Every so often, I find myself pulled into following a tragically voyeuristic reality show like Rock of Love, Brett Michael’s televised, borderline pornographic, quest for a mate, or Blow Out, a show about an upper-tier male hairstylist of questionable sexuality.

My current fixation is Bravo’s The Real Housewives of New York City. The show focuses on the lives of five very wealthy New York women, four of whom are married with children. The fifth is a reality TV veteran (from Martha Stewart’s Apprentice) and also very wealthy. I wouldn’t consider any of these women “housewives,” but the title refers more to Brie, Susan, and Gabriella, than to say, June Cleever.

As any show that focuses on the relationships between women, Real Housewives draws its drama from highlighting the differences between the women and focusing on the conflicts that arise. During those reality-tv “confessional” moments, they criticize and make fun of each other’s lives, spouses… even kids’ names aren’t off-limits. Granted, some of these moments are truly funny, like when Bethenny took a shot at Alex’s obsession with making her kids bi-cultural by insisting that the au pairs (yes, she has more than one) speak French exclusively with her children, one of whom is named Francois.

These women, despite their status (one is actually a Countess) are depicted as petty, jealous, and undermining. Their relationships seem based on class and maintaining the right contacts, but yet, they whine about not being invited to each other’s parties; they compete through their children; they compete through their marriages. And although they see themselves as supportive, these women regularly exchange thinly veiled snide comments and send gossipy text-messages about the others.

The relationships between the Real Housewives are only slightly less drama-ridden than the relationships between the women on ABC’s Desperate Housewives, but the show is missing something that Desperate Housewives has. The latter, fictional, show is often pretty moralistic about how the characters treat each other. We’re expected to see these relationships as ridiculous. By contrast, we’re supposed to see the relationships on the Real Housewives, as well…real.

God, I hope this isn’t reality (and yes, I’m fully aware of how much editing happens on these shows), but as a woman who for the past month has both witnessed and experienced several incidents of undermining, belittling, gossiping, and downright abuse involving other women, I have to say that Real Housewives has become a little painful to watch.

And Real Housewives in its depiction of women, doesn’t stand out. We women are taught to mistrust each other. We are taught to be territorial over our friendships, our places on the PTA, our position in the neighborhood and the workplace.

We are taught to undermine each other. And we know, even if we have no direct evidence, when we’re being undermined. There’s a definite vibe. There are the little criticisms disguised as feedback. The power plays in not returning phone calls or emails. The inside jokes and side exchanges. It’s a way of working within groups of women that we know well and that we’ve experienced so often, we can just feel it.

Of course, because being direct and honest isn’t the way we’re taught to communicate, we often come up with sneaky ways to get back. We wait for our chance. Just a few days ago, I felt a little bit of pleasure at getting the chance to throw an underminer under the bus. I still think she deserved it, but I’m ashamed that I couldn’t, as they say “rise above.” Most of the time, I try to be Captain High Road, but well, I’d just kind of had enough. And if I’m really honest with myself, perhaps her undermining was a desperate and grasping attempt to claim her territory, and that it wasn’t really anything to do with me.

But as always there is something to be learned, and I’m reminded to watch myself. Am I as kind and supportive as I can be? Am I slipping into what I call Mrs. Kravitz—think Bewitched—mode? If so, maybe it’s time to get busier…work in the garden, volunteer in the community, read (NOT self help, which I think makes us neurotic) books, do yoga, take a breath.

I remember a couple of years ago, my sister-in-law and I were struggling how to deal with an undermining woman in the family. I said, “I don’t know. She just really seems to hate women.” My daughter, Mira, who was six at the time, said, “That doesn’t make sense. If you’re a girl and you don’t like girls, that’s like hating yourself.” 

So it is.