Cast Blog: #RHONY

Draw Me Like One of Your French Girls

Ramona on Her Divorce From Mario

Carole on Elitists and Bitches

Heather Says That's a Wrap

Sonja: Don't Take Yourself Too Seriously

The Countess: Sonja and I Are on the Outs

Aviva Says Bye for Now

Kristen on Surviving Her First Season

LuAnn: For Ramona Ignorance Is Bliss

Who Cares How Carole Wrote Her Book?

Carole on Stupid Things You've Heard on Bravo

Aviva's "Foul Ignorance"

Kristen: Ramona's Out of Touch with Reality

Sonja Is Very Private

Ramona on the Grueling Reunion

LuAnn: Sonja Is Off the Rails

Heather: Et tu Ramona Singer?

Aviva on Kristen's "Gatemouth" Look

Kristen: Sonja Could Be Successful

Sonja's Glad Aviva Threw Her Leg

Carole: Waiter, We're Done

Ramona: Aviva's Leg Scared All of Us

Heather Focuses on What Matters

LuAnn: Sonja Only Has Herself to Blame

What Else Does Aviva Have in That Bag?

Aviva: Leggy Blonde

God Gave me a Great Ass and His Approval

Sonja on Her Harry Situation with LuAnn

Ramona: Where Did the Time Go With Avery?

Heather Tips to Plan a Party for Carole

Aviva Rises Above the Nonsense

Love Kristen Tender

Sonja and Harry Aren't Good for Each Other

Ramona: Mario's Voice Is So Sexy

Aviva Defends Her Asthma

Heather's Sasha Fierce Moment

Nothing Is Too Romantic for Sonja

LuAnn: I Sing When I Feel Like Singing

Kristen: This Show Has Helped My Marriage

Carole: Oh Beautiful for Spacious Skies. . .

Ramona: Just Don't Ask Me to Go Every Year

Draw Me Like One of Your French Girls's Associate Editor ponders the portrait, parades, thugs in cocktail dresses, and drinking at lunch.

Oh my, this episode -- so much to delight in! We might as well have called this episode "Potent Quotables." The ladies were ablaze with witticisms, and also anger. Oof. But when have you been to a march (or "parade" as David Arquette called it on Watch What Happens Live) without a brawl breaking out? I've from Louisiana. I've been to Mardi Gras enough times to understand how fraught with tension an organized walk can be.

A Speech Grows in Brooklyn

After being  silenced at the march, Simon finally regaled us with the speech at the after-party in Brooklyn. It was inspired, mostly because Simon had the amazing fantastical literary ability to place himself into another dimension -- a dimension when Alex was a man. While obviously this was a flight of fantasy to illustrate his point, some of his listeners (Sonja) seemed a bit confused about what this might illustrate about his dating preference. When you make an assumption about jackets and speeches, you make a. . . .well, you know the rest dear readers.

Queens Countess Pearl of Wisdom

This was a very very close tie. LuAnn had two nuggets of witty wisdom this week. While her assertion that she would have kicked Alex out of her house "just for the dress," (please refer to her blog for further illumination on the offending outfit), it was her bon mot about lunchtime drinking that really resonated with me. (Yes, I realize my bosses are reading this. Nothing they don't know.) LuAnn mentioned to Sonja "Nobody drinks at lunch anymore. It's so boring." So very true. This is a national issue, LuAnn. If you could record a song about it, or perhaps make it the crux of your next etiquette tome, I'd be greatly appreciative. Perhaps bond together with this week's Top Chef Masters guest judge Christina Hendricks to form a Mad Men-style revitalization of day drinking. Get to it ladies. Pink champagne for everyone! 

The Bronx Bomber

Oh, dear sweet Kelly. Your brief appearance at the African Foundation/Gucci fundraiser sent Ramona in a tailspin. As if her table was a warzone, Ramona had to redraft her placecard strategy. I myself have never played Risk, but imagine it to be just like this: the constant rearranging of players, the moving of tiny pieces of paraphernalia, the pre-meditated game plans. Suddenly the entire plan of attack seating was shaken to the core. It's all going to be fine Ramo! She's not staying. She's making a brief buzz-by. The placecards can stay as they are. Once the dust has settled, you can return to your pinot grigio and "Pocahontas." Park the Ramonacoaster and enjoy your evening.

Take the Staten Island Ferry Out of Here

There was a fair share of tiffing this episode (Jill just wants to be left alone Alex! She and Ginger just want to march in peace!). But nothing compared to the Sonja and Alex fight. Sonja set the tone of the issue by "forgetting" Simon's name, and then you could tell by Alex's immediate facial reaction this was not going to go well. You know a fight has gotten serious when it becomes mobile. At one point (about 2:02 into the video) Sonja was just leading Alex through the house like the Pied Piper as the verbal assaults rolled on. This walk could have gone on forever, with them sparring into the street, onto the subway, across the Manhattan bridge and right past Simon into Alex's abode. Sonja accused Alex of having the worst manners. Alex accused Sonja of being a "Thug in a Cocktail Dress," and the world was forever changed. The lexicon now has a new way to refer to Sonja Morgan, or anyone else who is giving you a bit too much muscle while wearing a delightfully prim outfit. Do you remember those Homie figurines? If someone could produce those wearing cocktail dresses we could make a mint. Also how amazing was LuAnn and Cindy's arrival? Perfect timing ladies!

Manhattan Major Moment

What is art? As a former art history minor, I suppose I should know, but I'm one of those let the work speak for you types. Therefore I present to you Brian's portrait of Sonja. Is it the greatest piece of artwork in Housewives' history? You decide. Is it leaps and bounds above the work of Jack Dawson in Titanic? For sure. Sorry Leonardo DiCaprio's art double, you have been trumped. Take your charcoals and meet your watery demise knowing you have been bested by one of Sonja Morgan's conquests. There's no need for Sonja to have her draw her "like one of you French girls." She's got her own artist on retainer.

Next week is all about hair removal and wine, so really just a regular episode. I'll be lunchtime drinking in anticipation.

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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