When I say that I started Vanderpump Rules in the summer of 2018, I mean that in the summer of 2018, I watched Vanderpump Rules. That’s it. Sure, I occasionally ate (on my bed, in front of my laptop playing Vanderpump Rules) and went to work (to a cold-call sales job that I absolutely hated). But mostly I lived vicariously in West Hollywood, mostly on Robertson or Santa Monica Boulevard where SUR, TomTom, and Pump are located. Although I had heard about the show for years, as a diehard culturally-adjacent Real Housewives fan, I had always thought it beneath me. How could mere servers in their twenties and thirties compare to industry stalwarts like Ramona Singer, Luann Delesseps, and for the love of all that is holy, Vicki Gunvalson?
My concerns vanished the instant I met the SUR servers, who, at that point, were all trying to be singers, actors, and/or models. Thankfully, the cast has since dropped any creative ambitions, so now we get to see them drink and fight every week without having to see their bands play. When I tell you it’s the best reality show on television, I do so the fervor of the first person to have invented penicillin, or something.
This is a blog for anyone who’s ever cried with Stassi Schroeder, for anyone that’s ever said “it’s not about the pasta,” for anyone who’s ever wished that Lisa Vanderpump would shut the fuck up already about her fucking dogs. Enjoy, Pumpheads!