Beep. “Hello, everyone. This is Sonja T. Morgan, authoress of Buns in My Oven: The Toaster Oven Cookbook now available from Home Eatins Press. Please do not leave a message. I am too busy to check them and um, like use that thing on the computer or do the typing with your thumbs instead….Oh, damn.” Beep. “Good evening. I am Sonja Morgan. Don’t leave a message. I am sick of hearing your voice unless you are moaning my name or saying, ‘Yes,’ when I ask you to spend money on me. Please just throw your Blackberry in the toilet and never talk to me again….Oh, that’s too mean.” Beep. “Hey, girl, it’s Sonja. Holla!….Oh god, I sound like Heather.” Beep. “Guys, it’s Sonja. Do not leave a message, unless you are royalty. Then you can leave a message. Or if you’re European, then I guess it’s OK. But not if you’re American. Or the Countess, because we all know that title….Damn. This is hard.” Beep. “Hi, It’s Sonja. Don’t leave a message, just text or email and my intern will get back to you. Smooches!”
That is what Sonja Tremont Morgan sounds like trying to record a message on her Blackberry, a device that she uses to stop up her toilet. Actually, two of the seven toilets in her house are currently stuffed with Blackberries. I’m not sure why Sonja continues to do this. Maybe where she is from, a small Pennsylvania town that just finally got electricity in the early ’80s, they always threw their mail in the outhouse hole to help cover up the smell and now she does the same thing in fancy New York City. I don’t know, but things are rough for Sonja. Yes, she has an intern Elizabeth Millsapps, of the Orlando Millsapps, and she is living with Sonja for free and working off her debt like an indentured debutante. I also have a feeling that Sonja makes her sleep in the busted down Saab that she keeps in the parking garage next to her townhouse.
But, no, life is rough for Sonja right now because her dog got hit by a car, her toilets are clogged, she’s doing her own electrical work like a damn lesbian, and she only has this free intern to bring her her chocolate shake, vitamins, and medication in the morning and the girl almost gave her the dog’s pain pills! You get what you pay for, Sonja. (Also, dog pain pills will do in a pinch.)
Sonja’s still my favorite even though everyone was having really silly arguments last night. Most of it has to do with whether or not Heather is going to invite Ramona on her little jaunt to London or not. She will not. It was all just silly drama.
But do you know who I am in a fight with? My former best friend Carole Radziwill. It turns out that she has another handsome gay friend (well, he’s definitely handsome and he may or may not be gay, but he’s hanging with a Housewife, what do you think the over under on that is, and by over under I mean whether he sleeps over or under another man). His name is Tripp, as in Linda, and I f-word-ing hate him. He lives downstairs from Carole and they become friends and she watches his cats (ugh, who has cats?!) when he’s away and they hang out together. Ugh, he’s so awful. “Hi, my name is Tripp. I live downstairs from Carole Radziwill who is super awesome and I just go upstairs and say, ‘Hi, Carole, wanna sit on the stoop and drink white wine and pick out tourists’ outfits? Hi, Carole, wanna go check out Occupy Wall Street and laugh at the hippies? Hi, Carole, do you wanna watch Myra Breckinridge and then I’ll do you up with some Rachel Welch tranny realness? Hi, Carole, yes you look fierce in that caftan dress thing, now let me do your hair up in the back like one Princess Leia bun and you will look flawless. Werq, sister! You are pissing on it right now, hunty.'” Ugh, that should be my job! I should be freaking Tripp, not Tripp. He’s a jerk. I am going to find a way to kill Tripp (with two P’s, like a Palin) in his sleep (not really.)
Anyway, Carole went to Occupy Wall Street and was afraid she was the 1% (sorry, Carole, you’re too poor) and she covered it like she was a journalist and took pictures and when she takes pictures, she actually looks through the view finder in the camera, holding it up to her eye like Black Beard holds up a telescope to his eye and screams, “Chips Ahoy!” (that’s what pirates say, right?) and it makes me want to pick on Carole for not looking at the screen on a digital camera, but even that is so damn cute. Oh, Carole. I love you so.
Alright, what else happened this episode? Oh, not much. What ever happens. What ever happened happened, as a hack would tell you, and we don’t really care about what happened, do we? We just care about judging these ladies. Let’s judge ¡Que Viva!, because she deserves it. ¡Que Viva! is a freaking basket case. She is nuttier than a jockstrap. She can’t even ride in an elevator or go on a plane without a Xanax and a glass of rosé (I would say that she can really drink a lot of wine because she has a hollow leg, but that seems like it might be in poor taste). She tries to pretend like she’s not, like on the outside she’s this big tough St. Bernard with some brandy around her neck but on the inside she’s a quaking chihuahua who is about to blow over in the breeze and really needs to drink some brandy. She also plays both sides of the fence. She tells Ramona that Heather talks too much, but then she tells Heather that she can talk as much as she wants and she doesn’t mind. This is going to get you in trouble faster than anything else on the Housewives. You can be a totally C U Never Tomorrow to someone’s face and they won’t care, but if you’re not being “real” and telling everyone what they want to hear, no one will want to hear anything from you.