Shit Gets Real, Real Quick

Listen,  I'm a smart girl.  I read my fair share of current affairs.  I watch sports, mainly football and lately soccer. I listen to NPR and Sports 980.  I research 'til I've circled back to previously clicked links for all of my technological needs.  I read reviews and weigh pros and cons.  I do all of that.  So, I'm justified when I watch trash TV or indulge in utterly ridiculous and seemingly unbelievable "reality" shows.  I have my limits - my preferences.  I'm a fading fan of the Real Housewives franchise.  I don't watch as much as I used to and I can barely follow the melodramas relentlessly and cyclically playing out.  Many times I'm chuckling.  Occasionally, I'm relating.  The latter is where I am.

I caught the end of the most recent ep of the Beverly Hills ladies.  Here I sit, on my floor, laptop on lap, with white remnants of tears on my face.  The chick to the left in the fierce canary gown, is the former wife of a cheating douche bag, whose mistress is an employee of the seated chick in the fuchsia dress (to Canary's right).  They happen to be very good friends.  Fuchsia has to cleverly juggle the work schedule of the mistress when Canary visits her restaurant. Talk about multi-tasking!

True to the plot planning of reality TV, the confrontation, under the guise of a sit-down talk, was bound to happen.  And when it did, it did not disappoint.  Only, I wasn't really prepared for my visceral reaction.  When I thought I'd be popping popcorn into my mouth, my guilty amusement took a hike.  It had other plans, yo.  While I never EVER blamed the other woman women for my ex-husband's poor man pimping, I most assuredly had my WTF moments, especially when I thought back to Xmas shopping for a mistress and other instances where my kindness was a mockery.  So, when Canary strutted into Fuchsia's place of business to have a 1 on 1 with that home-wrecking strumpet, my neck and eyes were simultaneously rolling so damn hard in anticipation.

 
What happened next shocked me.  With empathy I sat and listened to BOTH chicks.  Keeping it 100, my empathy scale tipped heavily on the housewife's. When I cued the triumphant music in my head, the housewife was reading the mistress like a thrift store book.  She let her know how much of a non-mother-fucking factor she was, by revealing she wasn't the only one he'd boned on the side.  Canary was visibly upset as she tried her best attempt to further belittle the mistress.  She precisely aimed her razor sharp anger daggers towards her and it was difficult to watch.  I felt envy.  I'd electronically confronted one mistress, but I surely wished I'd had the balls to risk it all and beat at least one bitch's ass.  Fuck maturity and "reason."  I wanted a sit down...my furious fist sitting on her below average face.  That's what I wanted, more than anything while watching that segment.

No words, just verbs.

Alas, I realized that maybe, juuuust a maybe I'd done the right thing.  Yeah, watching the confrontation pump, pump, pump, pumped me up. But it was fleeting.  In an instant, I became so thankful I was spared the potentially devastating details of my ex-husband's debauchery. I applauded the courage it took Canary to confront her, albeit accompanied by a scripted scenario.  Pressing pause...I guess I'm really and sincerely glad it wasn't me. That's real talk.