Here are some places I’d rather be than inside of a car with Vicki Gunvalson on a long road trip:
• A hot yoga class that I’ve run to in order to get a brief respite from the brutality of a humidity-drenched heat wave in late August, one that caused a cataclysmic weather crisis that simultaneously led all air conditioners in the region to explode at the very same moment that Duane Reade and CVS ran out of every form of deodorant including carpet deodorizer.
• Sitting in Biology class on my first day of 8th grade when my hair was newly lobbed into some hideous asymmetrical style, all the better to show off my frosted pink 44 lip-gloss. It hurt just looking at myself in the mirror.
• Standing on line in Nordstrom when I’m in a massive hurry while the person in front of me returns a dress so awful that, not only should she never have purchased the item in the first place, but some designer should have thimbles rammed into his ears and nostrils just for creating it. By the way, this return will be conducted by a Nordstrom employee who just started working at the store an hour ago and nodded convincingly when her supervisor asked if she understood the return process because she didn’t want to appear like an idiot on her first day and now the supervisor has left and the new girl has no f*cking idea what she’s doing.
• Hell.
Fortunately, I can see no scenario – including one that takes place in the fiery confines of Hell – in which I will have to ride shotgun as Vicki Gunvalson literally drives me to a full mental breakdown. Briana doesn’t have it so lucky. She is heading from Oklahoma to California, and it’s all because Vicki prayed so hard to her BFF, Jesus, for Briana and her family to live close enough that Vicki can pop by to borrow some brown paint, should she ever eventually run out. Actually, the truth is that Briana wants to be close to her team of doctors because there’s a lot physically going on with her. It’s a shame such a young woman is facing these medical issues. Her husband has to stay behind for a while and Briana cries as she says goodbye to him and to her house and to any future privacy she ever hoped to achieve now that she lives just a hop, skip, and a whoo hoo from her lunatic mother.
Meghan is having a tough day as well. She’s starting to give herself shots for the in vitro process she’s fully engaged in, a practice terrifying to one so deathly afraid of needles. As for her sweet and attentive husband, he’s away for Spring Training, so Meghan is making him a video diary that chronicles her tackling her biggest phobia, all in the name of them having a baby. Something tells me that Jim Edmonds will never even hit play on this video diary – or he will hit play and then he will laugh as his wife cries because he is a monster. How does Meghan handle puncturing her own stomach with needles? She doesn’t do great initially. First she must locate a pinch of fat on her tummy where none exists and then she must push that needle in and she can’t seem to make herself do it. We see the time lapsing in hallucinatory-like waves as Meghan takes deep, cleansing breaths. Finally, she gets it in and announces that she did it and she feels so proud of herself. She should! I just wish that footage landed in the lap of a man who is proud of her, too and look, maybe Jim is proud of Meghan. Maybe Jim is compassionate and communicative and loving as can be. Maybe Jim is a f*cking prince, but really, all we have been shown so far is that he’s as cold and withholding as they come. I’m more than okay standing by my assumptions about the guy for now.
Over at Shannon’s estate, there’s real estate panic going down. Her house is in escrow – again – and Stella would like to live at the beach so she can practice how she will pose in the surf so that one day, when she’s eventually invited to Taylor Swift’s July 4th party in Rhode Island, she will be able to frolic through the waves with fellow models and make it look convincing. Meanwhile, all of Shannon’s kids have some ideas about the new house where they should live: modern, white, one hundred thousand sprawling square feet. Those seem like fair requests. They also seem like they are more realistic features for a house than Shannon’s, for she would like a home that comes with a gigantic foyer and an Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind room, where she and David can take their tumblers of vodka with lime in the evenings and then leave there with no memory of David’s past affair.
Back on the road in a car that even the editors of this show realize is the certain setting of the next Armageddon – as is evidenced by the way they time-stamp that there’s still nineteen hours to go until Briana and Vicki hit Orange County, and you know Bravo only time-stamps sh*t if it’s about to get really intense – Briana is driving and marveling at all the cows they pass while Vicki laments that there is nowhere in the vicinity to shop because she needs a new top to show off her cleavage just in case Brooks is watching. Sixteen hours in, one of Briana’s kids has to crouch against the side of the car so he can poop in the desert. Fifteen hours in, Vicki demands to know why no doctor has been able to get Briana “fixed.” Then the other blonde child in the backseat announces his need to poop. Couldn’t they have flown home and had the car shipped? I’m sort of not kidding.
Far away from infant feces, Kelly announces to the husband who wouldn’t allow her to divorce him that she’s heading out for a Girls’ Night. Her plan is that Meghan will serve as her buffer since the other women already don’t particularly like her because she called Shannon “aloof” and she once tried to breastfeed Tamra. Unfortunately, Meghan is not feeling well so Kelly is on her own for the evening.
Back in that car with thirteen hours to go until they reach California, Briana is slowly beginning to lose her mind. She’s got two babies in the car, a crazy mother, and she just recently had surgery. This is not even the kind of scenario a kick-ass mix tape from 1994 could fix, not even if that sh*t was loaded down with rare Dave Matthews tracks interspersed between some Pearl Jam and Blue Traveler. (God, how long has it been since I’ve thought about Blues Traveler?)