S6 Episode 13: As it Turns Out Size (And Age) Matter

Okay the word of the night is, "Huh?” Take a sizable sip of your Saratoga Mint Julep every time you say Huh? during the episode. (Or just follow my lead.) And did you notice, the theme of the show is SIZE. I'll get back to that.

Do you sometimes feel like the entire show exists solely for us to analyze, discuss, observe, and pay homage to le penis? (That's French for "penis.") There isn’t a situation or conversation or scene or even snippet of thought that one of us can’t turn into a penis reference. Usually that person is me. This episode, though, the other ladies give me a thoroughbred’s run for my money. Literally.

No Straw Hats!

In the last show we wore black hats and in this episode we wear colorful ones. Spoiler alert: We wear hats in every episode until the very last one. We wear hats to the reunion! We love our hats. We wear hats better than any other city. Take that, Atlanta.

Like most models and all actors, Luann has a large-sized head and as a result she looks great in a hat. Kristin looks great in everything. (Bitch.) Wait, did Sonja just call Luann "Pumpkin Head"? Huh? (Drink.) That was my cute nickname for Luann, last season. She yelled at me at the reunion about it, but it was a term of affection! She likes it now. I’m the pin-head, Sonja, and maybe also your ghostwriter.

Sex & the Modern Family

In the age of Viagra, embryo cryopreservation, and sperm thawing who needs to get knocked up the old-fashioned way? (You know, with martinis and late night Cinemax). I just read an article about a guy who froze his sperm for 40 years. That means he could technically father his own great-grandchild. Um. okay. Huh? (Drink.)

Whenever you think it can’t get weirder, it does. Is anyone wondering how often Cody and George have sex?  I’d bet my cryo-frozen eggs no one is. Pretty much everyone is grossed out right now, right? Except for Sonja and Aviva. Daughter asks Dad's girlfriend about their sex life. Huh? (Drink.)

George has Cody’s best interests at heart because he is going to freeze his sperm so she can get pregnant after he dies. Huh? (Drink.) Did I hear that wrong? (For fun, drink.) So Cody is not marrying him for his money. Huh? (Drink, drink.) Perhaps I’m old-fashioned but I don’t think mothers want their 25-year-old daughters to marry  85-year-old men, except maybe for the money. Money, at least, makes some sense. An old wealthy man and a young impressionable girl, who may have daddy issues and may want financial security. That story is older than God. But here we have not only an 85-year-old man, but one who openly gropes his daughter’s friends at his engagement party. In front of his new fiancé! Huh? (Drink, Okay? Drink, drink, drink.)

As usual, Ramona is Ramona. There's no surprise there. She puts her foot in her mouth, I think she has a little rack behind her back molars for her shoes. She claims she didn’t know not to bring up Cody’s dead parents. It’s universally ... um, rude. Do we need to be told not to bring up the death of someone's parents in a casual first conversation?  Huh?  (Yes. Drink.) Still, as far as Ramonisms go, is it so vile that you’d call her “a bitch that should get f**ked by a dog.” Huh? I don’t think so. (Yeah. Drink again.)

Let’s place bets on how much Ramona’s florist bill is each month. There are a lot of apologies. Here's another one, flowers in hand; it goes awry. Ramona needs to spruce up her apologies. Or maybe she needs to stop talking and being blunt. But wait, did she give Cody the ultimate insult when she mentioned her dead parents? Huh? (Drink.) If you point out a person's lack of parents, is that code for saying they're black? HUH? (Drink, drink, double-drink.) Ramona ... is a racist? HUH? How did we get here? George is a pedophile. She's a racist. And He’ll lick Ramona’s vaginal parts at her funeral. HUH? It’s all too gross to even continue, except to say: WTF? (Grab your bottle of gin and get a straw.)

Off to the Races

Sonja lived in the shadow of Saratoga Race track and has been betting since she was 17. But I lived in its heart. I've been betting since I was tall enough to reach the teller window, on tiptoes. Don't mess with me at the track.   

My Grandpa Tony was a legend in our family, and also in his own mind. There's no end to the tales of his exploits. He loved Grandma Millie, but his great love was the horses.  Not the animals, but the horses -- which means, of course, the races. He’d sit for hours with the Daily Racing Form, hunched over his notebook, scribbling down weights and speeds and the mysterious equations of Breyers numbers. He was up early every morning, handicapping races while my uncles snored off their late night in the next room.  

His small spiral notebook was filled with rows and rows of neat numbers: running times and finishes and turfs; winnings and weights and breeding stats. He had a savant-like command of science and superstition. Then each afternoon he took his notebook to the OTB in a nearby strip mall, where he changed most of his bets on the fly when he got up to the window.  

He never came out ahead, because when he won he always parlay-ed it. When Grandma Millie asked how much he lost there was always a story.  “I didn’t lose, I won on the trifecta, and then I parlayed it onto the 8th race.” (I grew up thinking parlay was French for “to lose.”)  

A few times each summer he piled the grandkids into his rusty Cadillac and headed to Saratoga. He taught us how to wheel an exacta and box a trifecta. You gotta go with your gut for the win, then box it to be safe, he said.  Family habits die hard.

W.M.D.

Sonja has no idea what she is doing, betting wise.  She got mad, she got drunk, and she ditched us at the track. We told her we were leaving. She wanted to stay. I learned things about Sonja this episode. She was married twice. Huh? (Drink.) And she is a mean drunk, and a fast packer.

I also learned something in high school, and remind myself of it often -- mirror, mirror on the bathroom wall -- no one can make you feel good about yourself. No one can make you feel anything you don’t already feel. Sonja is unraveling in Saratoga and it continues.

Yes, It Does

I told you I'd come back to it. Size. Size is a central theme of this week's show. So obviously, it matters. There is the size of Lu's head, the size of a penis -- which fits the size of the jockey, inversely, or not. There is the size of the bet, the size of the winning purse, the size of the suitcase Sonja has to awkwardly drag out alone in her escape. There is the size of a man’s wallet and the size of his bugle. You can size people up, and come out short.

That, my friends, is a photo finish. Huh? (Drink.)