Once more unto the beach, dear friends. Well, sorta. There was some actual New York City adventure on RHoNYC last night, but some people were still mired in the Hamptons. As always, disasters struck.

Jill met with her gay life coach/house designer, because it's natural, according to Jill, that one redesign their apartment every seven years. The gay wiggleworm unfurled what he called, I believe, her "color story." Jill hated it! Too gray! The gold fleur de lis tapestry fabric that he wanted to put everywhere? Fine. The understated taupe for the curtains? Hideous. The wiggleworm wiggled and said "Well, it's not my house" and Jill stormed out of her fabric store, stressed the F out. And understandably.

Speaking of terrible houses, Alex and her beanpole bride, Simon Le Beauf, had an architect come to the ramshackle yurt they wander around in over in Crooklyn. The architect surveyed the home, which, I'm pretty sure, was used in both the Phantasm movies and The People Under the Stairs, and he was understandably horrified. Looking at a creepy black spot of doom on the ceiling, he asked if the water damage was always this bad. "Only when it's a monsoooon!" crowed Alex, who was scuttling around on the walls like a spider. It didn't matter anyway, Simon informed him, because they'd probably, you know, like replace the whole thing and then put a roofdeck on and, oh isn't it boring for architects who come into Scarecrow's house (whose house? Scarecrow's house!) because they're reduced to being a simple 'draftsman' who puts Simon's brilliant ideas to work. It's true. It's actually a little known fact that the whole rambling hermitage is a time machine, and that Simon once traveled back to the Renaissance and had Brunelleschi draft his plans for the Duomo.

The architect didn't really give a fuck about that, though, because he was more concerned that the floors were going to cave in. That was def. a concern for Alex, who scurried out of the shower drain and said "Yeah because we want the 42" oven and the big huge fridge" and then she and Simon had a horrifying conversation about granite counter tops being "en vogue" that ended when the architect hanged himself in Francois' bedroom. He didn't die, don't worry. The ceiling collapsed and he just lay there in plastery, crumpled heap. The funniest part of all of this is that Alex and Simon think that we actually believe that they can pay for their fanstical magic roofdeck and the sold gold bidet that Johann has requested.

Bethenny (hey girl!!!) was busy wasting her time with Devorah Rose and her useless, not-actually-a-magazine Social Life. Somehow these women have been convinced by the producers of the show that Social Life magazine is an actual thing, like National Geographic or Yankee. It's not. It's a pamphlet. Bethenny did a sexy shoot in gowns, lying around a mansion.

Meanwhile at the Hamptons chateau that Ramona has fashioned out of waffles and spirit gum, she and her basically-a-hired-homosexual husband languished in their swimming pool and Ramona sang old sea shanties, hoping that her long lost beloved Captain Redbeard would return to her. She stayed there all evening, floating around, kelp and barnacles slowly consuming her.

Back at the brambles, Alex and Simon were bragging about a large inflatable pool that they bought and put in their broken glass-filled horrid backyard. So much better than the Hamptons, they cooed needlessly. Simon lay there, like the king of absolutely nothing, all night, barnacles and kelp avoiding him at all costs.

Ol' Crackerjacks LuAnn invited Bethenny to lunch on the pretension of talking to her about some silly cancer thing. In actuality, she wanted to brag about her book deal. Yes, someone has actually put their head down on their desk and put their hand out, asking for money, and agreed to publish Class with the Countess, a memoir cum travelogue cum etiquette handbook cum cumstain that Crackerjacks has written in her head bone, drawing on her vast experience writing articles for Hamptons Magazine (exactly as real as Social Life). Bethenny, bless her, was sort of horrified that Crackerjacks continues to exploit her bullhockey Countess status. "Are you classy because you're a countess?" she asked, innocently. Crackerjacks said "No, you know, I'm American Indian." By way of... explanation? She then added that her Indian name was Keeps Elbows Off Table. Which isn't true. Her 'Indian name' is actually Crackerjacks O'Reardon, a nom de plume she used back in her days of scuffling around on a creaking wooden stage, disrobing for out-of-work coal miners at the Canary Club, that place just off the interstate, during the late-morning shift. "Go Crackerjacks! It's your birthday!" she would bellow to herself, wheezing and farting, her Capri cigarette dangling off her lip, the muted sounds of Joe Cocker rasping "Love lifts us up where we belong..." coming lilting from the jukebox, a few coughs, a gust of wind. Creak. Creak. "Go Crackerjacks..." Creeeeak.

So Bethenny totally owned that scene. Well done. You'll be on the cover of EVERY Social Life magazine issue from now on!

Kelly, the new one who beats her fiance, stopped twinkthrashing long enough to take Ramona to a big room full of model houses. I guess that's safe. Not too much to break. Remarkably, Ramona had swallowed three of her patented Knowledge Pills and knew all about the architect and his models. Kelly was embarrassed because she didn't know anything and was trying to look fancy and be on the show, but Ramona is the only one who will spend time with her because Ramona barely speaks human language and so she can tolerate Kelly's statements about being the youngest member of an old people club and stuff.

Having rid herself of Kelly, Ramona climbed astride her giant sea turtle and headed off to her husband's religious jewelry factory, where she smelted and forged some of her own designs. She began talking to the walls and saying the phrase "calico cat" over and over again, while her husband stared out the window, watching a group of teenagers skateboarding, so free and young and lithe, how supplely they greeted the future. "Calico cat! Calico cat!" Ramona cried, and his attention was ripped back to the real, actual world of religious jewelry and the Avery creature who lived in the creepy bedroom at the end of the hall. "Yes, my beloved," he sighed. "Calico cat." Ramona smiled and patted his hand. "The Professor would like his marmalade now," she stated gravely. "Yes of course he does, dear." He always does. He always wants his marmalade.

Crackerjacks was off at her cancer thing, which was basically cooking at a hotel of sorts where people who live out of town can stay while getting treatment in the city. A noble cause. But of course, Crackerjacks being Crackerjacks, she had to go and ruin it. Bethenny came over to cook, all blushy and excited, because she'd been put on the cover of Social Life and oh how exciting. Crackerjacks replied "Are they retouching?" Bethenny was offended. But then all was well because Ramona flew in the window, like an errant pigeon, to help out and deeply offend Crackerjacks.

See Ramona was giving Bethenny some casual dating advice—date around! play the field! have fun!—and Cracksy was horrified. "She doesn't want to be of ill-repute!" Ramona glimmered with that glimmer she gets right before the world skips a beat like a record and we enter her own private dimension. She decided to make fun of LuAnn for dating a weird old dude. In front of LuAnn and her daughter. Crackerjacks was obviously very upset and mortified and I clapped and shrieked and did a small dance while LuAnn burped and squawked about math. "My husband is not 65. He's only 15 years older than me." So wait, Crackerjacks. You're, what? 48? 47, maybe? So at best your hubby is 62. LuAnn went to go chug down a Camel Wide and bitch while the rest of the world stood up and gave Ramona a standing ovation. It was fun watching Bethenny try not to laugh. (Though, Beth my love, "passively aggressively" is not how you say it.)

Crackerjacks stood out on the curb giving handjobs to hobos, which is what she does when she's upset. Been doing that since she was seventeen and needed a lift to a Styx concert. After she was arrested for giving public handies to hobos, thrown in jail, arraigned, tried, and acquitted on a technicality, she stormed back into the cancer house and yelled more at Ramona. Ramona blew a big bubble that surrounded and protected her, she then floated up and out the window, back to her Crystal Palace. They served the meal, and LuAnn said "As they say in the French, 'Bon Appetit'." You know who also says 'Bon Appetit', LuAnn? Sweaty Cajun line cooks who've just unzipped their pants while you kneel on the cold, tiled floor and close your eyes, wondering how you ended up here in this terrible place and hoping desperately to marry a rich old man so you can someday be fancy. But I don't have to explain that to you, do I Crackerjacks? You've already lived the dream, sweetheart. The most important thing about all of this, though, was that at the end of the day Crackerjacks and Bethenny somehow managed to get people dying of cancer to clap for THEM. The dying people clapped for these loonybirds, and they just smiled and ate it up. It was horrifying.

Back in Pittsburgh, Alex and Simon were shuffling around their flaming tepee, moving furniture around in anticipation of the renovations which are not actually going to happen and packing for their ludicrous trip to Sannnt Barrrrths in the stiflingly hot and dry Caribbean off season. "Probably don't need the denim ballgown, even though I love it," is something that Alex said. My heart did pirouettes and somewhere Vanessa Redgrave put down her tea, nodded her head, and softly said "Yes. That is... correct." Sadly Alex didn't put on said denim ballgown, but the picture in my head is wonderful. Simon was busy packing all of his anal beads and pink jeans (actual item), while their two kids screamed for help. "These bags are heavy," Simon exclaimed while lumbering toward their leased, pre-owned BMW. "But they'll be even heavier when we get back!" "I knowwww," replied Alex. You see, folks, they're talking about shopping. They're going to buy lots of things down in sweltering Sannnt Barrrrths, because they like to pretend they're rich. Here's your credit crisis, America!

In the Hamptons, Bethenny scheduled a lunch to explain to Crackerjacks that she was offended when LuAnn asked if Bethenny's Social Life non-magazine photos were going to be retouched. LuAnn insisted that she wasn't being offensive and Bethenny caved. Crackerjacks' reasoning was that she was just giving B-town some advice "as a former model." Mm. Right. Lunz, listen. Smearing yourself in Gulden's mustard and lying on a bearskin rug while some creepy, cigar-smoking Greek guy who paid you $67 for the afternoon takes Polaroids isn't modeling. I hate to be the bearer of bad news. Wait. No I don't.

At the end of the episode, it was finally the Social Life magazine party. Bethenny had blabbed to Devorah about the whole photo retouching debacle, and Ol' Crackerjacks was once again offended by the rude affront! She answered Devorah's prying question curtly, then added "Now where's yer shitter?" She trundled off, knocking over a Ming vase as she went. "Fuckin' thing sucks," she muttered. "Came outta nowhere. Hey you, black guy, y'know I'm an American Indian? Yep. Feather, not dot. Mmhmm. Hey, wanna see the weirdest tattoo you ever saw? I have to put my legs behind my head to show you it. Here, hold my Alize. You like that stuff? Tastes like fuckin candy. Heyheyhey, c'mere. Sssh. C'mere. You holding? You know... little crys or somethin'? C'mon baby, you know I know how to pay fer it." Then Bethenny ran up, shrieking, and said "Oh God, I'm so sorry Governor Paterson."

Bethenny and LuAnn spoke one more time about who offended who, and everything was OK.

And then... Well... Then Ramona began to dance. She danced a feverish, crazed tarantella. It was as if radio broadcasts sent from far out in other galaxies had been translated into dance moves. She swayed and jutted and the party guests became mesmerized. Their pupils twirled and glazed over, their limbs fell slack and limp. Ramona kept dancing, a blue aura appearing around her. She danced and danced and danced. The party guests began to crumple to the ground. Down went Paterson. Down went Bethenny. Down went Devorah, lost to the murky glow of the swimming pool. Down went everyone. And Ramona continued to dance. She swirled and bucked, tacked and jibbed. A strange hum filled the night air. It wasn't the sound of crickets or tree frogs, no it was something else. Something older, something more foreign. It was the sound of planets being born, of whole milky strands of solar systems springing to new, dazzling life. Ramona continued to dance and dance and dance—manic belly-waving, potent rump-rumpery.

When everyone came to, they were back at their houses. They all felt a strange new calm. Something elemental had shifted in them, but they weren't sure what. None of them remembered what had happened, but they all felt different. Bethenny walked into her kitchen and saw her tequila and lime on the counter. "Fuck it," she said. And she made herself a non-SkinnyGirl margarita. She made a real margarita. And she enjoyed it. Jill went back to the wiggleworm and said "You know what love? I trust your judgment. C'mon, let's get lunch. I'm buying." They strolled into the summer air, laughing about some silly old joke. Kelly sat at her dining room table, looking at all the empty riches around her. Such treasures, such wastes. She sighed and thought, if only for a fleeting second, maybe I'll go back to school. Alex and Simon, even though they weren't at the party Ramona's dance still touched them, stopped the car. They parked, got out. "Hey Frank, Joe," Alex said to the kids. "How about we go see a movie, and then maybe get Happy Meals?" The kids cheered and clapped and the family walked down their quiet Brooklyn street, together.

Crackerjacks walked out to the backyard, lifted up a fake stone, and retrieved a hidden pack of cigarettes. She lit one and watched the trees in the wind. She loved that sound, she realized, more than any other. That hisss of summertime passing, that glorious, sad whisper of the blue world turning. I'd like to be a bridge, she thought. Or a pelican. Suddenly her clothing seemed off, nothing quite fit right. She stubbed out the cigarette and went back inside. Impulsively she ran upstairs and packed a small overnight bag. She ran out the door, got in the car and drove. She drove all night, finally pulling off the interstate at 3 in the morning. She stopped the car and looked out the windshield. There it was. Its sign older and more worn, but still readable. The Canary Club. LuAnn stepped out of the car and stared hard at the rutty old building. "I beat you," she said. She yelled it again. "I beat you!!" She raged, throwing stones, kicking the building's walls. She wasn't sure if it would really help, but for the moment, she felt better. Finally she fell to the ground and began weeping. "Forgive me," she begged. "Please forgive me."

Above all of this, Ramona was the Milky Way, she was clouds and stars, dragonflies and junebugs. Her lonely dance complete, there was no more on this Earth for Ramona to do (until next week.) So she became the night sky, became atmosphere, became energy. She's protecting us, I think. All of us. From invasion, from meteors, from ourselves.

And I thank her, I guess, for that.