Guys, two Housewives episodes in one night is about two too many. So we're gonna go a little abbreviated on this Orange County finale thing. Where'd everyone end up? How'd everything go? Let's take a look.
Oh our beloved Juggs. She didn't do much in this episode. Mostly she showed up to the big end-of-season party with Jim, who was dressed as Zamfir, master of the pan flute. They held court with their stylish beauty, grunting and grimacing, Jim dumping whole platters of shrimp cocktail down his oily gullet. Her mother was there. You remember her mother, the kindly witch who got plastic surgery last week? Yeah, well, she's all healed up! And, well... She just wants to say one thing. Vitches of England? Remove your wigs. That's all. In the end we found out that Jim, dear benevolent Earth Jesus, has given Alexis permission to "work for" her plastic surgeon. They didn't get any more specific than "work for." Which sounds sort of ominous, doesn't it? You know who also "worked for" a doctor? Igor, master of grave-robbery. Not saying, just saying.
Ding dong, wedddingggg belllllssss! Oh, wait, no, sorry. That was just my cellphone ringing. (I want to get married soooo baaad!) Doug and Gretchen went to the party and it sorta looked like he might propose, but of course he didn't. Gretchy had a sad little conversation with long-forgotten Housewife Lauri (of the longer-forgotten druggy problem son) who just didn't think it was remotely feasible that Gretchen and Doug could have a real relationship, because all Doug does is date Housewives and get older and sadder, sadder and older. But Gretchen just smiled perkily through her stiff makeup and said, small but indignant, "No. No. It's serious. No. It's real. Marriage. No." Lauri's face did the best approximation of pity it could and then her mouth apparatus widened slightly — it was trying to smile — and she said "OK. Good, great for you." Gretchen nodded stiffly and walked off and she pretended that everything was good and golden, that life would tumble out the way she wanted it to, this time it would. But apparently it hasn't. That's what the updates said. How sad. How bad. Gretchen. There's a person somewhere named Gretchen.
To celebrate surviving a tough year, Vicki decided to go to the party naked. Sure she lashed some yellow fabric around herself, but it didn't really cover much of anything. There was a whole hammy expanse down near the small of her back that was exposed and I hoped that she'd secretly done it to piss off Simon and Jim. But I don't think she's that crafty. I don't think she can see that far past her own strange nose. No, I think she just wanted to look hottt and sexxxy. And, well. I'll let you be the judge of that. Vicki spent a good portion of the party comforting a bereft Tamra, who we'll get to in a moment, and she said good things. She said nice things that Tamra needed to hear. Hard truths, all that stuff. Vicki isn't awful, just kinda awful. No italics. Vicki has lost her italics this season. That's progress.
Holy thunderfuck, what a mess. What a downright, filthy, pigshit mess Lynne and her hubby, Hubby, have made of everything. Broke as church mice, drugged and stupid, with two horrifying Hindenburg daughters. And they don't really do anything to try and fix it, ever. They propose healing vacations for their money woes. They limply swat their daughters' hands away from alcohol and then walk away, turn their backs, when the girls show up drunk and underage (well, one of them at least) to a social event that will air on national television. Ugh. Yes, Alexa and Racquel showed up drunk to the little garden party (what a devil's bargain the St. Regis hotel has signed...) and were all woo-hoooing and being obnoxious and thinking everyone cared. No one cared. People murmured some things about the girls being drunk, but no one really seemed all that scandalized. (Except for Gretchen, oddly.) Mostly people were just like "Oh, look. That teenager is drunk and swearing in front of her parents. Huh." Lord in heaven. If I had ever tried something like that... I am twenty-six years old and still get the stinkeye from my mom when I pour a second glass of wine at Thanksgiving. But Lynne just sort of frowned and smiled that blubbery smile of hers and it was just so pathetic. Please, someone put her in a home. She's done with the normal world. Her brain has been barraged by pills to the point that it's just thin cottage cheese. Lynne's pill-zapped brain is just a sad dead cat by the side of the road. Lynne's brain is Vicki's face.
And her daughters. Her awful daughters. I'm glad that Bravo got all snide with their updates. Racquel is "Still not over it!" Hah. Alexa couldn't get a car. Ha. What sour little bitches, especially Alexa. I know her parents didn't do right by her, did terrible by her, but still. Insolent little whiner. All the "fuck you" and "I'm drinking!" stuff was unreal. Again, if I had ever, if I ever did now, say those things... Sigh. I don't know what to say. Who was it, was it Vicki? Someone said something about how the girls were almost a lost cause at this point. Should have been disciplined since kindergarten. The late teens are far too late to start. Sigh. How sad. How ugly. "So, how did you enjoy motherhood?" "Oh it was fun 'cause I got to wear their clothes. But I kinda fucked them up forever. Because I was lazy and addicted to painkillers. Want a cuff?" "Oh...that's... uh... I'm going to go look this way now."
What a dump. Who said that, George, 'What a dump'? We already knew that Tamra was getting a divorce. The internet tells us such things. But to watch this couple — sad, stuck Tamra, angry dork Simon — rattle the windows like they did last night, well it was kind of unexpectedly harrowing, wasn't it? That scene in the limo (above)! Holy lynneballs was that a crazy ride. "FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE I WANT A FUCKING DIVORCE YOU FUCKING DESPICABLE FUCKING PERSON." Yikes.
And then at the party, Simon getting all nervous and controlling, trying to cleave his pretty blonde arm candy to his side. Not because he cared about her. No, because he wanted to save face. I was kind of bummed to find out that Simon was the one to ultimately file for divorced. I was hoping for some kind of Tina Turner "I Don't Want to Fight" kind of outcome. But oh well. At least she's free. At least there's that.
That was it! The kids said things that were at turns dumb and wanly charming. Everyone blinked in the afternoon sun and if you stood far away, if you turned off the sound, it looked kind of nice. But it really wasn't, not up close, not in truth. What a dark season this has been. Shudder. Oh well. Now it's over.
After the updates flashed across the screen and the guests filed out and the employees packed up all the glasses and booze (our friend Dustin was there, looking happy, he and Cheryl are getting married in the fall), there was a starry stillness. The night clung to the edges of the world and all the Housewives were off in their crumbling mansions, sleeping deeply.
Sleeping so deeply that they did not notice a bright magenta flash streak through the sky. Andy Cohen was calling their souls home, putting them back in his mysterious cabinet. He will release them again, when the time is right.
Thankfully, that time isn't now. It's a time far, far away. Some other mysterious summer. Some other late afternoon. For now there's just this. The crash of waves, the swoosh of birds. New dawns, new dusks. The purr and roar of cars headed east, away from this place, never looking back, the setting sun — burning, oblivious god — hanging angry and lonely behind them.