AAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Oh, good morning, guys. I just got up. Last night I sat down on my couch at 9 PM with my notebook and pen to watch the Real Poppy Eaters of Somnabulist Central and I just passed out. I was in a deep dark sleep where I had dreams about waxed eyebrows, blindfolded wine drinking with Balki Bartokomous, and my eyes bulging and bulging and bulging until they finally fell out of my head. You know, nothing of consequence. Nothing at all of consequence. Oh, that was the episode last night? Sorry, I must have been sleeping. Either that or thinking this boring patter is nothing but a dream, a sad stale dream where I don’t even wake up with an erection or anything. It’s like when you wake up in the middle of the night to poop and you think you know what’s going on but you don’t and you fall asleep in some fever dream while sitting on the pot. That is what watching Real Housewives of New York is like these days.
There is just absolutely no tension at all. LuAnn and her fiancee Balki try to have a wine tasting and nothing fun happens. Heather tries to talk to LuAnn about how she’s a self-centered egoist and nothing happens. Carole goes to visit her famous designer friend Rajana Khan and all we learn is that LuLu is asking for free dresses, which, a million, jillion duhs. I care about as much about the migration habits of Newfoundland geese or your neighbor Alice’s hangover after she went to Applebee’s and ordered five Skinnybee Margaritas. I care about none of those things and I care about none of these things. Oh, I just don’t care. Make me care, ladies, make me care. I think that’s why we got a “This season on Real Housewives of Slumbertown USA” full of screeching and fighting and brow beating and Ramona rolling her eyes around and around in her head, the Charybdis to the Scylla of her mouth. It’s like they’re telling us, “It’s coming, it’s coming so please stay tuned,” and all of us are going, “Well, just show us the good bits! We’re sick of Eye Waxing with Heather.
So, there are only two things about this episode that I even care to talk about. One of them is my favorite Sonja Tremont Morgan, of the Upper East Side Morgans and an heiress to a great toaster oven fortune. Well, she hopes this is the case. Now, I love Sonja T. Morgan with all of my heart and all of the soul I haven’t sold to Satan to stay thin, but I gotta say, I’m a little worried about her career. Sonja may have a taste for luxury (and luxury may have a taste for her) but I’m afraid she doesn’t really have a head for business. Heather calls her friend, some fancy designer who makes fonts and stuff, and asks him to do a favor for Sonja. A favor! This is a business favor that Heather got for free because this guy, Smarty McMBA, helped Heather spend a lot of Puffy Combs and Jennifer Lopez and Beyonc(option+e)’s money. This is not a favor that you get for free, really, but Sonja is getting it for free because Heather is helping her out and, let’s face it, Sonja isn’t really rolling in cash.
Smarty McMBA comes up with some fonts for Sonja and she’s like, “This guy doesn’t know me, he doesn’t get me, how can he design for me?” Which, true. But also, um, Sonya (which is how her logo is currently spelled) you get what you pay for. So, just take one of his designs and be happy. Then when they start pushing her about how soon she needs it, she says she’s about to go into production and gives them a bunch of vague answers. This is mostly because the only thing Sonja wants to talk about in public is her sex life. That is just out there on display like the soiled sheets on her clothesline. But anything that has to do with her business or her family, oh no no no no no NO, we must not speak of that in public. Oh no. I think the real reason is that Sonja needs some cash. She’s on her last 10 packets of Ramen and put all her eggs to broil in one toaster oven and this b***h better pay dividends now or she’s going to be sending her interns for second hand donuts at the bakery. Oh, if Sonja could only marry well…again.