So with the fun part over let’s get to business. We begin at the bra shop, Perfect Fit Lingerie. Now that Tamra has let the assets go, she needs new brassieres and has no idea what size she is! And neither does Vic, who despite being supposedly 50 has never actually had her haboobs measured. The results are that Tamra is still a D (much to her horror – “What is this? Metric?”), and Vic is an FF. Oh yes, there is such a size. I know this because I once attended a taping of Oprah about bras, and a lady in the audience got up and explained that her pair of torpedo boobies were a KK. There must be some compounding factor as the sizes get bigger because I am telling you if this lady stuck her arms out straight her nipples would be about at her wrist, and Vic’s really only reach her elbows. “I don’t think big boobies are appropriate,” she decrees. “Big, big boobies.” Which I guess means elbow-length fake FFs pass muster but the Oprah lady’s all-natural and clearly burdensome KK’s are just plain tacky. Vic, she’s kind.
Once sized up, the ladies peruse the racks of rackwear and Tamra finds a lovely virginal bit of floss that she announces would be perfect for Briana in light of her recent MARRIAGE. Vic panics like Tamra actually said CANCER out loud and someone might hear. “Maybe she’s pregnant,” says Tamra. “She’s not!” hisses Vic. Bwahahahahahaha! So much for that, sucker!
Vic is still simmering with rage over the elopement, which she continues to insist is rude and disrespectful. Per Vic it is a young man’s “responsibility” for parents to know their daughter’s future husband, so for Ryan not to have adequately introduced himself while deployed in Afghanistan is just shameful on his part. He has “robbed” Vic, “taken every dream away” from her. Because it’s VIC’s right to announce the engagement, have an engagement party, have showers, buy the dress – she’s part of this marriage, too, dammit! “But if I say anything I will lose my daughter,” she whispers, so instead she is putting on a poker face, crying all night for four nights straight, and saying perfectly unreasonable things to the Bravo cameras rather than just saying “I’m bummed” and keeping her big fat horse trap shut. That’s our Vic!
Meanwhile, at the Alley of the Armpit Dogs, Gretch has been working all morning to get her wig on straight while the Magical Penis has managed to encase himself in a bike jersey and some of those funny cycling shoes that remind me of elfin footwear. He’s off to meet up with Gretch’s dad, with whom he enjoys a good bike ride every now and then. Arriving in the park, Mr. Rossi teases MPM about having lost some of his fluff – he’s down to 214 now! Fit as a fiddle! Which is good, because the MPM has a question: or it’s really not so much a question as far as I can tell, he just wants to tell Mr. Rossi that he’s thinking about proposing to his daughter. Or at least getting to some vague place where his “intentions” are clear but no action necessarily follows. “Bwahahahahahahahaha!” howls Mr. Rossi. Like THAT’s a good idea, with the “perception” and/or “reality” of the Magical Penis as a deadbeat. Mr. Rossi is actually quite reasonable but firm in his “hell no”, which my husband summarizes like this: “Get a f*cking job, asshat.”
Across town at Watermarc, which is a name that does not suggest “food here” to me, Tamra has arrived in a russet-colored half-jacket to meet Gretch, in her Farrah wig today. Even though it’s only lunch, Tamra is going to have a blueberry coconut mojito with salt in a tall beer stein with a caprese salad. She is either very confused or taking the directive to consume all the colors of the rainbow a little too far afield. I don’t remember what Gretch had, probably an apple martini or something fruity-cheezy like that. As sirens blare in the background, because this is real life and not staged at all, Tamra shares with her new bestie that she’s going into small business, just like her dear old dad, and opening a fitness studio that will be all group classes, no equipment. I personally go to such a place and think this is a great plan, and so does Gretch, who is the very first person besides Eddie to know. Tamra is afraid to tell Vic because she’s all negatives, and this is true. If it isn’t Vic’s idea, it’s a bad idea. So what’s new with Gretch? Well, she seems a bit clued in to what’s being discussed in the park because she tells Tamra she doesn’t want to marry the Magical Penis because he has accumulated three years’ worth of debt which I think is a highly conservative estimate, and she doesn’t want her massive wealth to be all eaten up paying it off. Screw that kid with the brain tumor, who do we think Gretch is, Sally Struthers? If I’m not mistaken Gretch is divorced, so I would think she would have learned during her dissolution that premarital debt remains sole and separate debt, and she’d only be 50% responsible for new debt accumulated during the course of the marriage, but then we’d have no reason not to marry a magical penis, right? This may be better left alone.
Off to Vic’s brown house where tonight’s spackler is going to give her a messy ‘do. I’d like to see what a “neat ‘do” looks like on Vic, wouldn’t you? What’s the occasion? Why it’s the launch of WinesByWives, a new venture between Vic and Tamra which is going to have its debut in some Irvine penthouse. You know how Irvine is known for it’s penthouses, right? And because Irvine is so very glamorous, the ladies have decided to make this a prom theme and everyone has to wear gowns. I was recently reminded of the time in high school when a handful of other girls and I were asked to wear tuxedos to school to promote some formalwear shop for prom. I have no idea why I agreed to do this, but I wore white tails with a ruffly seafoam blouse and pegged my pantlegs. (This was 1990, you know.) All I needed was a top hat. My kids have to wear tuxedoes in a wedding this summer and all I can think is two words: Herve Villechaize.