We took the steep drop into St. Bart’s last night, for the first episode of a three-parter that finally promises some actual action. Pirate style! I’m unclear again why we went to St. Bart’s in the first place. Did Carole have to go to the island for work? For a hook-up with her hot shaggy-haired Aerosmith player? Did Bravo just need these bitches to get out of town and under the generous spouts of a wine dispenser? Whatever the reason, the house was gorgeous—”I’m speechless and I’m never speechless,” spoke Ramona—and totally worth that rickety plane ride where passengers appeared to stand smushed up against one another like it was the 6 train.
At the house Ramona angled for a master suite while Sonja stuck her hand down the pants of the chef and butler. The views were extraordinary, the pools inviting, the hangers in the master closet plentiful, which meant at least we wouldn’t have a repeat of Moroccan drama. Carole and Heather smartly decided to hang their fedoras in private bungalows and leave the master suite to Vegas newlyweds Ramona and Sonja. Sonja promised Heather that she would serve as a buffer between her and Ramona, between Ramona and the world even! Such was her responsibility in life. Meanwhile Ramona started squawking at the staff to cough up the key to the pool toy closet. If she wasn’t floating on a noodle with a glass of pink champagne in each hand within five minutes she would write down in her notebook a reminder to herself to have the lot of them fired.
Poor Heather then ran nose-first into a sliding glass door, holla! The camera guy missed the moment but did get a close-up of some oil and foundation smudged on the wood beam. (Though I thought she ran into glass?) She laid on the bed as her red boxer’s pug swelled. “I do want a nose job some day,” she said by way of consoling herself. Of course you do, honey. LuAnn pretended to want to take care of her. “Once a nurse always a nurse!” the least nurturing woman ever explained, before quickly excusing herself to join the drunks up at the pool.
Ramona’s eyes widened, twirled around her head a few times, then exploded into rainbow happy tears at the sight of wine vending machine in the kitchen. Sonja broke down the size equivalents for her inebriated friend. A small pour is one Carole’s breast worth. Medium is Sonja-sized, and a large is Ramona’s generous cup. But Ramona objected to the idea that she had large breasts. She has perfect breasts, as Sonja would find out later when Ramona made her massage them with lavender oil before the two fell asleep.
“Tony can you squirt Ramona…some wine,” said Sonja with a horny giggle. “Just a little squirt.” Sonja, my former favorite New York housewife, has been acting like a bit of a little squirt all season. Her displeasure over a lack of spring roll dipping sauce reminded her that she was still peeved at Heather over the toaster oven photo shoot. “This is the most talked-about toaster oven in the history of nonexistent toaster ovens,” said Carole, in one of her many fine zingers of the night. So Sonja started bleating about logos, Heather tried to defend herself in a reasonable tone of voice, and Ramona kept barging into the conversation with karate chops of nonsense.
NEXT: Russ plays a one-night show for Carole.