I think that the Real Housewives, as actual biological creatures, are starting to mutate. Before their capacity for drama was huge, much larger than the average human being’s, but as exposure to stress, fame, pinot grigio fumes, and other things that cause cellular degradation, the woman have started to morph and exhibit superhuman capacities. I’m talking mainly about the way that they now handle confrontation with each other. The Housewives’ metabolism for drama is increasing exponentially. They go from one skirmish to the next, finding resolution and forgiveness along the way, at a lightning pace. It’s sort of like a hummingbird with a thyroid condition and access to three kindergartens’ worth of ADHD medication. The speed is staggering, and it would break your neck if any of the things they were fighting about were actually worth looking at.
Before we go any further, I have to thank Ben Rimalower, the winner of the Real Housewives Institute’s first ever Kyle Richards Visiting Professor Scholarship Award. He did an excellent job filling in for me for the past two weeks while I was on vacation in Nicaragua on a trip with nine homosexuals and one real woman, and the only argument we got in was whether or not rosé is its own food group. (It is.) I don’t know how these people go on these vacations and just snipe and bicker. When I got sick of one of my traveling companions, I would just go up in my room, put some Joni Mitchell on the iTunes, and touch myself south of the border imagining what would happen if I were to be stuck in a surfer’s hostel on a beach, and how — oh, how! — those surfers might make me pay for a van ride back to civilization. Anyway, you should all go to Nicaragua now while it is unsullied and gorgeous and cheap, because Vicki Gunvalson will pretty soon queef all over Mombacho Volcano and it will be ruined forever.
We left the ladies in Turkey Cake-Os, a new kind of protein-rich breakfast cereal, in the middle of a fight over whether Bethenny would cook lunch for everyone or if they would go to Zamboozi’s or some such place with Ramonja. Bethenny got all worked up over it and did her patented “I can’t even have this conversation” move and tried to walk away, and then Ramonja decided that B was going to be pissed so they stayed and had lunch and Ramona apologized and Bethenny joked with them and it was all over. What a dumb fight! Who ever cares about this stuff? Why do they even get all worked up about it?
At lunch, Ramona decided that she wanted to ask everyone to help her name her book, and Bethenny, the author of several New York Times best sellers, got all up in the mix trying to help Ramona name her book. Heather got mad because Bethenny was being a bit abrasive about letting her expertise be known, and she went off to lie on a chaise longue in a huff and complain about it. In Bethenny’s defense, this is an area where she has some experience. It’s not like she was lecturing them on arthroscopic surgery to remove kidney stones or something.
Bethenny came over to inquire about what was wrong and was like, “Say it to my face.” “Say it to my face” is right up there in the Real Housewives lexicon, along with “Own it.” Both of them are sort of stupid value systems (oh, I can’t wait to get started on Girl Code next week) that really have no translation in the actual world. Has there ever been a Housewife who wouldn’t talk some shit to a cast member’s face? They all told Sonja to her face that she drinks too damn much, and they all say it behind her back, too.
Heather said it to Bethenny’s face that she’s a know-it-all, and then Bethenny admitted to knowing it all since she sold her soul to the devil for powers of omniscience and a really rockin’ bikini bod. Then Bethenny goes and sits with Ramona on the beach and bitches about Heather, not to her face but behind her back, and then Heather catches them and then they make a joke about it and Bethenny hauls Heather out into the gross seaweedy ocean and they flash their butts and it’s all over.
There were so many stupid, ridiculous fights I can’t even remember all of them. Oh, everyone got mad at Ramona because they went to the Conch Shack and she got everyone some cinnamon-colored swill and she went off to flirt with the owner. His name was John, and if a porn company were to look in my brain and cast a sexy gym teacher based only on my fantasies, it would be him. He wasn’t necessarily hot, but he was certainly a very good example of a very specific type that makes me so weak in the knees I can hardly speak, I lose all control, and something takes over me. (Thanks, SWV.)
Apparently this John was a friend of a friend of Bethenny’s, so she was talking to him along with Carole. Ramona walks right up and starts bending his ear and bends him away from the other two and just totally ignores them. I don’t know how you could miss Carole, she was wearing the most amazing hoodie made out of the afghan on Roseanne’s couch. (Seriously, that thing is on every single show.)
The next day, everyone was giving Ramona grief about how rude she was to everyone because she ignored them all night. Oh, please. Now, it was a bit rude to Carole and Bethenny, but hanging out with Ramona you know that you’re going to deal with a little rudeness. It’s like if you go to M&M World you know that you’re go see at least one person in a Rascal motorized scooter with a toddler attached to it by a leash.
Other than that, why can’t these ladies let Ramona get hers? Don’t they know Fire Island rules? You’re in a house with eight other queens for an entire weekend. Everyone has to go to parties together, go to tea together (which is where you dance and drink before dinner), and eat meals together. You get plenty of time with the group. If it is not one of those three occasions and someone in the house is trying to get with a boy, leave them in peace. You’re all going to need something to talk about at parties, tea, and meals, anyway, so someone better hook up!
Maybe it’s because I’ve been on one too many slutty trips, but I don’t get what the big deal is. Ramona was getting her flirt on with a dude, she had been around those ladies plenty, let her try to score. That’s not rude, that’s just taking care of herself. I did love how Ramona was all, “Oh, they’re not used to me being selfish for a change, and that’s why they’re mad.” Yeah, right. That’s like Rush Limbaugh saying that kids are scared of him because no one has ever heard him yell before.
Speaking of Ramona, she has had some really touching moments the past few episodes talking about Mario and how she’s dealing with the end of that relationship. You can see what she’s going through is hard and complicated, and it’s actually an interesting look at the psychology of divorce. Usually the Real Housewives are only good for teaching future therapists how to diagnose borderline personality disorder, but this is actually some really good, touching stuff.
Sonja and Crackerjacks also had a good moment where Sonja said she confronted her ex in court and told him he had to let her go. “No wonder I’m dating 24-year-olds!” Sonja said to Crackerjacks. See, I think Sonja Tremont Morgan of the Turd Caico Morgans knows a lot more than other people give her credit for. Yes, I think she is also holding on to her past relationship, but she knows why she does things and that she needs to heal. Yes, she makes up partying on yachts in Gstaad, but my favorite floozy is a lot more self aware than she lets on.
The final stupid fight of the night was at dinner, over whether or not people should say the F-word. Seriously. Apparently the Gansevoort Hotel in Turkmenistan Calicos is an etiquette class from 1973. Seriously, who cares? The only reason this turned into a giant brouhaha is that Dorinda was wasted. She was that kind of drunk where you know that you are right, you know that you have the world all sorted out and everyone else is a discarded tampon lying on the side of the highway, you just lack the argumentative skills to convince anyone else of your argument. You end up trying to win a debate with jagged pointing, loudness, slurs, and an occasional grimace that just gets lipstick on your teeth. I mean, I can’t even try to parse this argument because it was totally stupid. I can’t believe they “To be continued …” this one, too. Who cares whether or not Heather cusses or Dorinda doesn’t. Here are women who just flashed their booty cracks on national television, and they’re worried about people thinking that they are dainty little doilies that you can put a teapot on? It’s dumb.
Heather walked Dorinda out of the dining room at the Gansevoort and up to the penthouse suite. They walked by the adjoining suite, and Heather thought she could hear something coming out of the door, like the sound of crashing waves on the late-night breeze or the light of the stars singing against the frothy waters of a swimming pool. She thought nothing of it and let them into their suite.
But there was something happening next door. A woman stood there in her diaphanous blue gown, her high heels set to the side at the bottom of the stairs waiting for her to step into them. She was taking steps forward so that her skirt would skitter about her ankles, and she would throw her arms in the air. She did the same thing over and over again, muttering to herself. “Surprise!” she said, raising her arms. Then she would walk back a few paces and try it again, with a slightly different intonation. “Surprise?” she asked. She reset and started again. “Hey, guys! Surprised?” And again. “Oh my God. Hi! Surprise! Hahahaha,” she laughed. She was nervous. She though about taking the dozen steps across the floor to that adjoining suite and doing what she had been rehearsing all night. She was going to do it now. Right now, with Bethenny gone. Now was the time. They wouldn’t expect it, and they would love it. They would be blown away. This was her redo. This was the point in time when an alternative universe would peel off and she would be a winner, she would have everything under control, and they would all hug her and welcome her and pour her a Diet Coke and ask about her flight. She stepped into her shoes and her phone rang. Cindy Barshop, it said on the screen. Jill Zarin pushed the little green phone icon at the bottom of the screen. She knew that her night was about to turn out much different, like a spider crawling up a mosquito net, thinking it had finally found its home.