This week, on the season finale of our favorite show, Rich Women Doing Things, the rich women did things for the final time. They talked about their daughters while their husbands got haircuts on the veranda from a former Bravo-lebrity who is doing his best Tom Ford impersonation and failing. They got engaged to their longtime boyfriends and showed off their fat rocks while all the girls cooed and giggled even though just months before they were talking about strap-ons in front of him. And, most importantly, they delighted in the size of the palm trees that the party planner managed to cram into the space where they were having a fashion show.
Speaking of the fashion show, Dorit and Kyle continue their fight there and I just want to get this out of the way right now because this is the absolute dumbest fight that we here at the Real Housewives Institute have ever witnessed. That’s because this fight is about absolutely nothing. It was reignited because Lisa finally told Dorit she scrapped the photo shoot she did for Dermatologist’s Waiting Room Monthly and then Kyle was joking that Lisa should have her in the magazine. Dorit thought that was shady and something other than a joke that Kyle was making (a bad one, admittedly) and then asked Kyle if she had any grievances to air, which she did.
Then Kyle and Dorit recapped something that happened in Berlin that was spurred on by something that was said at a previous party, that was spurred on by something that happened at a luncheon, and it just goes back and back and back, further than someone’s family line in ancestry.com commercial. But, at least with Ancestry, one eventually comes to an origin. There is no origin here. It’s Athena sprung whole from a god’s head, but this one has drinking problems, memory issues, and all of the side effects listed at the end of a Latuda commercial including but not limited to explosive diarrhea and cancer of the earlobes.
Kyle gets mad at Erika for not jumping in and helping her out, but Erika, like the rest of us, is just completely baffled by what these two are even arguing about anymore. Somehow it all goes back to Pantygate, the Big Bang of all fights on this show, apparently. Later, at Kyle’s house for a TV night, Erika apologizes to Kyle and says she didn’t know what was happening but finally clears up that, yes, Kyle had nothing to do with Pantygate. This fight is like Hillary’s emails. It’s like Benghazi. No one really knows what it’s about or why everyone keeps talking about it, but we know, definitely, that nothing is going to become of it. Finally, Dorit says, “Are there more things I want to say to Kyle? Yes.” What more could she possibly say? What is she even angry about? What are any of them angry about? Jesus, just let this go.
After it’s all over, Dorit accuses Kyle of ruining another of her big nights when Dorit is the one who asked for it. If she didn’t want an explosion, she shouldn’t have lit the fuse.
We have so many more important things to talk about, like the Beverly Beach fashion show. Guys, that fashion show. I mean, who was even at this thing? At one point, there was a Wilford Brimley impersonator sitting on one of the white couches, wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt and cargo shorts like he was just some guy on a TMZ bus going down Hollywood Boulevard that they plucked out and ordered to fill in one of the chairs. Dorit says that they have fashion execs, “influencers,” and the media in attendance, but this is all really just a big stunt for the cameras, right?
The best slash worst slash definitely best part is when PK, the living fleshen form of “the pee tape,” draws everyone’s attention to a curtain that says “Beverly Beach.” Then, suddenly the curtain drops to reveal [pause for dramatic effect] a bunch of chairs and a stage. What was the surprise supposed to be? These people knew they were going to a fashion show. Of course there was going to be a catwalk and seating. Was that supposed to be some kind of surprise? You could tell that no one was wowed because of course they weren’t. It’s like when the room service waiter takes the lid off of your breakfast and, yup, there’s the omelette that you ordered.
Everyone sits down for the show and it is clear that super hunky Cory, Dorit’s party planner voted Most Likely to Be Instagramm-Stalked by Brian J. Moylan for Sleazy Homosexuals magazine, has never staged a fashion show before. There are all sorts of empty seats in the front row, which is why we have seat assignments. It’s as much to do with hierarchy as making sure there are no gaps when the pictures are published. You failed, Cory. Now Glen, Kyle’s party planner, is going to kill you because he definitely hates you for being younger, hotter, gayer, and possibly closer friends with Colton Haynes than he is.
And the swimsuits. They are cute. They are. I especially liked the suspender number that Erika enjoyed, the black-and-white bikini that Lisa Rinna wanted but was too cheap to order, and the black one-piece with the white stripes that Kyle thinks will cover up all of her flaws. However, watching this runway show is like reliving every day of high-school gym class all at once, because it is just wedgie, wedgie, wedgie, wedgie, wedgie. Just one after the other, each model with a poly-cotton blend of Lycra and spandex up her butt crack. Beverly Beach may be an imaginary place, but it is one where no one gets to wear comfortable knickers.
After a quick visit by Lisa Vanderpump’s house, where she commited her latest dog-name atrocity on a cute little pup now forever known as Binky Boo (which is coincidentally what they call a butthole in Sri Lanka), we go to Kyle’s for the American Woman premiere party even though none of us will get a chance to see it until this June. Everyone was wearing their best outfits and it seemed like this was a take two for the “final party” of the season because Dorit’s fashion show didn’t quite end the way that the producers wanted it to.
All of the women also take a tour of Kyle’s new house, which is absolutely gorgeous despite what Faye Resnick has tried to do to it. The best part of the tour is Kyle’s closet and the best part of that part is her collection of Birkins. Well, not all of them. The best one is in the very far left corner and it is a bright red Birkin emblazoned with purple letters that say “REAL HOUSEWIFE.” Yes. Can you imagine? Kyle Richards had someone destroy a Birkin by putting the name of her reality television program on the side of it. Was this some kind of charity buy? Where would she take this? Is this so that when she walks down the street, everyone will be aware where they know her from? Was this some sort of sad remainder at Kyle by Alene Too that she was forced to take home because no one else wanted it? Is this a gag gift from her sister Kathy and this is the kind of practical joke that rich people play on each other? I have so many questions. I need the whole next season devoted entirely to this bag.
Or maybe we need a Law & Order episode dedicated to it because apparently all of Kyle’s jewelry and bags were stolen from her house this Christmas. That is absolutely insane and I feel awful for her because of that. No one wants their house robbed, especially when there is a REAL HOUSEWIFE Birkin inside. We get little snippets of what is up with all of the other Housewives: Teddi bought a $4 million house, Lisar is planning her mom’s birthday party, Erika’s book is a New York Times best seller (thank you very much!), Lisa wants grandchildren, and Dorit is selling lots of swimwear so hide your butts, each and every one of you.
There was one little title card we didn’t get to see in the finale, though. It was meant to be played over the footage of a quiet, dark beach, where the waves crashing up against the pylons of the pier are barely visible. There was one table set up with candles on it, but they were not really candles. There was a Champagne bucket next to the table and the ice cubes, every so often, let out a rasp as they collapsed the bottle further and further into the chilly water. This is Beverly Beach. One wedgied woman in espadrilles walked toward it, her blonde hair shuddering in the wind like so many palm fronds. She walked toward the table and picked up one of the Champagne flutes, filled it up, and then drained it in one gulp. She put it down on the table and then, with the breeze caressing every cell of her skin and whispering its secret desire to her, Eileen Davidson flipped over the table and walked into the water with the reflection of the moon stuttering among the waves like so many promises unkept.
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