Duck Lips and Book Launches

My new novel, Summer in the South, has just launched and like modern authors everywhere, I’m busy trying to learn the intricacies of social media and internet marketing. Because therein lies the secret to riches and success and break-out novelist superstardom. Or so I’ve been told, by the thousands of bloggers who write about such things on a daily basis and whose advice I vainly and blindly try to follow.

So I’ve built a new website. I’ve set up a Summer in the South Facebook page. I’ve made my first few timid Tweets. (Although really, the whole thing feels so asinine; what do people find to Tweet about? My life is not that exciting. @cathyholton Just found another line in my neck!)

I’ve embarked on the obligatory blog tours, written the obligatory blog posts, learned how to build a landing page and navigate the Amazon author’s page. I’ve comparison-shopped online advertising and marketing pitches, hosted the requisite book launch and book giveaways, sent out the requisite press releases and galleys. In fact, so far the only thing I haven’t done is work on my new novel. Internet marketing is hell on writing.

I need a break.

And what, you might ask, does a brain-dead author do to relax from the technological onslaught of online book marketing? (No, it does not involve vodka.) I grab a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and plop down in front of the TV for another mindless episode of The Housewives of New Jersey….Orange County….New York. Somehow these bitches put it all in perspective. They make me feel better about myself.

Then I head over to Stoopid Housewives for a truly entertaining romp through the viewer comments section. These women are hilarious. They’ve taken the art of “drankin’” and “dishin’” to a whole new level of excellence. They’ve given the housewives names like “Duck Lips”, “Jesus Barbie”, and “Wretched.” I hover shyly, sipping my Pinot Grigio Spritzer and giggling like an eighth-grade school girl.

Which is exactly what I need sometimes.

Marie Antoinette is Alive and Living on the Upper East Side

Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m a “Housewives” junkie. It’s my dirty little secret.

Having made it through “The Real Housewives of Orange County” (trailer trash on silicone) and “The Real Housewives of Atlanta” (entertaining but fake), I’m hooked, absolutely hooked, on “The Real Housewives of New York City.”

Is it me, or do the Housewives of NYC remind you of being back in high school? First, there’s Alex and her creepy, secretly-gay boyfriend (husband) trying desperately to break into the popular clique. I wanted to like Alex, I really did. She’s from the Midwest and she’s a graphic designer. But then there was the naked-on-the-beach St. Bart’s episode and all the talk about “au pair girls” and knowing the “right people,” not to mention the conversations with her children involving pretentious smatterings of French. And don’t get me started on poor Francois and Johan, those long-haired, French-speaking little darlings destined for a life of school yard bullying. How do you say please don’t kick my ass in French? Really, what are their parents thinking?

And then there’s Ramona, who likes to describe herself as “ladylike” and “classy”, while wearing a tiny bikini and engaging in martini-fueled horseplay around the pool in front of her humiliated thirteen-year-old daughter. Go mom. Ramona’s one of those people who says whatever she wants without any regard for anyone else’s feelings, and then seems genuinely surprised when it all backfires. She’s the girl in high school who tried to make you feel guilty for getting on the pill, who boasted she’d be a virgin when she married, who swore she wasn’t having sex with her boyfriend and later got pregnant her junior year.

Jill reminds me of the girl who grew up in a trailer on the wrong side of town but despite her humble origins, still manages to snag one of the rich boys. She wears her insecurities on her sleeve, only in Jill’s case it’s a Herve Leger sleeve. It gets a little old hearing her brag about spending $8,000 on a Birkin bag or complaining about losing her housekeeper as if it’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to her; but then she cries when her daughter leaves for Paris or she mentions that her mother used to hound her about her weight when she was a girl, and I can’t help but feel sorry for her. (Is it just me or is Jill’s mother seriously scary?)

Kelly’s the cheerleader who’s always gotten by on her charm and good looks. But don’t cross her. Behind that pretty facade lies a borderline psychopathic personality. (Think Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction). And really, the fake tan has got to go. (Not that I would ever tell her this, of course, not unless she was safely trussed up, Hannibal Lector style.)

And Bethenny? Well she’s my peeps. If she and I had gone to high school together, we’d have been good, good friends (as we say in the South). Bethenny wields sarcasm like a scalpel (“Cher called. She wants her outfit back.”) Despite her new fake boobs, there’s something real about her. I can imagine us smoking cigarettes in the girls’ bathroom, sharing a bottle of tequila out at the lake, or sneaking out of my window on a Friday night. (Not that I ever did those things, Mom. Really.)

And then there’s the Countess. LuAnn. Who I used to admire for her openness, before I realized that the openness was really just another side of self-conceit. If I had to place LuAnn in high school, I’d describe her as the self-absorbed Homecoming Queen. The night she corrected Bethenny for having introduced her to the limo driver as “LuAnn” instead of “Countess de Lesseps” I knew I was going to have a problem with LuAnn. The whole thing was so very Let-Them-Eat-Cake. This is America, and we don’t give a damn about things like titles, LuAnn, so get over yourself. Seriously.

Which brings me back to the whole addictive quality of the show; the fact that I feel I know each of these women intimately and can like or dislike them accordingly. I’m a guilty voyeur. As Bethenny says, while watching from the sidelines of a tension-filled tennis match, “It’s like watching someone skin an animal alive.”

My husband always groans and leaves the room when he sees the show is on. But later, as I’m climbing into bed, he wants to know what happened on tonight’s episode. The hypocrite.

He’s as bad as Ramona.