‘Real Housewives of New York’ Recap: Party with Animals

ALTHolla! Yes, I’m starting things off Heather Thompson style because, with each passing week, I enjoy this bitch more and more. Oh, I don’t mean bitch like she’s a Joan Crawford wrapped in the skin of Miranda Priestly. I mean bitch in that casual way that women like Heather, women who say “Holla!” in public, just drop “bitches” to describe all the other ladies of their cohort. Women who also say things like “champs” and “somethin’ somethin'” and, well, “holla!” That’s how I mean it, but I’m starting to love this Heather. The whole episode sort of revolved around her.

First we had Heather at the Sonja Tremont Morgan, of the Okefenokee Swamp Morgans, photo shoot. Man was that shoot insane. Let me clue you in on something: I’ve been to photo shoots before (and usually photo shoots with naked dudes) and they are boring. Once the guy is naked and the thing is set up, then you just sit there and watch the same thing happen over and over and over again for hours and you want to put your head in a toaster oven like your name is Sylvia Plath. Not Sonja’s photo shoot. First she shows up an hour late while Heather is running around making the fake bagels look all nice and getting everything together for the shoot. The naked guy is there, with his baggy T-shirt on, his defined torso still bulging through the cotton. But there’s no Sonja.

She arrives, a torrent of interns streaming in her wake, and starts ordering people around to do things that make no sense. It’s like if someone from the front row of a Broadway show starting telling the stage manager what to do. She’s telling the food stylist that she uses tin foil when cooking with her toaster oven, so there has to be tin foil. The food stylist (which is a real job and these people can work miracles, just ask anything ever cooked by Sandra Lee) makes a face like someone just took a turd in her punch bowl. Tin foil! In a photo shoot. Oh heeeeeellllllll no (another thing that bitches like Heather would say). The problem with Sonja is that she is trying to sell a reality. She wants people to see that this is a big, beautiful oven with lots of settings that you can use tin foil in. Retail success is not built on reality. It is built on illusion. It is built on false claims, unnatural results, and flat out lies. It is built on vanity sizing, paid testimonials, and Photoshop. Lots of Photoshop.

That’s what Sonja doesn’t get. She says, “When I see a hot guy, I want to f**k him, not cook for him.” Right, but putting him on your box makes customers (the people with money) think that, if you cook for him with the Sonja Tremont Morgan Toaster Oven 3000 of the Stars then you will get to f**k him. Then you will get their money. That is how marketing works. And if you don’t know that maybe you should listen to, oh, I don’t know, the three marketing experts in this room who are trying to help you for free.

But Sonja could not grasp this, mostly because she was woozy from her heavy flow day. Yes, Sonja is a bleeder. We now know that her periods are so gruesome they look like a shower curtain in Psycho. They are so bad she faints. Man, Sonja’s Aunt Flo is a bitch. I mean that in the traditional sense, not the Heather “Holla!” sense.

So, at Carole’s second party (she had a dinner party and George, ¡Que Viva!’s gross father, was there and made a lot of sex jokes and c*ck ring jokes and penis jokes and ball gag jokes and it was gross and I don’t want to talk about it but there was an awesome lizard!) she has all the girls over and invites them to St. Bart’s. Now, why you would want to take all of these girls to a blues festival to meet your boyfriend, is beyond me. The only place I would take the whole crew is a quiet wine bar that no one else goes to so your cackling won’t disturb the masses or the zoo, just because I think it would be fun to go with them to the zoo. But, no, Carole invites them all along.

Everyone is excited about going on the trip but ¡Que Viva!, because Mexican soap operas don’t perform well overseas. Traveling with ¡Que Viva! is sort of like trying to go to dinner with a vegan. “Nope, I can’t go there. Sorry, there’s nothing there either. Their spelt is made with pesticides. Oh, that actually has horse gelatin in it, so I guess I’ll just get the green salad. With no cheese. Oh, the cheese is in the dressing? OK, I’ll just have a glass of water and this lemon. Thanks. No, I’m fine really. Enjoy your steak. Honestly, it’s not bother.” She doesn’t want to go on a little plane or a boat or be without her husband. So she asks if she can bring Taco along, totally defeating the idea of a girl’s trip. None of the girls really want him there, not because he’s going to ruin their girls trip but because he’s about as bland as a block of Tempeh at Vegan Sensations.