Carole: Waiter, We're Done

Waiter, We're done. Reality Check Please
When Harry met Sonja. Twenty years ago they dated, he cheated, she kicked him out. They remained friends with a few benefits. But unlike the sweeter romantic-comedy version, Harry doesn't run through the cold streets of New York on New Year's Eve to confess his forever and undying love to Sonja. They don't kiss at midnight. They don't end up happy-ever-after with confetti bursting around them. Sonja and Harry don't end up together at all. Instead they end up at my birthday party in what is probably the most awkward pre-engagement engagement since. . .well, since George tossed a Jennifer Miller bag to Cody and said, "Hey, we're getting hitched!" As you know, I wasn't born yesterday. And from what I can see all on social media neither were any of you. Sonja may think she's Blanche DuBois, but she's no Vivian Leigh, and while Harry may be a charmer -- he ain't no Marlon Brando. They are not Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal. They are not even Rachael and Ross.

Sonja may have run through the streets of New York chasing Harry (which, she didn't) but then she fell and sprained her ankle, drunk in the same club with Harry and LuAnn and Heather and Jonathan. But I admit, Sonja's version was way better: The charming rogue playboy, the scorned woman running through the streets after a man who proposed to propose to her. She was trailing drama and a fishtail longer than a four-act play. The only thing, is that it wasn't what happened. Yet, Sonja has no trouble throwing her friend LuAnn under the bus. Implying she had slept with her pre-fiance. Wow.

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I Travel Solo
What the hell? I'm not on Team Sonja? I should have known. She did make this clear in the first episode when she thought it was fine to trash talk my career behind my back. And then later when, instead of shutting down gossip about my ex-boyfriend, she fanned the flames (even implying she slept with him). A girl's girl she is not. So, yeah. No. Sonja doesn't want me on her team and that's OK with me. Her team is really crowded. Healers, psychics, facialists, surgeons, acupuncturists, feng shui experts, dog groomers, image gurus. And, of course. . .interns. Me? I travel light.

There is one chick I'd travel anywhere with, though. You know who I'm going to say. Heather! I might not have bought the $9,000 Love Alex bag (although, I'm still craving it) but I would pack a bag to go anywhere with Heather. You would, too. She's the perfect balance of serious, smart and crazy and funny. We shot a cosmetic TV commercial together yesterday and it took us 10 hours to get through four lines because we kept cracking each other up. Also, because we're not actors. Having to walk and talk and hit a mark and open a door proved nearly impossible for me. I suppose that's why we're on a reality show and not Mad Men. Because we don't act. There seems to be a theme emerging.

And Another Thing About "Real-ity."
Yes, it was hard to take Aviva's 50 percent lung capacity asthma with any seriousness. It's not because we're a bunch of insensitive cows, it's quite the opposite. We spent two months listening to her talk about all her ailments. She probably is sick. But it doesn't keep her from traveling. I would tell you how I know this (other than common sense) some other time because apparently there's a gag order.

I did have to laugh when Sonja outed Aviva's boob job. So her leg actually isn't the only fake thing about her, but luckily it was the only fake thing she threw on the floor.

I took her doctor's business card. Hey, why not? You never know when you'll need a note to get out of gym class. Apparently he’s a “doctor to the stars,” and we all know what that means. That's the doc who will write letters for celebrities saying they suffer from dehydration and exhaustion or mercury poison to get them out of a movie deal or going to rehab.

Aviva said I protested too much about her accusations of ghostwriting? She asked me at lunch and I said, "No." And that was it. Remember, this was taped. Then, yes, I got spit angry at her and defended myself when she belittled my accomplishments, trashed my novel, impugned my relationship with my late husband's family and ridiculed my age (Hello??? I’m not much older than her and look 10 years younger. Snap.). I called her some names. It wasn't my finest moment. But sh-- happens. If she thinks I protested too much, let’s look at what she does to convince us she has acid reflux asthma. She starts to use an inhaler at every moment. She carries around a weekend bag full of her medicine ready to throw at anyone who dares to question her. She hauls around medical reports, business cards, and chest X-rays (to diagnose asthma, seriously?). She brings a doctor's note with her wherever she goes and she regales us with all her other medical illnesses including a bout of Legionaire's disease that she mistook for a summer cold. Instead of saying, "You don’t believe me? Too bad."

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As you could see, she was very excited to throw her leg down. After all, she'd been planning it. She even asked Harry earlier if he would carry her out of Le Cirque. How amazing would that have been? Just like in An Officer and a Gentleman. Harry's Richard Gere to Aviva's Debra Winger. Sadly, he said, "Absolutely not."

We were all corralled over to that table several times. I got up to leave and had to sit back down. Heather was right. Let's get this thing over with and go home. She was waiting for one of us to call her fake and when we didn’t she threw her leg down anyway. I'm glad we gave her the opportunity to do it. It obviously was very important to her. I gave it back to her because it was lying there on the floor and I felt a flash of empathy. Empathy for a woman I cared about once a long, long time ago. And there you have it. A leg on the floor of Le Cirque.

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