It’s official: The Real Housewives of New York City has to be one of the best reality shows of the year. Even last night’s glorious, welcomed, and hodgepodge clip show with no narrative structure proved more fascinating and enthralling than most anything else for the past two months (or at least since Housewives wrapped up its first season). Then again, I think I wouldn’t be alone in saying that I could watch unedited dailies of these women and still be thoroughly amused.
There were so many wonderfully awkward moments in last night’s show: the continued awfulness of Ramona, who remains shamelessly gauche in her lack of self-awareness; the tacky yet oddly lovable material desires of Jill Zarin, who still knows how to lay the smackdown on her rivals; the confused outlook of Countess LuAnn’s son, who regrettably thinks the Statue of Liberty stands for friendship, not, you know, liberty; the further adventures of François McCord, whose reign of terror extended to an unassuming art class with an exasperated teacher; and of course the ever tragic state of Bethenny’s biological clock, whose loud ticking can only be drowned out by a hefty glass of white wine.
Yes, it was all amazing and jaw-dropping, but sadly, Bravo hasn’t posted any pics from the episode. Dammit. Well, what better time to go back and post the long overdue reunion photocap? Pics after the jump…
“My son, François, really is a genius. He can recite ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ in Latin. Also, he pushed three cleaning ladies down the staircase in the last week alone!”
“Remember the time that Baawwwwwbbby hugged Alllllie? And my gay husband Braaaaad made that joke? That was hilarious. Where’s Bawwwwby? I want to ask him if he remembers. BAWWWWBBBY???”
“LuAnn, I’m giving you my Halloween costume from 2007.”
“Andy, this is fun and all, but where should we sit? I mean, I took this seat here on the couch in between LuAnn and Bethenny, but there’s, like, no ORGANIZATION to any of this, and I just EXPECT some idea of where to sit. I’m a very driven person, and when I come to a show, I have certain EXPECTATIONS about seating arrangements, and I need to know what they are so I can get my mind in that, that, that place, you know? It’s like a mental thing. I need to just get IN it. Because had I known that this couch would be so comfortable, I would have invited Mario because he’s, you know, he’s a man and wants to spend time with me, but I told him no, I need my personal space, and that’s VERY IMPORTANT. My mother always said, you need to be financially INDEPENDENT in case one day you wind up on Bravo and have to sit on a couch and…”
“I love Jill like a sister.”
“Alex, get your hands off me before I punch you in the face.”
“Thank God I don’t have to be at Taco Night right now.”
“I’m great!”
“Seriously, someone get this woman off my shoulder.”
“Yes, I am the cool mom. Thank you, it means a lot.”
“It’s okay, Bethenny. You’ll be just fine. I’m sure not all of your eggs have shriveled up and died. Although, they probably have.”
“Look, is it important for us to do whatever we can to ‘climb’ the ‘social ladder,’ per se? Absolutely. Does that make us social climbers? No, that’s just ridiculous.”
“Gay? I’m not gay!”
“He’s not gay!”
“I’m not gay!”
“That’s a ridiculous accusation!”
“Ridiculous!”
“We’re deeply in love!”
“And I only have sex with men once a week, max.”
“And not just any men: the top leather daddies in Manhattan society!”
“Outrageous.”
