A story of relationships, romance and Vicki Gunvalson

By Mattie Kahn

Our grandmothers tell us that a little bit of mystery is important in the beginning of a relationship. It's dated advice, but I get it: Do I need to share my yen for reality television with someone new? I think not. My taste in TV is bottom-of-the-barrel. It's deal-breaker bad. For context: relative to what I watch, The Mindy Project is an important anthropological conversation.

But I realize that not everyone is so progressive as Mindy Kaling and me. It's why when I first started dating Jason, I tucked away my small-screen preferences and gushed instead over Orange is the New Black. I declared Larry David "a genius." (However, when he was distracted, I quickly added that I sometimes liked to unwind to the tune of Chris Harrison's voice.)

Jason watches documentaries and historic films. He likes smart cartoon comedies that make culture critics type for joy. They make me fall asleep.

We soon decided to talk about books rather than moving pictures, exchanging copies of our favorite paperbacks. And that was good. For a few weeks, we were written into the same cultural manifesto. I read a lot in March. It was nice. But I couldn't stop thinking about Bravo.

At some point in every relationship, the time comes to slap on a face mask and settle in for an evening of sweatpants and TV. It is in this tenuous moment that you reveal just how much you want to watch the Real Housewives — even when the boy you like would rather make out. Vicki Gunvalson is more important than foreplay. Vicki Gunvalson is foreplay.

The truth spilled out on a brisk evening in April when Jason's plans with friends were cancelled last minute. I had already resolved to catch up with my NYC gals, so at 8:00 pm he joined me to watch Sonja and Ramona gallivant in the tropics. It was almost 1:00 am when we realized we'd watched five episodes.

There have been great surprises in this relationship: unexpected presents, small celebrations. But perhaps the happiest of all is that it turns out Jason has a real enthusiasm for the Housewives — no matter the provenance. He was first exposed to the Manhattanites, whom he appreciated for their spunk and their sass and their Sonja. But when the most recent season concluded, he moved on to Orange County and decided that he preferred them. Between the Heathers on each show, he told me, he is partial to Heather Dubrow. The Countess has never much impressed him.

Romance is a pleasure and companionship is good. But it is made grander when you're able to share a bottle of Pinot Grigio with that special someone and Ramona Singer. My mother and Gloria Steinem will tell you that you should never be someone else for a man. And that's true. Had Jason hated the universe that Andy Cohen created, I would never have given up on Bethenny. Some vows are sacred. But it's better to tell the outside world that we are busy on Mondays at 9 pm, and that we do it together. The patriarchy is dead! Andy lives! This is modern love.

When I told him I would write this story, Jason stipulated only that I not embellish his fandom.

"I trust you that you will accurately represent my preference in Heathers," he said. "And that you tell everyone I draw the line at Ladies of London."

Illustrated by Joseph Amar.