Cast Blog: #RHONY

Turtle Time!

Alex talks Jill drama, Kelly craziness, and a Housewives vacay to remember.


For the rest of my life (or at least a long time) I may find myself waking up in the middle of the night hearing Ramona whisper “Turtle Tiiiiiiiime” in my ear. For a shorter amount of time – this week, that is, I found myself wondering exactly how wide Courte can open his eyes and his mouth. All at the same time!

LuAnn is hard at work on her single, and as I always say, good on each and every housewife for attempting to branch out. That said, I’m not really sure she sounds like a female Barry White. The Pet Shop Boys, maybe ... but we’ll see.

By the time we went away to St. Thomas and St. John, we knew that neither LuAnn nor Jill would be coming. Ramona called them the buzzkills, and I have to say that I was really looking forward to a drama-free few days when we didn’t have anyone trying to constantly be the center of attention. It was the first time EVER that I went away from Simon and the boys when it wasn’t a business trip, and we all put ourselves in Ramona’s hands. My parents had a house on St. Thomas, and I sort of hoped to stop by. My Mom had given me a list of 30 friends to call, but there was no time for that. But there was Turtle Time.

No sooner had we arrived then the rumblings started. All was not well in Kelly-land. At first it seemed like normal Kelly non-sequiturs. No pretzels, she doesn’t eat processed food, but she does eat gummy bears …WTF? All that sugar and carnauba wax can make a girl manic. Anyway, we arrived at the pier and the Olga, a truly spectacular yacht. We gleefully ran around the place, and Ramona unpacked her bags in the living room to show us all her bikinis. We all stripped down and got ready for lunch, well, everyone except Kelly, who didn’t feel comfortable eating in a bikini. OK, no problem with that – go get a cover-up. She came back when Ramona was demanding wine, and somehow didn’t understand Bethenny’s offer to go stomp on some grapes? Hmm.


We needed to address a little Jill fallout. Let me explain exactly why. It was Thursday. Jen’s party (from last week’s episode, death, mean girl, high school, etc.) had taken place on Monday. Everything had happened in the space of four days, and we were all still reeling from it. It wasn’t as though we wanted to dredge up the past for fun; it was still the present and we hadn’t had a chance to sit down with Bethenny, who had just flown in from LA. So when the debriefing began, Kelly became really uncomfortable, and I understood that as she and Jill had become close. Again, no problem. It became weird when she started to narrate a different version of events. And then wouldn’t let us speak. And then said we were making lemonade out of lemons. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? I understand she was uncomfortable, but that’s when she should walk away and let us finish so she doesn’t have to hear it. Luckily, she did – she gave herself a timeout and came back to a better place. Temporarily.

Why did no one follow me to the fish? I think Ramona’s noodle was scaring them away. The only thing I was sorry about on the trip was that I didn’t have time to do a proper dive, but no one else was scuba certified and it was too much trouble. I did however swim several hundred yards alongside a beautiful stingray.

We had dinner, and Kelly brought us shots. I needed one while sitting between Kelly and Bethenny. Did Kelly really believe that a one-night-stand equals unprotected sex? In whose universe? I don’t recall Bethenny saying she slept with everyone in America. Somehow that’s what Kelly heard, and called her a ho-bag. Chef, author, ho-bag. Can you get business cards for that? Bethenny hightailed over to us and the Hooters Patrol, and I felt badly that we abandoned Sonja, though she got herself over quickly enough. Champ looked horrified that he’d allowed crazy people on his yacht, and after Ramona kissed him a few times and Sonja got her Hooters fix, we decided to call it a night. Almost. Not yet. It’s TURTLE TIME!!! Tune in next week for even more craziness…it only gets better.

Fast forwarding to this weekend, Simon and the chums and I had a great Mother’s Day weekend in Boston – a book signing, a Duck Tour and lots of fun. Check out to see our next book tour dates – we’ll be up and down the east coast and in Chicago soon.

Carole on Elitists and Bitches

Carole says what she really thinks of Aviva and all of her talk about her book and things being "ghetto."

Dear Fans,

Let me start with something I stole it from Twitter this week. "The most dangerous liars are those who think they are telling the truth."

I'll say it again. The blonde at the end of the right couch, the one who's prone to lobbing limbs and insults, is an Insulting. Bitch. Some of you didn't believe me. Maybe some of you still don't. But after watching the reunion shows I imagine it's harder and harder to cheer for the anti-hero. Just when you think she can't get any faker she does.

The story according to Aviva makes me laugh: We were arguing, she insulted me, I called her a psychopath and that prompted her to affectionately compliment me on my age. Sure. Her disdain for the intelligence of the audience is palpable. It was too stupid for me to even reply. But as I was watching the reunion, and particularly Aviva and the way she treats people, I was reminded of something my Grandma Millie used to say. (I love everything Grandma Millie used to say.) "At 25, you have the face you're born with. At 45 you have the face you deserve."

I'd rather be 50 and me than be 45 and Aviva, any day of the week. She aged worse this season than a president in his first term. Holy short dress, I don't mind at all how I look. Overbite and all. I'll take it.

When I first met Aviva she was lovely. Really lovely. I meant what I said on the couch, I wish we had seen more of that. Her easy laugh and funny neurotic ways. Instead all we saw was a mean and angry woman. All because I asked her if she hired a writer -- a writer she did hire. It makes no sense. Three years ago she told me she'd read my memoir, What Remains. This was a book published in 2006 about my childhood, my family, my career and marriage, and then the death of my husband, Anthony Radziwill. A man I loved more than anyone I had loved before or have loved since. She gushed over my book. She quoted from it. We hugged. She seemed so sincere. Flash forward and she now believes it was written by a ghostwriter. She even knew his name, and it wasn't Truman Capote. It was Bill Whitworth, she told me. She repeated this over and over to anyone who would listen. And it doesn't matter how many times she repeats it -- it will never make it true.

When they stopped listening she started saying in the press and on social media that not only was my book written by someone else but that it was not my place to have written a book about my life, and my marriage. And, as if I didn't remember, she reminded me that I'd written about people who had died. Um, yeah. I know. It was my husband and my family and my closest friend who died. Just. . .wow. But I wasn't important enough to tell my story because my husband's family was famous, or historic or whatever she said. Because they had money and privilege and yachts. Really. Who do I think I am?

I’ll tell you. I’m a girl from upstate New York who grew up in a loving, if sometimes kooky, Italian working class family. I worked for everything I earned, just like my parents did and their parents before them. I have a proud family history of hard work and small but precious rewards that followed. My family won't be in any history books. I didn't grow up privileged. We didn't spend summers in Europe or Christmas in Palm Beach. A day spent at the town pool or playing in the woods behind our house was great. Much like Heather, I was taught strong values and decent manners. I learned to live with integrity and honesty. I'm proud of my upbringing and the woman I became, as was my husband. As is his family to this very day. I've known people who lived in what Aviva would consider the "ghetto" who have more class and decency than she shows.

All this talk about class and ghetto -- you'd think we were living in communist Russia. Here is the thing. This is America. In our country it doesn't matter a lick where you are from, it only matters where you're going. So don’t let anyone tell you that you aren't good enough because you didn’t grow up on Park Avenue or in a family that had some history, or because you enjoy saying mother-f---er now and then. I’ve met people from all walks of life. I spent time in refugee camps in Southeast Asia, and in the projects of Chicago. I've been to State dinners with Presidents. I met the Queen of England on a beach in Anguilla. No one is any more valuable or important than you are. No one is more important than your family and your friends.

Let the elitists go slow into the night.

In spite of the BookGate dust up I had a great time this season. I made wonderful new friends in LuAnn and Kristen and my friendship with Heather is more special and important to me than I could have ever imagined just three years ago. Friends have each other's backs. I love her, madly. And while we didn't always act appropriately, we had a lot of laughs. I hope you did too.

Thank you all for your supportive and funny and brilliant tweets. And while we didn't all agree on everything all of the time I enjoyed your participation in the show. Even the mean tweets about my skinny neck and my overbite were amusing. Like I said, I've stolen some tweets already. You may see others as dialogue in my next book, and yes, you can all say you were my ghostwriters.

As always,

With love, Writer Girl xoxo

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