Oh welcome back, my Housewives. Welcome back, oh you glorious little rag dolls left in an Tennessee Williams play (one of the later sucky ones that don’t make sense), buffeted about by fate, and pitted against each other like so many crashing marionettes. Welcome, welcome, welcome back. After a few boring weeks where all we got to do was listen to ¡Que Viva!’s father hit on her like some sort of Southern gothic preacher, we finally got back to some absolutely insane existential drama. It was just what we were craving.
But before I dive deeply into some things, there are a few topics I want to get out of the way:
–Sonja never should have invited Ramona as her enforcer to that meeting with Heather and James Bernard, the most beleaguered homosexual in the whole world. (Seriously, this guy has to stare at himself every morning in the mirror and think, “What black hole did I fall into where I am now working in this alternative universe where nothing makes sense and how do I get out?”) Also, she’s not a client of anyone’s because she’s not paying. Sonja, I love her dearly, but she needs to lighten up and let the experts help her. To quote Working Girl (and not a week should go by when you don’t), Sonja has a mind for business and a bod for sin. Well, except without the mind for business part.
–You know when you sit around with your friends and play, “If I won the lottery, I’d buy a house in Fire Island, an apartment in Paris, I’d go spend a month in Bora Bora just eating pineapple off of little sticks while floating in the ocean. Oh, and I’d buy my mom a dog.” You know how you play that game but you know deep down in your heart that you will never happen because it is an actual impossibility? That is exactly what the Countess talking about having another baby is like.
—I freaking hate Tripp, Carole’s main gay because she is hanging out and having coffee with him and not with me. I am going to find Tripp one Saturday night at The Cock and he’s just not going to find his way home and I am going to Single White Female his whole life. Either that I’m going to apply to be one of Carole’s interns. Do you think she’ll teach me how to recap?
–Did you see the crazy old lady with the huge white afro at dinner at Le Cirque. I’m convinced that it was Phyllis Diller and she was just wheeze laughing at these Boiled Shrimps of the Big Apple through the entire meal.
–The Mario/Balki “Let’s fight about Ramona’s wine” feud is so incredibly stupid. It’s awful. Still, these two showed way more personality in their 2.7 minutes on screen than ¡Que Viva!’s husband Taco has shown in his whole life.
–If I had a bag of groans I would open it up and let the Countess listen to it for everything she said about American Indians. Then I would cover her head with it and hit her with a tomahawk and send her back to a reservation to make wig wams and turquoise jewelry for the rest of her life. That is exactly what I would do if I had a bag of groans.
–Sonja, no one cares about your J. But way to think about SEO. (That is CEO’s single brother.)
–Can you imagine the homeless people who get the Housewives cast of coats at the coat drive? These people are already homeless. They have it pretty bad. Now you’re going to dress them up in moth-eaten furs that Ramona won’t even give to her cousins back in the trailer park? That’s just mean.
OK, now onto the big things.
So, Ramona and Mario have a dinner at Le Cirque, which exists only to be mentioned on Page Six and no real human being has ever eaten there even once. Ramzona and Mario basically just want to drink their $1400 bottle of Chateau Escargot, which is the same sad Chateau where Charlie Brown lived in It Doesn’t Stink, It’s Only France, Charlie Brown. Everyone is sitting around the table and LuAnn’s paramour Balki Bartakamous says, “I haf a storEE for all of YOU.” OK, now just imagine the rest of this in a French accent, cause I’m too lazy to write one. “So, I was at ze gym ze other day, and after a very intense and macho workout, I decided to go into ze steam room. When I got in zere, zere was zis very wealthy looking man who was a little balding but very handsome. He was sitting in his towel and I sat down next to him. He started making glaces at my eyes and then glances at my crotch. Zen he started touching his own crotch through his towel. I decided it was only polite to do ze same. So, zere we are, touching ourselves together and we, how do you say, we had a very fun time together. He wiped his hand off on his towel and then shook my hand. ‘It’s nice to meet you. My name is Harry Dubin,’ he said. Look! Now even I have had ze sex with Harry Dubin!” (That did not happen, but basically it did. Well, I wish it did.)