When someone declares authoritatively that “It is what it is,” are you like me?
Are you the only one present who doesn’t nod knowingly, as if to say, “Of course it is what it is. I was just going to say that”?
Do you oftentimes have to pretend that you knew all along what it was that was what it was?
If you watch The Real Housewives of Wherever, it seems they describe any given situation as being what it is.
Relationships are what they are.
Their finances are what they are.
Global privatization is what it is.
The list goes on and on. You just think, Boy, that’s one insightful housewife.
Believe me, I’ve got better things to do than watch The Real Housewives of Anywhere and would only do so to research an investigative piece.
Having said what I just said that you heard me just say, would it kill Ramona on The Real Housewives of New York to apologize to The Countess for questioning her parenting skills?
Her kids are almost grown, for heaven’s sake, and they can certainly fend for themselves on occasion so their mom can spend more time with the charming and extremely French Jacques. He seems nice!
Mind your own beeswax.
I guess it is what it is.
This season on The Real Housewives of New York three new society dames join the cast, an Aviva something, a Heather hoozit, and a Carole something, the latter at once a princess through marriage to one of them Kennedy-entwined Radziwills and a former journalist with ABC News for ten years.
On one episode the “journalist at heart” visits the Occupy Wall Street encampment with her stock, standard-issue gay friend (“every girl should have one”), always presented to camera on these shows as if to say, “Look at my pet ocelot.”
He is what he is.
Arriving on the scene with casual objectivity and a camera crew, she avers to the gay prop-slash-friend, “One person’s mob is another person’s democracy.”
Meanwhile, he’s probably sizing up some bongo-playing Trotskyite, but, OK, two can play at that game.
One person’s hollow platitude is another person’s vacuous assertion. One person’s scripted sound bite is another person’s hackneyed bromide. One person’s studied rhetorical recitation is another person’s vapid smokescreen. One person’s specious self-service is another person’s trite homily. I got a million of ‘em. Coming soon to Bravo TV: The Real Journalists of ABC.
The profundities didn’t end there. Over tea and crumpets later, the gay friend asks gaily of the socialite her impressions of the demonstration, to which she replies off the top of her head, “At least it opened up a dialogue.”
Increasingly, that seems to be journalist-speak for “It is what it is.”
What’s what what is, already? And does it have any relationship whatsoever to whatever it is that comes around because it goes around?