Barbie is Getting Botox

After two fun-filed nights celebrating the holidays with friends and family, I welcome a cozy night in.

Sipping champagne and channel surfing, I stop on Bravo's The Real Housewives of Orange County. It's the 'ole Car Crash Syndrome; the scene is ju
st so awful, I have to watch.

My other half, Kevin is preoccupied looking for insurance companies on-line, so I settle in and buckle up for some eye-rolling reality television.

A clip for your viewing pleasure:

This is not the first time I have watched this show. I can't help it. I live in Orange County and I am here to tell you, these women do exist. I am not proud of it, but I am the first to admit I judge them a little.

I am no stranger to mini skirts and boob jobs. Frankly, I am apathetic seeing an age-inappropriately dressed cougar walking her Shih Tzu at the mall. It's not so much the glossy packaging that bothers me with these women as it is their seemingly shallow insides.

I value my friendships tremendously. Watching this show on the heels of Christmas just makes me appreciate my girlfriends even more. It could be editing, but I don't sense a genuine feeling of love and respect between the women on this show. I suppose drama-free equals boring TV.

To me, the only appealing flashy princesses should be kids playing dress-up.

----------> Photo:

Rachel, my best friend Becky's four year old on Christmas day