Just saw last night’s RHOOC and wrote this little recap-I hope you like it.
There was a sad attempt by Ickie to set up poor single still Brianna that was truly awful. First off it really highlighted that Brianna can’t find a man in the most heavily populated state in the US. Secondly I have to ask if Chris is the son of an insurance ‘colleague’ or ’employee’ of Ickie’s–in other words, could he really resist Ickie’s scheming. I can’t tell what’s dumber, that Ickie asked him to stay for three days while she paraded her daughter around or that he accepted. Sad sad sad. And it also really highlighted how cluelessly conceited Ickie is. She said she was going to serve a real California BBQ – newsflash: There’s nothing unique about grilling steaks, burgers and dogs. Now if she were to slap a condor on the barbie, maybe. And since when did a real California BBQ highlight brats and sauerkraut? She should know better, she’s from Michiwiscohiniana or wherever she’s oh so desperate to forget. Someplace where it’s cold and people used to make things.
And that forced dumb-ass comment about the weather that people in warm climes always trot out with dreary predictability to the rest of us. Yes, the weather is mostly sunny (between earthquakes, mud slides, and the odd coastal storm). We get it. We’ve seen the memo.
We also saw the TWO patio heaters on the lovely warm California terrace where the whole sorry awkward uncomfortable date-weekend mercifully died. Love love love how big dumb not cute Chris had no clue that all these driftings off into silence, sighs and staring at the ceiling on Brianna’s part weren’t signs of love. The big dumb lunks of this world are always the last to know. And the last to care. (That’s what makes them good for ‘sexy time’ but not for the next morning.)
And it’s really rather disjointed to discuss what kind of babies your daughter and her escort/courtesan/favour to client/imported dollyboy will make, just before announcing that he needs to check his penis at the door when he arrives. It’s as if, having promised to be nicer to Donn this season, Ickie has to let her man-hating castrating b*tch side out SOMEHOW.
Ryan and Simon seemed to be having an a “quien es mas baby” contest. Ryan: you need to grow the eff up. When you own a car then you can let unlicensed drivers zoom about on your insurance at your liability all you want and then come tell me it’s ‘not a big deal.’ Simon made sense with the overindulgence accusation at poor sobbing TamRAA but spoiled it in retrospect with his insistence on a facebook apology, as if any facebooker really cares what Ryan or he say. (On the other hand, Simon did look better than normal – either he’s getting a chemical peel or more make up.)
Was it me or did Gretch’s visit to Michigan seem odd? Half the time it was genuine and nice and sad and family but the rest of the time it seemed forced and unnatural. At the gravesite – genuine. At the patio table – strange. Why she thinks that Jeff’s daughter should work is beyond me – they’re both living off Jeff’s money after all. Everyone sitting and smiling around the table was such a strange vision. Jake (the son)’s tattoo was heartlandishly touching although it’s nothing I would ever do.
But what mystified me is whether or not G-spot really intends to be involved in these people’s lives – presumably they already have mothers – she kept going on about ‘closure’ and ‘moving on’ which struck me as a way to explain it if she has little or nothing to do with them again. After all they’re in no way related to her, and if she’s so poor and busy with Slade’s Sock Puppet, traipsing off to MI will lose it’s appeal quick. I don’t think we’ll see the kids again and that all that ‘motherly’ claptrap on the Gretch’s part was just posing. She’s already got the only kind of big boy she wants back home.
Odder still was when Jeff’s daughter made her little spiel/emotional blackmail about people insulting her dad when they insult Gretchen, we never actually saw her face, IIRC. I dunno. Something doesn’t seem right there.
I actually liked Poor Lynne and Defeated Wozzisname’s new rental digs. When they mentioned the teenager whisperer, I thought “oh how ridiculous” but she seemed to be sensible. Other than Little Big Nose’s pursuing “her art” (is fingerpainting art?) and Minor Whiner’s need for attention, though, I don’t know what was resolved. Didja catch how a Lynncuff was hastily slapped on Whiner’s arm so she could show it off about ten times? Perhaps Poor Lynn’s not so addled after all. But oh the cruelty of Bravo for not cutting that horrible moment after Minor Whiner brought up the hash brownies, when Poor Lynn realized her “hash browns and eggs” attempt at deflection was falling as flat as the boobs in her worst nightmares? Everyone’s eyes got bigger and bigger and you could almost hear Andy suppress a squeaky “eek” of glee.
I mean is there a mood-altering substance that somebody in that family hasn’t tried or needed?
America’s favourite poser, Saint Boob of the Rack and and her Very Own King Frug displayed once again how seriously appalling Frug can be. First off he dresses like a slob, with his dumb backward baseball cap, shirt unappealingly half open, showing off his ‘classy’ contempt for polite society by wearing college-boy shorts everywhere. But then he laps up, with little flickings of his fat tongue how Saint Boob treats him like a colicky princeling, not a king like she’d have us believe. Awww does diddums wan a spicy cocktail sauce? Mummy’ll stir it up for baby. Does diddums wan some shrimp? Mummy’s gonna make a plate all nice for her big bwave businessman. Does diddums wanna feed? Mummy’s got just the rack for baby. Aww, diddums gave mommy a trinket! Seven yes seven yes seven yes yes yes seven carat trinkylet! Mummy’s not a whore for jewellery and domestic help, no, mummy’s in charge here and is just showing how wuvely a good mummy can be..
Until her chest loses its hypnotic power that is. Then mummy’ll be kicked to the curb on her firm and shapely a** wondering “wha’ happened?” And baby’ll buy a brand new mummy!
Then Saint Boob turns up at TamRAAA’s soaked bunco party, low cut wide open dress Christianly showing her holy relics, and feverishly tries to win the drinking game, just like Jesus would. Hey, ’tis but a short stretch from turning water into wine to sloshing back the shots and giggling at faux-lesbian moments between overaged would be sorority sluts. It’s almost a Holy Act of Saint Boob of the Rack. When she doesn’t know what to do, she always asks – how would Pastor Warren justify this? (She doesn’t often dare to wonder what Jesus would do – that might involve making do with just one nanny and maybe getting rid of the Bentley and perhaps giving SOMETHING ANYTHING to charity, which is like a consignment to Hell.) And she can go ahead and do/buy/employ/lift/tuck/extend/enlarge whatever it she wants know that Old Rick will help her feel all smug and justified. That’s what they pay him for. That’s how he converts a degree in theology into Mercedes and mansions, after all. Gotta do something with all that pious palaver.
At the sad (but in a pathetic, desperate way) bunco party we were treated to Whozit, the would-be cougar from some seaons ago, desperately searching for relevancy or young meat she can pretend not to bonk, and still gorgeous Tammy who should know better than to associate with this bunch of tequila guzzling gals.
And as usual Poor Lynn sat, dumfounded, and wondered why nobody paid much attention to her and if there were any good weed to be had. I mean weeds, like in the garden. Weeding, yeah, that’s the ticket. Not the other kind of weed. Hehehe. And the lightbulb that is her thought light buzzed and flickered and gutted out again.
Despite the forced gaiety and high-pitched screams, it was all very much ‘as usual.’
I guess TamRAAA needed a bit of play homosexuality and a good soaking in booze after she discovered that that intellectual paragon of a son of hers is so damned lazy (or interested in finding out what they say about life in jail after the lights go out and your cell-mate wants you to dress and talk pretty to him because that means he can pretend you’re his MaryLou and not some tattoo-scribbled-on loser just setting out on his downwardly mobile life) that he’d rather be incarcerated than pick up litter. Speaks volumes about his work ethic, huh?
After all, Ickie, Gretch, TamRAA, Poor Lynn and Saint Boob o’ the Rack would drive me to drink too.