This is only the second episode of Vanderpump Rules I’ve watched in a professional capacity, and I can already tell that the things this show wants us to care about are not the things I really care about. I’d rather offer cursory judgment on what the show wants us to talk about, while the tiniest details that pass unnoticed are the stuff from which pop-culture obsession is born.
For instance, when Lala goes out to lunch with her mother, Lisa, who was wearing the most chic and sensible outfit you could possibly find at the King of Prussia Mall, the show would like us to discuss Lala being bullied when she was a kid and how that might possibly lead to the strained capacity for adulation that most promiscuous people with low self-esteem crave. That’s what it wants us to talk about.
Know what I want to talk about? Well, the first thing I want to talk about is Lala’s eyebrows, which have been given more architectural scrutiny than most luxury condominium high-rises in Manhattan. I also want to talk about how Lala’s mother says, “Well, it’s obvious that you need to stop drinking. Waiter, two Pinot Grigios, please!” There was barely even a pause between concluding that her daughter is turning into an awful person because of the demon water and ordering her up a big old drink. Would you expect anything less from the mother who knows which song Lala lost her virginity to? (Hey, mom, mine was R.E.M.’s “Orange Crush,” in case you’re wondering.)
The show also wants us to talk about Tom and Katie and their wedding plans. Tom wants to be frugal and Katie wants to have her very special day, which is something that a human being with a nose ring thinks should be every single day. Anyway, Tom’s new mantra is “don’t complain, don’t be cheap,” which is very sweet. Katie is repaying him by being reasonable about his request to get a prenup. That is what the show wants us to talk about.
Know what I want to talk about? I want to talk about the fact that Katie’s wedding Pinterest board exploded on their dining room table. What the hell is up with this invitation to be her bridesmaid? It’s like a scavenger hunt inside a cookie tin that you’d buy for $2.57 at the Container Store. There is going to be a balloon inside with a piece of cloth that says, “Will you be my bridesmaid?” What sort of insane bargain basement promposal nonsense is this? Being a bridesmaid (especially for a wedding that is being held on a Wednesday!) is a huge logistical and financial inconvenience. The only thing that makes it worse is vastly inconveniencing the women who are about to submit themselves to months of petty tyranny leading up to the wedding with your stupid mystery box.
And while we’re at it, can we talk about Princess Water? What the hell is Princess Water and why is Stassi obsessed with it? Is it just normal water that comes in a pink cut-glass jar that looks like one of Britney Spears’s decommissioned perfume bottles? Why does Stassi want to make cocktails with it? Does the infusion of princessness make them even more entitled and difficult to manage when they’re drunk?
While we’re talking about Stassi, we discovered that serving as Lisa Vanderpump’s personal assistant is her No. 4 nightmare. What are the first three? If I had to take a guess I would say they are: (1) that she will wake up one day with her original face; (2) being forced to look at the ingrown hairs in Jax’s pubic region for all of eternity; (3) irrelevance.
Know what else I want to talk about? Why does everyone on this show sleep in their clothes? Jax does it. So do Schenna and her husband. Is it because they don’t want the cameras to catch them naked because their summer bodies aren’t fleeking enough? Is it because they pump the air conditioner to show how much money they’re making because being cold in Los Angeles and sleeping in your jeans and a button-down shirt is some sort of warped L.A. status symbol? Someone please tell me.
Sure, this show wants us to talk about Lisa’s World Dog Day charity. It is a very noble charity, don’t get me wrong, but it seems like an afternoon church picnic with way more fussy Pomeranians and their doubly fussy owners. Instead, I want to talk about the back alley at SUR. I love that this is one of the major locations for discussions to go down. These people all think that they’re very glamorous and famous on this reality show, but in order to keep up that fame and glamour, they need to regularly have serious conversations in a setting that seems like it is covered in second-hand chicken grease. It most certainly smells like day-old spaghetti, surgical stitches, a couch someone lit on fire and then abandoned, and crushed dreams. This is where they decide major parts of their lives.
Oh, I guess we should talk for a minute about James. First of all, he lives with “some guy named Paul who I play pool with.” That is the saddest, most desperate thing I have ever heard and I once attended a listening party for Heidi Montag’s first single. Secondly, he thinks that he should play Coachella because he has two singles that sold but a fraction of “Don’t Be Tardy.” That is, of course, ludicrous. (But if he were to open for Heidi Montag, I would gladly pay $25 and a two-drink minimum to watch that show.)
James thinks that his career is going much better than it is. Why? Because he’s manning the decks at Lisa’s booze-free afternoon doggie festival. To underscore that he is an idiot, the producers cut from him saying, “I’m killing it,” to him announcing that he found someone’s keys and to come pick them up at the DJ booth. That is the cruelest thing I have ever seen on reality television and I watched both Heidi Montag’s wedding and the entire first season of The Swan.
Most of all, Vanderpump Rules wants us to talk about Jax telling everyone that Kristen went down on Brittany. The only thing I really care about, though, is how they tricked the line cooks at SUR to talk about it on camera in Spanish because there is no way that happened organically. I do believe that Kristina with a K and Tierney (no relation to Emmy nominee Maura) would be gossiping about this at the waitress station. But those line cooks? They could give a shit about who Kristen goes down on unless it’s one of them.
This is such a stupid fight because, just like the line cooks’ conversation, it is clearly manufactured. There is so much wrong with this. If Jax is so peeved that his girl was cheating on him with Kristen, why didn’t he say anything when he witnessed it? Why didn’t he bring it up to them before he told Tom Sandoval in front of the cameras where both he and his girlfriend work? That doesn’t make any sense.
This isn’t even much of a fight. Jax is clearly wrong about absolutely everything going on here. When he tells Kristen it’s not her problem, he’s acting like his head is full muddled mojito mint and Joyce Giraud’s leftover extensions. Of course it is her problem! He’s going around saying that she went down on his girlfriend. That makes it her problem.
Also, Brittany should be way more upset than she is. As she reminds us, he’s spreading rumors about his own girlfriend. That is some seriously messed-up nonsense. If I were Brittany, I would take my free boob job and go move in with Scheana permanently, or at least until Jax gets Joyce’s weave out of his skull and starts acting like a rational human being.
But I really don’t want to talk about that. All I ever want to talk about is Tom Schwartz and his trip to the spa with Tom Sandoval. Oh my lord, we got to see a shirtless Tom Schwartz and it was absolutely perfect. No, not his body. That is not perfect. He does not look like he just stepped off the set of an underwear shoot. He looks like the hottest jock in your high school, but one who doesn’t go to the gym quite enough. That’s just what I want. It’s not a dad bod; it’s your best friend’s stoner older brother bod. God, it’s beautiful.
He lies down on the massage table and he asks the other Tom, “Do you wear your underwear during a massage?” The answer, Schwartzie, is no. No, you do not. You just lay there, your beautiful slightly flat ass up in the air as I rub my hands all over your body, in long, stiff strokes from the tight knots of your hamstrings up to the taut ropes of your shoulders. Just close your eyes while I bring you pleasure, my fingers exploring every little crevice, their pressure releasing any anxiety you might have as you relax under my grip, falling under my sway. From his state of immobile bliss he reaches down from the table and grabs my calf, giving it a resigned rub as if to say: We don’t have to talk about it. We don’t have to talk about anything. We just have to love each other and never visit the SUR alley ever again.