornments and, more than likely, their target customer is not wearing a North Face and Pumas.

Before I veer too far off course, as you may vaguely remember I have a tendency to run-on incessantly on semi-related tangents, let me get back to Orange County. Last nights episode brought us up to speed on the oh-so-relatable lives of Vicki, Tamra, Gretchen, Alexis, Peggy ("friend of housewives - FOH) and two new additions, Heather and another FOH, Sarah. Extensions and implants apparently have more staying power than most friendships or marriages in their gated world, but I'm not tuning in for what's in my own backyard, so keep up the cat fights and I'll keep watching. I should probably warn you at this point that, if you haven't figured it out already, this is not going to be an emotional blog. All that deep thought may have been what drove me into seclusion, so for now get ready for snarky instead of sentimental; it's so much more Jill anyway. Back to the boobies and the blondes, and I have nothing against either, but really, there has to be a point where they look in the mirror and say "maybe this isn't a good look." There is not a garment in any of their massive walk-in closets that doesn't expose an unnatural (and generally unflattering) amount of cleavage. Now I will admit, and this will not be a surprise to most of you, that I am not shy about décolletage. My own "girls" (god-given, I feel the need to add) have been known to have a prominent place in my wardrobe, but not on a daily basis and not quite so obviously as the housewives who use them as some sort of silicone "statement" necklace. Maybe I'm a little jealous that at 49 perky requires underwire, but their enhancements are not bringing them much good luck, especially in the love department. Vicki, who incidentally should maybe look for self-improvement in other areas, has found new love while in the process of divorcing poor Don. Her "love tank" (as she so eloquently describes her libido) is now being filled by a southern gentlemen, the inspiration for her Cajun party last night. If she was canoodling with a Jewish guy would her party have had a deli theme? Tamra, also entangled in a bitter divorce battle with Simon, is still bathing with the "could be gay" Eddie and touting her 5-hour sexcapades. Not that I want to doubt the virility of either party, but I will. I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume some embellishment. Regardless of my being just slightly older than her published 43 years, and Jeffrey not being Latin, 37 or questionably homosexual, if we had a 5-hour sexual encounter I would more than likely end up a widow with a bad back and a limp. Or worse yet, Jeffrey would be the winning Jewish lottery ticket, the bereaved widower who killed his wife with 5 hours of sex. Single girls, and some married ones, would rush to warm his lonely heart and my side of the bed. Not happening on my watch, I'll keep an eye on the clock and make sure we steer clear of the 5 hour mark. If any of my "in the neighborhood of 50" year old friends want to share their endurance success stories, send me an email and I can call you a liar off -line. As far as my friends born in the 70's (and yes I have many who enjoy my jaded company), you barely have five minutes of alone time, so don't even bother to tell me otherwise. Just to clarify for all ages, this cannot be a cumulative total for a month (still probably being generous) or include vacation sex. I have no way of confirming or negating Tamra's claim, although she is probably not far from releasing some sort of you tube video, which of course, will be a compilation. One final note on this topic, most people I know, and I would guess most of the ones I don't, would prefer 5 hours of uninterrupted sleep. Enough said, back to the housewives. Gretchen, in my opinion the only actual beauty in the bunch, is still with the much-maligned, child-support dodger, Slade. He is by far the best looking of the orange county squeezes, and uses it to his advantage to bed the cream of the under 40 crop (remember Jo De La Rosa), but even his good head of hair can't compensate for his lack of any other redeeming qualities. If I were Gretchen, there's a a stretch, I'd take my wide-barrel curling iron (which she should give a rest) and cattle-prod him right out of my life. She could do better, even old and sickly, Jeff was a better choice. Not sure that was a real love match either, but I won't judge, he's dead and that wouldn't be fair. Alexis doesn't inspire much commentary, but I will say that her Alexis Couture fashion line and her husband Jim are equally as revolting. FOH Peggy claims to be 41-years old, and although I can't dispute it, with all that work , I still somehow think she looks older than me. I may be in denial , but humor me, this is my blog. Newcomer Heather (finally a brunette), former actress and wife of plastic surgeon to the rich and wannabe famous (I somehow recognize him from the only reality show to offend the masses, The Swan) is so far a little pretentious. She is touted to have "real money" and be from the East Coast, my research has also revealed that she is Jewish (the hair was a clue) was raised in Westchester and graduated from Syracuse in 1990. Someone I know has to know her, fess up. The other new girl, Sarah, has barely shown her stripes, so no opinion here yet.

Well, my latte is cold and almost empty and I've been sitting here for almost 3 hours, hope it was worth it. My kids have often joked about what a Real Housewives of West Hartford would be like, and sadly I always respond that although it may be the most "real" it would also be the most boring (although DC was a huge snore). I'm pretty sure all of America would not be captivated watching me (or any of my counterparts) navigate the 5-mile bubble of my life; from home to the JCC, off to the Big Y, quick stop at the Crown Market, head to the Mall, manicure, pedicure, Marshall's, Target, back to the Big Y (always forget something) and home again. An occasional fundraiser or shiva call might add some cultural interest. I am generationally stuck between the Bar Mitzvah years and the wedding circuit, so there won't be many opportunities to see the WeHa ladies drink too many appletinis, dance on speakers and flirt with Evan the adorable DJ, but it would be the best drama my suburban comrades could present. Don't hold your breath for the premier. As I venture to Boca it occurs to me that it could serve as a proper venue for a housewives crew, but in reality it's just New York with better weather, white cars and more frizzy hair.

Well, I have had a perfectly lovely day trashing the ladies who will undoubtedly entertain me for the coming weeks. Stay tuned for what I suspect will be an equally sharp-tongued tribute to all things Boca. Thank you housewives for nudging my journey out of hibernation.. This was fun.