S5 Episode 12: Oxytocin, Oxymorons, and the Big O
"An intellectual is someone who has discovered something more interesting than sex." -- Alduous Huxley
I’m going to go out on a limb and say Housewives are not intellectuals. But by Huxley's standard, who is? This episode there's lots of sex talk, again. Ramona has orgasms during bio-sculpt, Sonja's needle feels like a penis, LuAnn masturbates alone, and I'm advocating for sexual revolution. All of this in an episode without George! It's too much. There are some words and phrases that have simply worn out their welcome and while I can't do anything about what we've filmed, I can try to preserve some integrity here. Penis and clitoris and horny, these words and their ilk are shopworn. My vow to you, readers, is to avoid shopworn like a bad case of crabs.
So we're in the home stretch and I feel like a mudder on a dry track. I knew this would happen. We're in our third month of the show and I'm starting to think I'm the only one in on the jokes. Which might mean there never were any jokes, or maybe it means all the jokes are on me. Or it might just be that I'm shopworn and weary. The long dog days of summer are getting to me. I need to go to St. Barths. I need a vacation. Is everyone on vacation? Write to me about your vacation plans. A blogger and passionate Housewife fan, @LynnNchicago, tweeted on what turned out to be the last day of her life "A vacation? I wish, I need one." You always think there will be time and then there's not. RIP Lynn Hudson.
The party of the jet-setting socialite was a plane wreck. It inspired me to patent a new parlor game, one where each player draws a card with one of the characters of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and we all act out a scene. I get Nurse Ratched. I'm going to start running group therapy and rationing out the cigarettes. Our first session will be on boundaries. Mario doesn't need Ramona to fight his battles and Jacques doesn't need Heather to fight his. Not about his wine game or his exaggerated French accent. He's a pacifist anyway. Last week when offered the chance at fisticuffs with Aviva, he went with a piano concerto in D instead. A friend of mine calls me the Gandhi of reality television, but I think it's actually Jacques.
I Love Kids and I Love Dogs, Too!
Are you beginning to get the feeling that Sonja has more baggage than a skycap at Kennedy? In her defense, she'd had a long night. She told me this when she first arrived at Ramona's, she was still hurting from the night before. But like my Grandma Millie used to say, "An awkward morning beats a boring night," so I hope her night was a knockout because this was a very awkward late morning lunch. And for the record, this is another reason I like my lunches cool and casual, so no one's stuck in a chair when the insults start to fly.
Sonja is crying at the lunch table about her dog peeing in bed. Is this normal? Are all those people who sleep in her bed normal? The look on my face belies my feeling I've been had. I told Sonja, don't talk about the dog, exnay about the dog-day, Aviva doesn't need to hear about the dog. She's talking about kids without legs. Seriously. Dog excuses seem suspicious, even when they are true. Didn't we learn this in grade school? Dogs do eat homework, they eat almost everything, but we're not allowed to say it. Like I said, it sounds suspicious. Let Aviva be upset and then a simple, "I'm really sorry" fixes all kinds of things. It's like a diamond tennis bracelet when you've been caught en flagrante. "I had an emergency with Milou," would have been fine, no? Short, sincere and sweet would have kept the peace.
I had lots of dogs growing up. We buried two in the backyard. Gigi, our pedigree poodle, even got a star turn in my book. I also had cats. My cat Sammi slept with me every night, like Milou sleeps with Sonja. She even died on my pillow. She went quietly, in the night, on my head. I was nine. We buried her next to Gigi. I was stoic, even then.
I do believe there was a serious situation with Milou. There is no doubt that a 17-year-old dog is facing major health problems and approaching the end of his life. There is no cure for 113 years old. Sonja is lucky to have had him for so long. My dog, Margaret, is only five and it already makes me sad to see gray hairs around her eyes. But that is what happens. And Jake is a sweet 11-year-old boy born with no legs. Lunch was a disaster and we learned Aviva can scream her head off. Stay tuned for more.
Peace & Pleasuring
Did you get the same warm fuzzy feeling I did watching Ramona and LuAnn bond over nips and masturbation at the swimsuit shop? All of that messy history -- the parenting jabs, alleged blackmail -- and for the sake of beaches and tequila they are willing to put it behind them. It reminded me of when Yasser Arafat shook hands with Yitzhak Rabin in the Rose Garden. Right? We can all get along.
The Story of "O". . .The Big "O"
Oxytocin. I first learned about it researching a story for 20/20 called the Biology of Love. It's a hormone released in women during childbirth and during sex. You can't fall in love without it. It's also called "the bonding hormone," "the love hormone," and "the cuddle hormone." It's the key to monogamy and also, as Sonja says, a good Sunday between the sheets.
Next time you are post coital and having dreamy thoughts that he's the One while you're spooning after sex, tell him it's the oxytocin, stupid. I'm getting us all t-shirts.
Let's review the three qualities I look for in a man:
1. Highly sexual
2. Geographically undesirable
3. Emotionally unavailable
Don't read too much into that, but Sid Ceaser said all comedy has to be based on truth. You take truth and put a little curlicue at the end. I have some curlicues. Sid is going to be 90 next month and he was married to Florence for 67 years, until she died. My mailman Lenny was married to Lucy for 68 years. They fought like Archie and Edith but they loved each other until the end. I suddenly have this dreadful urge to get married. OK, it passed. Phew.
Taxi Cab Confessions
The strangest thing happened the other day. I was in a taxi and guess what. The driver was the same man who took Ramona to West 26th Street! Guess what else? He had a notepad. I'm not kidding. I was going to 432 E. 43rd street and as soon as I said the address he wrote it down. But as he was writing it down in the notepad that Ramona advised him to use, he ran a red light. It wasn't his fault because he was looking at the notepad so he couldn't see the light change from yellow to red. It's like a butterfly flapping its wings in South America, causing a tsunami in Bali, and setting off a chain reaction in New York that starts with a bicycle delivery man's swerve and ends in the wife of the head of Goldman Saks catching him with a hooker. Don't ask. I can't tell. Suffice it to say that while notepads make sense in a meeting they may not make sense in moving vehicles.
Soul Cycle and Jake's Legs
I have this crazy metabolism. It's an unsolved mystery of my life, this weird ability I have to eat pizza and M&Ms and still bike at easy levels. It's how I know there's a God. It's a miracle. Usually when I feel the urge to exercise I lay down and it passes. Don't hate me, God is fair, he gave me a bunch other issues.
Jake, though, is why my soul is healthy and intact. Jake is good for the soul, he's better than Soul Cycle. I'm not sure if the cameras captured his spirit, but it was more exalted than any of those sweaty cyclists at the event. This is why you make the extra effort. Because then you don't miss the chance to witness something extraordinary. You think it all might happen with fanfare and pomp but it happens in the quiet moments, sometimes, when you're just showing up for your friends.