Cast Blog: #RHONY

Oxytocin, Oxymorons, and the Big O

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

Oxytocin, Oxymorons, and the Big O

Carole explains her metabolism, her thoughts on love, and gives you an update on Ramona's cab driver.

"An intellectual is someone who has discovered something more interesting than sex." -- Alduous Huxley

I’m going to go out on a limb and say Housewives are not intellectuals. But by Huxley's standard, who is? This episode there's lots of sex talk, again. Ramona has orgasms during bio-sculpt, Sonja's needle feels like a penis, LuAnn masturbates alone, and I'm advocating for sexual revolution. All of this in an episode without George! It's too much. There are some words and phrases that have simply worn out their welcome and while I can't do anything about what we've filmed, I can try to preserve some integrity here. Penis and clitoris and horny, these words and their ilk are shopworn. My vow to you, readers, is to avoid shopworn like a bad case of crabs.

So we're in the home stretch and I feel like a mudder on a dry track. I knew this would happen. We're in our third month of the show and I'm starting to think I'm the only one in on the jokes. Which might mean there never were any jokes, or maybe it means all the jokes are on me. Or it might just be that I'm shopworn and weary. The long dog days of summer are getting to me. I need to go to St. Barths. I need a vacation. Is everyone on vacation? Write to me about your vacation plans. A blogger and passionate Housewife fan, @LynnNchicago, tweeted on what turned out to be the last day of her life "A vacation? I wish, I need one." You always think there will be time and then there's not. RIP Lynn Hudson.

Townhouse Brawl
The party of the jet-setting socialite was a plane wreck. It inspired me to patent a new parlor game, one where each player draws a card with one of the characters of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and we all act out a scene. I get Nurse Ratched. I'm going to start running group therapy and rationing out the cigarettes. Our first session will be on boundaries. Mario doesn't need Ramona to fight his battles and Jacques doesn't need Heather to fight his. Not about his wine game or his exaggerated French accent. He's a pacifist anyway. Last week when offered the chance at fisticuffs with Aviva, he went with a piano concerto in D instead. A friend of mine calls me the Gandhi of reality television, but I think it's actually Jacques.

 

I Love Kids and I Love Dogs, Too!
Are you beginning to get the feeling that Sonja has more baggage than a skycap at Kennedy? In her defense, she'd had a long night. She told me this when she first arrived at Ramona's, she was still hurting from the night before. But like my Grandma Millie used to say, "An awkward morning beats a boring night," so I hope her night was a knockout because this was a very awkward late morning lunch. And for the record, this is another reason I like my lunches cool and casual, so no one's stuck in a chair when the insults start to fly.

Sonja is crying at the lunch table about her dog peeing in bed. Is this normal? Are all those people who sleep in her bed normal? The look on my face belies my feeling I've been had. I told Sonja, don't talk about the dog, exnay about the god-day, Aviva doesn't need to hear about the dog. She's talking about kids without legs. Seriously. Dog excuses seem suspicious, even when they are true. Didn't we learn this in grade school? Dogs do eat homework, they eat almost everything, but we're not allowed to say it. Like I said, it sounds suspicious. Let Aviva be upset and then a simple, "I'm really sorry" fixes all kinds of things. It's like a diamond tennis bracelet when you've been caught en flagrante. "I had an emergency with Milou," would have been fine, no? Short, sincere and sweet would have kept the peace.

 

I had lots of dogs growing up. We buried two in the backyard. Gigi, our pedigree poodle, even got a star turn in my book. I also had cats. My cat Sammi slept with me every night, like Milou sleeps with Sonja. She even died on my pillow. She went quietly, in the night, on my head. I was nine. We buried her next to Gigi. I was stoic, even then.

I do believe there was a serious situation with Milou. There is no doubt that a 17-year-old dog is facing major health problems and approaching the end of his life. There is no cure for 113 years old. Sonja is lucky to have had him for so long. My dog Margaret [pictured below] is only five and it already makes me sad to see gray hairs around her eyes. But that is what happens. And Jake is a sweet 11-year-old boy born with no legs. Lunch was a disaster and we learned Aviva can scream. Stay tuned for more.

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Peace & Pleasuring
Did you get the same warm fuzzy feeling I did watching Ramona and LuAnn bond over nips and masturbation at the swimsuit shop? All of that messy history -- the parenting jabs, alleged blackmail -- and for the sake of beaches and tequila they are willing to put it behind them. It reminded me of when Yasser Arafat shook hands with Yitzhak Rabin in the Rose Garden. Right? We can all get along.

The Story of "O". . .The Big "O"
Oxytocin. I first learned about it researching a story for 20/20 called the Biology of Love. It's a hormone released in women during childbirth and during sex. You can't fall in love without it. It's also called "the bonding hormone," "the love hormone," and "the cuddle hormone." It's the key to monogamy and also, as Sonja says, a good Sunday between the sheets.  

Next time you are post coital and having dreamy thoughts that he's the One while you're spooning after sex, tell him it's the oxytocin, stupid. I'm getting us all t-shirts.

Let's review the three qualities I look for in a man:

1. Highly sexual
2. Geographically undesirable
3. Emotionally unavailable

Don't read too much into that, but Sid Ceaser said all comedy has to be based on truth. You take truth and put a little curlicue at the end. I have some curlicues. Sid is going to be 90 next month and he was married to Florence for 67 years, until she died. My mailman Lenny was married to Lucy for 68 years. They fought like Archie and Edith but they loved each other until the end.

I suddenly have this dreadful urge to get married. OK, it passed. Phew.

Taxi Cab Confessions
The strangest thing happened the other day. I was in a taxi and guess what. The driver was the same man who took Ramona to West 26th Street! Guess what else? He had a notepad. I'm not kidding. I was going to 432 E. 43rd street and as soon as I said the address he wrote it down. But as he was writing it down in the notepad that Ramona advised him to use, he ran a red light. It wasn't his fault because he was looking at the notepad so he couldn't see the light change from yellow to red. It's like a butterfly flapping its wings in South America, causing a tsunami in Bali, and setting off a chain reaction in New York that starts with a bicycle delivery man's swerve and ends in the wife of the head of Goldman Saks catching him with a hooker. Don't ask. I can't tell. Suffice it to say that while notepads make sense in a meeting they may not make sense in moving vehicles.

 

SoulCycle and Jake's Legs
I have this crazy metabolism. It's an unsolved mystery of my life, this weird ability I have to eat pizza and M&Ms and still bike at easy levels. It's how I know there's a God. It's a miracle. Usually when I feel the urge to exercise I lay down and it passes. Don't hate me, God is fair, he gave me a bunch other issues.

Jake, though, is why my soul is healthy and intact. Jake is good for the soul, he's better than SoulCycle. I'm not sure if the cameras captured his spirit, but it was more exalted than any of those sweaty cyclists at the event. This is why you make the extra effort. Because then you don't miss the chance to witness something extraordinary. You think it all might happen with fanfare and pomp but it happens in the quiet moments, sometimes, when you're just showing up for your friends.

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) and follow my new favorite Twitdog Penny Lane.

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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