There are some moments that don’t make it onto television, but to accurately paint a complete picture of this cast trip, there’s something that we must acknowledge. Though we may not have seen it with our own eyes, we know it must have happened. Between episodes three and four, a production assistant was handed a roll of paper towels and tasked with cleaning up Heather Gay’s vomit in the sprinter van. They searched for a bottle of Clorox or Lysol, anything to cover up the smell of regurgitated espresso martini. And if they were wise they left the windows open overnight, knowing that the van would be back in action the next day.
Like the van, the entire cast managed to rally, and the women don the “No Trix, All Trust” T-shirts that Meredith gifted them, dressed for a day of trust-building exercises led by “this man Cliff.” Those are the only credentials Meredith gives when explaining the plan. Now, for some reason, Angie takes it as a personal attack that Meredith, who famously did not know that Angie would be crashing her trip, did not buy her a T-shirt. As a result, Angie took it upon herself to make her own T-shirt that says, “All Trix, No Trust” in pink Sharpie.
As if that wasn’t cringey enough, in her confessional, Angie says, “It was either make this T-shirt or call out a hit on her family.” What? Where the hell did that come from? I can already see Meredith’s veins popping at the reunion as she screams about her “fahhmily.”
Angie is terrible. She’s like if an AI bot was tasked with creating a Real Housewife. Everything she does, she does because she thinks Twitter will call it iconic. She probably was certain that Andy would call begging to display that handmade T-shirt in the Clubhouse, but nobody wants that. You don’t get called “iconic” by awkwardly trying to be what you think “iconic” is; you get called “iconic” by being Lisa Barlow. And you, Angie, are no Lisa Barlow.
They all load up into the sprinter van, which Heather unconvincingly assures them is a different one than the one she threw up in (sure, Heather), and are off to build some trust. What Bravo has yet to understand is that trust-building exercises very rarely translate to the screen, and should only be implemented in dire circumstances. Apart from the RHONJ brawl that left a banquet hall stained with Joe Gorga’s spray-on hair, these exercises make it feel like they’re on a corporate retreat rather than fun girls’ trip.
Mary agrees and refuses to participate, so we see her sit alone in the van. This might sound equally boring, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. The thing about Mary is that her inner monologue is spoken aloud, which makes a scene of her sitting by herself endlessly watchable. “That is strange; that sign says ‘humps.’ It usually says ‘bumps,’” she says to herself, reading a traffic sign. But Meredith isn’t as entertained as I am and calls Mary out for skipping the activity when they get back to the van.
Mary explains that she isn’t ready to build trust with this group yet, prompting Whitney to ask, “Why would you come on a girls’ trip with people you don’t wanna be with?” But the answer is simple, Bravo paid her to be there.
Over a charcuterie board lunch, Whitney announces to the group that she’ll take over for that night’s activities, swiping the reins from Meredith. Trixie will be returning for a drag-inspired makeup competition, which means they all have to take off their current faces of makeup to prepare. Lisa Barlow is so visibly terror-stricken at this news that you’d have thought someone told her that an asteroid was heading directly to the Trixie Motel.
“No!” she exclaims, having flown glam in. She immediately does what anybody would do in a crisis, and calls John Barlow in a panic. Her issue is twofold: firstly, she hates themed activities, and secondly, she loves her glam. “I spend $60,000 a year on glam,” she says, but frankly, a year’s worth of glam for the price of one measly ring sounds like a steal. She explains that glam is a daily thing for her, alluding to it not just being for the cameras, “It’s for me to go to the grocery store.”
Her panic results in a fourth-wall break that calls for not one, but two producers (Will and Lori, if you ever run into them, be sure to thank them for their service), who, along with Meredith, try to talk Lisa off the pink ledge. “It’s my fucking face,” she cries into Meredith’s arms. “I have glam in Monaco, I have glam in Saint-Tropez, I have glam everywhere I go. I like to look a certain way when I’m out in public.” At this rate, production would have an easier time getting the Tennessee legislature to do drag.
Meanwhile, the rest of the women borrow massive blonde wigs from Trixie and throw together their looks for the competition. Finally ready to put the bass in their walk and strut the runway (and by runway, I mean motel patio), the women emerge one by one to show off their drag looks.
Heather, Monica, and Whitney all look like they walked through a hurricane to get to a Dolly Parton lookalike contest, Angie looks like a yassified highlighter, and Mary, Meredith, and Lisa look like themselves. But to Lisa’s credit, she does have a great line about her refusal to participate, “I’m winning, because I get to look like me.”
Nonetheless, Monica thinks they’re being wet noodles. “If wet noodle looks like pretty girl in head to toe Isabel Marant with good makeup … then yeah, I’m a wet noodle,” Lisa says, refusing to ever say anything that isn’t instantly quotable. But the dig stays with her, and Lisa circles back to it while they’re in the sprinter, so Monica clarifies that she was surprised that she didn’t dress up in drag with them. “This is drag for me,” Lisa says, gesturing to herself, and technically, I wouldn’t say she’s wrong.
But suddenly Monica starts crying and pivots the conversation back to Lisa going on about her missing ring, which has continued to rub her the wrong way. Lisa pushes back, refusing to apologize for herself, which ignites a blow-up between the pair. The fight continues into the bar, where Monica tells Lisa that middle-class people don’t have $60,000 rings, to which Lisa responds, “Yes, they do.” I simply don’t know a better show. Lisa brings up Monica’s Louis Vuitton bag as proof that she likes nice things, too, but we, as the audience, know that Monica only bought that bag to fit in with the group. Unfortunately, the bar isn’t the best place for those nuances to come up, so we won’t get any good resolution here until Monica can explain her situation in more detail to Lisa.
While all of this is happening inside, Mary is still in the van. She naturally refused to enter the establishment in the first place and instead had the driver take her to McDonald’s, where she ordered a Filet-O-Fish and chicken nuggets. I think they should have a Mary Cam at the bottom of the screen at all times so we can watch what she’s up to while the show happens around her.
Back at the bar, Whitney tells Meredith that she was disappointed that she didn’t participate in the drag challenge either. After all, we’ve seen better drag looks from Meredith in her confessionals. But she says she did her best with the makeup and wouldn’t put on a 30-pound wig because of her headache. With that, Whitney hits the end of her rope with Meredith’s constant excuses, “So it’s someone’s sister-in-law’s grandson’s three-year-old, and it’s a headache, and it’s this and that,” she says, and all the light leaves Meredith’s eyes. “Don’t you fucking go there; you’re a monster,” she bellows, accusing Whitney of weaponizing a sick child against her.
Meredith is done with this conversation, especially after dealing with pit bull-like attacks from Angie the previous night. Having heard herself be mentioned, Angie appears out of thin air like Beetlejuice, green hair and all. But Meredith refuses to engage with her desperation and fully turns her back on her. The only jab Angie is able to get in is, “You look like a trampoline with eyes.” What does that even mean?
When Monica says something about Angie being Lisa’s bitch, poof, she appears again, looking like an Oompa Loompa arriving to celebrate a child’s demise. “Don’t put your fingers in my face like Jen Shah,” Monica says, invoking the name of You Know Who.
Angie claims that Monica is trying to pretend like she has no connection to Jen, which is a bizarre accusation since that was Monica’s big claim to fame in episode one. Unaware that Monica already told us all about it, Angie references that Monica was Jen’s assistant like it’s some sort of bombshell. It’s deeply embarrassing to watch how bad at Housewifery Angie is at every turn, particularly compared with how good at it Monica is.
Somewhere in Bryan Federal Prison, Jen Shah’s ears are burning. She pauses in the middle of leading her Shah-Mazing Abs class. “Is everything okay, Jen?” a concerned Elizabeth Holmes asks. “Sorry, I just thought I heard something,” she says. 1,740 more days, she thinks to herself, daydreaming about her season-ten reunion dress.
