When the Real Housewives of Vancouver premiered in 2012, Canada finally established itself on the world map.
The series followed the lives of five wealthy ladies in Vancouver as they navigated the harsh world of attending many events. It followed the same formula as its New York, Beverly Hills, Atlanta, and OC predecessors, but with a special twist that made it stand out: It sucked so bad.
Much of the conflict stemmed from a misunderstanding between cast members Mary Zilba and Jody Claman. Mary had remarked that she didn’t think Jody was Jewish. But hold up – Jody was Jewish! Once that was established (kind of), Jody bullied Mary for two whole seasons before the show was cancelled.
Following the series’ cancellation, nearly every woman was marked by tragedy. Jody’s very public (in local media) divorce left her penniless while her daughter, after being injured in a drive-by shooting targeting her boyfriend, was left to raise her baby alone after the boyfriend overdosed and died.
The son of another castmate passed away after an overdose, years after his sister was left disabled in an accident. Another woman’s husband was revealed to have gang connections to a murder, and another was arrested on assault charges in South Carolina.
Two more would go on to shill conspiracy theories on Instagram, under the guise of fighting for freedom (for truckers, from vaccines). They advocate against government tyranny, communism, and Justin Trudeau.
“We owe a debt of gratitude to the freedom convoy,” one wrote on her Instagram this past October. Another intersperses her content, which is mostly heavily filtered selfies and pottery making videos, with screenshots of sketchy news articles detailing violent discrimination against the unvaccinated. “We are the most discriminated-against group of people in the world right now.”
It’s been raining for weeks in LA, which I didn’t think was a thing that happened. On the one day we didn’t have rain last week, my neighbour’s garage burned down. I sent a picture to my mother.
“Weather manipulation,” she replied with an eye-roll emoji.
At the end of January, her father died. I flew up to be with her and the family and I was tasked with writing his obituary. I almost left it to ChatGPT but instead did it myself, but I accidentally described him as “avid” three times in a row with regards to his various hobbies. An avid painter, an avid rock collector, an avid jazz fan, et cetera.
I stayed in the guest room usually occupied by her psychic friend who I think is secretly homeless. It was full of her trinkets. For one, she had completely detached the closet door, making it impossible to open or close. Secondly, a crouching Buddha statue was propped on the nightstand. There were little vials of holy water, gemstone prayer beads, satchels of herbs, and cards with saints and deities around the room.
On a ride back from the funeral home my mom pointed at a cell phone tower. “Those are 5G,” she said. “But I don’t think they’re all turned on yet, I can’t feel it.”
I’ve learned not to push back. I said oh, okay, and looked out the window.
“You know soon I won’t be able to visit you or your brother or any of my friends,” she said. I asked why. “Do you know what a 15-minute city is?”
A 15 minute city is an urban planning concept in which neighbourhoods are planned so that your life’s necessities are within a 15 minute walking distance of your house. For conspiracy-minded moms, as explained by mine, it’s a joint plan between Justin Trudeau and the communist World Economic Forum meant to imprison people in their neighbourhoods as part of climate lockdowns.
Sure thing, mom.
The LA rain makes it hard to get around because I famously do not drive. There isn’t much to walk to from my house besides the kosher markets, and even with an umbrella I don’t really need to go there. So I’ve been slobbering at the mouth thinking about living in a walkable neighbourhood, and how I left that life behind in Montreal when I moved here (what’s the craziest thing you’ve done for a boy?)
A recent visit to Mexico City reminded me of how good it is for your soul to walk places. I literally kept saying out loud, “I think it’s good for my soul that we’re walking.” Before living in LA I averaged 16,000 steps a day, and now I average around 2000. I gained seven kilos. So now I run.
If you’re the type of person who likes running, it’s like smoking crack (probably). If you’re not, I wouldn’t recommend bothering. The downside of running is that the mixture of exposure to sun, wind, and the gravity (I think) can age your face much faster than if you were to age normally. It’s called “runners’ face”, which I don’t think looks actually that terrible but the prospect of aging does freak me out.
I spent my entire adulthood with the diagnosis of “twink” and now that I’m basically 30, trying to maintain that would be unflattering and psychotic. You know the type.
If you don’t know what a twink is, you’re lucky and normal, and perhaps you don’t have any gay friends. It’s basically some mixture of being young and skinny. Twink death as a concept made the rounds online recently after a meme about Leonardo Dicaprio aging went viral. I wanted to check in with myself, so I closely analyzed photos of my hairline over the course of the last ten years to see if there has been any change – but I honestly can’t tell. I’ve always had a big forehead.
But now I find myself scrutinizing my face more in the mirror, looking for soft lines where there weren’t any before, worried that if I express myself too much the skin around my eyes will scrunch up like an anus.
While drunk I cornered my friend’s dad at a kiddush party and talked at him about all the places I’m getting Botox, how old I think I’ll be for my first face lift, and the difference between lip filler, a Botox lip flip, and a surgical lip lift.
He reacted the same way I do when my mom talks about fluoride and chemtrails: “Oh, okay!”