Our Housewives have made it onto the ferry to Mo’orea, where they gallantly decided to reward themselves with some booze! It’s literally been minutes since they last imbibed—at the bar while waiting for this very ferry, if you were wondering—so Vicki Gunvalson rectifies that with a bottle of champers. What, no methode champenoise?? Anyway, the attention’s been off Vicki for a bit, so she reminds everyone she’s the queen bee by gagging like she’s swallowed an actual bee in an over-the-top manner. She then declares she’s seasick and scurries off to the bathroom where she feigns vomiting for the camera crew and comes back out to presumably drink more. Off to a smashing start, Vicki.
Upon arrival in Mo’orea, the women declare this tropical oasis “gorgeous and luscious.” I’ll agree that it is gorgeous and I do see six lushes, so they are correct. Pulling up to their hotel, they’re promptly lei’d and given MORE ALCOHOL before the locals treat them to a little dance. Thank god, because Heather Dubrow “loves a fabulous greeting.” Perhaps she can hire similar dancers to greet guests in her forthcoming porte-cochere! Tamra Judge watches keenly, and we realize why after a second. “That guy’s balls and wiener are flopping in the wind,” she says before a close up by Bravo confirms this. But Tamra likes it, so it’s okay.
They clamber aboard a golf cart to squire them to their cabanas and ooh and ahh in unison along the way. Tamra can’t get over how beautiful the ocean is and thinks everyone should get naked. “Right now, bitch. Take it off,” she shouts to Heather and Vicki. Alas, no one else is as game to drop trou as Tamra is, but that’s not going to stop her from repeating her request. Hey, Grandma Tamra; what happened to toning it down now that you’ve got a grandbaby? Cocktails glued to their hands, they peruse their over-ocean bungalows, gushing over how insane they are, particularly the section of plexiglass floor which allows you to view the sea life below. Or, as Heather says while the trio crowds atop it, “someone can make an upskirt video of us.” I shudder at the mental image of that, though this is not the most egregious portion of this segment. Tamra nabs that honor by twerking.
Shannon Beador is also settling in, though she’s quite steamed about the welcome plate of goodies, since there’s “fattening stuff on this plate and I’ve got to put on a bathing suit tomorrow.” Congrats, Shannon, for being the very definition of Rich Girl Problems. Tamra has not stopped yelling about people getting naked and, despite no one joining her, puts her money where her mouth is, rushes out in only a thong, and jumps into the water. Someone’s eager to show off her new chest, methinks. Meghan Edmonds joins her, though she’s put on a swimsuit. On the opposite end of the spectrum, Shannon’s put on a nebulizer and tells us about a cough she has every single day of her life, so the nebulizer sucks, but is a necessity. So all those thousands of homeopathic remedies yet nothing can clear up your cough, madam?
At dinner later, Tamra has managed to wear clothes. Someone asks if they’ll be able to order individually. Vicki says no, this is a group tasting and everyone will be fine. Out comes the first course, and Vicki doesn’t hesitate to send it right the eff back because it’s not cooked to her temperature preference. Out comes the second course (scallops) which both Vicki and Tamra find icky. Meghan appears to be the voice of reason when she tells us “you’re in a foreign country. You should try everything,” but undermines her own edict milliseconds later after taking a bite of something spicy and having a conniption. Someone get these women McDonalds, lest they starve.
Dinner talk turns to Brooks and the other guys, who are maybe going to all get together. Vicki hopes Brooks will eat something, since she allows him to eat nothing. Brooks and his stage three cancer have been seeing the “health” “coach” we met a few weeks back. Remember? The one who said Brooks should be sitting in a field of grass and eating air or tree bark or some such garbage? Vicki mentions that this week, Brooks will decide whether or not to continue his chemo, which is insane to everyone at the table/anyone who has a rudimentary understanding of how serious stage three cancer is. Shannon and her Eastern philosophy reminds us that “there are many options between chemo and nothing,” though if you can’t cure yourself of a cough, perhaps you shouldn’t be advising anyone else on health matters, Mrs. Beador.
Tamra inquires as to how one eradicates cancer sans chemo. Vicki Gunvalson
M.D. informs us that “you starve the cancer by not giving it anything to feed off.” Vicki’s like Jon Snow: They both know nothing. Everyone goes back to Vicki’s room after dinner so Lizzie from last season (she’s still, y’know, on this trip!) can take a plethora of pregnancy tests to find out if she’s right about what she’s feeling with her body. If not, Vicki’s announced she’s going to force LFLS to essentially funnel a boatload of booze. LFLS dutifully obliges and attempts to get going while Vicki shouts and bangs on the door like the uncouth cad that she is. Thankfully, LFLS has locked the door, so we run no risk of seeing another woman undressed. There’s much squealing as we wait for the results and everyone puts on their grandma spectacles to squint at the sticks. LFLS is not pregnant. Vicki announces that LFLS must commence “whooping it up” tomorrow. Poor LFLS.
NEXT: A fight about motherhood versus stepmotherhood…