According to one of the great cultural artifacts of our time, The Princess Bride, there are two great blunders in life. The first is don’t get into a land war in Asian and the second is never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line. Hahahahaha. Slumps over dead. Well, I would like to add a third great blunder of the universe: fighting with a Real Housewife. It’s true. It is completely useless. They don’t listen, they mire you down in needless points of order, they fixate on semantics, and no matter what is said or what is done, they will never understand your point. They will also never apologize. Actually, they will, but they will never mean it.
Heather Thompson pointed this out last night while the group was all having their leave-a-seat-for-Elijah lunch. She just can’t handle the fighting anymore and just points her eyes down at her Bloody Mary and tries to ignore it and hopes it goes away. Heather should know this better than anyone. She’s been on the wrong side of a contretemps with Ramona Singer for the better part of a season and is frustrated because she knows she is not crazy, she knows she is a smart capable woman with a lot of insight and professional success, but no matter how many rational points she raises, she is sucked into the swamp of insanity that is a Real Housewives argument. That’s what this show does to you. It’s like quicksand. You feel yourself falling into it and you think that if you go down just a little bit, you will eventually find your way out, so you struggle and struggle, but you are trapped, the whole thing suffocating you and weighing in on all of your limbs. The only way out is to just float. To let your body go loose and rise to the top. Be zen, baby, and just let it wash over you.
This is a lesson that ¡Que Viva! has yet to learn. Yes, we’re still learning about our telenovela in a blonde wig, and we discovered some new things last night: she is tenacious, she is sarcastic, she has deceptively large tits, and she is forever trapped in the Housewives muck. RIP ¡Que Viva!
Last week she called Somonja “white trash,” which, well, if the rhinestone pump from DSW fits. The funny thing is that the two of them don’t even know what white trash is. Yes, Ramona Singer and Sonja Tremont Morgan of the Noblesse Oblige Mobile Home Estates Morgans had to Google what “white trash” is. If that is not white trashier than tater tots, scratch off lottery tickets, wood paneling, and plastic lawn chairs from “the Wal-Mart,” I don’t know what is. Sonja says (and this is an actual quote), “We might be white trash, but don’t call me that…We do act trashy.” Yes, Sonja, you do. You and Ramona, especially together, act really trashy, something that the pair will go on to prove, continuously for the rest of the program. For all of eternity, perhaps.
They did find the definition of “white trash” on UrbanDictionary.com, where Sonja poked around a little bit and decided she wants to try the “angry pirate,” the “Alabama Hot Pocket,” and the classic “Hot Carl.” She waddles over into the kitchen to see Jean-Claude, the butler. “Hey, Jean-Claude. I’ve been reading this site on the internet, and I found some new games I want to play. What are you doing after work? I know you’re the butler. Would you like to buttle? Would you like to try an ‘angry pirate?'” She asks. He smiles a coy smile that says, “I don’t really want to have sex with you, but if you’re throwing your vagina at me, I’m not going to leave it lying limp on the kitchen floor,” Jean-Claude says, “Qu’est ce sais un angry pirate?” She whispers into his ear and then puts her hand over the whole side of his face, as if to let the information marinate inside his brain for a little bit. He nods his head furiously and says, “Meet me at 9.”
Somonja go to their room and Carole comes to join them and they confront her about the couple’s dinner she is going to have with her boyfriend Russ and ¡Que Viva! and her husband Taco. “No no no,” Carole says. “That’s not tomorrow. That’s tonight.” OK, Carole, you’re not really helping things right now. Then Sonja and Ramona launch into their mistaken tirade about how this is a “girl’s trip” and that there should be no boys allowed. I’m sorry, but from the get go, Carole was like, “Come with me to see my boyfriend play at a blues festival.” That was always the intention. How is that a girls trip? Anyway, they’re bagging on Russ and Taco when ¡Que Viva! saunters into the room with her jugs juggling and her diaphanous wrap dragging on the floor. She lobs it over her shoulder and says, “Well, well, well. If this isn’t another warm welcome.” And there we go, back down the whirlpool. Back into the black hole that is the Real Housewives fight, which isn’t a fight about any specific thing, it is a fight about every specific thing.
“You know what, Ramona,” ¡Que Viva! says. “You should have had a banner for me when I arrived. There should have been a party and you should have been sipping champagne ready to toast the fact that I was here. You should have had the St. Barts navy on hand to do a 21 gun salute and the entire cast of Man of La Mancha at the local community theater should have been singing ‘Dream the Impossible Dream,’ and then a red carpet should have rolled out and 12 Polynesian girls wearing white dresses with garlands on their heads should have showered that carpet with rose petals and when I walked up that red carpet and got to the top of the stairs, you all should have applauded. Miss Georgia should have thrown a baton in the air, and not just any baton, that baton should have been on fire and it should have flown higher, faster, and father than any baton has every flown. That is how you should have greeted me.” Ramana finished taking a pull of her Natural Light can, tilted her camouflage trucker hat back a little bit, and scratched her crotch while belching at ¡Que Viva! She is white trash.
Seriously, I can’t take anyone’s side in this fight. I hate the way Ramona has been treating people this season (and to a lesser extent my favorite Sonja T. Morgan too) but that doesn’t mean the enemy of my enemy is my friend. No, the enemy of my enemy is some uptight bitch who doesn’t want to have fun or get drunk or pick up boys and only wants to talk about herself and her fears. God, I hate them all. I actually just want to go sit in a corner with Heather Thompson and shake my head with her and we can be friends. Well, at least until she says something like, “WTF. Do you know what that means?” Yes, Heather. I know what the F WTF means. I’m not a F-ing idiot. God, I’m leaving. “Fine. I’m just going to do me.” What are you talking about Heather? Are you The Situation? Just stop it!
After Samonja and ¡Que Viva!’s ridiculous fight, Carole puts it on hold and they all go to lunch. Lunch was an unmitigated disaster, where everyone was fighting and people kept getting up from the table in different configurations so that all six women weren’t sitting at the table the whole time. There is nothing more uncomfortable than a dinner table (or lunch table) where some of the seats are empty. I can’t even remember what the fights were about, but I think it was all the same stuff from before just warmed over and served up like stale leftovers in a Tupperware container.
I’d much rather just talk about how ¡Que Viva! only has one foot to put in the pedicure box that is full of fish eating off her dead skin. I don’t know why I want to talk about it, but I do. I wonder if she only got charged half price. I wonder if the fish were like, “Why are we only getting one leg? Where is the other one? This is like only getting half a sandwich. We want the rest of our lunch! WTF!” except, unlike Heather, they probably don’t know what WTF stands for. But that, at this point, is just conjecture.
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