How else does she look that flawless and have a body that good at her age? She’s like Meryl Streep on the poster but, you know, without her neck twisted all the way around.
Now it’s staring at me, like the Eye of Sauron or the Butthole of Doom that sat next to Andy Cohen at one of the reunion specials.
When Sonja heard that more women should be studying STEM in college, she thought they said STAM and that is why she has revived the Trump University of intern programs. But even better than Zoe is JP, Aleta’s assistant, who follows her up the stairs carrying a huge red suitcase of voodoo dolls, smudge sticks, and unmatched pairs of Crocs.
When Aleta asks Sonja what is troubling her, it is what is always troubling her: the demise of her marriage, not to a banker, but to the bank.
When everyone arrives at Ramona’s Hamptons abode, which is decorated in a palette of grays and lilacs that interior designers refer to as the Megyn Kelly Aesthetic, everyone gets a good room and no one is sleeping on the much-derided lower level.
This is, of course, horrendous behavior, especially these days when employees are demanding things like decent pay, frequent enough breaks that they don’t have to pee in bottles, and, you know, basics like their employer actually learning and using their names.
As I always say, Ramona is a monster, but she is our monster, so I find it very hard to hate her.
Ramona is actually, surprisingly, on theme, with magenta and purple flowers and braids in her hair and a mesh body stocking over some crystal pasties.
Pulling up the rear of the costume parade is Luann, not in blackface but wearing nude leggings, a bikini top, a macrame coverall, and about three statement necklaces at once.
When they get out back, Ramona has kitted out her garden with a bartender, a pizza oven, laser lights, a tent that looks like a rite from Midsommar will be performed in it, and a dinner table covered in flowers and surrounded by little tuffets so they can sit on the dew-dappled lawn.
As the wind from the current starts to blow their hair astray, as little pulses of electricity ripple throughout the widening gyre, they all look up into the light as if they can see what they really want, as if they can see salvation, but they just see a face, a certain redhead staring down at them from the great afterlife, knowing the secrets of the world and exactly where each of these women is headed.