There are some popular shows I just don't get.

"Heroes," "The Simpsons" and "Two and a Half Men"? Never miss 'em. "CSI," "America's Next Top Model" and "Dancing with the Stars"? Not my thing, but I can see their appeal.

But then there are shows that entertain millions and leave me scratching my head.

"Criminal Minds"? "The Bachelor"? "American Dad"? Why, fellow Americans, why?

When it comes to cable hits, "The Real Housewives of Orange County" is way up there on my Do Not Get list.

This series about a bevy of Southern California suburbanites kicks off a third season at 10 tonight on Bravo. Reality TV's answer to "Desperate Housewives," it features mostly 40ish-to-50ish women devoted to looking as hot as possible while amassing real estate, jewelry, electronic equipment, Botox injections and shiny clothing. Their community is gated. Their boobs are uniformly gravity-defying. Their conversation is boring.

As I said, I don't get it. But my friend and colleague, Joanne Cleaver, does.

Cleaver, the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel's real estate editor, recently told me that she's as delighted by "The Real Housewives" as I am baffled by it. When I said I'd be happy to share my screening copy of the season opener, her eyes lit up the way mine do when Fox decides to send out a "Simpsons" screener. She also graciously accepted my invitation to co-author a review with me.

Joanne C., take it away.

Cleaver: Girlfriend! It's return to the silicone valleys, back to the land where the operative four-letter word is B-R-A-T. These are the girls who put the bra in Bravo.

I love the new woman, Tamra Barney. When she's surprised, she looks like a Barbie stuck in an electric outlet. And husband Simon, good luck laying down the law on the slacker stepson. The kid's 21 years into his Electra complex, and it's highly unlikely a car dealer marketing executive with a Calvinist work ethic is gonna make him toe the line.

Weintraub: But have you noticed that the new chick isn't all that easy to tell apart from all the old chicks? I mean, all that long hair and all those slacker stepsons, and the princess-y daughters who make Paris Hilton look like Joan of Arc? And do they all go to the same plastic surgeon, or is there a one-size-fits-all pair of Orange County artificial hooters?

Cleaver: You must be referring to Kimberly Bryant, who lasted only one season. Her family moved back to the shadowy Midwest after she endured a skin cancer scare.

However, Jo De La Rosa, who mysteriously evaporated without a ripple from Season Two, was our only injection of diversity. She was born in Peru and immigrated to California as a kid. Her parents won the lottery 13 years ago (thank you, Wikipedia!) and they moved on up to the O.C. Jo had a long, hard look at the frenzied lives of her peers and wisely decamped from the cloying affections of Slade to her own job and her own place.

I note, however, that no much-awaited release from this multitalented singer-songwriter has yet to break onto the pop charts.

Weintraub: Wow, you look these women up on Wikipedia? I'm impressed.

I almost admire your commitment. But every time I watch this show, I want to throw something at the set.

What did you think of that scene in the premiere where Vicki surprised her daughter with a Mercedes-Benz, then informed the kid she was responsible for the steep monthly payments? Way to raise a kid who's materialistic and resents you. Two words, Vicki: Honda Civic. No, make that three: used Honda Civic.

Cleaver: Yup, when the season's over, my Ph.D. stands for Post-Housewives Depression. I couldn't quite figure what Vicki was doing to Briana with the car. The kid's going to be a nurse. She can't afford a Mercedes.

But you've gotta hand it to the Housewives. They could have toasted their fling with fame, but instead, they've monetized themselves into a Brand. At www.therealocbrand.com, Jeana, Vicki and Lauri have pooled their entrepreneurial ventures to form a Web site where you can buy real estate, insurance, jewelry and T-shirts that say in glitter: "Real OC, not desperate." They're $49.99 and they run small, Vicki says. I dare you.

Weintraub: Fifty bucks for a T-shirt? That's not monetizing, that's robbery. And as for real estate, I think I'd prefer to buy my acres from a Web site that doesn't sell $49.99 glitter Ts. Besides, if the site gets too successful, it could spoil our heroines. They wouldn't be happy with their BMWs and their Hummers and their McMansions; they'd have to run out and buy private planes and build additions onto their additions.

— Distributed by McClatchy-Tribune Information Services.