I have many guilty pleasures, not that I feel particularly guilty about any of them. Some things I will happily cop to, like how happy Mmmbop makes me, for example. It was never cool to enjoy a song with the lyrics “plant a seed, plant a flower, plant a rose” and some nonsense about which one grows is this big secret, and the fact that it was sung by three little adolescent yankee boys whose voices hadn’t even broken made it even less cool, unless of course you, too, were a tween at the time. But I’ve always loved it and nearly two decades after its release and despite its very repetitive nature, it still makes me want to shake my booty. I also enjoy the X-Factor despite that annoying and condescending Nicole Sherzomething.
Then there’s the stuff that is ever so slightly more awkward to confess to whilst maintaining eye contact and hoping not to blush, like being totally addicted to The Real Housewives of New Jersey. I consider myself a fairly switched on chick and beyond that I would also say I am very low key, hate attention and have never aspired to be orange, botoxed or dripping with diamonds, which seems to be the hottest trend in the garden state if those ladies are anything to judge by. And here’s Anna – jeans and trainers, hair in a pony tail and this morning I didn’t even brush it. I can’t relate to any of it, I don’t admire any of them and there is nothing on that show I feel is missing from my life. Yet I am utterly hooked and I can’t even understand why. Perhaps it’s because it’s all so outlandish to me – my world doesn’t look or work like that, it’s almost like a bit of a horror show. You know how some people seem to slow down to get a better look when there’s been a car crash? Well, I think that’s probably me when I watch RHONJ. See? Now that’s a super fan right there! I even use the abbreviation.
Another awful guilty pleasure I feel deep shame at fessing up to is the Daily Mail app. I know, it’s terrible and I have no shame. This is the low rent rag conservative housewives read. Probably people like Melissa on RHONJ, only British and older and less orange. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t read it to get a firm handle on whassup in Westminster or the world beyond these shores – I read it because it’s light and easy and quite entertaining. I mean, today on the bus to work I learnt that Brangelina is no more and one article even had a whole series of Jennifer Aniston memes. Those were quite funny, to be fair. But still!! Do I care about any of that? No. Not one bit.
What all these little sins seem to have in common is that they all make me want to slap my forehead. Sure, I’ve danced like a mad woman around the kitchen with Mmmbop on full blast, but I also – whilst singing along – get wound up at the stupid, pointless lyrics. Then there’s that insincere Sherzomething on the X-Factor and the terrifying Danielle Staub from the first two seasons of RHONJ who scares the living hell out of me. I swear I spent the second series watching from behind a cushion. As for the Daily Mail I suppose it’s particularly painful because it’s simply awful writing. Or rather, it’s the same phrases over and over again. OK, this is a rubbish gossip rag, but even so. Every day there is at least three instances of “pert posterior” and “ample assets”. I might actually do a little count one day if I get bored or something when B’s away. He is away this week as it happens, but I still have more episodes of RHONJ to prioritise before he gets home on Friday.