This week was pretty damn pathetic.
Don’t get me wrong, I was entertained and I got a couple of good belly laughs out of it, but the loser factor of these women’s lives has rocketed into the stratosphere. Once again I am simply amazed that they are so unselfaware that they allow their vile behavior to be filmed season after season, and a new one signed up for the same crap! What does this Alex Bellino chick think is going to happen? Is she expecting to miraculously get flattering editing? Did she send Miss Andy a case of Mouton Cadet and a lifetime of free veneers in exchange for the kid glove treatment? I mean please, Bravo does not hire housewives with ‘couth’ and ‘tact.’ They want the ones who think that that’s the name of a new Irish pub in Newport Beach.
Actually, the truth is much simpler. She knows Tamra and realizes that she’s going to come out smelling like a rose next to her. She’s been around her enough to know that Tamra’s so nasty she makes Kenley look as sweet as Beth March, albeit with less dying and more cat throwing. By the way, what ever happened to that bitch from PR? I hope that the only job she could get after the way she acted is tailoring bridezilla’s wedding dresses in the back room at Filene’s Basement. And Wendy Pepper is her boss. And when lunch time rolls around the only place that delivers has two choices- foxglove salad and Blowfish potluck. And it’s served by Michael Lohan. And he’s reciting bible verses in a mesh tshirt. You get the point.
At the end of last week’s show we got one of those fade to black “to be continued..” frames that are guaranteed to have you throwing something at your TV. I raised my Rolex-less wrist and threw my generic Croc slipper at it. That’s another thing that Yenta taught me. Do not watch this show when crockery or stemware is within reach, so I’m drinking my wine out of one of those plastic party wine glasses. Not just to keep Mr. McSlore from having to watch his beloved Penguins hockey games through a burgundy haze but cuz I’m klassy, Gasmii, Just like Tamra!
So what happened after Gretchen told Tamra to STFU? Why, she took her toys (silicone titties) and went (to her no equity) home. So mature and klassy! And Crackie trailed right behind her, kissing her ass and spurring her on.
One potato, two potato, three potato, ho.
Unreal. Mama Jeana utters what we’ve all been saying since last season- that Tamra is a mean girl who has no right to judge. Do tell! Does she have skeletons too? I’ll be honest here, I missed (avoided) all her weepy Daddy issue crap from last season and I have no idea what she did when she was younger because, guess what? There was no internet for HER naked pictures to be splashed all over when SHE was young and stupid. There have to be some, though. Her first husband was probably just the type to take a bunch, if Nugget’s daddy is any indication.
Notice: If you have any naughty Tamra photos, I bet The Dirty or TMZ would pay good money for them. I, on the other hand, am willing to pony up a pair of gently used reading glasses for any Tamra before the boob job pictures. I wouldn’t be needing them anymore after the hysterical blindness. Just promise to hook me up with wicked cool cane and a nice Labrador Retriever that is trained to change channels and doesn’t get sick from licking up xanax tainted spilled Syrah. Or one of those St. Bernards from olde timey cartoons that carries brandy in a barrel around his neck. Whatever dulls the pain faster.
Speaking of dogs…
Crackie and Tamra are teetering down the hallway to the hotel elevator spewing more bile. I love that Crackie says that Gretchen is toxic almost as much as I love the fact that Tamra is 41. I would really, really love for Gretchen to be truly evil to her. You know- be the chick that says, “Oh, so you’ll be 55 when Sophia graduates high school,” or “I bet those sock hops were fun,” or “Do you have any clothes I could borrow for the Roaring Twenties party next week?” Or my personal favorite, “Tamra honey, I saw this article on vaginal dryness in the paper and cut it out for you. It’s on your fridge taped next to the picture of Annette Funicello that you use to inspire yourself to stay slim. Oh, wait. You call those ice boxes, right?”
I know I digress but I have one little story. I have a niece who has a name very similar to Miz Barney and is just as big a bitch. One day I was frantically carting her vehicle impaired ass along with her two kids around on errands. She turns to me and remarks on how I had it so easy since I was in a relationship and “didn’t have to worry about my looks so much” and “it must be nice not to get your period any more.”
I was 42! Surprisingly, we don’t speak to each other anymore. But don’t feel bad for me. It’s all good. My biggest worry is losing five pounds after the holidays, while hers is checking to make sure that Lane Bryant still makes her size.
Tamra’s biggest worry st this point is trying not to look like an even bigger cunt than she looked last week and, Joy! She fails! She actually makes fun of Gretchen for crying when Jeff died! I do not care if it’s true, as Crackie says, that she would have never dated Jeff if he didn’t have money. HE sure didn’t seem to care. If I was rich, single and dying of cancer you better believe that I’d be on the arm of the cutest surfer boy with the biggest wang to ever see the inside of a pair of Jams. I’d buy him whatever the hell he wanted so long as he made my last days rabbit free yet orgasmic.
And why wouldn’t she cry? She watched someone die. And since when does that bitch get to pick and choose what is appropriate grief and what isn’t? Oh, Tamra. You are going to get yours, and we only have to wait until the end of this week’s show. No one croaks, in case you were worried, no matter how much Simon might wish that he could skip off to a Tamra-less hereafter.
“I only want to be around wholesome, family oriented people.” That’s right, Tamra said that.
You mean the ones that get drunk with their sons in nightclubs while trying to pick up girls for them? The ones who stick silicone sacks in their chests and then hit their sons for disfiguring themselves with tattoos? Yeah, you have fun in delusionland, reading your bible while sitting on your rabbit. While you’re at it, why don’t you ask it for a job? They seem to be the only thing working steadily in Orange County.
It’s funny. Slurry didn’t sell a single cuff at the party. Maybe she should trick them out with a little compartment for crack or valium, or include some with the purchase like the useless lipsticks and crap that Clinique gives you when you buy some ‘Happy’ perfume before Mother’s Day. Nah, never mind. That’s like a drug dealer who does drugs. She’d be smoking up all the merchandise and end up living on the streets whoring out her daughter, and we all know that would never happen.
Gretchen still doesn’t get why Tamra hates her so much. Jeana says that it’s because of her background, which is interesting. All I know is that she was spoiled rotten until her dad left her mom. Then what? She was poor for a year? Once again, what is the logic here? I know that Jeana is trying to be fair or something in explaining away Tamra’s behaviour but there is no excuse.
My best friend lost her mom to cancer in 11th grade, should she be allowed to get away with child trafficking now? The bartender at my favorite restaurant had a miscarriage last month. I’ll tell that to the judge when she’s arrested for DUI. And I had a hangnail yesterday, so I’m gonna go kill me some orphaned kittens. Be right back.
Couldn’t find any. Saw some little rabbits that looked good but there were crazy middle aged blond ladies with Cavalli sundresses hiked up around their waists chasing them around in a frenzy.
To lighten her mood and reset her life to it’s revamped, renewed repugnant center, the hooker of the O.C. is having a spray tan party! I don’t know about you but I’ve never had a spray tan party and they sure sound super fun. I would love to get trashed and have a perfect stranger spray my body the color of a traffic cone.
The punch bowl is full of some kind of yummy alcoholic beverage. It’s pink so it’s probably some sort of berry mix or that bubblegum flavored vodka, who knows? What I do know is that it’s not red so it can’t be Tamra’s house.
Plus, she can’t afford the virgin blood anymore
I love that picture.
Yeah, that’s a joke, but do you honestly think that if Merck or Pfizer marketed a youth serum that contained human virgin blood, that these women wouldn’t take it? Puh-lease. They’d kill the virgins themselves and then justify it because of overpopulation.
I’d take it myself only I’m beautiful enough as it is. No need to fan the flames of jealousy that surround me. They’re plenty high already. That was a joke, by the way.
Gretchen’s mommy is there and HD strikes again. Didn’t she get a face lift last year? Where is it? Do they wear off? Did Tamra track her down and drink her blood? Yikes.
Her neck looks as beat up as a file folder in the foreclosure department of Orange County hall of records.<
She bolsters up her baby girl’s ego with platitudes that good mommies have been handing down for generations and then Slade throws in some high comedy. No, I’m not talking about the sock he put on his cock in the tanning tent, I’m talking about the jab he makes at Tamra. He says that she’s never been successful at anything in her life and has nothing better to do but obsess over Gretchen.
Oh my God, did you two get your job descriptions mixed up? Cuz that is exactly your M. O., Deadbeat Dickhead. I hope you get cancer. And Joseph Mengele is your doctor. Carrie Prejean can feed you nightshade while reading passages from Revelations and pleasuring herself with Gretchen’s corded vibrator, and Satan is officially on probation. He better step up his game because you and Tamra are showing him up big time.
Hold your horses, the party isn’t over yet. Slurry arrives with her 16 year old daughter. She’s the one who wore such a trampy dress last season that even Roman Polanski wouldn’t touch her. Still, she’s the good daughter. The other one is a symphony of parental failure. Remember when Raquel was drinking her way through bowling alleys last year? Well, it rubbed off on Alexa.
She surreptitiously asks her mom if she can have a beer at the party. She says that she needs it for relaxation, tanning parties being so stressful and all.
It’s worse than being a cop or an air traffic controller, I tell you!
Slurry acts all shocked but Alexa calls her out for letting her drink at home. That’s right, after all the bad press last year, she is still letting her underage daughters drink at home.
Hey, Lynn. Stop eating cuff glue and start parenting your kids. Better yet, send them to Crackie’s house. They’ll beg to come home and never misbehave again.
Whatever, nobody cares, it’s time for the important part, improving one’s appearance. Gretchie strips down to a bikini and Slurry takes off her top. Say what you want about these two but they do have banging bodies. If they worked half as hard on their brains we’d have the cure for cancer by now.
Gretchen is one of those touchy-feely gals, the kind that get tipsy and lovey-dovey, hugging perfect strangers and experimenting with cute girls in nightclub bathrooms. She doesn’t hesitate to put her hands over Slurry’s boobs in front of the cameras.
Could you move those hands a little higher?
The party’s over, everyone is a perfect shade of kumquat and we move on to the next day for this week’s installment of the mean girl’s lunch. For some reason they are dressed almost exactly alike- same style top and mini skirt, and long necklaces that are knotted at the bottom. That must be what passes for non-sleazy luncheon casual.
More enabling from Crackie as she tells Tamra that she didn’t go too far at the cuff dinner fiasco. If anything, she didn’t go far enough! Why don’t you two just burn her in the center of Laguna already? You know you want to.
Their meals arrive and I have to ask, what in the name of Padma are these two eating?
Entire heads of iceberg lettuce? Maybe the salad’s cheaper if you cut it up yourself.
Tamra’s finances come up. It seems that the only money coming in is from Simon’s investment in El Conde Tequila. It’s not selling enough to pay the bills which is surprising. I seem to remember reading that booze was the one thing that proved to be recession proof. Does it taste terrible, Gasmii? I don’t drink that stuff. Last time I did I ended up promising Flipit that I’d recap My Antonio and we know how that turned out.
She tells Crackie that they are going to have to sell their house and downsize. Crackie looked shocked but she’s secretly gleeful because she has yet another thing to judge somebody for, commenting in interviews that Simon needs to get a day job. When Tam tells her that their property taxes are $2,000 a month she remarks that she needs to get a job too. Once again, behind her back. Because that’s what Jesus would do.
As soon as he finishes shoving Coto into the Pacific.
It’ll only take one really good earthquake, you know.
Meanwhile, Mama Jeana is showing a house. Her market is palaces in the over $2 million range. Today she is showing one that was originally 16 but got bumped down to 12. If she makes tha sale she’ll earn a $300,000 commission and won’t have to sell any cars or watches this month to pay the ConEd bill.
A generic O.C. couple takes a tour and I am left with a strange impression. For all the wealth and grandeur, not to mention the Malcolm Forbes furniture, it all feels stale and tired, not sumptuous and fabulous. Oh no! The recession is starting to get to the ottomans and armoires too! Do they make Paxil infused Pledge?
I think I saw a suicidal end table in the 5th living room.
Things are much happier at Casa de Crackhead because the Crackie ladies are going to Italy! Talk about night and day. Jeana is trying to decide which Thomas Kincaid to sell to pay Jenny Craig while Crackie is flummoxed by whittling her packing down to 30 pairs of shoes.
The trip is going to be just the girls, including Nana. Yeah, Nana! The one person on the planet that gets under Crackie’s skin almost as much as Crackie gets under ours. And kudos to Brianna for not murdering her mother for the millionth time as she packs enough outfits for an entire summer in Boca. Who wears one ensemble for cocktails and then another for dinner? Who does she think she is, Doris Duke?
More like Edie Beale, only without the staunch character.
Gretchen is having her garage sale today and Slade is there with her AGAIN douching up the place. By the way, I apologize to all gays out there for saying that I thought that Slade was one of you last week. I take it all back. No one with that shitty a sense of humor deserves to be called gay. I’m still willing to stick something large up his ass, though.
There’s plenty of time for his lame ass jokes since no one is showing up to buy anything. Shocking. I thought that every fame seeker in Southern California was born being able to sniff out a film crew. This is just sad. Even they don’t want anything to do with them. The only thing that gets sold is a wine rack, something she could probably still use.
I think that this sale is all for show. They are trying to convince us that they’re poor. And did you see Slade’s shirt?
So daddy’s little helpers are drugs and alcohol. Yeah, have a blast cuddling up to your gin while Grayson is being pumped full of chemo, you prick. I hope that he makes a full recovery and when you end up in the hospital suffering from whatever disease Karma sends your way, he gifts you with a nice big bouquet of FUCK OFF AND DIE.
This next scene is weird. The show is set in Orange County, not Middle Earth, right?
So then why are there Orks?
I jest but only slightly. Slurry and her oldest alcoholic daughter are trekking on over to the Plastic Surgeon’s office. They are in a room waiting for the doctor when Slurry tells Raquel that she doesn’t need any work done yet, that she’s already perfect, like a Playboy bunny.
Good job, Slurry. Passing that delusion right on to the next generation. Don’t reinforce her intellect or anything because that would never be constructive, no. Base everything in life on looks. Matter of fact, I think I know how to solve our economic crisis and make you money! We’ll ship you and your kind over to China where you can be a guidance counsellor, motivating young girls into nudie mags and reality shows. Then and only then, maybe our country can get back on track.
The doctor begins his consultation by taking one look at Slurry, screaming and hanging himself in a corner, all the while wishing he had gone into a less scary practice, like hippo root canals or penile cancer. The next one is legally blind and he tells her that he is going to trade her Uraki face for a nice Hobbit one, and everybody is happy!
Except the mirror.
Slurry is exstatic and says that she hopes her daughters learn from her and look as good as she does when they’re 80. Not 45, 80. Does this woman even know English?
Actually, 80 is pretty accurate.
Raquel has her consultation and says that she wants surgery to help fix her self esteem and jealousy issues. She calls Alexa a supermodel and we get to watch her epileptic runway walk from last season. Seriously, why does she march like a sousaphone player at band camp? Oh well, when modeling bikinis on street corners gets old, she can always switch to majorette uniforms.
So Raquel got a Beemer last year and this year she’s getting a nose job. That’ll solve all her problems. Once that little bump is gone she’ll miraculously wake up a brain surgeon or Fortune 500 CEO. Wow.
Slurry is all excited because she won’t have to go through recovery alone, she can hold her daughter’s hand and they can share Percocet and Valium prescriptions, such important parts of the mother/daughter bonding process.
Who’s up for unplugging some ventilators?
Or detonating some roadside bombs?
Crackie and company are ensconced in their teeny Roman hotel where they can’t even turn around in their $572 suite because of all the luggage in it. Nana’s already bitching about going home and nurse Brianna doesn’t want to touch the bed because people have probably had sex on it.
Somebody hand her a blue light so Crackie will freak out and we’ll be spared the “Woo hoo’s.”
They head outside and into a minivan for a guided tour of the city. Nana says inappropriate things about the bloodthirstyness of ancient Rome and I nominate her for the Nobel Prize in buzzkilling. Everything is boring, whatever, so what. She even pronounces that the Knights of Malta are “stupid,” as Crackie is ooing and ahhing. I could be shtupping Mr. McSlore in a doorway of the Coliseum and she’d probably walk by and engage me in a conversation about how the humidity is ruining her perm, and did I have any corn pads in my purse because she forgot to pack hers.
I think she would rather have rented a DVD on the sights of Italy and watched it out of the corner of her eye while she was on the phone to Maggie her gin rummy partner complaining about how much Crackie has changed.
They go shopping and Bri tries on a linen and satin dress that even Chicos rejected as a bad design. The shopgirl tells her that she looks great and not to complain about how it makes her boobs look huge. She’s really just excited since that dress has been sitting there for several months waiting for the right tourist sucker to fall for her line of B.S. and buy it.
To put the icing on the bad American tourist cake, they head out to a meal in an Italian restaurant where they don’t even try to speak the language. That poor waiter does his best to explain the menu but Crackie is not getting it. I don’t get it. They packed seven pieces of luggage and not one english/italian dictionary? Or how about one of you whips out your iPhone and googles a clue?
Crackie’s also upset because she heard that Italian men are big flirts but the waiter isn’t kissing her ass. Oh, they are big pusshounds, Crackie, they are, trust me. I lived there for a while and I can attest to the vehemence of their pursuit. I don’t know what to tell you.
Maybe they’re allergic to pork.
They manage to order an amazing dish of pasta and black truffles onto which the waiter grates huge slivers of Parmesan. That’s one of the great things about Italy. It’s hard to have a bad meal there. Not even evil crackheads can screw it up.
Back in the States, Slurry is taking her girls out to lunch where Raquel tells Alexa that mommy is buying her a nose job. Alexa is really sweet, telling her sister that she doesn’t want her to change, that she’s perfect just the way she is and then she freaks the fuck out. Full on hysteria in the bathroom.
She’s upset for many reasons- the trauma of having those around you change while you stay the same, being ignored while your sibling gets everything they want and the rampant materialism that has infected her family. Very valid points but what does Slurry say?
“Is that all this is about?”
I’m sorry, Alexa. I’m sorry that it’s too late for CPS to save you. I’m sorry that your mother was created in a sac under a tree by Saruman and allowed to procreate instead of dying at Minis Tirith. I am so sorry that your sister gets all the attention because she has “self esteem issues.”
Raquel says, “Don’t you want us to feel good about ourselves and be happy?” That is the oldest lame argument in the world for doing something that cannot be justified any other way. Poor Alexa looks like she’s going to throw up. She needs to get away from these awful people. Maybe Brianna still has the number of her army recruiter. Things make more sense in Iraq. Okay, maybe not but at least the reconstructive surgery they get over there isn’t elective or done to boost their self confidence or body dysmorphia.
As if that little scene wasn’t vile enough, we move on to this week’s minute long vignette. Tamra can’t afford a housekeeper any more so everybody pitches in to clean. Such sacrifices, I’m getting teary.
You know what is truly sad? Being born to shop but not having the means to do so. It’s like what Jon Stewart said last night about the irony of gay people not being able to marry. Then why did God make them such good wedding planners? Huh? Huh?
Jeana and Kara are in a mall. Jeana Jr. transfered to UCLA and belongs to a sorority that everyone on campus refers to as VisaVisaMastercard because he girls are so rich. Not so much for Kara. She can only spend $200 today because it’s what she makes waiting tables on a good night.
What a concept! A 20 year old girl in college with a job and aspirations! How refreshing! I actually like her. Too bad she probably can’t afford a really nice gown for her sorority formal.
Maybe Shane will let her borrow one of his old ones.
She did get boobs, though. Who paid for them? That creepy uncle who isn’t really an uncle that ogled her in the pool the first two seasons and took bike rides with Slade? I wonder if Deadbeat Dickhead sold any of his skittles colored unitards at the garage sale.
If not, I bet I could fashion a pretty decent noose out of one. Just sayin’.
Simon and Tamra decide to spend some of those tequila dividends on a dinner out with Alex, the new girl, and her husband Jim. The contrast between the two couples is startling. Jim and Alex joke and boast about their sex life just like Tamra used to. It’s a classic case of the shoe being on the other foot, as they are forced to sit there with their empty love tanks while another couple chats about never being apart and she butters his damn bread for him. What a good little gold digger Alex is. I bow to your superior skills but what grown man lets a woman “make a plate” for him?
And this guy? Come on.
Dude must be LOADED.
As much as I feel sorry for Simon for being married to that cunt Tamra, he isn’t making any points for himself by bringing up how much he tells Tamra, “I told you so.”
Being right doesn’t get you laid at night.
He puts her down for her incompetence and the fact that she never listens to him and she can’t down her martini fast enough. And what is it with her saying that she obeys him? Who says that? Last I checked neither one of them were Muslim.
Alex tries to defend Tam by saying that she’s the kind of girl that needs to learn things for herself, and she’s all up in Simon’s face going, “See, see! She gets me! Are you listening?” Sure, okay, everybody need to make their own mistakes, but if you are 41 and still haven’t figured out beauty fades but bimbo is forever, it’s a little too late for you.
Are you listening Tamra?
God, bickering couples are boring. No one is dying to take sides in your never ending tales of marital woe. That’s why God invented shrinks, go find one.
But we’re not done with the Barneys just yet. A real estate agent is coming over to go over the listing of their built from the ground up $400,000 in upgrade rock waterfalled folly of a mansion. It was worth 1.7 mil only four years ago and Mr. Agent Man doesn’t come out and say what the listing price is going to be but I bet it’s a little more than half that.
They have zero equity so they won’t have any money to put into another home and sorry, but that little subprime thing went bust a while ago so no easy loans for you. I don’t know what they are going to do and I don’t care. Wait, scratch that.
She could ask Crackie for a loan.
That would be fabulous television.
We end the show with a weepy Tamra who cannot believe that they are going to have to move. Why is she crying so hard? Because it’s the only home that Sophia has ever known. Really? So you don’t buy Gretchen’s grief over a dead human being and I am supposed to believe that you’re sad because your three year old has to downgrade to smaller digs.
Bummer. She can cry all she wants. I know what I am going to do.
I’m going to go hop on Mr McSlore for the second time today while you grumble into your bottom shelf margarita and Gretchen buys your house for peanuts, only to demolish it and send it back to you piece by piece. You and Simon can put your rock waterfall back together behind your used double wide by the light of the moon after you finish second shift at the truck stop sandwich counter. No more huge mortgages to worry about, only where to hide the bodies when virgins start to go missing from the trailer park shortly after your arrival.
Or maybe she’ll take pity on you and keep the house and hire you on as housekeeper. Simon can be the pool boy and your kids can landscape while Nugget’s daddy rubs Gretchen’s feet.
There. Problem solved.
Is there anyone more awful in TV land? Is it even possible? If the Mayan calendar is correct and 2012 is the end of the world, I’m staying far, far away from Tamra. You’d be wise to as well.
Crazy busy, crazy in love and crazy about golf. Not so crazy about narcissists and do-nothings. Completely indifferent to network TV unless a sporting event is being covered, and completely in love with half the chefs on the Travel and Food channels. Chefs, not COOKS. If any of them really ARE chefs. I haven't seen any proof.