Do we all secretly want to be a Real Housewife?

You may remember when I lived life without TV. It was a simpler time, one where I read three novels a week, where friends could bribe me with cable, where I devoured commercials like award-winning short films.

It wasn't long however, before the good folk on my block discovered I lived TV-less and delivered one straight to my door, such is the generosity of Harlem.

I have since upgraded to quite an impressive flat screen yet, on principal, I won't sign up for cable. The main reason: I come from a country that has four TV channels and I fear with seven hundred, I may never turn the damn thing off, particularly since I have yet to desensitize my entertainment senses.

And although having a TV has stopped me from considering mugging others in order to support my book habit, I have to admit it's giving me bad ideas, career wise... mainly from my new, sinful indulgence, The Real Housewives of New York City.



Introduced to this reality train wreck via it's other incarnations, I have found myself watching "Housewife" marathons in hotel rooms, completely dumb founded by the seemingly inane, verging on venomous, goings-on of these so-called grown ups.

How in the hell do they have the time to create all this drama? These people "do lunch" for a living! Which begs the question, if your most poignant, life-changing decision becomes whether to leave Ramona's long weekend BBQ in the Hampton's to drop into Lu Ann's Summer long weekend BBQ in the Hamptons, then how bad can life be?

I'd definitely ditch the "friends," but being a Real Housewife of New York City doesn't seem like a bad gig. It's certainly a more credible title than "Page Six Scandal Boy" or "Trust Fund Partier" as seen on IMG's latest reality show - not that I watch that sort of stuff!