The Call is Coming from Inside the House(Wives)

An odyssey back to Bravo, but is it meant to last?

Disclaimer: I’m dipping my toe into cultural commentary in this post, this is a departure from the usual Chez Vetiver dispatches. Disclaimer deux: This post is very inside baseball, all are welcome but only Bravo historians will catch the callbacks to a bygone era. 

 20 years ago, my mom and I were watching TV together and flipped to a channel called Bravo. The gates of Coto de Caza swung open and after a few minutes, we were introduced to an assemblage of Orange County ladies going about their lives and inviting us in. I was riveted, the manner in which these women shared without shame was tantamount to exotic, a stark contrast to the restraint and propriety of my upbringing. 

My mother was done after 10 minutes, declaring that Real Housewives of Orange County was crass. A few months later I started college and my first act of rebellion was utilizing the dorm cable package to cruise the placid waters of Lake Havasu with Vicki and Jeana, cowboy hats and beer bongs in tow. What a thrill it was to stay tuned, season after season, and bear witness to empty love tanks, his and hers Harley hogs (Tamra and Simon forever), Gretchen’s clear plastic bra straps, and Dr. Moon’s frank assessment of Shannon’s body composition. 

Andy Cohen’s world of wives kept turning, I on its irresistible axis, as new cities were added to the franchise. The early days felt off the cuff, unproduced and pure, as we met the likes of Nene Leakes and Luann de Lesseps—icons in their own right. Noel’s breakdancing instructor arriving at a prim UES townhome, Kim packing her juicer in its own rollaway for a cast trip, and a sweaty baptismal brawl at a New Jersey reception hall left an imprint on my twenties. 

Then, slowly at first, the tides began to turn. Housewife storylines felt contrived and disingenuous; the spell had been broken. Two matriarchs in particular were given too much runway in exchange for too little vulnerability, not to mention receiving unchecked airtime for their businesses (Villa Blanca and the Brownstone, respectively. Dare I mention the nepotistic endeavors of their offspring? Wine lines and BLK Water peddling we couldn’t escape). 

Meanwhile, their castmates squeezed water from a stone for their craft and hard-earned place on the reunion couch. If you haven’t lost a tooth or had your wig tugged askew on camera, the chopping block, or relegation to “friend of,” should always loom near. We were also introduced to a more ragtag band of characters across the board, I commune with Housewives for occasions like Millou’s uptown send off complete with ash scattering gone awry or style moments a la Louis Vuitton’s egregious Herman Munster mistake, not for musty casitas and Married to the Mob sweatsuits. 

I subsequently dropped some cities from my lineup and questioned the fate of Andy’s golden goose. Of course, Housewives is a pipeline to offshoots like Vanderpump Rules and Southern Charm which I fully partook in. To deny the magnetism of the number one guy in the group or a fascination with the eccentricities of a Rolls-Royce riding doyenne would be foolish. These episodes brought color to my bleak, middle of the night pumping sessions that punctuated two newborn phases.

Then when a breath of fresh air, in her Lorna Murray lampshade topper, joined Beverly Hills my faith in the franchise was restored. Kathy Hilton’s Hunky Dory did more for viewers than anyone on the Dallas cast could have dreamed of; a star was born. Shortly after came the day the music stopped, the night the lights went out in Georgia. My husband abruptly clipped cable in favor of every streaming service except Peacock. I was adrift, untethered. I could have protested, signed up for Peacock but…maybe this was happening for a reason. 

I had felt deep down that Bravo was circling the drain, I didn’t want to watch as it was taken out behind the woodshed. I would walk away now, with dignity intact. Staying abreast of the latest Bravolebrity news was a breeze, I’d shudder at the harrowing updates and delight in the frothy ones. I could navigate the scandals and dissect the machinations during small talk, I hadn’t become a complete rube. 

Then last week it was discovered that I did indeed, once again, have access to Bravo. Kismet! It was the 20th anniversary of Real Housewives and the OG of the OC was back for this milestone season. The nostalgia was palpable as I floated through the Coto de Caza gates anew and was transported south of the border to Andale’s, its whirring fans and LED-lit bar beckoning to me. It was a homecoming of sorts, only I couldn’t register some of these familiar faces. The augmentations struck me; should I be taking notes or heeding a warning? 

Relics from the casita saga aside, flashing Spanx and glimpses inside the insurance emporium that started it all washed over me. It won’t be enough to sustain a vested interest, but I’m content to drop in for a Bass Lake revelation or little family van debacle.