The New ‘Real Housewives of New York City’ Is Good Because It’s Boring

Recently, my beloved reality shows have been going through it. Post Scandoval, it seems, everyone’s a little too preoccupied with making reality shows. Like, the shows are about the shows. Like, discussions about what does and doesn’t make it onto the shows and why are central and intrinsic to the plot of the shows. This leads to a lot of naval-gaze-y, frustrating television, if you ask me. We come to reality TV for escape, or at least I do. The world is dark and full of terrors—I want to forget my troubles for a few hours and watch rich people yell at each other for stupid reasons. That is largely still the case in most Housewives cities, but I’ve grown so tired of old characters like Tamra Judge and Gizelle Bryant that it’s not as fun as it used to be. Enter: The Real Housewives of New York City.

RHONY was rebooted last year with an entirely new cast after the old guard of Upper East Side socialites became too old and stupid even for Bravo. The new cast was younger but just as privileged and just as invested in showing their wealth without, you know, telling about it. Jenna Lyons, for instance—the former face of J. Crew—drives only Bentleys and lives in an apartment quite literally lined with gold, but she’s so laid back that you almost forget she’s richer than you or your children or your children’s children will ever be.

This is exactly why my mother, a former New Yorker, hates RHONY. She lived in Manhattan in the ’70s, when you were either filthy rich or dirt poor, and she definitely wasn’t filthy rich. Dinner table conversations when I was young included the time she and her roommates had to plug in the refrigerator in the hallway outside of their apartment because they spent their money on Rolling Stones tickets instead of the electric bill, and that one restaurant she and all her friends worked at that was definitely run by the mob. She sees a handful of thirty- and forty-somethings taking a helicopter to the Hamptons and she wants to scream, but conversely, she enjoys Orange County and Beverly Hills. My mother is and always has been a mystery to me.

The major difference between those cities and NY, though, is that NY has gone back to basics and therefore avoided the recent fourth-wall-breaking bullshit. This cast is only in its second season, so the show’s plot follows a tried and true method: the game of telephone. Last season, the prevailing miscommunications were that Brynn Whitfield insulted a restaurant that Erin Lichy liked, and Sai De Silva insulted Erin’s cheeseboard. Both of these things were repeated to Erin with different inflections, Erin was offended, and shady interactions ensued. That’s it! That’s the whole show.

So far this season, Sai is at the center of the miscommunications. Sai allegedly told Brynn she hated Jenna. Brynn repeated this to Jenna. Jenna asked Sai if it was true. Sai admitted that maybe she said something about how it took her a while to warm up to Jenna, but she certainly didn’t say she hated her, and who told her that by the way? Jenna said, “This one over here,” clearly gesturing at Brynn, and Sai flipped her lid. Then they tried to have an adult conversation about it in the Hamptons, but Brynn is not an adult and therefore cannot have an adult conversation, and Jenna flat out denied the “This one over here,” thing, and Sai was like, whatever, never mind. Then, Ubah Hassan took up for Sai and called out the telephone game, referring to the other women as “pigeons,” presumably meaning “carrier pigeons,” and now the fight between Ubah and Brynn will probably take up the rest of the season.

Honestly, I’d rather watch that than the alternative: the women trying to uncover what is undoubtedly an unhappy marriage between Erin and her husband. That’s what’s happening on OC right now, and it’s confusing and clunky and so transparently meant to disguise their own unhappiness. The thing is, Erin’s marriage is clearly messy enough that the mess will come out anyway—it’s already starting to in the scenes with her family—without anyone helping it along.

The truth will out, even in reality TV. In the meantime, I’m here for the petty shit.