After the wine expert offered Heather vials containing some of the essences of the notes of the wine, she gives it a second try and likes it better. Not quite as much laughter this time around from the countess. She did eek out a little smirk when Heather called it acid-y and pucker-y, though.
I told you to be careful about letting people drink the Ramona Pinot Grigio. Look what it did to the Sommelier!
So now the stage has been set for Ramona. She refuses to have the blindfold put on her. Of all the people that should put a cover on their eyes, it’s Ramona. How does Mario sleep at night or wake up in the morning seeing that in bed? A burlap coffee sack, no? During her camera interview, Ramona thinks she’s being cute by saying she won’t even let Mario put a blindfold on her…and that he’s asked…wink wink. No shit, he’s asked! Who wants those bug-eyed peepers catching the moonlight? Never mind, it wouldn’t help–the crazy rays would burn right through.
I can’t explain it, but it smells and tastes like someone’s underarms.
Ahhh, the countess is looking happy again when Ramona responds that the wine needs more depth and citrus, that her Ramona Pinot Grigio has more citrus in it. What are you up to, countess? Ramona likes it better after snorting entire vials of the essences–followed by a couple of poppers. So what wine is it? Ohhhhh, surprise, surprise, turns out it’s Ramona Pinot Grigio! What a couple of naughty tricksters, that countess and her Fwenchman. Ramona pours a big glass in a product-placement triumph and begins Turrr-tle Tiiiiiime!
I was right! See, smell my arm pits!
The Dreschers arrive in Bal Harbour. Despite Aviva’s laundry list of phobias–including laundry and lists–the highrise overlooking the beautiful beach and open ocean is soothing to her. Aviva’s father, George the male slut, arrives, revving his creeper engine. Reid’s mother shows up with presents for the children but nothing’s in the bag for the horny dude. No hurt feelings, he’s creeping right along, telling Aviva if she wasn’t his daughter, he’d….lalalalalalala….
Sorry it took so long, but everyone that got on the elevator kept hitting the emergency button and getting off on the next floor. What’s up with that?
Marilyn lives in Boca, which George says is God’s waiting room, a Hebrew home for the aged, and where people go to die. Nice. Oh, wait, he’s not done. It’s an old fart Jewish colony that migrated from Long Island. Oh, thanks, that’s nice. Wait, what? More? Then he directs his conversation to Marilyn, complimenting her that, if she moved to South Beach, she could have a stud in his 40s every day of the week except for Sundays when her black stud goes to Baptist Church. Niiiiiice, George. Marilyn is both cool, classier, and yet kind of playing along.
He’s kinda sexy in a Don Rickles sorta way.