Cast Blog: #RHONY

Toast, Toasting, and Toaster Ovens

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

Toast, Toasting, and Toaster Ovens

Carole discusses her time with George the lizard and her thoughts on the "girls' trip."

White Elephant in the Room
It's still Christmas in August! I hosted my holiday party at Hotel Griffou because it's in my neighborhood and quintessential. Quintessential? Who says quintessential? Note in my notepad: Stop saying quintessential.

Griffou has a long shady history of boozy nights and notorious scamps, from Sinatra and Nicholson to Oscar Wilde. And like all good hangouts, it has a grisly murder in its past. A century ago when it was Madame Griffou's boarding house, a young girl was killed by her much older and married lover there, and then he killed himself. I think they still haunt the place. I think that's why Jacques didn't show. #Superstitious.

An important skill when hosting a dinner, by the way, is the ability to adjust the seating when someone doesn't show. When I thought Jacques was coming, I had him seated on my right and LuAnn on my left, because they're good company and I enjoy them. Although I definitely did not enjoy the whooping and scalping jokes at Le Cirque, I wanted to smooth things out. Jacques didn't show, but he got the wine coaster-cock ring. LuAnn came stag and got George. All's well that ends.

Here's the party, in a nutshell. Please sing these lines to the off-key tune of a popular Christmas song with a partridge.

Five espresso cups,
One cock ring.
Ball gaggy thing,
And a fast and skinny lizard on my arm.

The Story of George, and Martha
I decided against trading my lizard for the good karma jewelry and instead took him home and named him George, after the randy dinner guest who brought him.

I bought George a terrarium and filled it with foliage and little logs to climb up and down on, but George was lonely. So I brought home Martha and recast them as the ferociously married couple of Edward Albee's play, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

(Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton scream and insult their way through the movie version of this play, in quintessential Housewife style.)

Martha seemed good for George. They ran and wrestled and chased. I occasionally caught Martha lying on George in what looked like a tender post-coital moment. They were young and in love, I thought. They had their whole lives ahead of them. That is, until they didn't.

One night I came home to find Martha bent and splayed at unnatural angles. She wasn't breathing. I called Louie, the pet specialist from Petland where I'd found Martha. He came right over. Louie examined her and gravely delivered the news: Martha's neck was broken – violently, as if she'd been hurled against a wall. Like, maybe, a glass terrarium wall! Louie also noticed something about George. There were abrasions and cuts on his legs and abdomen, and bite marks on his neck. Louie had seen it before -- these were tell-tale signs of lizard abuse. Like their namesakes, Martha and George had been engaged in a gruesome and pathological dance. But then Louie made a more startling revelation. Martha was a boy!

Suddenly, I had a juicy scandal and potential homicide on my hands. Was it an accident? Did Martha careen into the glass in a frantic attempt to escape or was it murder and made to look like an accident? We may never know. George succumbed to his injuries the following week.

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RIP George You were a Good Man.

Hustle and Flow
There’s no time to cry about dead lizards, though, when there are buns in the toaster oven. Where's the head on that torso? And where's Sonja?

I'm glad I finally got to see this photo shoot, I'd been hearing about it for months. This is the photo shoot that launched a thousand fights, an infamous battle of the Toaster Oven Wars. This photo shoot, in fact, is a continuous source of friction until the very last day, and last moment we filmed. Don't ask, I can't tell.

We're always encouraged in these sorts of disputes to "take a side." Usually my side is, "I don't take sides when two grown women are fighting." But after seeing the photo shoot caper I will come clearly down on the side of Heather.

Heather is an expert in branding. She holds 11 patents from the United States government. Do you know how hard it is to get anything from the United States government? She is an expert in getting her message out. We spent the first month of the series talking about how much Heather talked about Yummie Tummie (behind her back, naturally.) She knows what she's doing.

Heather knows what she's doing, Big Guns knows what he's doing. Sonja is late. She's worried Big Guns is late. Sonja must have asked for Big Guns 300 times. Sonja doesn't seem like a business woman, Sonja's a character. Sonja's a lot of things. For the life of me, though, I don't understand her obsession with toaster ovens. Show me one that can prepare the meal then cook and clean itself, and I'm listening.

Toaster oven or not, Lady Morgan knows how to pose. She's like a golden age movie star. She steps in front of the camera and blooms like a tropical flower. It's not easy to hold a pose like she does. I’ve tried to make her "sexy face" but end up looking like I've just smelled bad fish. That face and perfectly curved mouth should be posed in front of cameras all day, it could sell anything. Anything but toaster ovens.

There are only 3.2 million toaster ovens sold in the United States every year. So unless you're shipping them to China it's hard to make a living selling them. Why, then, is Sonja in this business when she could be doing a madcap one-woman play on Broadway? I would happily write it for her, and I keep telling her this but she won't listen to me.

I don't know what to say about menstruation. Is it peri-menopause that makes middle-aged women draw attention to their periods? Jason says it best: Yuck. Gross. This photo shoot needed more hustle and less flow.

Watch Sonja's toaster oven videos to learn some things about tinfoil. Did you know it's thought to cause Alzheimers? #crazy.

Big Guns, give that torso my number. I'd like to get a drink with Josh's torso sometime.

Pizza Anyone?
Ramona is talking real estate again. Yes, this is my petite casa. In Manhattan real estate speak, it's also my 2-bedroom 1-bath duplex apartment. I only allowed them on the first floor.

I don't have meals at home. I host dinners out with candles, place cards, and games (see above: Hotel Griffou). I never have food in my house. I like my lunches like my men -- cool and casual. You're not going to get a formal lunch with me, sorry. I'm a pizza-eating on-the-fly kind of girl, the ladies are lucky I didn't bring out Cup O’ Noodles. It's one of my top five favorite foods and I have an entire cupboard of them. (They last forever.)

In lieu of food, I got the ladies personalized M&Ms. How fun is that?!?

White: Ramona Pinot
Yellow: Yummie Tummie
Pink: Chic ce le Vie
Blue: Sonja in the City (with a sexy “j”)
Green: One Step Ahead (Sorry Vivs, I couldn’t fit “Foundation”)

Salads, and then a trip. I wanted to take a break from writing -- I'd finished my manuscript but had rounds of edits coming up -- and because Russ was playing a blues festival in St. Barths, I thought it might be fun to go. Blues Festival to visit Russ. Time off after handing in my book. Two reasons for the trip. Remember that.

Did I really say I wanted to spend time with all of them as much as I wanted to see Russ? Did you hear me say that? In real life, I'd rather spend the entire week shacked up with Russ at a beachside motel in Asbury Park than spend a week with five women at a $40 million dollar house in St Barth's. But this is Reality. Russ is cute and he writes songs and plays music and doesn't care if he's invited to the party or if someone talks behind his back. He cuddles better than anyone else I know, too.

"Girls trip" Oh no! That is going to bite me on the reunion couch. Stay tuned.

Leave a man missing you, good advice Miss Sonja. I love the feeling of missing someone. I even said so in Episode 3.

"I have mental problems too," said Ramona. Did you hear her say that? This is one of the reasons I like her, she's guileless.

During the filming of this scene I didn’t notice how anxious Aviva was. But watching it, it’s very clear that she does not want to go without Reid.

"Mark my words you’re going to have a great time!" Ramona chirps to Aviva as the healthy salad lunch ends. LuAnn, a bit more darkly, adds, "Or you're going to totally regret it."

Curtain comes down.

ACT 2: Who will eat their words? Will it be Ramona or Luann?

Who can spell Photoshop?
Ramona may have looked 40 years younger in her photo but she was up to her old tricks at this last party. She was especially crazy tonight -- pulling people aside, this way and that. She's like Sue Sylvester on Glee, yanking kids out of chorus lines, in front of all their friends, to "have a talk."

And what are the talks about? Blackballed! From Sonja's toaster shoot! OMG! It was a photo shoot. It's not the McCarthy hearings. And there were already too many cooks in the kitchen without tinfoil.

LuAnn was right. Heather should have just said, "I don't want you there, Ramona. You're a pain in the ass."

The new Ramona is screaming, I dont understand this. Old Ramona screams, New Ramona screams, there's chatter at yoga. She needs to hold plank position until her life changes. Old Ramona is the new New Ramona.

War of the Rose Lipsticks
I've never seen Aviva or Heather wear red lipstick before or after this party. Why am I so shiny? I was sick that night but dragged myself uptown where I hoped for a good bout of screaming. What did you think about my ponytail? I wasn't sure if I liked it, there was a bump where there shouldn't have been. I hate when that happens. I'm in search or the perfect pony tail.

The wine game was a joke that no one got. Big deal. Why is Aviva asking about the wine game? Second to the photo shoot fiasco is the wine fiasco. I still don't get why anyone cares about the wine game. Ramona could barely muster any crazy for it. She's been holding the fifth since before the plank pose that changed her life. Everyone is looking for a fight tonight.

Aviva talked behind LuAnn's back. Heather and I listened behind Aviva's back. Mario talked behind the front of Jacques back. Ramona chimed in over Heather's back. I was trying not to talk behind anyone's back, but there were so many backs! There were backs everywhere you turned.

The highest level of disrespectful? Viv's, what are you talking about? You had me at Hello but then you lost me at -- cue dramatic music

My blog, much like this week's show, is a cliffhanger. To Be Continued. . .

P.S. Mt Airy, North Carolina is the "Toaster Capital of the World." I'm planning another girls getaway, who's in?

Check out face yoga here. As always, you can buy What Remains here. Contact me on my website here. Follow me on Twitter here, Facebook here, Pinterest here. Also, follow Russ Irwin (@RussIrwin1) and my sister (@teresadifalco).

 

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RIP Martha You Sick Bastard.

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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