A Letter to Kyle Richards

Dear Kyle (can I call you Kyle? Because you seem like a chick that would allow a stalker fan to call you Kyle),

I love the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. I make no secret of, or apologies for, my affection for all things Bravo.

When I first sat down to write this letter to you, I had decided I want to be you.

Everything about you deals a crushing blow to my womanly wiles.

It’s bad enough that your hair is straight out of a commercial.

It’s a gorgeous color of brown. The color I should have been born with.  Straight, in a good way. You’re always taking your hand and clutching your thick, gorgeous hair right where a ponytail would be, and then you gracefully swoop it all off to one shoulder, where it lays perfectly with dazzling shine.

When I try to do the swoop, I get severe flyaways and look like a child who has been rubbing her head up against a balloon all day. Or it just lays there, limply, like a wilted piece of parsley on an all-you-can-eat buffet plate.

You are seriously straight out of a Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific or Garnier commercial. How does your hair never look tangled, windblown, flat or frizzy? How, Kyle, how do you do it?

It’s bad enough that your eyes are stunning. They pop off the screen like lasers. Mine have hoodies, formerly known as my eyelids. Are hoodies still in style, by the way?

It’s bad enough that your body is rockin’. You’re  not sickly thin. You’ve got some meat on her bones.  I’m a bit blessed in the meat department. I’m hoping to one day move from Pot Roast Status to Lean Pork Status.

It’s bad enough that you have a fab wardrobe. I love all of the gorgeous geometric prints and bright colors that you wear.

You are my style icon. Where do you take your clothes when you’re done wearing them, by the way? Do you consign them? Are you looking for someone to, you know, hand them off to?

It’s bad enough that you have the  most beautiful older children and a precious little one. How cute are they? How is it that they all look like supermodels? Why don’t we ever see Portia throwing a tantrum? She just sits there, like a Shakespearean child of royalty. Do you give her Benadryl before the tapings? It’s okay if you do, I was just wondering.

It’s bad enough that you have a hot hubby. A hot hubby with an accent. A hot hubby with an accent who’s incredibly athletic. A hot hubby with an accent who’s incredibly athletic and is a realtor to the stars. A hot hubby with an accent who’s incredibly athletic and is a realtor to the stars and has a soap opera name like Mauricio.

Why couldn’t you have gone and done it like Paulina Porozkova and married someone like Ric Ocasek? That would make me feel a whole lot better, Kyle.

So, that was all bad enough. And then last week, it got worse.

I learned that your sister married into the Hilton family. Really, Kyle, really? Your sister is KATHY FREAKING HILTON? Like, how does one arrange one’s sister being married into one of the richest and most famous families in the world?

Because you REALLY needed that, didn’t you Kyle? After being a child star and gorgeous and marrying a hot guy and having supermodel children, you needed your sister to marry a rich dude too…to get you into better Hollywood parties, or what?

 That was the final straw in your life of perfection for me. I just didn’t think I could take any more.

And then I watched the season finale of your show last night. Where you called your sister an alcoholic in the last 5 minutes of the program. On Bravo.

By the way, is it me, or does Martin grab your booty as you’re brushing past him in the limo?

Anyway, I know you are not so perfect after all. So thank you, Kyle, for finally making me feel okay about myself. You’re human, too.

I’ll still take your wardrobe, though.

Love,

Gigi

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Tagged as: Just for Yuks, My Neuroses