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In my book Leggy Blonde, I wrote (or according to Carole, someone else wrote) after watching Ramona and Sonja being called "white trash":
God, who is that bitch, that shrieking banshee? I know one thing. It's not me. It couldn't be. I don't speak to people like that. I'm a good person, devoted to family and public service. I try to be sensitive, tolerant, kind, generous, and loving. Did I really just call those women "white trash?" It couldn't be me.
Except it was. (I go on to explain why, etc. It’s all in the book).
There's always a bit of trepidation when I watch a RHONY episode. I usually remember what happened, but I also usually come off better in my memories than I do on the screen. For example, in my memory I came off a little better -- calmer -- when Carole attacked me at my housewarming. I lost it a bit. Ouch. I wish Bravo could just show the version I remember, but I can live with what I actually did.
So when I like how I come off, I'm a little surprised. And a lot happier. This week's episode was one of those. But before I toot my own horn ("And now Avivula is claiming she can play the trombone! What a liar/nothing/bitch/stay-at-home sociopath!"), I want to take my hat off (Spoiler Alert: not the leg; that comes later) to Sonja. Her prep for the Mermaid Parade was hysterical. Her quirky personality, her total honesty, her sense of humor and fun once again saved the show from descending into a bitch slap carnival. Sonja, you are the best!
And how nice to have LuAnn around. She was my first Housewife (we met before I was on the show), and she is by far the most elegant presence. Her poise, beauty, and personality light up the screen. Let's not be modest, we all look pretty damn good; Kristen, of course, looks great; LuAnn's fabulous. I'm just sorry the fighting compromised her barbecue. It was like mud wrestling without the mud . . . or the civility.
In the center ring was Heather, channeling her inner thug and getting all ghetto on Amanda's ass. Heather, you can talk the talk, drop hip-hop names in every conversation, and bully at the top of your screeching lungs, but that doesn't make you Da Brat . . . just a brat. Even Carole ("Heather didn’t hang out with P-Diddy for no reason; she’s got street cred, that girl." What street is that, I wonder.) can't save you from looking ridiculous. I was proud of myself for just walking away as you called me "motherf---er."
[For a look at the Inner Heather as Imagined by Heather, click here.]
I try not to get down and dirty with Carole and Heather. It's tough to restrain myself when I feel provoked. I know I need to work on that. I know I can't win with them; they're better at it. I just don't have the vocabulary. Nor do I have the same joy in fighting. I now wish I'd never asked Carole if she used a ghostwriter or told anyone what people were saying. I don't really care. And I never thought Carole would be so insecure about the question to cry that her career was being ruined and that she was being slandered and that my asking/telling was illegal. (On the one hand, she calls me "a nothing" and on the other, she claims this "nothing" can damage her career.) Carole is justly proud of her decades in journalism and writing; I feel sorry for her that she doesn't have the confidence to brush off questions that really don't matter a damn anyway. "Is this true, Carole?" "No it’s not, Aviva." "OK. Oops. Sorry." Done.
I'm not going to dwell on the section that was about my pilgrimage back to where I lost my leg other than to say:
-- Thank you to The Real Housewives of New York City. Becky Morgan never would have gotten in touch with me if she hadn’t seen me on the show. And I’m also grateful for once that the RHONY cameras were there to document it.
-- It was amusing that this moving chapter in my life was intercut with scenes of the Mermaid Parade. From Drag Queens to Mangled Legs and back again. Who says RHONY doesn't have a sense of humor?
-- That's probably the only time you’ll see a Real Housewife of New York City in a barn.
Finally, I assume that Carole simply ran out of room in last week’s foaming-at-the-mouth blog entry, and she just didn't get around to asking, so I'll help out. It's hard to anticipate what's next, but I like to get out in front of these things, so here it is -- my passport -- to prove I wasn't born in Kenya. If that's not enough to satisfy the Donald Trump of Housewives, next week I'll supply my birth certificate to prove my original name wasn't Aviva Hussein Osama Obama Ramalama Ding Dong Ahmed Teichner. And, oh yeah, I'm embarrassed to even have to defend myself on this point, but . . . I am not Sasquatch. Plastic surgery can do a lot (Hello Housewives!); so can amputations and hair coloring, but still, I swear to you, I'm not Bigfoot. And I'm definitely not Bigfeet.