unReality TV...
There are soooooo many things that can be said about the season premier of The Real Housewives of Atlanta (RHOA)that I just don't know where to begin! Should I start with the fact that suddenly everybody is against Liar Barbie (aka Kim)? The fact that Sheree downsized her house---she obviously didn't get her seven figure divorce settlement---and up supersized her body? Or maybe I should discuss how a 38 year-old Lisa Wu Hartwell, who already has kids by Keith Sweat (Eeewww) and one with semi-retired Ed Hartwell is concerned about having another child but apparently not at all concerned about the fact that she has been dumbed down this season. Hmmm...

Better than fiction...
How about we begin with the fact that there is nothing real about this show. These women were not friends before, though Nene and Sheree swear they were. They were picked by the network and thrown together to make us believe that they were friends. If you want a reality show about real friends with something to offer the world, then I think cameras should follow me and my friends around. We have things that these women do not---authentic personalities, real careers, and real problems. We don't spend our time planning narcissistic parties (Sheree), spending money we don't really have and boasting of fake ass relationships with married men (Kim), trying to find out who our real fathers are (NeNe), or trying to convince our six year-old daughters that marrying a man with six kids of his own is a good idea (Kandi). As a group, we've dealt with layoffs, starting new businesses, having kids (some more than others), infidelity, and straight up insanity, and we've kept it classy and friendly. Do we disagree? Absolutely. Do we snipe at each other and question each other's judgement sometimes? Hell yes! There's a little bit of bitch in every woman, and when you put us in the same room it can boil to the surface sometimes. But at the end of the day, we don't look to one-up each other at every turn because we realize that we're not in competition with each other. We have each other's backs because we're more than just friends. We've come to a point where we've known each other longer than we haven't, and we're not interchangeable from one season to the next.

The ugly truth...
I guess that's why we don't get a show, though. Apparently, no one wants to watch a show about friends who genuinely love and support each other and want the best for each other. Collectively, I guess our friendship doesn't have the ghetto-say-qua (bka je ne sais quoi) that these women bring---we would be replaced the way DeShawn was. Sadly, I think most Americans aren't ready for real reality. We're totally in love with this falsified version of reality where psuedo-nouveau riche women go around behaving like sixth graders keeping up a bunch of he-said-she-said drama. No one wants to see a show about women who are running successful households, maintaining healthy relationships, and raising well-adjusted kids. Why? Because it's positive? Boring? Grounded in reality? Lacks the weekly threat of a knock-down drag-out with a hairdresser, party planner, or each other? I know...we need an over the top gay confidant. Yeah, then he can drink mimosas with us, get pedicures with us, and even dance with us (with his pants unbuttoned?). Yeah...wait on it.

Like a moth to a flame...
As critical as I am of the buffoonery that occurs on The Real Housewives of Atlanta, though, I am ashamed (a little bit) to say to that I will probably not miss an episode. It provides a lot of fodder for conversation. Look for more in-depth blogs about this show as the season goes on. I figure by blogging about it, I can avoid going to sleep with an "angry vagina!" (WTH is that anyway?) I can vent my spleen about it, you can get a laugh, and we all win regardless of the level of harshness. Besides (and in the infamous words of Sheree), who gon' check me, boo?

I wonder why it is that ev-er-y time I go out of town without the hubby, it is impossible to get him on the phone? I am merely trying to check in, let him know I made it in safely, and tell him I love him---the usual drill. But as usual, he is nowhere to be found when I arrive after eight long hours of driving (or riding).

Fortunately for me, I am not concerned that he is out doing body shots off butt-naked freaks. That's not his stilo---he would never do body shots, but his freaks would serve a mean Amaretto Sour, though! No. He is somewhere sans cell phone and doing something totally constructive (like cleaning or studying or exercising) and has not thought about the fact that I am pulling my hair out with worry over his whereabouts! And when he finally calls (which will be before he goes to bed and when it finally occurs to him that he hasn't heard from me), he'll call and enjoy a private laugh at my expense for ever worrying at all.

Now to his credit, I did leave him a voice message ... and an email the moment I arrived at my well-appointed condo in Orlando (which I'll blog about later). I updated Twitter and Facebook, so it's more than possible that he is well aware that I arrived safely. But that's not the point. I need to know that he is all right! I need to be assured that he will somehow manage to feed himself and get to and from work without me. I know. It's not like I am all that helpful with those endeavors any other day, but every married person reading this knows exactly what I'm talking about! Plus, since I am the woman, I know for a fact that if the shoe was on the other foot, he would be beside himself for not being immediately available to him when he called me. But that's another ball of wax.

Oh well...I guess I will just have to continue to stalk him on all his numbers, suffer his mild irritation when I finally reach him, and try not to sound too exasperated when I get to him. I'll simply say, "Hey, Sweetie! Whatcha been doing? I miss you and love you." He'll answer my questions and ask me a few cursory questions of his own. We'll nonchalantly end the conversation as if we'll wake up next to each other in the morning.

And then we'll dance this dance again. Tomorrow.