Cast Blog: #RHONY

Pool Panic

Ramona Singer explains why she was so concerned about Aviva's leg.

Being in Miami was so much fun. Ranjana owns a stunning apartment in an up and coming area. It has always been very commercial in what's called the design center.
 
Before we went to her home, Aviva told me our host expected us to go into the pool for facial yoga. Aviva was freaking out to me saying she forgot her swimming leg she didn’t know what she was going to do. She was in a major panic. Aviva, even though she has a prosthetic leg, wanted to be able to show everyone she can do what they all can. She was worried how it would look if everyone went in the pool but her.
 
She was willing to be uncomfortable and have a water-logged leg to show she is like everyone. I of course being protective said, "Don't worry, I won't get into the pool, I won't take off my cover up. I’ll just stay on the edge so you won't stand out by not going in." After she went into the pool, she was concerned that her leg would become overly wet, like a sponge -- too much time in the water and it gets completely saturated.
 
Let's move on to the dinner at Aviva’s home. Harry Dubin is a good friend of mine, and I find it really inappropriate to talk about him behind his back when he's not there to defend himself. They share a child together, and I found this disrespectful to the child as well. Besides that, the conversation was going nowhere positive, and that's why I did my best to end it.
 
I could not believe the way George, Aviva’s father, was talking! I was so shocked that he would speak and act this way with mixed company. It made everyone uncomfortable. I thought the best way to handle this was to make sure the dinner ended as quickly as possible. This is why I went into the kitchen and said to bring the main course.
 
Rather than upset my hosts, Aviva and Reid, I played into the vulgar humor of George all weekend long to keep the peace. This is contrary to the way I normally would handle a situation like that.
 
Frick and Frack at it again! Some of my best times are getting ready with Sonja in my bathroom. I think this is one thing us women never grow out of! We love getting ready with girlfriends. Whenever we have gone away, Sonja would move right into my quarters. She’s like a sister to me. I love her so much. We of course were teasing Mario that she would move in to our room for the weekend. Mario, knowing how much I care for Sonja, has developed a friendship with her too.
 
That’s all for this week! Check RamonaSinger.com for exclusive news on appearances, updates, "Ask Ramona" videos, and more!

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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