Hello, and thank you for tuning in to another episode of Rich Women Doing Things. This weekend, the rich women did things. They moved the urn containing their mother around the house because it was torn up due to very important pool-moving construction. They introduced their friends to their new boyfriend who looks like a combination of David Foster and a Ken doll’s father. They walked around a park in Tokyo carrying parasols, they ate ice cream, and they looked at turtles, which is pretty much how anyone would describe their perfect day.
Of all the rich women, the person we need to talk about the most is Dorit and her strange addiction. I’m not talking about her getting drunk at Kyle’s dinner party in the dark. (That no one calls this the Black Party is a severe disappointment, if I’m being perfectly honest.) I’m talking about her addiction to wearing unnecessary accessories on her head. First, she shows up to Lisa Vanderpump’s lunch wearing what looks like an old matron’s brooch or a broken Christmas ornament on her head. Then, at Kyle’s dinner, she is wearing a headband that looks like an old pair of pantyhose tied behind her head. That’s when I realized that ever since we saw Dorit with the bird shit of a golden goose on her head in last year’s finale, she’s had something totally superfluous on her head. As pioneering head minimalist Susan Powter told us, stop the insanity!
Dorit continues to drive me insane. Let us first address her drunken behavior at Kyle’s dinner. I mean, that’s basically all there is to say about it. Dorit starts complaining about the heat, gets really mad, decides to get drunk, and then makes an ass out of herself. It culminates in her shouting, “You’re a giant cunt, Camille,” at St. Camille of Grammer. It is dumb because it is apropos of nothing. It shouldn’t hurt Camille’s feelings since there is absolutely no weight in those words. It is just the drunk ramblings of an aging party girl. But you know it is bad. Why? Because she has to be shushed by her husband, PK, an airport neck pillow stuffed with dried boogers.
Still, Camille is embarrassed because she attended dinner not only with Kimber, the replacement DeeDee and a member of the Holograms, but also her new boyfriend, David, the father of Count Chocula. I can see how that might be a little awkward because she doesn’t want to be associated with such a person, but who hasn’t gone to a dinner party in a partially renovated house with no power where a drunk woman started yelling obscenities at the dinner table?
Anyway, Dorit is also a pill at her photo shoot for Beverly Hills Lifestyle magazine, the premiere publication for people rolling joints in the back of Lyfts and for flipping through loudly while waiting at the dermatologist’s office. Lisa Vanderpump is the new editor-in-chief of the magazine, the qualifications of which seem to be that she has a pair of sparkly character glasses with which she reads the scintillating prose of the next generation of great American writers, such as myself. (Full disclosure: I have a column in BHL called “Opening of an Envelope,” in which I make fun of people’s outfits in pictures after they stand in front of step-and-repeats for brands that don’t really exist.)
On the staff of BHL is another contributor who is, well, he’s different. No, it’s not because he’s gay and likes to wear jewelry. It’s not because he dresses like Dr. Watson on his way to the train station. It’s something else. It’s something that, as a recapper in a modern sensitive era, I can’t really bring up, but you can’t help but notice. Okay, fine. I’m just going to say it: He’s a ginger. He’s a ginger and I think it’s kind of disgusting and I don’t want to ever see him on my television again because I’m afraid he’s going to steal my soul and all of my wealth by using his Satan-given magical abilities.
Regardless, BHL is sort of like Lisa’s Christmas letter except she puts it out every month and it is not only ignored by her friends and family, but complete strangers as well. She’s having a little hobby photo shoot for her new line of overly complicated jewelry and she wants Dorit to be the model. Dorit comes over and she hates that Lisa didn’t give her enough time to get her own hair-and-makeup team at the shoot. It’s a very common concern that everyone totally relates to. God knows I do.
Dorit hates absolutely everything about her photo shoot and criticizes the pictures right there in front of the whole cast and crew. I’m of two minds about this. One is that I think Dorit is being like that pretty girl in grammar school who always had to get reshots done after picture day. Basically, she just wants to show off her pictures and have everyone go, “Oh, but you look so good.”
But I also think that, well, the pictures weren’t great. I mean, there was something a little bit amateur about them, in a certain way you always get in those magazines. Dorit wanted it to look like Vogue Taiwan and instead she gets Regional Luxury Publication Monthly. Dorit isn’t entirely wrong. These pictures were a little bit more Hamlin Sisters than they were Hadid sisters, if you know what I’m saying.
Speaking of which, I wish I was on Lisar and Erika’s trip to Tokyo. It looks like they are just having so much fun. First of all, every one of Erika’s outfits is so fierce that I want it to be a little action figure and I will collect them all and sometimes I’ll make them fight with my She-Ra and they’ll always win. I especially loved the McQueen kimono-inspired black dress with the pink wig they wore to be grossed-out by actual Japanese food, instead of the fake sushi that we get here in America. (Side note: I just went to Brazil and they make “California rolls” with mango instead of avocado there. They are more delicious than eating a banana split out of Michael B. Jordan’s crotch.)
The No. 1 highlight of the trip is when Erika and Lisa have dinner with Delilah and The Other One. First of all, I love that they are super into Erika Jayne and treat her like the walking Snapchat filter that she is. Second, I love that Delilah read her mom’s sex book and learned how to give a blow job from her mother at the age of 12, but had to read about it in a book. Third, I love how Lisa says, “Our job as parents is to give our children the tools to go out into the world and conquer it,” and she totally means blow-job skills because I don’t care what anyone tells one, a good BJ can topple even the mightiest of empires.
The real best part of dinner, though, is watching Delilah and The Other One explain to Lisar and Erika how they just watch YouTube videos of people housing away gigantic piles of food. Erika admits that she doesn’t understand it at all. Erika says, “Maybe I’m just …” and then she does this move where her body slinks away and her hand comes out to the side like she’s Ursula the sea witch taking a ticket at the DMV, and then she looks out of the top of her eyes as if she’s going to set the entire universe on fire before uttering the word “… old.” Oh, we’ve all had those moments when we find out what the kids are into and know that this whole circus has just passed us by. What can you do but dress up like a goth vampire and joke about it on your reality show, you know?
But as Erika and Lisar were having dinner, across town an old woman was still playing her mandolin. She played her song, which sounded so stirring and exotic to the white women hours earlier, but so familiar to her fellow countrymen. It was like each note was beautiful but insignificant, each looking to be part of a giant landscape that leads to something uncanny, something that would make even the most jaded child model put down her phone and stop to consider nature without filtering it through the inelectable modality of the electronic. She knew that life is like that. That reality is like that. That we need everything similar but a little bit different to weave the great dramatic tapestry of life together. She bent toward her instrument a little bit and plucked harder, more quickly, listening intently to it and she swore she could hear the strings singing “Eileen Davidson,” as they chattered so much they nearly broke.
