As I sit down to write my first Real Housewives of Beverly Hills recap for the season, the internet is afire over the news of My Daveed writing a “Sincerely, the John” letter to Yolanda Foster.
The world’s collective mouth is agape. How could you leave a (possibly it could happen) dying woman whose only reason to live is to make you a small lemon chicken every fucking day of your life? Who gets the fridge? And were the tenors ever let out of the basement?
What’s the point of never eating and staying hot even with a possibly fake disease just to be put out to pasture like an old dried up cow? There isn’t one. That’s the point, so dry your fucking tears and learn something. These women crucify themselves week after week not just for the amusement of the peasants, but also for our education.
I wish I could come to whatever Motel 6 Yolanda is staying at right now trying to figure out why her Amex won’t work and hug her. I’d tell her that she’s kind of a dick, but she’s also badass in her own way and part of the reason that she’s a dick is because dick is the only goal she sets for herself. I’d brush her new cropped hair gently and tell her to cancel her call to Mohammed’s ex-slag placement hotline and take a breath.
You’re not only valid because someone rich likes you. We like you. Even when we don’t (which is usually but the point is we like you even then). Because you’re fucking insane. Because you’re gorgeous. Because you’ve given your children eating disorders and taught us all of the positive things that can come from those disorders (magazine covers, sacks of cash, boyfriends with misspelled names that belong on the calendar and not a birth certificate). Because you tried to make Ken Todd look like a woman abuser when he touched your arm. Because chicken. And lemon trees. And telling Taylor Armstrong to shut the fuck up while David songsterbated at your dinner party. We love you (ish) for being you.
The vultures are circling, the net is devouring you. I get it. You’re feeling really shitty right now. SNAP OUT OF IT and open a pack of peanut M&Ms.
Think about your next step, PLEASE. Humans are made of patterns, and yours are literally really old. Yes, you need to work. I get it. Using your hotness to land rich crinkled assholes is definitely a job, but it’s not easy. I’m no ho shamer, in fact I’m proud of you. You’ve chosen a path and you’ve succeeded twice and made lots of really pretty humans for the rest of us to masturbate to (not me, but still). It’s time for a new strategy. Ironic that you’d have to think of Plan B all these years later, eh?
Do you need another David Foster on top of you heaving chicken breaths and trying to stay hard to get his money’s worth just so you can draw your own fridge? No. You need a damn job. Everyone’s doing it. Shit. Sell some purses from China with your name slapped on them like a dignified Real Hosuewife. Or just leave it all behind and learn to type.
Being a ho does pay, obvi, but being a ho for a corporation that provides Blue Cross and a decent pension pays way more in the long run.
Plus, you don’t wake up in the middle of the night shivering in terror at the memory of the fowl dinner you’ve almost perfected mixing with Old Spice sweat, dripping down onto your noxema’d face when all you wanna do is post instas of your feet.
David Foster is a turkey necked blowhard who tries to give himself fauxhawks. I can’t feel bad for you right now, girl, and I don’t want you to feel bad for yourself. He did you a favor. You’ll always have a spare room in MoHam’s homes or da udda one (Bella)’s place in New York (you know GiGi will be like umnosars). You won’t have a place over the freeway with lemon trees and a dude selling Little Mermaid towels on the corner of the property, but you’ll have peace, and you might realize that there’s still a real person living in that shell that has something real to say.
You might even be cured. Think about it. It’s the first time in years you won’t have to pretend you’re tired and have a headache.
Wash that man right out of your hair. Or have someone wash him out for you. I don’t expect you to wash your hair yourself right away. Baby steps.
At the very least, maybe we will finally have a Yolanda that isn’t inhibited by the demands of shielding a famous rich narcissist from embarrassment. You’ll be able to show us the real Yolanda, and I have a feeling she’s like seventy times as awful as the one we know now. To that, I say YAY. Welcome to the new you, betch!