My Inappropriate Life: Some Material Not Suitable for Small Children, Nuns, or Mature Adults - Hardcover

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Heather McDonald is a full-time writer, performer, and story producer on the E! Channel’s top rated show, Chelsea Lately, and stars in the show’s spin-off, After Lately. She is a graduate of the University of Southern California and lives in San Fernando Valley, California, with her husband, Peter, their two sons, and her stepdaughter. Visit her website at HeatherMcDonald.net.

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My Inappropriate Life

1

THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF WOODLAND HILLS

Listen, I am the first to admit I am a huge Real Housewives fan. I am also proud to say that I never discriminate between the cities in which the action takes place. I will watch the gals from Beverly Hills, Orange County, Atlanta, New Jersey, Miami, and obviously, New York. I even extend my devotion to those lower-caliber shows, like Mob Wives and Basketball Wives, where the term “wife” is used very loosely. Some days, I wish I wasn’t such a wife junkie and could turn to Downton Abbey like other, more sophisticated folks—but who are we kidding?

I am so obsessed that I will call my husband, Peter, from my car to make sure he has programmed the TiVo to record the Real Housewives and also to make sure that we have chilled Chardonnay for viewing. I prefer to drink while I watch to create a more interactive experience; it helps me relate to the drunk housewives just that much more. This way, I can feel like I’m actually at Beverly Hills’ Adrienne Maloof’s cocktail party to unveil her new line of platform metal-studded heels. It’s just like how my kids prefer participating with their Wii to just watching TV.

Over the years, some of the housewives have become my Facebook friends. I’ve even met them and shared a meal. And, since they don’t eat, I always get to take some leftovers home for Peter. But I don’t feel bad about using them for free food. I know the only reason these “wife stars” want to be my friend is because they want to get closer to Chelsea Handler. This happens to me a lot. I tend to think of Chelsea as Jesus and myself as one of her disciples. They’re excited to meet Saint James, but who they really want to share that wine and break that bread with is the savior herself. Most of the time, when they hang out with me, they’re really just hoping to be booked as a guest on Chelsea Lately. They even get upset when they can’t get a booking and will call me to complain. I don’t know how much longer I can handle the drunk tears.



From our Real Housewives of New Jersey reunion parody. I’m playing Danielle Staub.

Deep down, though, I know where they’re coming from. I mean, if you think about it, they’ve worked so gosh-darned hard to get where they are. Let’s take a quick look: first, they had to marry well, then get divorced and marry well again. Next, they had to go all the way over to the Bravo website and fill out an application. Just think of the concentration required: remembering their Social Security number while also trying to recall their actual birthday. It must all be so taxing.

To be honest, I think Real Housewives fame might be just as dangerous as teen-idol fame, if not more so. Six months prior to being booked on the Real Housewives, these women’s biggest claim to fame was being the hottest mom in the car-pool lane at their kid’s school, and now they’re starring in a prime-time television show and are on the cover of Life & Style magazine. And the fact that it happens at the ripe Botoxed age of forty-five makes it that much more difficult for them to handle everything that has become available to them—thus, this delusion of grandeur. OK, I confess, I’m jealous of these women with their one-hit-wonder dance tunes, private wine labels, and wig lines. They didn’t log in thousands of hours doing stand-up comedy. They didn’t have to go on hundreds of auditions. They never had to be fingered by a William Morris agent through a bodysuit during the ’90s.

So you can understand that when I experienced my own unsolicited evening of real housewife–hood it took me by surprise. It was my husband’s birthday, which happened to fall on the airing of an After Lately episode. This episode was special because my husband and my two sons, Drake and Brandon, had a scene with Chelsea. Since my kids had never been on TV before and were very excited about possibly being recognized at Target, we decided to invite some families over for wine, dinner, and a lively viewing of After Lately. My little shindig could hardly compare to the extravagance of a Real Housewives–type party, where even brunch requires the hostess to have a stylist help her choose her wardrobe. But I think I did OK when I carefully selected my Hudson jeans with the buttons on the buttocks to make my flat ass cheeks appear less concave, paired with whatever T-shirt was on the top of the folded pile of clean laundry, and gold flats. And why do they all have personal assistants? Again, I’m jealous; I would die for an assistant. That way, my family and close friends would finally receive the thank-you notes they so rightfully deserve.

Peter sent out an Evite and invited four families. This included my very best friend, Liz, whom I met in first grade and her husband, Mark. Also on the list were Anna and Steve, whom we socialize with all the time because their son is Drake’s best friend; Ted and Dina, whom we had only hung out with a couple of times so we didn’t know well; and Angelina Rose and Bill.

It was a Sunday night, and I had just returned earlier that day from Denver, where I had done six stand-up comedy shows over the weekend, so I was a little tired. Still, I’m always up for a party, and Peter seemed really excited about it too. We ordered some Greek food and I pulled what I like to call a “Kris Jenner” (Momager™ of the Kardashian clan, aka ruler of L.A.) where I transported the take-out dishes from their original foil containers to my personal serving platters. The adults and their kids starting coming around five p.m., but the wine had started flowing for me around four thirty. The kids ran around our backyard and jumped on the trampoline, and the women gathered at my kitchen table and talked about school while the men hung around Peter’s new barbecue grill smoker and did guy things.

Let’s pause for a moment to discuss Angelina Rose. I know when you hear that name you think stripper, but she isn’t. However, for some reason unknown to all of us she never dropped the middle name of Rose. Can you imagine if I was Heather Ann and everyone in my life—all my coworkers, family, and new associates—had to call me Heather Ann and if they just said Heather, I’d politely smile and correct them by saying “It’s Heather Ann.” How obnoxious would that be? I mean, I have to be honest, sometimes I can’t even remember my own kids’ middle names. Anyways, I met Angelina Rose a few years earlier when her daughter, Sophia, and my son Drake were at St. Ignatius’s preschool together and Angelina Rose coordinated a “Moms’ Night Out” at Paoli’s Italian Restaurant. Normally, I don’t go to Moms’ Night Out–type events because they are during the week. After working all day, I just want to spend a couple hours with my kids, but I said yes because it landed on a Tuesday and Tuesdays at Paoli’s is karaoke night. I’ll take pretty much any opportunity to sing “Something to Talk About” by Bonnie Raitt. I was born with a mike in my hand, and I am one of those freaks who will sing karaoke without drinking (though who’d want to?).

At this time, I had only been working at Chelsea Lately full-time for about a year. When I explained what I did for a living, Angelina Rose rolled her eyes and said, “I was in the...