Recently, I had the weekend entirely to myself, and here’s how exciting I am as a person: I spent it making jam out of the 3 lbs. of loquats we plucked from our tree (sustenance for my gut), filtering booze through a cheesecloth to make a clarified milk punch (sustenance for my liver), and devouring the latest season of Selling Sunset — the Netflix guilty-pleasure binge that stretches the definition of “reality” by having its Realtors come to work in what cast member Chrishell Stause jokingly called “tear-away dresses.” That one is sustenance for my brain, because for hours at a time, it is a TREAT to be vexed ONLY by clothes, house prices, and how often people say, “You know me, I’m not about the drama,” seconds before starting some by repeating everyone else’s conversations.
Selling Sunset used to be a relaxing one-eye show where you could look up every few minutes and catch the end of a fight happening in houses that were just regular-unaffordable — say, $3.5 million, a comfortable…
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