Ramona Singer

Oh Real Housewives Of New York don’t ever change. Do I open ever recap with this sentence? But seriously Real Housewives Of New York spirals through cycles of emotions faster than a Cathy cartoon about dating and PMS, and I don’t want it any other way.

Anytime you take these ladies anywhere – even to the doctor; even to the nail salon; even to Luann de Lesseps‘ yardsale in the Hamptons, they exist in their own self-contained orbit of revolving arguments, makeups, friendships, feuds, hurt feelings, men… Like a drunken comet hurtling towards church here they come, slathered in statement necklaces and macrame, and shedding skin from laser facials, and shedding tears from all the people who have wronged them first leading them hear to a sky-high tolerance for emotional instability and pain. And hell hath no fury like a group of middle-aged women scorned, with nothing else to lose. Amen, sistas. A-MEN, but you don’t need ’em cause you have each other. (And cheesecake on the lanai, of course).