“Game, set, match/Game, set, match/Bump, set, spi-i-ike.”
Every member of Girls5eva has control issues, which makes sense for a set of women who spent years being told what to wear, what to sing, and what single element of their personality to blow up into their entire public identity. Like the Spice Girls, whose nicknames and outfits allowed teens to identify instantly with one or more group members, and the Beatles, whose labels (“the cute one,” “the quiet one,” etc.) indicated to teenyboppers which moptop would make the ideal malt-shop squeeze, the ladies of Girls5eva each had a role to play for the cameras. And these roles aren’t so easily shed. Gloria, the “always working one” who kept busy to avoid examining her sexuality, now can’t take a break even when a marriage depends on it. “Hot” Summer, who has long pinned her self-worth on being one-half of a Christian power couple, resists dismantling her curated life for fear of losing her following. Wickie, “the fierce one” with a string of failed solo projects, feels the need to break up with celebrity Raya matches just to feel a whiff of power. And Dawn, “the chill one” whose early stabs at songwriting were dismissed by Larry and his minions, now bristles at having too many fingers in her musical pie. (Yes, that was a subtle Waitress reference right there, and you’re welcome.) It’s no coincidence that Girls5Eva has to examine their long-held neuroses in a studio control room.
Wickie, ready to cram as many riffs as possible into each three-minute song, celebrates Studio Day by practicing all the things she plans to hiss photogenically at the paparazzi. Should she call them animals? Accuse them of killing the people’s princess? Truly, it doesn’t matter what pops out of her mouth. Wickie’s face always looks hot, spitting vitriol at the plebs, sure, but today it’s her feet doing the camera seducing. Apparently Wickie’s tootsies are top-rated commodities on Wikifeet, and, man, do I love the notion that the writers named a lead character “Wickie” just so they could throw this wordplay somewhere into season two. Wickie may not have a boyfriend, and the lads of Collab may have snatched up her promotional opportunities, but no one can take her foot fame away. At least, as long as she continues to pose them just so.
Gloria has been released from the hospital post-surgery (or so she claims), and she, Dawn, and Wickie gather in the recording studio to meet Ray (Piter Marek), an affable engineer who also produces Daniel Powter albums and transforms tables back into the trees from whence they came. Oh, and the most tattoo-worthy lyrics from OneRepublic’s “Counting Stars”? Those were his! Immediately, Summer feels resentful of this dude, who comes up with indelible earworms over dim sum while she’s out there holing up in cabins and hallucinating country queens to find her hooks. It doesn’t help that Wickie and Gloria take a liking to his ideas, though what they really appreciate is the fact that his notes don’t come with a side of genital waggling. After years with Larry and the other chair sniffers, this collaboration is a breath of fresh air. Why, they wonder, is Dawn so eager to kick the guy to the curb?
Before the threesome can decide if Ray is a toxic male or if Dawn is simply a blob of insecurity packed into a five-foot-five frame, the group receives dire news on the Wikifeet front: Wickie’s perfect foot rating has been marred by the recent paparazzi photos, as the pics reveal her right foot to be substantially less model-esque than her left. Wickie hyperventilates. How could she have allowed this to happen? For years, she has hidden her five monstrous piggies with long skirts, carefully placed props, and a single cowhide boot. But now, because of a quintet of wonky toes, the pervs are abandoning her en masse. She needs those pervs! Without Tim Meadows to abuse and a bunch of fetishists to titillate, what has she got? In a live video, Wickie admonishes the shutterbugs for their “doctored” snaps and displays her bare feet in all their unfiltered majesty. The oglers come crawling back, dazzled by the image on their screens. In the light of Dawn’s guest room, Wickie’s left foot glitters like Mariah Carey.
But, as always, mirrors ruin everything. The foot fetishists might be attracted to ten toes, but they shudder when faced with hundreds. This puzzles me. As a carb enthusiast, I’d rather see innumerable toasty baguettes standing before me than two, but I suppose the interests aren’t equivalent, and the heart wants what it wants. In any case, Wickie’s fans flee her millipede feet, while over in Jersey, the “Summer and Kev” disciples flock to Insta-church to hear the latest from their favorite couple. To preserve the peace with Kev, as well as the fund that keeps her in hair extensions, Summer has agreed to continue posing as a loving wife. The fan base and endorsement deals with faith-based bail-bond companies depend on it! But when a camera catches her pseudo-canoodling with a construction worker, she realizes her new life demands complete and utter Kev-lessness. The cross-eyed crooner doesn’t believe in divorce, and he desperately wants to keep hold of his online supporters, but he gives in to Summer’s lacquered pout and promises to release an uncoupling statement.
Back at the studio, Dawn chafes at the tweaks Ray has made to her dictionary dirge. In disbelief that her groupmates are nodding in approval at his dumb fedora-ed suggestions, she bleats out various unflattering facts about the engineer. Ray nopes out of the room, much like that meme-octopus whose brethren Ray has so cruelly snacked on, and Dawn admits she’s threatened by Ray’s meddling. She has begun to think of songwriting as her niche, and if it turns out she sucks at it, what does she really have to offer? The other women assure their pal that even with some nips and tucks applied to its flabby body, “Game, Set, Match” is still a Dawn Solano original. And, yes, Ray’s got some astute observations and a cute accent, but he’s certainly not worth Dawn’s unhappiness. If Dawn wants the comeback album to feature an eight-minute lexiconal Heffalump, it shall be done.
As Dawn searches TaskRabbit for geriatric button pushers with no opinions, Summer finds Kev’s divorce announcement: a music video in which the tear-streaked Kev warbles about his wife’s infidelity. In a rageful baby-coo, Summer confronts her ex about his lie, to which Kev responds that he’s a homeless, jobless divorcé with a bunch of dead crustaceans on his conscience — what’s he got going for him but his Christ-peeps? Summer hates the idea of the “Summer and Kev” groupies thinking of her as a villain, but she soon realizes she doesn’t require the fake love of fair-weather Bible thumpers. After all, she’s got a record and a bunch of S’Leaks infomercials on the horizon. When those suckers come out, Summer is gonna be the queen of breathy vocals!
Wickie comes to a similar understanding about the fickle fetishists: If they don’t like her feet because of a few wayward toes, then they don’t understand true beauty. She doesn’t need their (arch) support! So empowered does she feel that she immediately creates a forum called Wickiefoot, a place where people can post photos of their flaws in celebration of human imperfections.
Is there actually a place like this out there in Internetland? I have a couple of clubbed thumbs I’d like to have leered at. Eat your heart out, pervs.
Power Vocals
• I can’t necessarily recommend that you Google “geographic tongue,” but it truly is an aptly named ailment.
• I had no idea edible candles were a thing. What a time to be alive!
• Gloria’s gown isn’t bad, but did you know there exist hospital gowns that look like something out of Ann Taylor?
