Cast Blog: #RHONY

Drinking, Lying, Screaming

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

Drinking, Lying, Screaming

Carole ponders what lead up to the "white trash" bust-up and discusses the mating habits of Bonobos.

Do you get the feeling that everyone is off their meds this episode? I need a Xanax just watching it, some of this I hadn't seen until now. Does anyone have a Xanax?

It inspired me, though, I found the title of my next novel -- a thinly-veiled roman a clef about six women and a pirate in paradise and the hijinx that ensue. I’m calling it: “Drinking, Lying, Screaming.”

Let’s start with the scream, the one heard round the world. I should never have left the main house that night. I should have stayed. But there was my hair to consider and an outfit change -- my boyfriend was waiting. Aviva had arrived in one piece, passed her presents all around, kisses and hugs went back and forth and Reid was thank-you’d and tucked in his room with emails and business. All was well. Jean Batiste made canapés with dip, the sky if I were to step out from beneath the bar and look up was full of stars, the moon was bright. Music floated out from the well-placed speakers, the pinot flowed free in red and white, and happy laughter echoed across the island. The ocean lapped onto Saline beach in what sounded like faint applause behind me.

“I did it!” I thought, and patted myself imaginarily on the back. “I pulled off the hat trick.”

I thought I had merged the crazy lot of us into one $40 million house, seamlessly. A cloudless blue-skied day had melted into a star-filled night. It was perfect. It was ripe for calamity. It was the kind of night where no one expects anything to happen, and so it does. I should have known.

I’m no stranger to the Goddess Fortuna. In ways both good and bad -- she could care less -- she steers our fate. And she favors the prepared. She sneaks into five-bedroom, three pool, two-guest bungalow, wait-staffed homes when all is calm, and she throws up a clatter. I was unprepared.

But let’s start at the beginning when things are still light and sexy.

Our pirate is back!

How many of you feel bad for our pirate? English is his second language and he is even less fluent in the language of deceit. He looks confused, LuAnn looks tense, Ramona looks like a wolf going in for the kill. She’s relentless, she’s like a dog with a T-bone. And unfortunately for LuAnn  -- and her cock and bull story -- the one thing Ramona isn’t this time, is crazy.

 

So what really happened, will anyone ever know? Will the Italians ever show up? Wait, rewind, did our pirate just say “body double?” That’s it! It wasn’t him, it was his double, which is as plausible as a group of Italians any day and also begs the question: What does Johnny Depp’s Captain Jack Sparrow double’s double look like? It’s your lucky day, guys, because I found a picture. He looks like this:

Screen%20Shot%202012-09-02%20at%206%2044

Housewife Rule #39:
“Don’t talk on the phone behind the camera’s back.”

Why? Because it will always bite you in the ass. LuAnn forgot the rule. She wasn’t the only one.

LuAnn is like a dog with a boner the way she pursues these Italians and their friendships. I did it Italian-style last night, now I do it French-style. She won’t let up. No one believes her Italian story, not even our pirate when he is beaten into submission by Sonja and says Yes! Yes! It was him. They went out drinking together. Wow, that’s all? What a letdown.

Heather and I can’t believe our luck in this scene, it’s the National Geographic Channel up-close and real, like watching Animal Planet ringside. Here are, move for move, the entire mating repertoire of the Bonobo Chimp. Peacocking and preening and pricking. The Bonobo Chimp organizes its entire social structure around sex. They use sex to say Hello, to resolve disputes, to make up after fights; they trade sex for food and favor. They tongue kiss, perform orally, mutually masturbate, and even have a penis-fencing ritual. They do have sex for pleasure, but most of the time, much like Housewives across the country, they use sex simply to keep the peace. Not surprisingly, the DNA of the Bonobo compares closely to DNA of the average man and woman, matching as high as 98 percent in one study. Bonobos are closer, genetically speaking, to humans than they are to gorillas! I’m obsessed with animal shows. I know, it’s weird.

The Fat Lady Sings
Sonja said it’s not over until you-know-who-sings and someone -- no names, not saying names -- sang. I said too much already. But before you wrinkle your cute little noses up, hear this. According to the Journal of Sexual Medicine, 46 perfect of woman surveyed claimed to have had a--l sex, so half of you reading this should be all good. According to the same data, these women said it’s easier to reach orgasm, anally speaking, yet the practice, despite it’s being not uncommon, remains taboo. Should it? This might be worth investigating.

Stealing Sun
Let me take a minute here to say that while I might not agree with everything Ramona and Sonja do or say, they are definitely fun and entertaining. They can both drink pirates under the table but they are two decent people. Do we have a lot in common? Yes, no, maybe. But as my fat Italian Grandma Millie always said, “It takes all types to make a world.” That’s how I grew up. I celebrate the differences in people, and then look for commonality. It’s there, with everyone, if you’re willing to look. I always assume, regardless of what we’re wearing or drinking or saying, that we run around most of the time in our own personal hell. We all have that in common.

Meet The Parents
Yes, out on the lawn, there arose a bit of clatter. It’s hard to come late to the party. You’re behind on the jokes, on the drinks, on the stories and spills and falls. It’s hard to catch up. You saw that when we were regaling Aviva by the bar with our tales. She looked out of sorts. It’s like when you get to the New Year’s Eve party right after midnight. Everyone’s kissed, they’re low on champagne, there’s a certain vibe that, well, money can’t buy.

We arrived back from the boat trip later than we had intended because it’s hard to wrangle five women plus drivers here and there. We did not have much downtime. I was getting ready for a date, Lu was showering, Heather was in her PJs, Ramonja were frolicking like nymphets -- like the Aphrodite of Cnidus come to life.

 

We hugged Aviva, when she walked in, and thanked Reid for bringing her. Then she asked us to thank him again. She asked us to thank Reid more times than LuAnn asked us to believe in imaginary Italian friends! When I was married it was my job to do all the thanking and drooling and gushing, not my friends. Even Reid says he doesn’t need that. I think he just wanted all of us to go away so he could work, no?

The scene that launched a thousand screams had back story, I won’t bore you with it. There were phone calls, there were talks behind the camera’s back. No good ever comes of that, we learned that during the alleged blackmail-gate. What you did see, though, was on last week’s show, when LuAnn, Ramona, and Sonja discussed Reid’s arrival. (Remember, I’d stepped out of the room to talk to Russ.) LuAnn said Reid at the house would change the dynamic. (LuAnn had trouble with the truth our entire stay.) Everyone else agreed. Ramona ask diplomat LuAnn to ask Reid to go to a hotel, she deferred to me. For the record, no one ever asked me to ask Reid to go to a hotel. This was a throwaway conversation. It died. It was idle chatter. Maybe it wasn’t nice, but in the end they were all fighting and pointing like Larry, Curly, and Moe over something that was discussed but never happened. Oye.

Class Warfare on the Richest Island in the Carribean
Some of the smartest people I know never went to Vassar, or even to college. Peter Jennings never finished high school and he was one of the most gracious, elegant, and intelligent men I’ve ever met. I’ve met people with enough degrees to paper an entire guest bungalow who have the manners of a jackal. Dangling an impressive resume to belittle someone isn’t like Aviva. I think she’s rattled by her suspicion that Sonja and Ramona have been talking badly behind her back.

 

Still, there is never a reason to call names. It’s not decent or nice. “White trash” is a derogatory slang term referring to people in this country of a lower social class. It’s a slur -- used by upper class whites to refer to uneducated lower class whites. While it may differ from Okie or Hillbilly, it’s still pejorative, and worse -- it’s vulgar and inelegant.

Hug Therapy Works!
Sonja is trying hard here. As I watched this scene, I wished I had hugged her. She’s been over-served and over-insulted and she’s hurt.

Healing touch therapy is a gentle therapy that emphasizes heart-centered care and compassionate healing intention. I think it works, because Aviva seems genuinely sorry in the touch therapy session. People do say things they don’t mean in the heat of an argument. I believe that. . .but then, huh?

Aviva had me at "Hello" but she lost me somewhere between "White Trash" and "Rush Limbaugh," and her reference to his infamous empty apology. Limbaugh wasn’t sorry for calling an innocent young woman a whore and slut, he was sorry his show lost sponsors. And it was arguably one of the nastiest moments in his almost 50-year broadcasting career.

And So it Goes. . .
In the end, Heather and I had a few good laughs but did not beg anyone to come to St. Barths. Do we seem like beggars? I’ve never begged anyone to go anywhere. And it’s true -- it was egregious -- I didn’t organize a party, or a red carpet. But it’s because I didn’t have my Oscar dress, it wouldn’t fit on the small plane. Too much crinoline. Plus, I wonder if maybe we all forgot one little thing. This trip was about, um. . .me?

Yet I somehow end up pants-less, refereeing a boxing match between grown women, cursing like a pirate and missing Russ’ rehearsal. I, too, wound up pounding Captain Jack all night, the whiskey, that is.

I’d like to take a moment to remind everyone, again, about the reasons for this trip.

1. I finished the first draft of my book.
2. Russ is playing a blues festival.
3. I invited the girls along to celebrate.

Poll Question:
Which of the ladies actually did leave that night, and stayed at a hotel?

If you guessed me, you win! I left dinner to see Russ and I didn’t come back. Russ was staying at the coolest little dive near town, it hadn’t been updated since the 50s. The bed had a mosquito net canopy, the orange walls were faded and peeling. It was beautiful. We contemplated running away that night. We called the house on the hill Alcatraz. When I woke the next morning I had hoped it was all a dream, a nightmare, then I got a text from my producer -- “Please return to the house.”

Tune in next week when the ladies make me cry.

As always, you can buy What Remains here. Contact me on my website here. Follow me on Twitter here, Facebook here, Pinterest here. Follow my sister (@teresadifalco). You can get the book I was talking about on the boat, titled The Letter here.

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

Read more about: