Okay, okay. I'll come out

When I'm at my parents house (or anyone's house with a tv and Bravo), I'll search and search and search for The Real Housewives of New Jersey, the trailer of Season 2 you can see here courtesy of Jezebel.

I know, I know. Some would call it trash. Some would say it's tragic. Some would say, "Isn't calling someone 'prostitution whore' somewhat redundant?" I'd say it is, but for every time we can see the Jersey housewife Danielle being called a prostitution whore, I could show you someone who's very good at using occupatio in conversation without even knowing it. Some would say, "But they're so Jersey. How can you take it?" And I'd say, Guess what? I am, too, so I take it just fine.

I mean, let's face it, about common perceptions of New Jersey and New Jerseyians: we're notoriously bad drivers who show proclivities for horn use, as well as flipping other motorists off with both a gesture and a few choice words. We really, really pronounce our "a"s.  Our summers are filled not with Italian ice trucks more than ice cream trucks. Most everyone else thinks we talk fast. We have really good tomatoes. And blueberries. And, yeah, you have to pay to go on our shore that we never call a beach. The Jewish bakeries in Jersey make the best rye bread you'll ever eat in your life. We love the diner. And, yeah, probably a few people are mixed in with the cement of the old Giants Stadium.

I like the Jersey housewives, yes, because they're a train wreck and you just can't look away. I like them because they have lives and houses and problems that I will never dream of (or dream of paying for), let alone actually have. I like them because they remind me (very loosely) of people and families I grew up around. I find their accents comforting because it sounds, really, like home to me. Especially the vowels.

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