There are those perfect sounds – those heart-stopping, universe-bending, sweepingly melodious sounds – that I would love to hear again and again. Like the time I was in a seat that was basically located in the rafters at the back of the stage of Madison Square Garden and Springsteen played For You, a song written before I was born, a song I hadn’t heard him play in any of the twenty-seven concerts I’d trekked to before that one magical night. Or the time my niece, who would always toddle out and greet me when I arrived at her house but would never actually say a word, finally walked over to me when she was about two years old and smiled big and wide and bellowed, “Hi, Nell!” She said my name with a southern accent, like she had actually been born in a place like Alabama, and it was hilarious and weird and unexpected and she’s never ever said it like that since. And then there was the night when a guy I loved twined his fingers through my hair near my scalp and raked them right down to the ends and whispered that I had the softest and most beautiful hair he has ever touched. Or the moment I stood by the shore of the ocean in whatever time of day comes after twilight with some of my closest friends in the entire world and we didn’t say much of anything as we stared at the horizon and listened to the waves break against the shoreline and realized how tremendously fortunate we were to have one another and this perfect night.
If I could hear any of those sounds again I would be incredibly grateful, but alas, the recurring sound that manages to invade my ear canal continuously these days is neither melodic nor is it magical. No, the sound I keep hearing is that of a fifty-something year old grandmother gagging back vomit, and this kind of repulsive sound byte has made me move forward in my quest to lead a coalition whose main goal is to leave Vicki Gunvalson stranded somewhere on that tropical island. I feel very badly that the locals will have to be stuck with her, but I’m guessing that if Donald Trump becomes President, he’ll totally back my plan because I’m sure he’s not attracted to the OG of the OC and I think Trump’s main platform – besides building walls along our borders and pretending that he is sane – might very well be to eliminate all women from this great nation that he’d never want to have to look at and I’m pretty sure that Vicki falls into that category.
Look at me! I’m a Republican now!
To be clear, I did start this season of The Real Housewives of Orange County a registered Democrat, but while I was aware going in that I’d be listening to ridiculous people brawling about ridiculous matters, nobody ever told me that there would be this amount of retching and gagging. I feel deceived, which I guess is how any of us should really feel as we cruise into an election year.
The bile rose up early and hard in this episode as Tamra crawls into Vicki’s bed the morning after the two of them and Vacation Shannon sucked down more alcohol than anyone who claims to be human should ingest. But it’s not like that kind of behavior is anything new, and just so we’re certain that these women probably need a shot or two just so they can live with being the kind of people they have allowed themselves to turn into, we get an adorable little montage of all the times Tamra and Vicki have gulped down drink after drink in the name of friendship. Still, according to Tamra, last night was the drunkest they have ever been and, over in Shannon’s hut, the remaining member of their alcoholic trio is also feeling the pain of the previous evening. Her head hurts. She too is threatening to vomit. She ate candy when lately her thing is to simply smell food instead of chewing and swallowing it so she can lose fifteen pounds and her husband will love her again. Unfortunately, her carefully orchestrated starvation went out the window once she got trashed.
Back at Vicki’s hut, a dressed and ready-to-go-scuba-diving Heather arrives and pulls the blankets off of Tamra and Vicki and tells them they can be hungover later. She’s offering all kinds of stuff to sweeten the deal. She’ll order them each a Bloody Mary! They can rest later! But Tamra would like to know if Heather can get her a diaper since apparently Tamra cannot stop sh*tting and to anyone who says that maybe this comment right here is but a mere example of the kind of thing that keeps getting Tamra hauled back into court for custody issues, I’d say you’re just jealous of Tamra and her newest breasts and how blissfully happy she always is, even while she’s having explosive diarrhea.
Less happy is Vicki. Once Heather hauls her up to a standing position, Vicki disappears into the bathroom and that’s when we hear the sound we have all become so accustomed to, the sound that really should trail behind Vicki as her very own theme song, only instead of a cute little jingle like on Tiny Toons, Vicki’s theme will just be a cacophony of gagging and puking. Vicki will not be going scuba diving and neither will Shannon, who begins her day by sucking on her nebulizer and proclaiming that Vacation Shannon is gone and I cannot be the only viewer who is sitting here terrified about which Shannon will show up to take Vacation Shannon’s place. Will it be I-Hate-All-Women-Under-Thirty Shannon? How about Talk-To-My-Husband-And-I’ll-F*cking-Knife-You Shannon? Really, it’s a crapshoot – just ask Tamra.